You could have it all (my empire of dirt)
2. it ain't the letting go (it's the things that you take with)
[Part 1] â [Part 2] â [Part 3] (soon to be added)
Western AU
18+
Jayce Talis x GN AFAB Reader
Word count: 12.6k+
Synopsis: Bounty hunter Jayce Talis should know better than to fall for his target. Unfortunately, he doesnât.
Tags/warnings: western AU, mastrubation (Jayce), yearny Jayce, brief mentions of drugs (1800s cocaine products), Jayce epically failing at being a bounty hunter, reader being emotionally constipated, then emotionally diarrheic, then emotionally constipated again, Handjob (Jayce receiving), brief allusions to non-con (nothing bad actually happens), Jayce being a weepy confused mess, Dirty talk.
Jayce should hate you.
Correction â he does hate you.Â
Hates your eyes, their hunger, their heat, their knowing. Hates your smile, hates the shape of it, the confidence tucked somewhere neatly behind your canines. Hates your cutting wit, just waiting to be unloaded in one line that would make him weak in the knees. And he hates the shape of your lips.
Hates how wrong the shape of them looks on the bounty poster.
Theyâre flat and different and wrong, wrong, wrong. He knows, because theyâve been in places he hadnât even dared putting his own hands, knows because theyâve sealed and sucked at his throat, his chest, and that wretched, lifeless stroke of ink could never hope to do the pleasure theyâve brought him justice. Could never do you justice, because youâreâ
This is absurd. He should stop. Should put the damn paper away and have another go at finally falling asleep, maybe the third timeâs a charm.
Itâs not like he wants you to touch him. Itâs not like his mind has been circling back to it the way a dog chases its tail, unending, unrelenting, stupid, pointless.Â
Itâs just â the prairieâs desolate, the nightâs quiet, the fireâs out, and heâs alone. Laying on his back in his generously large tent â generous enough for two if you squeezed together tight enough â and finding it achingly empty. Finding his hand achingly empty, so he fiddles with the button of his jeans, looks at your poster.
Itâs not like heâs actually going to do anything. His hand just happened to â to drift there, really, and, well, you canât exactly blame him for staring at your poster. In fact, you should count yourself lucky that he hasnât hung it up somewhere and fired an entire round into your face. Youâd deserve it.
Itâs also not his fault that his thumb just so happens to slip, and, well, so does the button of his jeans, it justâ it just slips out of its eyelet, and the zipper isnât too far behind either. It just happens. Heâs getting comfortable for the night. Itâs not like heâs going to put his hand down his pants.
Itâs not like the sight of you and your annoying, mean, stupid, no-good face makes the heat in his belly stir.Â
Is heâ? No, no, heâs not. Heâs not jacking off to the thought of you, he just⊠needs some kind of release to put him to sleep. He needs the rest. Especially after following your trail into Zaun and spending a good two days tracking you down, heâs going to get his hands on you soon, if he gets a good nightâs rest. Heâs sure. Sort of.
Heâs got a vague idea about what youâve been up to.
Marcus had come by for dinner last week, and complained about a break-in at the Ferros pharmacy his lawmen had found no leads on. The store had not only been robbed blind, but someone had knocked out the clerk and the two guards that night and had disappeared with all of the cocaine products on the shelves. Not a small or an easy job by any means.
The issue, Marcus had pointed out, werenât just the missing wares and money â but the increase of violent crime in Zaun as a byproduct, since it appeared the stolen, potent cocaine products had found their buyers there, where cocaine had specifically been outlawed for that very reason.
Jayceâs professional opinion? This entire thing practically reeked of you.
Youâd gotten the money youâd needed, and caused a distraction all in one fell swoop. With everyoneâs eyes already off of you, you just needed to wait things out. Until your next strike.Â
Smart, simple, deceitful. It had to be you.Â
And he couldâve told Marcus that, couldâve given him the semblance of a lead he seemed to be so desperate for, but this was personal. Jayce had a score to settle, and this time, he would not fall for your tricks.Â
Wouldnât fall for your voice, your hands, your tongue, your cunt (fuck, why is his mouth watering?), wouldn't let anything throw him off his game.Â
Thatâs why he inches his hand past the waistband of his underwear and takes his own, half-hard cock in his hand.
Itâs a tactical choice.
Heâd rather be distracted now, when heâs alone, when he can allow himself to be, than when heâs with you, and supposed to be doing his job. He wonât let you win again. Wonât lose sight of his purpose again.
This â getting off â is just a part of ensuring that.
Right.Â
Thatâs all there is to how his dick twitches when he looks at your poster. Itâs a conditioned response, it has to be â the pleasure youâd wrecked him with had been so entirely new and potent that it can only be normal for his body to want to chase it. It doesnât have to mean anything.
Yeah, that has to be it. He just needs to⊠distance you from it. Needs to recreate the experience on his own, so that his brain might stop gravitating towards you and stop acting like a cat in heat. Problem solved, it had been so simple, really, hadnât it?Â
Thatâs it.
Thatâs right. Thatâs good. Good boy, thatâs exactly what you needâ
Oh, come on.
Jayce groans at the thought of your voice, encouraging him to do this with a ravenous but oh-so-pleased there you go, thatâs an obedient boy as he drags his hand from root to tip. He knows youâd talk him through it, would praise him through it.Â
Dry. Utterly unlike your mouth, his hand is dry and callused and too warm and not yours. He persists regardless, gives his cock another near-chafing tug before heâs propping himself up on one elbow and spitting onto his tip, and oh, thatâs better.Â
With the pad of his thumb, he rubs his spit into the petal-pink, soft skin. In an immediate response, his hips twitch up into his grip.
Thatâs much better.
A tingling spark of warm pleasure ignites in his lower belly, stroked to a small flame by the glide of his right hand and another glance at the poster heâs clutching in the left.
Maybe your lips arenât true to life in that damn sketch, but your smile certainly is â a gnashy little smirk that promises trouble and delivers it through and through. Youâd looked exactly like that when youâd told him you were going to take care of him; looked the same way when youâd lowered your mouth between his legs and sucked at his ballsâ
âFuck.â He can feel his cock swelling in his hand with another jerk, now at full mast and red. The cold puff of his breath soothes the scorching heat of his flesh, hits his slick cockhead in a frigid wave of air that makes him shiver.Â
All because heâd looked at your dumb poster.
Jayce shouldnât do this. Itâs notâ heâs doing the exact opposite of what he set out to do. He can only pretend itâs for the sake of relief for as long as he likes, because he knows, he knows heâs only going to ache once it settles in that the best fuck of his life was a one-time-thing.
But why think about that right now, if he can think about your tongue, your lips at his taint, sealing and sucking to turn his brain into mush and make his back arch at just the thought of it.
He needs it again. But his fingers arenât as good as your lips, his fingers arenât even as good as your fingers, but he still pops them into his mouth the way you had slipped your thumb in, parts his lips wide, lets his index and middle finger sink in all the way to his knuckles.Â
To think he hadnât realized at the time how good it felt to be full. Itâs blissful, how his fingertips lodge into the back of his throat and seem to pause his racing thoughts with just that.Â
Then again, there had been better things to think about when youâd fucked his mouth with your fingers, like the texture of your thumb, or the taste of your juices lingering at the tip of his tongue. Itâs satisfying, to have his throat stuffed and utterly relaxed, before he pulls both fingers out and feels something akin to relief with the first breath that floods his lungs.
He wonders how his fingers would feel filling him up elsewhere, but lacks the gall to find out. Recreating the night spent with you sounds significantly more appealing.
In an instant, his hand shoots back down, cupping at his balls with the rest of his dry fingers, while the slick index and middle finger prod at his taint. Itâs a hopeless, clumsy attempt at recreating your technique, but itâs enough. The careful circles of wet finger pads at his perineum urging the thick, languid warmth in his stomach into hot pressure, the squeeze of the rest of his hand at his sensitive balls, his cock pulsing, itâs enough.
