Chapter 17: The Morning Confession
Jason woke to a filter of gold. It poured through the sheer curtains, painting the chaos of Simon’s room in warm, soft strokes. The first thing he became aware of was weight. A pleasant, solid pressure across his chest and legs.
Simon was still there, curled into him. One arm was flung across Jason’s sternum, a hand splayed possessively over his heart. Simon’s head was a heavy warmth in the hollow of Jason’s shoulder, dark hair tickling his jaw. The smaller man’s breathing was a deep, even rhythm against his skin.
Jason didn’t move. He let his eyes adjust, tracing the lines of the room he knew so well—the precarious stack of biometric journals, the outline of the soldering iron on the desk. But his focus kept returning to the man using him as a mattress. He studied the sharp, clean line of Simon’s jaw, relaxed now in sleep. The fan of his dark lashes against pale skin. The faint, almost imperceptible pulse at his temple.
A tenderness, raw and unfamiliar, bloomed behind his ribs. It was a physical ache, a desire to protect and possess that was entirely new. He’d trusted Simon with his body, with his absolute helplessness. Seeing Simon trust him back with sleep, with vulnerability, felt like a greater revelation.
Hesitantly, Jason lifted his hand. He traced the pad of his thumb down the curve of Simon’s cheekbone, feather-light.
Simon’s eyes fluttered open immediately. Not with a start, but with a slow, dawning awareness. His sharp blue eyes were hazy, unfocused, and unbearably warm. He blinked up at Jason, a small, unconscious smile tugging at his lips.
“Hey,” Jason whispered. His voice was gravel, rough with disuse and sleep.
Simon’s hand, still on Jason’s chest, slid slowly upward. His fingers found the hollow of Jason’s throat, resting where his pulse beat a steady, accelerating rhythm. Simon’s thumb brushed the skin there.
“I should probably get off you,” Simon murmured, his own voice thick. He made no move to do so. He just kept looking, his gaze traveling over Jason’s face as if reading a fascinating, newly-discovered text.
Jason laughed softly, the sound rumbling through his chest and into Simon’s. His hands settled on Simon’s hips, feeling the fine bones through the thin cotton of his boxers. “You’re not heavy. Stay.”
Simon’s answer was nonverbal. He tilted his head and pressed his lips to Jason’s collarbone. Not a kiss, exactly. More of a testing touch, a confirmation of reality. Then he trailed his mouth slowly, deliberately, up the column of Jason’s neck. His breath was hot. His teeth grazed Jason’s earlobe.
Jason shuddered, his fingers tightening on Simon’s hips.
“I want to try something,” Simon said, the words vibrating against Jason’s skin.
“Yeah?” Jason managed. His brain was short-circuiting, rerouting all processing to the points of contact between their bodies.
Simon shifted, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at Jason. His hair fell into his eyes. The morning light caught the serious, intent look on his face. “I want you to tie me up. Just my wrists. To the headboard.”
Jason’s breath stalled. The request hung in the sunlit air, dense and immense.
Simon continued, his voice low and steady. “And then… I want you to touch me. Everywhere. Find what makes me break.” A faint, self-deprecating smirk appeared. “You know. For science.”
Jason just stared. The role reversal was absolute, dizzying. He was the one who had been restrained, explored, driven to the edge of his sanity. Now Simon was offering him the controls, the map, the tools. It was an act of trust so profound it felt like vertigo.
“You trust me that much?” Jason asked, his voice barely audible. His hands were still on Simon’s hips, holding him as if he might float away.
Simon met his eyes, and there was no mischief, no hidden agenda in that blue gaze. Just a sure, open certainty. “I built a machine to torture you because I don’t know how to talk. Yeah, Jason. I trust you.”
The simplicity of it undid him. Jason pulled Simon down into a kiss. It was less gentle than their first one—hungrier, fueled by a gratitude so deep it felt like desperation. Simon melted into it, a small, grateful sound escaping his throat.
When they broke apart, Jason nodded. “Okay.”
“Okay,” Simon echoed. He rolled off, sitting up on the edge of the bed. The sunlight traced the lines of his slender back, the delicate knobs of his spine. “The straps. Top drawer of the bedside table. They’re, uh. They’re from a prototype for a adjustable laptop mount.”
Jason barked a laugh, the tension splintering. “Of course they are.” He sat up, the sheet pooling around his waist. He felt huge next to Simon, all long limbs and newfound purpose. He opened the cluttered drawer, pushing aside spare microchips and tangled USB cables until his fingers closed on two wide bands of supple black leather. They were cool, well-made, with sturdy buckles.
Simon was already shifting back, settling against the wrought-iron headboard. He held out his wrists, his expression a complex mix of challenge and surrender.