Enough to have his dick jerk so hard it hits his wrist, enough to have him throwing his head back in delight and peering down at your poster, imagining his touch is all yours.
That youâre occupying the empty space next to him, that youâre gently cradling his head with one hand and using the other to take care of him. Youâd be kind, in spite of who you are â because you were kind, even then. Had told him multiple times to let you know if it ever was too much (as if it ever could be too much), had kissed him raw after he came a second time, had made him come a second time not because heâd asked but because youâd wanted to. Because just maybe, some part of you had cared that he enjoyed himself too.Â
Maybe you still do.
Maybe right now, youâd be teasing him for how his body reacts to your voice, youâd be smiling at his contorted face, then at his leaking cock, before youâd wrap your hand around its base and lower your lips to kiss away the thick drop on its swollen tip.
Youâd lap at it, at the sensitive ridge of the underside of his cockhead â closing his eyes and circling his frenulum with his slick index is nearly enough to be convincing â and maybe⊠maybe youâd let him taste you after he comes for you.Â
Yeah. Heâd fucking love that.
Maybe youâd let him feel you grind against his tongue, let him feel the warm gush of your orgasm in his mouth, let him bury his face into your waiting heat until thereâs nothing but you in every crevice of his senses. Maybe youâd let him wrap his arms around your hips and kiss and lick your cunt until his lips and tongue buzz with raw, numb pain, until he knows nothing but the taste of you, your sounds, your slick, your warmth, all of you.Â
Fuck.
His other hand, lets go of the poster, reaches for his waiting cock. Three dry, overstimulating strokes do him in, have him coming so hard heâs rolling onto his side to avoid soiling his own clothes and his sleeping bag, have him curling in on himself, whining out his pleasure to the lone prairie. He can feel his orgasm pulsing all the way up his fucking spine, exploding at his brainstem, loud enough to drown his thoughts out in a pleasant, hot buzz and makes his ears ring.
âHnnâ!â
Jayce grips his cock through his peak, gives a few more strokes that stop just below his sensitive, swollen tip, before he finally lets go.
His body sags with relief, head still pounding with his racing pulse, breath still coming out in sharp, quick bursts, limbs tingling with a fuzzy, syrupy high.
Yeah, this is definitely going to put him to sleep.
He cracks his eyes open just enough to look down at his own shirt and pants â both unsoiled, thank goodness, because theyâre his last clean clothes after a not so pleasant incident involving a pile of manure out in Zaun yesterday.
Not so unscathed, however, is your bounty poster, with three fat, stringy drops of cum splattered across it, from your shoulder, across your face, to the rim of your hat. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
His first instinct is to use his sleeve, but thatâs hardly a viable alternative, so he rushes, instead, to smudge it away with his palm â somewhat successful, but the splatters are still very, very obvious, curling the paper where theyâve soaked it.
Normally, it would hardly be a big deal. Heâd just head over to the Sheriffâs, get himself a new one. Itâs just a piece of paper.
But right now? A ride from Zaun to that part of Piltover and back would take a day, at best. And who knows that the hell youâre capable of pulling off in one entire day? Heâs hot on your trail, he canât lose it because heâ well, because he came on your poster. Thatâd be absurd. He likely wonât even need to use it, anyway.Â
Itâs probably nothing worth getting worked up about. Caitlyn has told him multiple times that heâs prone to stressing out over things that end up bearing incredibly little importance, and this is probably one of them.Â
He should take advantage of the grogginess and get some much needed sleep instead of winding himself up about a cum stain.Â
â
He was right. There had been no use for your bounty poster, not when heâd spotted tracks of a lone horse and followed them, down into the forest quite a distance away from Zaun.Â
Youâd made his job easy, stuck to the main trail leading through it, left heavy hoof imprints in the mud, like a treasure trail begging to be followed.
And youâd confirmed, very much so, that it was you heâd followed because youâd left your horse (a seemingly reliable, but skittish appaloosa), loaded up on a set of guns so varied that it could only belong to an outlaw, tucked away safely between the trees.Â
And you had left imprints in the mud, leading out of the forest. Jayce had dismounted off his horse not too far from yours and followed.
Followed them, all the way down to the Pilt offshoot passing through the valley, where heâd found your boots, neatly discarded beside the riverbank, and your clothes, folded and settled atop your boots to avoid the mud and ohâ
Of course youâd be naked in a river.
Water splashes from ahead, where a willow tree hunches above the calm, trickling little waves and kisses its surface with droopy branches. And between them, a sliver of your skin peeks out.
His heart jumps up into his throat, comes tumbling back down heavily into his stomach at first, then, much to his dismay, dips further to pulse with heat in his groin.
All of last nightâs hard work, gone to waste.
But youâve not seen him yet, and that gives him the clear advantage he needs, and, not to mention, youâre naked â the tables have turned. His odds are good, for once. Karma is on his side, and revenge, although something he deems to be beneath him most of the time, will be so very sweet.
So Jayce advances, pushes the willow branches aside with the tip of his unshouldered rifle, sneaks up the precipice that should, by his estimation, overlook your naked form.
It does.
And gods, your backâs glorious in the filtered sunlight. Muscles flexing and bunching with vigorous movements of lathering soap across your front, skin sounding positively slick where you rub at it and for fuckâs sake heâs thinking about how youâd tasted and felt, soft and warm and ripe.Â
He shouldnât, but he does take a moment to simply watch, and let his mouth pool and heart ache and lungs tighten before he raises the rifle once more, almost regretfully.
âHands above your head.â Tone heavy and low, Jayce means business, makes a clear point of it by audibly cocking his weapon.
And you donât even flinch. You donât even turn around for that matter, either.
âAlready back for more?â You tease â thank goodness itâs you (itâs not like hearing your voice is making his stomach clench). As your hands raise, water dripping down your arms, bar of soap clutched in one hand, Jayce swallows.
This is going to be much harder than he anticipated. In every sense of the word.
âGet out,â he replies, although his voice falls terribly, awfully flat when you do, water sloshing with as you turn around, turn towards him. âSlowly.â
And then you do turn to look at him, and there is nothing but coyness and a complacent grin on your face. You look at him not like prey caught, but like your bear trap has just snapped shut around his ankle.
And in spite of the fact that your unbotheredness should sound off alarms in his head, should make him worry, there is little for his shortwired brain to think about when you look as good in the afternoon daylight as youâd had in the low candlelight. Perhaps even better, now, with sun rays and shadows bouncing off your still soap slick skin.
âSlowly?â You repeat, grinning. âIf I didnât know you any better, Iâd say you were hoping for a show, Mister Talis.â
Heâs not. And even if he was, he wouldnâtâ he wouldnât give in to it. His demand is just a precaution.
âThe only thing Iâm hoping for is putting you where you damn well belong.â
When you chortle, amused, and take half a step closer, arms still raised, suds of soap dripping down your flexed forearm, fist clenched around the bar of soap, Jayce realizes last nightâs release counts for nothing.
Focus. Focus.
âIn your bed?â
Oh, fuck you. He shouldâve known; shouldâve expected it â why your flirty little question still makes his breath catch is beyond him.
âA prison cell,â he replies, although the mere thought of you rotting away behind steel bars makes his heart clench. What the hell is wrong with him? âNow get out, or Iâll shoot.â
âYou mean the way you did for me that night? Twice?â
Fuck you.
âIâm serious,â he growls. âOut. Now.â
Your face drops subtly, but you regain your mental footing with dizzying speed.Â
âYou wouldnât.â
He hates how convinced of it you sound.
He hates how right you are.
âThe poster said dead or alive,â Jayce insists, making a show of moving his index to rest atop the trigger. You donât seem to take the bait. âDonât make me choose.â
âI think you already have.â
With that, you still comply, approaching him ever so slowly, as heâs asked. Itâs tantalizing, has him focusing at least half his mental capacity on not getting hard as you approach the riverside, and the water level slowly reveals more of you with every forward step.
Water clings to your collarbone, to your chest, to the part of your tummy heâd been aching to nuzzle against. Pearls down the flesh of you, drips off the grooves of your muscles like paint off a fresh masterpiece. And youâre smirking. Fuck you, youâre smirking.
âDonât be embarrassed,â you coo, tone so saccharine itâs clearly fake. It takes Jayce a quick downward glance at himself to understand you canât be referring to his bodily reaction. Not yet, at least. âIâm guilty of that just as much as you are. Why do you think I left you tied to that bed, instead of putting a knife up to your throat?âÂ
Water sinks below your hips, below â below, fuck, below the middle of your thighs, lingers at your knees, and then youâre there, right there, close enough for the nozzle of his rifle to nudge your hairline. And â and the rifleâs shaking, heâs shaking, goddammit, too taken with the mouthwatering sight of you to even think.
Youâre looking up at him from where heâs standing, still on that precipice, and he canât understand how heâs standing above you, and yet feels so terribly below you.
âWe both have a weakness for each other, Mister Talis.â Your head tilts with the statement, expecting a confirmation that does not come; not verbally.
Itâs in the hitch of his breath, the way his index slips away from the trigger, the way his grip around the rifle tightens. Youâre winning this confrontation; you are naked, unarmed, and still winning. How and when did he sink this low?
âMy only weakness was trusting you that night,â he spits.Â
Your nose scrunches, and you give an unimpressed hum.Â
âOne of your many weaknesses is not being able to stop thinking about that night,â you reply.
He tries for an unimpressed laugh. It comes out high, airy, nervous.
âAnd how do you know that?â
Everything about you â from the leaf-filtered sunlight catching in your damp lashes, to the way your smirk smoothes into a smile â is soft, genuine. âBecause I havenât, either.âÂ
Itâs disarming, in the most literal sense possible.
You havenât. Either. It reverberates in his skull, and itâs only on the third mental echo of it that his heart begins to burst.Â
Heâs been on your mind, maybe not as hauntingly and as obsessively as youâve been on his, but youâve thought of him, yearned for him, the way heâs yearned for you. It both soothes and strokes the flames inside him to new heights, you want him, you want him, you want him. You want him, too.
Not that he gets to give you a peace offering â and he shouldnât, either â because youâre perking up at the distant sound of hooves. Bending just enough to peek through the willow tree branches, Jayce spots three armed silhouettes in the distance, mounted atop well-fed horses, the kind you donât see much in Zaun. Definitely Marcusâ men.
Fuck. Now what? If they come any closer, itâs a matter of when, not if they spot you, the both of you, him standing high and mighty on the riverside, and you, stark naked andâ
Fast, far too fast for him to process, you toss your bar of soap into the grass, place one foot against the slippery root of the precipice heâs standing on, just enough to boost yourself up to firmly grasp his belt with both hands, and, with your weight and momentum, yank him into the water with you.
Jayce drops his rifle and falls ungracefully, face-first, with a sound that sounds embarrassingly similar to a squeak, into the hip-deep water. Heaves as heâs dragging himself up and blinking the water out of his eyes for a few long, awful seconds, mind spinning with what the hell kind of maneuver youâre trying to pull right now, before your weight crashes against him once more, pushing him back. And his boots are slipping on the stony riverbed, ankle giving below his weight and your impact, bending until it hurts.
Jayce doesnât get to groan about it, not as his back is shoved against the very precipice heâd been standing on seconds ago, and your hand comes up to cover his mouth, and you â youâre pressing him against the earthy wall behind him with what feels like your entire weight.
It shouldnât feel this good to be manhandled. Fear, pain and confusion aside, heâd be a shameless liar if he claimed his stomach didnât flip at being shoved into the dirt, or at how you press one thigh between his, forearm braced against his collarbone.
âShh,â you whisper softly against his ear, hand at his chest descending, stopping at waist, rubbing a soothing circle into the skin below his ribs. His spine tingles, from the press of your naked chest against his soaked shirt â his nipples are hard, he hopes you canât feel that â to the puff of your breath at his neck.
He could break free, if he wanted to. He could even call for help, if he wanted to.
He just doesnât.
Jayce nods in compliance, but your palm still presses hard against his lips. Youâre not taking any chances. Itâs dreadful to think that if you had not chosen to make sure heâd stay quiet and hide, he wouldâve vouched for you to Marcusâ men with little hesitation.Â
Not because he likes you, or because he cares, of course. This is just a matter of pride. Youâre his to catch, not Marcusâ. The fact that you might return his feelings shouldnât throw him off his game â because by now, he knows youâre a fantastic liar. It doesnât matter that youâve been thinking of him, not after you embarrassed the soul out of him that night, and soaked him to the core now. Capturing and turning you in is long overdue.Â
Besides, retaliation aside, itâs also his responsibility.
The moment those incompetent bastards are gone, heâs getting the job done. For now, though, heâs going to savor the press of your thigh against his half-hard cock, and hope you donât notice how he rocks into it once, just barely. Just to taste.
If you do, you donât point it out. But you meet it with a nudge of your thigh, barely a forward twitch of it that has him wondering if it was a conscious choice on your part or not. It doesnât matter, though, not when the press of his own jeans is flush against his cock, and leaves him brainless and desperate. He doesnât dare grind again, simply settles for the mind-numbing pressure where he needs it, lets himself throb into the contact. You huff when he does, but your expression is unreadable.
The pounding of hooves grows louder ever-so-softly, then fades into the late afternoon buzz.
No wonder theyâre useless at their job. How they didnât think to check out the anything-but-subtle splashing sound heâd caused with his fall is beyond him, but, well, Marcusâ men have never been thorough.
Heâs never been so thankful for that.
But now itâs time to do his job. And heâs anything but thankful for that.
âTheyâre gone,â you say, hand falling from his mouth, the other still pinning him to the wall along with the thigh placed between his legs. He could break free. He should break free, he needs toâ
Your thigh moves, a slow drag forward, until your torso settles against the cradle of his hips, providing a maddening, slow friction against his cock. Unbidden, his hips twitch forward, chasing the heat. It earns a delicate, but no less devious smile from you, and the hand at his hip slides forward, to the front of his soaked shirt, then inches downward. âLook at you â already hard again. Iâd expected more resistance after having a gun pointed at me, Talis, but youâre just terribly weak, arenât you?â
He may be weak â especially for you â but he wonât fall for your tricks again.
If you reach your destination, heâs a goner. And he canât have that.
âDonât. Touch me.â His fingers are around your wrist in an instant, wrenching your hand away although he wants nothing more than to feel it trail into his pants, stroke him off better than he ever could, have him come undone until it hurts; heâs still got a semblance of mental clarity, and heâs hanging onto it for dear life. He canât let you do that again. Not if he wants to do his job, not if he wants this (albeit pleasurable) torment to come to its end.
Itâs only while you open your mouth to answer that he realizes heâs still got your wrist in his hand, and that he could twist it behind your back with ease.
And itâs only once he does so, then steps forward to gain the necessary momentum to incapacitate you, that his already painful ankle gives below him, and he takes a second nosedive into the river water.
For fuckâs fucking sake.
Jayce barely manages to brace his fall against the riverbed with both hands, coming up a spluttering, dripping, defeated mess.Â
Strangely enough, your hands find his shoulders, and he takes the help you offer without so much as a second thought. Your grip slides under his elbow on one side, the other his waist, steadying him on his way up, soaked all over again, awkwardly hovering his hurt foot off the ground like a terribly ungraceful version of a flamingo.
Embarrassing.
Youâre letting an amused chuckle slip, but are kind enough to not make any other observations.Â
âEasy there, Talis. You alright? Twisted your ankle?â
No, absolutely nothing is alright. Ankle aside, youâve taken his already shattered pride and pretty much turned it into fine powder.Â
âYeah.â
Jayce Talis. Piltoverâs defender. Soaked fucking wet. Canât stand on two legs anymore. Holding onto a criminal for dear life.