Jason’s hands were steady as he took Simon’s left wrist. The skin there was pale, the veins a delicate blue road map. He looped the leather around, mindful not to pull too tight. The buckle clicked shut with a soft, definitive snick. He repeated the process with the right wrist, securing it to another vertical bar. He gave each strap a gentle, testing tug. Secure, but not constricting. Simon could move his hands a few inches, but he was anchored.
“Comfortable?” Jason asked, his voice gone quiet.
“Yeah,” Simon breathed. He tugged against the restraints once, a faint, experimental jerk. A shiver went through him. His eyes were dark, locked on Jason’s face. “Your turn.”
For a long moment, Jason just looked. Simon, bound and waiting, was a landscape he’d been given permission to chart. This wasn’t the chaotic, overwhelming assault of the machine. This was slow. Human. His to discover.
He started with his hands. He placed them flat on Simon’s thighs, just above the knees. He felt the muscle jump under his palms. He dragged his hands upward, over the cotton of Simon’s boxers, along the sharp crests of his hip bones, up the sensitive dip of his waist. Simon’s breath hitched.
“Tell me,” Jason murmured, not stopping. “Tell me what you feel.”
“Your hands are warm,” Simon said, his voice already strained. “Rough. On my sides… it’s almost sharp. Good sharp.”
Jason learned him. He used the pads of his fingers, his nails, the broad flats of his palms. He discovered that the space behind Simon’s knees was a minefield of twitching sensitivity. That a slow drag of a thumbnail up the sole of his foot made his whole body arch off the mattress with a choked-off gasp. That the junction of his neck and shoulder, when Jason bit down gently, made Simon curse and strain against the leather, his wrists pulling taut.
“Jason—” Simon’s voice was a broken thing.
“I’m here,” Jason whispered against his skin. He mapped the ridges of Simon’s ribs, the flutter of his stomach, the pounding of his heart. He was methodical, obsessive, a scientist in his own right. Every reaction was data—a gasp, a shudder, a pleading tug at the straps.
He finally, slowly, pushed Simon’s boxers down. Simon helped, lifting his hips, his face flushed and turned to the side. Jason took him in, all of him, in the clear morning light. Not as a subject, but as Simon. Beautiful, exposed, and entirely his to wreck.
He didn’t rush. He used his mouth, his hands, the same relentless, patient attention Simon had once turned on him. But this was love, not research. This was reciprocity. Every touch was a question, and Simon’s unraveling was the answer.
When Simon finally broke, it was with a sound that was half a sob, half Jason’s name. It was quiet, desperate, and utterly complete. He shook, his body trembling through the aftermath, held down only by Jason’s weight and the gentle confinement he’d asked for.
Jason carefully unclasped the buckles, one then the other. He massaged the faint red marks on Simon’s wrists, bringing the blood back. Simon’s arms fell limply to his sides. He looked wrecked, beautiful, and utterly peaceful.
He pulled Jason down beside him, tucking himself back into the space against Jason’s chest with a tired, satisfied sigh. His skin was damp, his hair stuck to his forehead.
“So?” Jason asked after a while, kissing the top of his head. “For science. What’s the conclusion?”
Simon laughed, a weak, happy sound. He tilted his head back to look at Jason. His eyes were clear, brighter than the morning. “The conclusion,” he said softly, “is that you’re a natural. And that I’m never getting out of this bed again.”
“We’ll need coffee eventually.”
“Eventually,” Simon agreed, his eyes already drifting shut. His hand found Jason’s, their fingers threading together on the sun-warmed sheet. “But not yet.”
“But not yet.”
The sunlight climbed higher, warming the rumpled landscape of the bed. They drifted in a haze, dozing then waking, limbs heavy and minds quiet. Simon traced idle patterns on Jason’s chest, following the trail of light as it moved.
Eventually, the promise of coffee became a tangible need. Simon untangled himself with a groan, padding out to the kitchen on bare feet. Jason listened to the distant clatter of mugs, the gurgle of the machine. He stared at the ceiling, a slow smile spreading. His body felt used, profoundly relaxed, and his mind was clear in a way it hadn’t been in years.
Simon returned with two steaming mugs, his hair sticking up at odd angles. He handed one over and slid back into bed, not under the covers but on top of them, cross-legged facing Jason. The steam curled between them.
“So,” Simon said, blowing on his coffee. His eyes were bright, analytical again. “Feedback loop.”
Jason took a sip, the bitter heat grounding him. “Feedback loop?”
“Yesterday. Me observing you. Today. You observing me.” Simon gestured with his mug between them. “The data’s fundamentally different. Subjective. But it’s a paired set now.”
“You’re impossible,” Jason said, but he was grinning. “Even now.”
“Especially now.” Simon set his mug on the cluttered nightstand. He leaned forward, his expression shifting from scientist to something more intent. “Your turn to be fully awake. My turn to explore without… apparatus.”