Heâs not turning anyone in like this, much less you. Not when his entire calf and foot pulse at the slightest pressure, and anything more than a half-step makes him want to tear his lungs out in a scream.
âNice try though,â you console, patting at his soaked shoulder. Asshole. âLetâs get you to shore, hm?â
âI can do that by myself just fine,â he grits out.
âYou sure?â
What do you care? Youâve just caused all of this!
âYes,â he hisses, not so much because heâs sure, but because he canât stand the idea of taking any more of the help youâre offering.
So you let go, turn around, and drag yourself back up the precipice with little effort. Not that he wouldâve minded if you took a little longer. Youâre not⊠youâre not a bad sight at all. Even less so with your muscles at work, with your ass on display. He wants to trace the curves of your frame, wants to⊠god, he wants to lick the droplets pearling down your shoulder blades. Wants to follow their trail, lower, wants to tuck his chin between your legs and beg you to let him have a taste again, please, just once, or at least just smell you.
Fuck.
Atop the ground, you turn to look at him, expecting. So he limps his way to the precipice, steeling himself mentally.
It seems bigger now that he only has one leg to rely on â daunting.Â
Goddammit.
If thereâs anything smaller than fine powder, heâs just discovered it.
âActually,â Jayce forces out, voice meek and going meeker still as you turn around and smile, âI could use a hand.â
Itâs within his reach before he can get to lament the fact that heâs asking a criminal for help.
âCâmon, pretty boy,â you snort, planting your feet into the soil. Your nickname sounds far from being a compliment, and more like a taunt. âLetâs get you outta there.â
â
ïżœïżœïżœAs much as I appreciate the lovely sight, you oughta put some clothes on, sweetheart. Gets real cold around these parts after sunset.â
Scoffing, Jayce looks away, then scoots a little closer to the fire youâd so kindly lit while heâd taken off his clothes and hung them up to dry. Itâs still beyond him why you did that, when you couldâve easily just hopped onto your stallion and galloped off into the sunset, with another successful getaway under your belt. Sticking around, helping him â surely, you realize itâs a risk. Or has he lost his edge that much?
Itâs beyond him how youâd wielded your nakedness much like a weapon, and why now that the roles have switched and heâs wearing his birthday suit while youâve slipped on a pair of jeans and a loose shirt, he feels at a disadvantage. Itâs frustrating.Â
You always come out on top, regardless of your odds.
âIâm not naked for you, sweetheart,â he hisses, sulks in on himself. Just to conserve some heat, mind you, not because you make him feel small with just a sideways glance and a smirk. âIf it werenât for my ankle, youâd be tied up and on the back of my horse already.â
âRight,â you grin.
When you cock a brow, skeptical, he sighs, then gives in. âIf you have to know, Iâm all out of clean clothes.â
You shrug. âPut them on anyway. Trust me, I wonât be put off by the chocolate stain on your other white shirt.â
âTrust me, this isnât about putting you off.â
The words come out sharp and mean, and he fully expects you to say something fitting in return. Maybe even pack up and leave. Itâs not like he could stop you. Heâs not even sure if he can make the ride to Piltover tomorrow, not unless the swelling in his ankle goes down a miraculous amount.Â
Itâs fine. Heâs still got enough supplies in his saddlebags. He can wait out the healing of both his ankle and his pride in solitude, then return to Piltover and, for the first time in his life, admit to having failed.
God. Heâs failed.Â
Heâs failed, heâs cold, heâs hungry, heâs all out of clothes, he canât even set up his tent for tonight in this state, andâ and youâre still right here. You couldâve left, couldâve spared what little thereâs left of his finely crushed pride, but no, youâve decided to get both his and your horse, and set up camp here for tonight.Â
To torment him, heâs sure.Â
He just wants to be alone right now. Is that too much to ask?!
âHere. âS my only one.â
Fleece drapes atop his left shoulder, then his right, scratchy but thick nonetheless. You pull it around his shoulders tight, until both sides meet in front of his chest.
A blanket.
Surprisingly, you donât take the opportunity to touch his exposed skin. Not more than necessary, your intentions arenât predatory in the slightest as your hands run up and down his now fleece covered arms in an attempt to generate warmth.
A thank you scratches behind his teeth, but he decides against it. After all youâve done to him, a scratchy fleece blanket wonât cut it.Â
ââS not a chocolate stain. It, uhâ manure,â he blurts instead. He doesnât know why heâs telling you this. âMy only other clothes are covered in manure.â
He appreciates that you try your very best not to laugh. It takes you a few seconds of hesitation, enough to get up and walk to your horse in the meantime, before you finally dare ask.
âDare I even ask why?â
âNo.â
Heâs not about to say he hadnât been looking and tripped into one while chasing down a Zaunite with a packet of Ferros cocaine gum in their hands.Â
âStreet brawl gone awry,â he replies, because he feels like he owes you this, at least. He owes it to himself, however, to spare what little he has of his dignity, so he adds: âI won though.â
âMm,â your hum sounds complacent, satisfied. âI hear Zaunâs been unusually rowdy lately. Wonder why.â
Like you arenât the very cause of it.
Asshole.
âI know it was you,â Jayce shoots back. âYou robbed a Ferros pharmacy. And stole all the cocaine products to cause a distraction down here.â
You watch him for a moment, entranced, before your eyes widen and light up brighter than the sparks of the crackling campfire. The grin you crack is delighted.
âYou figure all that out by yourself?â
He nods, scoffs, and pulls the blanket back up around his shoulders. Itâs nowhere near big enough to cover the entire expanse of his back, but itâs certainly better than being naked. âThe Sheriffâs lawmen havenât even considered it might be you.â
Your head tilts. âAnd how did you?â
Jayce shrugs. Heâs not about to tell you he spent an embarrassing amount of time mulling it over, thinking that it all seemed exactly like your brand of trouble. Itâs much easier to write it off as a lucky hunch. ââTwas a⊠guess.â
âI think,â you say, âthat you should give yourself more credit for your smarts.â
Itâs absurd that the compliment gets to him.Â
Heâs been called strong, useful, he knows heâs a threatening array of qualities made for catching people like you.
But itâs rare to hear a kind word about anything that lies below his strength.
Still not enough to warrant a thank you, though.
âIf youâre hungry,â you change the subject, turning to search for something in your horseâs saddlebags, âyou might have to wait a little while longer. This spot donât seem like a good one for fishing, but Iâll have a go.â
Oh, for godâs sake.Â
He canât believe heâs doing this.
âThereâs uhâŠâ Jayce clears his throat, pulls the blanket tighter around himself to keep another wave of goosebumps from forming. âThereâs two cans of soup on Topacio. Left saddlebag.â
âTopacio?â You ask.
âMy horse.â
Your laugh rings out clear and pretty over the crickets. âOh, no, I figured. I justâŠâ you pause for a moment to coo something soothing to his horse, before you clasp the leather straps open. âI never heard that name before.â
Itâs embarrassing to think that heâs so eager to explain the meaning behind his horseâs name, when he knows damn well you wouldnât care. Nobody does, he knows, because heâs had people ask about things he cares about deeply just to make conversation, and found himself ranting for ten minutes straight. He knows, because he has a talent of picking up on the disinterested glances only when itâs far too late.
So he says nothing. Because heâs probably said too much already â and even if he hadnât, he will.
You return with the two cans, place them both in front of him, then plop down next to him with an exhausted sigh.
âOneâs for you,â Jayce says, rolling it your way. âFor⊠the uh, blanket.â
You take it without fanfare, but with a thankful smile no less, and crack it open easily.