A familiar, delicious tension tightened low in Jason’s gut. He put his own mug down. “Yeah? No straps this time?”
“No straps,” Simon confirmed, crawling closer. He put a hand on Jason’s shoulder and pushed, gently but firmly. Jason let himself be rolled onto his back, sinking into the pillows. Simon straddled his thighs, a lightweight, commanding presence. “Just this.”
He bent down and kissed Jason, slow and deep. Jason’s hands came up to cradle his face, pulling him closer. The kiss tasted of coffee and sleep and them. It slowed, softened, became a series of lazy, connected presses that had no hurry at all.
They ended up tangled in the sheets as they gently teased each other’s bodies between soft kisses. Fingers skimmed ribs, traced jawlines, dipped into the warm spaces at the small of backs. It was a conversation without words, a rediscovery in the plain daylight. Laughter bubbled up when Jason hit a particularly ticklish spot on Simon’s side, and Simon retaliated by blowing a raspberry against his neck.
For a while, Jason loomed over Simon, pressing him down into the mattress with the solid weight of his body. He nuzzled into the soft, supple skin of Simon’s belly, his late-night stubble rubbing a reddened, sensitive path that made Simon gasp and squirm. His hands pinned Simon’s wrists lightly to the sheets, not to restrain, but simply to hold him in place as he mapped this intimate, vulnerable territory with his lips and the abrasive scratch of his jaw.
“So sensitive here,” Jason murmured against the quivering skin.
“Shut up,” Simon breathed, his back arching. His fingers twisted in Jason’s messy hair, not pushing him away, but holding on.
The dynamic shifted again, fluid and unspoken. Jason rolled onto his back, breathing heavily, an open invitation. Simon moved with a playful glint in his eye. He slid down the length of the bed, the sheets twisting around his ankles.
Sometime later, Simon was at the foot of the mattress, nuzzling and licking Jason’s size 13 feet. He started at the ankle, his hands firm around the arch, holding Jason in place with a surprising strength. Jason let out a sharp, shocked gasp, his whole body tensing. A deep, involuntary moan rattled from his chest as Simon’s tongue traced a slow, wet line from heel to the ball of his foot.
“Simon—fuck—” Jason’s voice was strangled. His legs jerked, but Simon held them fast.
“You’re incredibly responsive here,” Simon said, his voice low and fascinated. He said it like a clinical fact, but the heat of his breath on Jason’s skin betrayed him. He took Jason’s big toe into his mouth, suckling gently, his tongue working the sensitive pad.
Jason cried out, a raw, needy sound. He squirmed, his hips lifting off the mattress, hands fisting in the sheets. It was too much and not enough—an intimate violation that felt like worship, a targeted attack on his most overlooked nerve endings. Every lick, every soft scrape of teeth, every warm, moist press of Simon’s mouth sent jagged lightning up his spine, coiling tension low in his belly.
“Please,” Jason begged, unsure what he was asking for. Stop. Continue. Something else entirely.
Simon released his foot with a soft pop. He looked up the long line of Jason’s body, meeting his desperate, hazy gaze. Simon’s lips were wet, his eyes dark with a possessive kind of hunger. “Tell me what you need.”
“You,” Jason managed, his chest heaving. “Just you. Anywhere.”
Simon moved then, a swift crawl back up Jason’s body that felt like a rescue. He didn’t kiss his mouth. He kissed his hip, the sharp bone, then lower, taking Jason fully into the heat of his mouth without preamble. Jason shouted, his back bowing off the bed, the sensory overload from his feet still buzzing through him, now eclipsed by a sharper, more concentrated fire.
It was fast and desperate this time, a direct and merciful end to the torment. When Jason fell apart, it was with Simon’s name as a broken chant, his hands gripping Simon’s hair, his vision whiting out at the edges.
Simon collapsed beside him, breathing hard. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a slow, satisfied motion. They lay in a wrecked, sweaty silence for long minutes, the only sound their ragged breathing slowing into sync.
Jason finally turned his head. Simon was already watching him, a strange, soft expression on his face. It wasn’t triumph. It was wonder.
“That,” Jason said, his voice utterly wrecked, “was a lot more effective than your machine.”
Simon’s laugh was a quiet huff. He shuffled closer, resting his head on Jason’s shoulder. His fingers found Jason’s, interlacing them. “The machine was the question. This is the answer.”
Jason squeezed his hand. The sun was high now, bleaching the room clean. The real world—his empty bank account, his crappy job, the laundry on the floor—waited just outside the door. But here, in this tangled nest, he had a new dataset: the weight of Simon’s head on his shoulder, the taste of coffee and skin, the memory of helpless, trusting laughter. It felt like a currency he could finally spend.