Itâs surprisingly refreshing to eat around someone who has no notion of etiquette whatsoever. Sure, him and Caitlyn donât abide by it when they go on their little camping trips, and he sure as hell doesnât abide by etiquette when heâs eating by himself, but something about seeing you chug the soup with a complete lack of inhibition, unlike any Piltovan ever could is⊠entertaining. In a refreshing way.
He slurps away at his soup in silence, watches as the flames start to die and you make quick work of feeding more dry branches into it, wordless.
The quiet is far from threatening.Â
With how high and hot passion had run between the two of you that night, he hadnât expected to find lull anywhere near you. Even less so at your side.
Itâs⊠nice.Â
No, he shouldnâtâ itâs notâ heâs not enjoying the company of an outlaw. Itâs just an observation.
âYâknow, Jayce,â you speak up from across the campfire, a smug little grin flashing white, âthe light in the saloon never did your eyes justice.â
His heart shoots up into his throat, and Jayce actually has to suppress a breathy, subtle little gasp.
You donât miss it.
He knows you donât, because you chuckle, victorious and ravenous all at once, and his skin glows hot, from the tips of his ears to his chest.
Thatâs one way to combat the evening chill. Heâd rather not think about any others right now, lest he gets hard under the blanket youâve lent him.
âSave your cheap compliments for an idiot thatâll actually believe them.â
âI meant it,â you counter, meeting his gaze with lidded, but no less focused eyes that soften the exact same way they had when you were dripping, standing behind the barrel of his gun. âI remember when you first looked at me, all wide-eyed and eager, thinkinâ they looked much like a doeâs.â
His heart soars, to the point where he can hear blood rushing somewhere behind his eardrums.
Like a doeâs.
Youâd have no way of knowing the significance that word carries. Itâs not just about the characteristic fawn-tremble softness that permeates him and bleeds into everything he does, says, thinks. Itâs that his mother used to cup his face and kiss his forehead and endearingly call him cervatillo when she wiped the tears from his eyes. Back when he was still allowed to be weak, when he still was weak, all bruised up and gangly legs and thin arms and ruffled hair and awkward, toothless smiles.
Back when the achy tenderness of his nature was considered a feeble thing time would solve, not something he had to remind himself to bury. Itâs both terrifying and soothing that you spot it with such ease. Terrifying because he knows you will use it however you deem fit to suit you, soothing because you understand it, and you handle it â handle him â in ways he's long given up on hoping for.
No-oneâs ever said anything about his eyes since his mother. And absolutely no one's compared them to an animalâs so delicate. No room for tenderness when there needed to be strength, duty, ruthlessness.
He hadnât realized how much heâd been aching to hear something like this. Your compliment brings with it an aftertaste so bittersweet he canât help but savor it, in spite of how his throat goes uncomfortably tight.
âYou alright, sweetheart?â
Jayce blinks, swallows the knot in his throat he hadnât even realized formed. âWhat?â
âYouâre tearing up.â Youâre not mocking him, youâre not even stating a fact, you just say it like you care. Like it matters to you that something hurts, like you want to make it better, like heâs important. âWhatâs the matter?â
Why do you have to make this so difficult?
âNothing. âS the smoke,â he lies, âIâm just⊠sitting too close to the fire. And Iâm tired. I shouldâ I should set up my tent. And sleep.âÂ
Relying on just one leg to get up is no easy feat. He manages, he always does, but by the time heâs standing, swaying ever so subtly from putting most of his weight on one foot, he starts reconsidering sleeping under the stars.
âWith that ankle, you ainât setting up anything,â you joke, ever-observant. âWant me to help?â
âNo.â
âWanna share my tent? I could keep you nice ân warm.â
God, thatâs tempting.
âAbsolutely not.â
You shrug, the soft hurt behind your nonchalance hits his chest with an annoying, painful twang. Why does he care?
Why does he care?
And why does he want to say yes so desperately?
âAlright,â you say. The way you lean back on your elbow and stretch out your legs is a practiced emulation of detachment. âOffer still stands, though.â
In your dreams.
â
âOh, come on.â
The first few raindrops hitting the back of his neck feel much like the punchline of a very bad joke.
A very bad and awfully cruel joke.
As heâs kneeling beside the scattered components of what shouldâve been his tent in less than ten minutes' time, Jayce realizes that todayâs torment is far from coming to an end.
Thereâs no way heâll be able to set this damn thing up while limping, naked save for the blanket loosely wrapped around his shoulders, shivering so hard he can feel his own teeth clattering, and while itâs raining.Â
Great. Now what?
âTalis.â The flap to your tent opens audibly, and you poke your head out with a sigh. âSwallow whatâs left of your pride and get in here.â
Finely crushed pride should be easy to swallow. Turns out it isnât. It sticks to the roof of his mouth like a handful of flour.
âI-Iâve got this,â he replies, âjust a few more minutes and Iâllââ
âI wasnât askinâ.â For a criminal, your threatening voice sounds much more like scolding, rather than intimidating. âNow câmon.â
Heâd like to turn you down. Youâve already had the upper hand in far too many instances today, and heâd hate to grant you another, but what choice does he have?
So he awkwardly shuffles away from what shouldâve been his tent, makes his way over to yours, where you await with a victorious little smile. You even generously offer your hand for support, which he ends up taking as he maneuvers through the tight space, and finally settles on the ground.
âJesus, youâre cold,â you mutter, staring at where his hand rests in yours, huffing out a frustrated breath.
What do you care? Why do you care? What does his comfort matter, when youâve left him tied to a bed for hours a little over ten days ago?
ââS fine,â Jayce grits out, yanks his hand from your hold. Hastily, he tugs the blanket off his shoulders, and drapes it across his torso instead. âIâm fine. Letâs not pretend this is more than an unfortunate circumstance, yeah? Because what happened the last time we shared a bed isnât happening again. Not after what you did to me.â
Part of him regrets flopping down on his side, facing away from you. He canât make sense of your sigh, canât tell if itâs angry or disappointed.Â
âWhat Iâve done to you? You were going to turn me in,â you reply. âI was lookinâ out for myself. A lifetime in captivity is, by far, worse than spendinâ one night tied to a bed, sweetheart. Get over yourself.â
Jayce turns to look at you over his shoulder. Get over himself?! After how youâve abused of his trust, after you robbed him blind, after, afterâ!
âYou humiliated me.â
Your grin is venomous. âYou seemed to quite enjoy it at the time.â
Asshole.
Bastard.
Theâ the goddamn audacity!Â
âThatâs it, Iâm leaving.â
Jayce is sitting up before heâs realized it, dead set on not spending another second in your proximity. He doesnât care what he has to do; put on manure covered clothes, limp through rain, hell, heâll even crawl if he must, he doesnât care, heâs notâ
âHey, hey, hey, Iâm sorry.â Your hand wraps tight around the wrist heâs propped against the ground, and your thumb rubs a soothing circle into his pulse point.Â
An apology? Thatâs⊠new.
A step forward, or just a new trick youâll be using to win the upper hand once more?
Your gaze darts from his hand to his face in a frenzy, settles into a worried frown once he finally sits back down.
âIâm sorry, sweetheart,â you repeat it like the first time you said it didnât hit him like a wall of bricks, ââTwas just a joke, I didnât meanâ Just⊠stay.â
Stay? Thatâs a ridiculously high demand after you robbed him and left, with his heart, money and dignity. He hates that it should be outrageous, that he should be outraged, but that he rather finds himself growing warm and soft and pliant instead.
âWhy?â
God, heâs weak.
Your smile is devoid of all its familiar coyness, shines with something new and tender and unsettlingly genuine. âI wanna make it up to you. Yâknow, for your sprained ankle nâ all.â
Oh.
Of course itâs about you feeling less bad about the damage youâd done. Itâs never about him, is it?
His shattered pride is by far a more pressing issue than his ankle, but, fine. Fine. Heâll let you have this. Just because heâs so terribly generous. Not⊠because his chest warms at the fact that you might be worried about making it up to him. This isnât about him. He needs to get that through his head.