It felt like a currency he could finally spend. The silence was thick and comfortable, but a distinct, sticky awareness was settling over his skin. He became hyper-conscious of the dried sweat, the specific ache in his muscles, the lingering traces of everything they’d done.
Jason groaned, stretching his long limbs until something popped in his spine. He sat up, swinging his feet to the floor. The wood was cool under his soles. “We need a shower. And a bath, probably.”
Simon made a noise of protest into the pillow, clutching at the sheets where Jason had been. “No. This is our habitat now. We’ve adapted.”
“We’ve fermented.” Jason stood, his body protesting. He looked over his shoulder at Simon, who was peering at him with one bleary eye. A playful idea took root. He turned, presenting his broad, pale back to Simon. “Come on. I’ll give you a piggyback. It’ll be like when we were in elementary school… just naked and a lot more fun.”
That got a genuine laugh out of Simon, sharp and bright. “You carrying me? That’s a structural engineering challenge.” But he was already pushing himself up, his smaller body unfolding from the sheets. He climbed onto the bed behind Jason, his arms looping around Jason’s neck, his legs locking around his waist. Jason stood easily, hoisting him up with a grunt that was mostly for show.
“See? Perfectly sound.” Jason carried him out of the bedroom, down the short hall, into the small, bathroom. He let Simon slide off him onto the bath mat. Simon immediately reached past him to crank the shower handles. The pipes shuddered, then spat out a spray that gradually heated.
They stepped in together, the water instantly sluicing over them. It was almost too hot, a sharp, cleansing sting. Jason tipped his head back, letting it pound directly on his face. He reached for his shampoo, working it into his scalp with rough, efficient fingers. The scent of pine and mint cut through the humid air.
He felt Simon move behind him, hands sliding over his dripping lower back. “My turn,” Simon said, his voice echoing off the tiles. He took the bar of soap from the caddy. “I’m closer to everything, and I can see everything.”
Jason snorted, rinsing the suds from his hair. “That’s your excuse?”
“It’s a fact of observable physiology.” Simon’s hands, slick with soap, began moving over Jason’s skin. They were different now—not clinical, but worshipful. He mapped the plains of Jason’s back, the strong slope of his shoulders, the delicate knobs of his vertebrae. He soaped the incredible length of his legs, taking time behind his knees, making Jason jump. He was thorough, intimate, his touch both a cleaning and a reclaiming.
“Your turn,” Jason said, his voice low. He turned, water streaming down his face. They switched positions under the spray. Jason took the soap, now slick and warm from Simon’s hands. Simon passed him the shampoo bottle for his own hair.
Jason started at Simon’s shoulders, his hands feeling impossibly large on the smaller man’s frame. He soaped the sharp wings of Simon’s shoulder blades, the slender column of his spine, the subtle curve of his backside. He knelt on the wet floor, unselfconscious, washing Simon’s thighs, his calves, the arches of his small, elegant feet. Simon’s fingers worked through his own dark hair, his head tilted back, eyes closed, a soft sigh escaping his lips as Jason’s thumbs pressed into the sole of his foot.
It was quiet, save for the drumming water. The world outside the curtain didn’t exist. This was its own ritual, simpler and more profound than anything that had come before.
Once they were both rinsed, skin flushed and clean, Jason shut off the water. He pulled back the curtain, letting in the cooler air. He nudged Simon. “Out. Bath next.”
Simon stepped onto the mat, grabbing a towel and roughly drying his hair. Jason stayed behind, pulling the stopper with his toe. He turned the tub faucet, testing the temperature with his hand until it was a deep, perfect warmth. He sat on the curved edge, watching the water rise, his mind blissfully empty.
Simon returned, dropping his towel on the closed toilet. He climbed in first, sinking into the rising water with a long, gratified hiss. He looked up at Jason, his blue eyes clear in the bathroom light. “Coming in, or are you just the faucet monitor?”
Jason joined him, the water level surging as his large body displaced it. They fit together awkwardly at first, a tangle of long legs and knees, before Simon settled between Jason’s legs, leaning back against his chest. Jason’s arms circled him naturally. The hot water sealed around them, a liquid embrace.
Simon reached back, his wet fingers finding Jason’s jaw, turning his head for a kiss. It was slow, water-warm, and tasted clean. When they parted, Simon let his head rest back on Jason’s shoulder. “So,” he said, tracing idle patterns on Jason’s thigh under the water. “The feedback loop is now a closed system. Just us.”
Jason hummed, the vibration traveling through Simon’s back. He watched their limbs, pale and distorted beneath the rippling surface. The peace felt enormous, fragile. He knew what came next—drying off, clothes, the world. His bills, his silent phone. But here, now, the water was warm, and Simon’s heart beat against his arm. For the first time in a long time, the silence in his head wasn’t about lack. It was about fullness. He tightened his arms, holding on, as the bath filled to the brim.