His frame slackens, and so does your grip around his wrist, lingering up his arm as he settles back down. Still facing away. Heâs not going to give you the satisfaction of seeing his pout when you let go of his arm, and move away to a respectful distance. As much as the tent allows.
It stays at that. Laying next to each-other a distance far enough to not allow more than the occasional graze, but close enough to hear your breath, close enough to hear how it slows.
Nature isnât usually this quiet. Certainly not quiet enough to hear even his own breath, much less someone elseâs. Thereâs nothing to distract him from the truth, from how his stomach turns and lungs swell with an urgent, subtle warmth and yearning and want. Almost everything heâd wanted to have the night youâd left him in that saloon is right behind him, yet terribly out of reach.Â
Your warmth, your breath, your skin, waiting and giving and warm and your sheltering arms, wrapped around him tight, tight enough to make him forget about what awaits and whatâs expected of him outside of them. What he wouldnât give for that.
What he wouldnât give up for that.
At just the thought of arms wrapped around him, of a chest pressed up against his back, ofâ of you, breathing at his neck, instead of at the other side of the tent, his body gives an involuntary shiver, potent enough that itâs audible in his exhale.
âStill cold?âÂ
Dammit.
âNo, just, uh,â unable to come up with an eloquent lie, Jayce sighs, shakes his head. ââS nothing. Sleep.â
âI could hold you, you know.â You clear your throat after you say it, suddenly uneasy with the prospect of it. Or perhaps shy? Youâve never really been that, and youâve done much worse than just hug. He doubts this is enough to work you up into anxiety. âTo share some body heat.â
Itâs a punch to the gut.
You say it like itâs easy, like one night spent together isnât the root cause of all your problems, like holding him isnât going to lead to more of them.
He should know better. He does know better.
He doesnât need to get his hopes up just to have them broken all over again â one time was enough, thank you very much.
âIâd rather you didnât,â he snarks.Â
Itâs unintentionally cutting.
âThatâs alright sweetheart, no pressure.â
You donât deserve to be talked to like that. Wellâ you do, because youâve left him and humiliated him that night, but⊠itâs still not fair. Youâve given him your blanket, let him share your tent, and stayed for his sake. Youâve tried to make up for how youâd left him that night, and even though it still hurts to think about it, he can understand why. Behind all that buttery smoothness and salacious want, you had to be cautious.
And, besides, some warmth doesnât sound half bad.
It doesnât have to lead to sex. Right? Itâ it can just be exactly what youâd suggested, a sharing of body heat, and maybe a taste of the tenderness heâd craved so desperately after youâd left.
He wants that.
And thereâs nothing wrong with just that, is there? Itâs functional, itâs in his best interest to snatch up some warmth.
âAlright. Fine,â Jayce blurts. The pause heâs faced with after heâs spit out the words makes the heat in his stomach turn to anxious lead, weighing down in his gut as he awaits your response.
You snort out a laugh, confused. âWhat?â
âI meant that itâs fine for you to uh⊠share some body heat. You canâ you can hold me.â
You hum, and when he turns to steal a glance at you over his shoulder, youâre fixating him with a wicked smile.Â
âI know I can, sweetheart, but do you want me to?â
Of course. Of course you would pull this, why did he think youâd make this easy? Heâd deluded himself into thinking you actually wanted to help, when you so clearly just wanted to find a new way to torment him.Â
Why does he always do this? Always takes the bait, alwaysâ
The purpose of warming him up seems terribly distant when he damn near freezes at your arm snaking between the groove of his waist and the ground, while the other reaches to take his hand in yours, and oh, your chest seams to his back, warm and soft and your heartbeat is right there, a soft little thudding between his shoulder blades, nowhere near wild enough to match his raging one.
âRelax, I was jokinâ.â He can feel your chest rumble with a little laugh. âHowâs this, hm?â
The proximity between your lips and his ear makes him shiver in earnest now, entire body flooding with goosebumps that have very little to do with the cold.
It is working, if the heat zinging down his spine and gathering in his stomach and chest is anything to go by. And the slowly building pressure in his cock, scorching and gradually swelling into pleasant, pulsing hardness.
He doesnât know what this makes him. A hypocrite, probably, for promising himself he would not want anything more while his body and subconscious are begging for it. Or an idiot, for thinking he'd be able to turn down whatever you offered, when heâs hanging onto every word, every inhale-exhale, every back and forth brush of your fingers.
Most of all, though, heâs scared. Scared to want more, scared that he does want more, and scared of whatâll happen if he ends up finding exactly that.
âYeah,â Jayce croaks out. He has to squeeze his eyes shut to muster up enough brainpower for a second, marginally more eloquent response. âItâs fine.â
âJust fine?â
Jayce doesnât answer.
He canât answer, because he knows for a fact he wonât get out anything more than a shaky rendition of an affirmative word, or, worst case scenario, will wheeze out a soft, hushed whimper.
The hand that holds his starts rubbing at his palm, before it urges it into a lax fist, which you lift up to his shoulder, just enough to tuck your chin atop his collarbone and blow out a warm gust of air against it. The hand youâd wrapped around his waist is used as leverage to press the cradle of your hips up against his ass, steady but certain in how you smother him with your heat in spite of the fact that his frame is considerably bigger and wider than yours.Â
The texture of your jeans is rough against his bare ass, your breath tickles that one blissful spot right behind his ear, your hand, splayed atop his tummy, scratches gently at the first few hairs of his happy trail, and he doesnât know what this is, doesnât know what you want it to be, doesnât even know how he shouldâ
âBreathe, youâre stiff as a board.â
You donât meanâ no, of course you donât, thereâs no way you could know, because youâre not⊠Youâre still touching his stomach. Right. And heâs clenching it.
âSorry.â
With a fortifying breath in, and an exhale so thorough it makes his lungs ache, he finally goes as lax as he can in your hold. Itâs a fabricated, forced kind of relaxation, but it seems to satisfy you regardless. Your smile is palpable at the back of his neck.
Your fingertips twirl the thick curls between his hips, and your lips â still split into a smile â press a fleeting kiss to his nape.Â
âThere you go.â
That⊠is not helping.
At your saccharine praise, his hips give a twitch forward, the tip of his half-hard cock nudging the scratchy fleece just enough to have a soft moan catching in his throat. Itâs hardly even contact, but itâs more than enough when heâs been throbbing, untouched, for torturous minutes. You notice. Of course you do.
âOh?â you purr at the back of his neck, more of a delighted remark rather than a question. âWhatâs that, Talis?â
He doesnât know why, out of all the things already rubbed up against him, particularly hearing his last name rubs him the wrong way â but it does. Has his stomach flipping with a new, heavy kind of heat, borne of both frustration and desperate need. He hangs onto the anger to navigate his foggy, pleasure-wired thoughts and come up with something to deflect from the obvious.
Not that it works.
âStop calling me that.â
You steady him with the hand at his tummy, reel him back in, back against you, before your palm, callused, flattens and presses its heel into the skin below his navel.
âWhat would you prefer?â You ask, sweet enough that even Jayce â usually terrible at picking up on social cues â can tell itâs fake. You inch closer, pressed up so tight your heat permeates him down to his spine, before you whisper, taunting, âPretty boy? Sweetheart?â
Jayceâs hand finds yours in an instant, wraps loosely around your wrist, realizing, to his utter terror, that the tension making his chest feel unbearably tight is not between him and you, but within himself.
Youâre going to give him everything heâs been aching for, and heâs not sure he wants it.
That wonât matter, though, because he clearly doesnât have much of a say in this, does he? He can tell by how greedily your hand still inches further and further down, can feel it in how you grip his chest in the other, can feel it in how indulgently you squeeze, until your nails indent his pectoral and your fingertips brush the curls at the base of his heavy cock.
Youâre going to take what you want. It all comes down to whether heâll let you or not.Â
Because youâre out to sate your hunger. This isnât about him, never was about him. All of it â your choosing to stay, to talk to him, to look out for him â is faux kindness; hadnât been anything more. Heâd just deluded himself into believing otherwise, believing you, because he aches for it. Aches to be held not so that his body can be of use, aches to be held because he matters, because you care â but you donât.
You take his cock in your hand and hum with delight at how he throbs, desperate and rhythmic like his heartbeat. His stomach drops, leaden with the realization that heâs nothing more than meat between your molars, but his body accepts it regardless, because it will suffice, it has to. Unwilling, unbidden, he thrusts into your fist, whimpers at the chafing grip of your hand on his buzzing nerves.
âYou seemed to quite like being called a whore the other night as well, didnât you, Talis?â Your voice muffles at the back of his neck, sinks into his brain like warm lightning, paralyzes thoughts, enables muscles. His spine bows for you, willing, as you stroke his foreskin back with the meat of your palm and press your thumb to his weeping slit. Your index rubs at the underside of him, nearly abrades in its certainty to hit the exact spot where his nerves burn at the slightest touch.Â
The bow of his spine is undone promptly, in favor of curling in on himself from the pleasure-pain, sensitive spot rubbed raw with the white slick testament of his own bodyâs disobedience, his desperation. âOh, darlinâ, look at you, youâre leaking. All for me.â
âPleaseââ
Heâs not even sure what heâs begging for. Less? More?Â
âShh, I know,â you soothe, although you donât have the slightest fucking idea.Â
How could you? If you knew how he burns for tenderness, if you had any idea that the noxious, synthetic affection you pour into every touch is toxic, youâd stop. But you donât know, or you donât care, youâre only rubbing him raw into an orgasm that feels taken, rather than given.
Youâre using him.Â
Jayce has half the mind to startle when you nudge his jaw, your sweaty cheek against his, your hand unrelenting in its pace and rhythm, wringing his nerves dry of all pleasure. Your tongue licks at the corner of his mouth, surprisingly tender, a taste of what he longs for. Youâre husky when you say it, almost like you ache for it, too, slick at the edge of his lips. This is about as close as heâs ever seen you get to begging.
âKiss me, sweetheart.â
So he does. Always rushing to please, to do as demanded not because he stops to consider the implications of it, but out of sheer habit.Â
He pays the price for acting on muscle memory.
The first brush of your lips paralyzes. Has him going lax in your arms, feeling much like a rabbit in a spearheadâs deadly embrace â pliant and soft. Having no choice but to soak the sugary-bitter poison you so greedily feed into his mouth with the push of your tongue, even if itâs making him ache.
Itâs laughable that he canât even understand why something so warm and devouring makes him hurt, until thereâs a zing of phantom pain in his wrists and a less phantomatic one in his chest â and he realizes that youâd kissed him like this before youâd left. Kissed him raw and genuine and then left him, tied to that bed, hurting and confused and alone and used.
And youâre going to do it again. Because thatâs all you do, isnât it? Take, and take and take.
He canât let you keep getting away with it.
âS-stop,â he stutters out, fist going tight around your wrist, although you halt before he can force you into it regardless.
The lack of contact feels just as wrong as its presence had.Â
âYou alright?â
No. Nothingâs alright. From the painful, needy throb of his cock, to how his stomach and chest and throat go concave and tight and heavy and you donât care; because if you did, you wouldnât be doing this, you wouldnâtâ
âHey, Jayceââ The hand at his lower stomach brushes up, presses to the space between his chest and stomach, right between his ribs, almost like you know thatâs where it hurts the most. But you donât, you couldnât.
âDonât touch me,â he hisses, for a second time tonight, although this time he sounds considerably less angry and more like heâs rupturing at the seams. Feeling like a startled animal, he scrambles to face you, and puts some much needed distance between you.Â
Youâre confused. Thatâs the first thing he notices â head tilted, brows furrowed, eyes wide â youâre staring at him like heâs a problem you canât quite figure out, but youâre notâ you donât seem angry. You look him up and down, eyes lingering on his fists, clutched tight to the point of bony whiteness. If they werenât, theyâd be shaking.Â
You reach out to settle one hand atop his knuckles, but you donât force more contact than just the near-hovering brush.
âWhatâs wrong, sweetheart?â
Whatâs wrong?! Youâre acting like you care, touching him like you donât, and he wantsâ he doesnât fucking know what he wants, doesnât know he should want because he doesnât know what you want, he just knows he doesnât want this.
Putting all of this into words is a distant dream. Jayce settles for silence, the heavy and alarming kind that has you shifting closer, reaching out.
Instinctively, he flinches away, hand shooting away from yours, down to⊠his hip? His gun. Where his gun would be. Should be.
At his reaction, you stop, retrace the distance youâd tried to close moments ago.Â
That helps. Somewhat. It shifts the stifling weight from his stomach to his chest, anxiety to guilt.
âJayce?â
Your tone pitches up high at the end of his name, and if he didnât know you to be such a ruthless criminal, he mightâve classed your tone as guilty. But someone like you isnât capable of that sort of thing. Itâs something youâve long had to discard to make it where you are right now.Â
Itâs not fair that you still pretend you feel even a semblance of it. Itâs not fair of you to use him, leave him, belittle him, try to use him again, kiss him like nothing happened, and then say his name like youâre genuinely worried.
He doesnât deserve this. He doesnât deserve to be thrown around and picked back up whenever you so desire to have your fun with him, he doesnât deserve to be talked to like he matters just to be coaxed into submission and give you what you want.
âWill you just tell me whatâs wrong?â
Everythingâs wrong. Youâre pushing every right button to weasel yourself back under his skin, because thatâs what you do, donât you? You have him figured out, youâve had him figured out since the moment he shivered at the first word you addressed to him, and now you are going to abuse of that knowledge, because thatâs all you know how to do.
Because youâre a criminal.
Because you donât bother with the intricacies of emotions or even just the simplicity of giving a fucking shit.
âYou donât get to do that,â he says, canât bring himself to meet your gaze even though heâs fuming. âYou donât get to treat me like this and then, and then justâ!â
âWhat?â You ask, head tilting. âTreat you how?â
There is no malice behind your inquiry, at least not as far as his gut tells him. Heâs not inclined to believe it â his instinct has failed him one too many times when it comes to you. Regardless, it just doesnât make sense. Heâs just had the most embarrassing outburst since the day heâs passed puberty, and youâre trying to understand, rather than kick him out of your tent?
Why wonât you just make him leave? Itâd be a panacea to all of this, itâd make everything so much less complicated, much easier, but you wonât. Why?
âJayce,â you say again, not any less gentle than the first time. Why? âTalk to me.â
Maybe talking to you and helping you realize heâs got all your cheap, predatory tactics figured out is enough to finally put a pitiful end to this. You want him to talk? Heâll talk.
He now understands how cats feel when they hack up a ball of fur. The sadness and loathing build in his throat, threaten to form a know thatâll go straight to his already watery eyes and do him in. But the words can be hacked up, and his tongue can be unstuck from the roof of his mouth, and then the truth comes easily.Â
âYou used me,â he finally spits out. Jayceâs voice goes strangled and quiet on the second word, and he realizes itâs â above all else â shame that weighs it down. âAnd you left. Andâ and now youâre pretending none of it happened, pretending you care, and Iâ I was stupid enough to buy it once, but trust me, Iâm notââ
âYou didnât want this?â
You swallow thickly, the hand youâd touched him with shooting up to your chest, prodding at your own collarbone, almost curling in on yourself. Almost.
He doubts that someone like you is even capable of genuine displays of guilt, after all youâve done, guilt does not seem like something you could afford, but this â watching him like the thought of having touched him against his wishes makes you hurt â this comes quite close.
And itâs absurd, overwhelming and flattering in a way that leaves his mouth feeling sticky and dry that out of all the heinous things youâve committed, itâs him youâve deemed worthy of your contrition.Â
Jayce is going to throw up.
âYou asked me to hold you, sweetheart, I assumed youââ your sentence falters to a halt once the word is out, and there is regret and understanding and revelation all across your face and maybe â just maybe â you do care. Do you? âIâm sorry. I shouldnât have assumed.â
Jayce has to look up to the tentâs ceiling, swallow back a sticky-suffocating mixture of vomit and tears.Â
He can stomach skinning animals, can stomach the feel of teeth cracking under the pound of his fist, can stomach the guts pouring out of a gash he slashes across a criminalâs abdomen but this is where his body draws the line? At a goddamn apology?
âYou shouldâve told me, sweetheart, I wouldâve stoppedââ
âSo stop now.â
âWhat?â
âStop acting like you care about what I want, because we both know thatâs a lie, stop pretending whateverâs between us isnât wrong and stopâ Just stop.â
You briefly watch him in silence, caught off-guard by the outburst. He canât exactly blame you for that â heâs just as surprised.
Heâs notâ heâs not like this. Heâs level-headed, heâs smart, heâs resourceful, can (usually) hold his own. But you bring out the worst in him, in all ways. Make him terrified and brainless and lusty and unfocused and pliant and needy.
âAlright,â you say, and it sounds less like a verdict, and more like an agreement. âWhat do I⊠would you prefer if I left you alone in here?â
Heâs never wanted to answer yes and no to a question so much. Much to both his dismay and relief, there is no choice to be made. There never is â not when it comes to him.
This isnât a matter of preference. Of course it isnâtâ nothing in his life ever was. Itâs all circumstance; sometimes he has to wonder if he even has a hand in anything at all, when his entire life feels like an unrelenting river current he fell into. Becoming a bounty hunter, a protector, leaving home, abandoning his wants to become who he needed to be, there had been no choice in that. Heâd done it all because circumstance demanded it, and now⊠well, now is pretty much the same thing, all over again.Â
Jayce scoffs. âWhere would you go? Itâs raining. And this is your tent.â
You donât have an answer, and neither does he.Â
âStay,â he decides, not because he wants you to, but because alternatives are scarce. âJust donâtââ
His voice sticks to the back of his throat, right behind his tongue.
Donât what?
Donât touch me even though I so desperately want you to? Donât talk to me even though I cling onto your every word, no matter how sharp or soft? Donât act against my wishes, even though I have no idea what they are?Â
âNo funny business,â you interrupt. âYou have my word.â
Jayce has no idea how much an outlawâs promise is worth. Heâs about to find out.
And he does. You keep it with uncharacteristic determination, you donât say another word, donât touch him, donât even move. If it werenât for the muted sound of your breath, you might as well be gone.Â
And it hits Jayce that he doesnât want that.
Doesnât want you gone even though he should, because itâs the right thing, the logical thing to want. Your leaving, regardless if it implied locking you up or you getting away, would solve half of his problems, if not more of them.
Except for his longing.
And, as it turns out, that takes priority.
Because Jayce is weak, he peeks at your form over his shoulder, and his five oâclock shadow scratches the fleece blanket as his head turns. Your eyes slide open at the sound, catching him red-handed.
And you smile again.
Thatâs the last thing he sees before he turns away again, and you stick to your goddamn promise, because you donât speak or touch or laugh or do any of the things he really wishes you would do right now.
Heâs hopeless.
You make a sound, a little cut-off consonant that dies before it even leaves your mouth properly, and Jayce turns to look at you again.
âWhat?â
âWas gonna say somethinâ,â you tell him. âBut I remembered I promised you otherwise.â
âI doubt that after all the robbing and crime, a promise is where you draw the line.â
You smile. âI gave you my word, Tâ Jayce.â
âGive me⊠the rest of them, too.â He sighs. Weak. âWhat were you going to say?â
âWell, I was gonna say, that⊠for what itâs worth,â you pause for a moment, still hesitant, âif I hadnât figured out you were the Jayce Talis then, that night wouldnât have ended the way it did.â
Itâs a question he shouldnât ask, and one he wouldnât need to ask if he had half of Caitâs capacity to read people, but he needs to know.
âHow⊠would it have ended, then?â
âI donât tend to stick around until dawn.â You swallow audibly. âBut I would have liked to, for you.â
And Jayce knows thatâs a lie, the same way those nomadic merchants passing through Piltover set up shabby shop at the market and ask his name, then tell him itâs a good name, a strong name, fit for someone like him, that they like him and theyâll make him a special offer. Itâs cheap, transparent manipulation, and still it works, because it makes his heart leap a fraction. But itâs a lie.
âSure,â Jayce snarks, because he canât really come up with anything better. âStick around for what? Another quick fuck before you left for good?â
You hum like youâd been expecting his answer. âNot without asking you when youâd like to see me again.â
And that shuts him up for good. Weighs and sticks heavy and bitter and pungent on his tongue like tar because he doesn't want to believe it, but tastes sweet after he swallows, because he does believe it. You say it like itâs a simple, single truth, and he canât help the way his entire being tingles with delight.Â
You would have wanted more of him.
âYouâve got all night to come up with an answer,â you add, smug, before you shift to turn away from him, too. âTake your time.â
Youâre not wrong.
He does.
âÂ
He doesnât. He does have the whole night at his disposal, and your question has him warm and awake and alive even though he tries so desperately not to be.Â
And now he doesnât have all night at his disposal anymore because he wakes from what little sleep heâd fallen into, and judging by how his bones ache like theyâre going to crumble, the rest had neither been of quality or quantity.
So much for sleeping on a decision.
Jayce tenses what feels like every single muscle in his body, then, without giving his size too much though, flops onto his back.
And it hits him only after he does so that he shouldâve been very much crushing you under his weight, had you been there.
But youâre not.
The spot next to him is empty.
Youâre gone.
Sticking around until dusk his fucking ass. Whatâd he even expect? A kiss on the forehead and breakfast in bed? How typical of him to get his hopes up so very high that they shatter, how naĂŻve of him, how deludedâ
He wouldnât be surprised if youâd taken everything and just left him with your shabby excuse for a tent and his naked horse. Whatâd he even expect from a criminal?
Youâve fooled him again and heâs let you. And youâve used him, of course you have, because you donât know anything else aside from that, do you?Â
And in spite of it all, Jayce, in all his wishful thinking, still wants to believe youâre there, sitting beside the dead campfire and waiting for him as he crawls out of your tent.
But youâre not.
Topacio â his horse â is still very much there, and so is his gear, and his still damp clothes, and his satchel. Once he slips into his sticky jeans and slightly less sticky shirt, Jayce reaches for the satchel, prepared for the worst.
But itâs still as full as it had been yesterday.
No, thatâs wrong. Itâs fuller.
Your bounty poster is folded, aroundâ around something. As he unfolds it, a wad of cash slides out, and Jayce manages to catch it before it spills from the paper and hits the mud.
Itâs the exact amount youâd stolen after the first night youâd spent with him, all there. All tucked into a folded piece of paper, which youâve hastily scribbled onto:Â
I donât want to make your job any more difficult than it has to be, Jayce. As of the moment I am writing this, I promise you â and you have seen how much my word is worth last night â that I will not cause you any more trouble. Not in Piltover, at least.Â
I will, however, be visiting next month. I do want my tent back. What we do in it after you return it will be up to you.
Jayce swallows thickly when he notices that there is, unfortunately, something written on the backside of this paper: big, bold letters and numbers are visible through the paper, and so is what seems to be a dried stain â oh. Oh, fuck. Of course youâve found it.
This piece of paper is the bounty poster of you with the obvious smear of his semen across your face. Before Jayce gets to agonize about not ripping the poster into shreds or using it to fuel his campfire, another scribble catches his eye.
Right below where the paper curls with his dried cum, youâve written in pencil:
I will be missing you just as fondly.
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