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elegy.of.emptiness

♬ senpai - shiki-TMNS, hent@i dude

elegy.of.emptiness *breath in* BOIIII 🫱

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imgonnajeffthekillyou can you actually shut the fuck up dude 🤦‍♂️ ╰ elegy.of.emptiness inhale the memes exhale the memes 🤣 imgonnajeffthekillyou 0 bitches j3ffpilled hahahaha jeff ur so funny let me hit 🥰 axeslinger when are we playing mario kart dude ╰ elegy.of.emptiness uhhhhh imgonnajeffthekillyou bro thinks hes invited

j3ffpilled

♬ pretty little psycho - porcelain black

tagged imgonnajeffthekillyou

j3ffpilled haiiiiii

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imgonnajeffthekillyou stop tagging me in every post ╰ liquidh8 some men drown while others die of thirst youruser nina why u so cute liquidh8 change ur user to j4nepilled i could treat you better 👀 ╰ j3ffpilled im blushing ( ⸝⸝´ o `⸝⸝)

tim.w

♬ i'm the slime - frank zappa and the mothers

tim.w out of cigarettes.

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axeslinger brian took them ╰ brian.thom fuck off toby j3ffpilled omg timmy dis is soooo ethel cain ╰ tim.w what does that mean??? j3ffpilled sryyy i forgot ur literally ancient tim.w i'm 25 b4d_habit that's a ROUGH 25

liquidh8

♬ sweet sacrifice - evanescence

liquidh8 livin in black and white

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cl0ckw0rks you're so gorgeous ╰ imgonnajeffthekillyou you cant even see her face liquidh8 get out of my comments j3ffpilled hi lol ╰ liquidh8 change that user and then we'll talk

axeslinger

♬ chemical kids and mechanical brides - pierce the veil

tagged youruser and th3ch4ser

axeslinger best proxy squad 😎😎

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youruser step aside masky n hoodie imgonnajeffthekillyou "proxy squad" your such a loser ╰ axeslinger *you're btw elegy.of.emptiness 🤣🤣🤣 brian.thom big boss still likes us better ╰ th3ch4ser alrighty grandpa put the phone down brian.thom i'm 3 years older than you 😑

b4d_habit

♬ sliverman vs nephew - RXKnephew

b4d_habit look at this machete i just bought 😈😈😈

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The echo of Bob’s fists on the heavy bag ricochet against the walls of the empty training room. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here. One hour, no two. Probably closer to four.

He’s cycled through everything: lifted weights until he felt tremors in his arms he thought he’d left in his pre-serum days, run until it felt like his feet weren’t even touching the pad of the treadmill, pounded on the punching bag hoping he might finally split his knuckles open and watch his restlessness drip to the floor in the small beads of blood.

None of it works. No amount of working out could distract from the fact that he’d made you cry just earlier that day.

Every time he shuts his eyes, tries to focus on the heavy beat of his heart in his chest he’s bombarded with the sound of your voice as it broke and the soft quiver of your bottom lip before tears started streaming down your face.

He doesn’t even remember what you were crying about. Just your soft sobs, the way the tears caught like glitter in your lashes and the violent stirring of his cock as he watched you cry, his hands twitching uselessly at his side.

He didn’t comfort you. He couldn’t. Not in any way that mattered at least. Not when he knew that if he touched you, he’d give you something completely different to cry about.

Hours later and his cock strained against his underwear, desperate for relief. No amount of punching, or running, or lifting could erase the memory of your tear stained cheeks and the way your breath shuddered as you tried to hold back the tears.

His control slips, and the next time is fist connects the bag splits beneath the force.

Sand trickles to the floor as sweat drips down Bob’s back, into his eyes. It sticks his t-shirt to his skin, makes every movement feel like torture. Suddenly the lights are too bright, the silence of the training room too silent and he needs to be out of there.

He needs to cool down.

He’ll come clean up the sand later, but for now he marches himself to the shower, sighing in relief when the cold stream of water lands on his skin.

He only remembers to strip when the weight of his clothes pulls him out of his head. He peels off his shirt and shorts, throws them in a wet heap just outside the shower door.

His underwear is trickier. Every slight brush against his cock feels like torture, an invitation to wrap his around around his shaft and do what he should’ve all those hours ago, but keeping them on wet is even worse. The water’s ice cold, but steam begins to build in the shower as Bob’s mind wanders again.

Those eyes, tear-filled and oh so sad as you looked at him.

Bob lays his head against the tiles as he finally slips his hand under the waistband, sighing in relief when his cock springs free.

He knows he shouldn’t but his body moves on auto pilot, hand squeezing tight around the base. He doesn’t open his eyes, but the pre-cum leaking onto his knuckles as he moves his hand slowly along the length gives him a good enough idea of how pathetic he must look. He lets out a weak whimper as the knot in his stomach finally begins to loosen, but after thirty minutes of fucking into his own fist, the regular fantasies are no longer doing it. No matter how much he rubs at his sensitive tip while imagining it’s your tongue or squeezes at his shaft while pretending he’s buried in your tight, pulsing hole it just won’t work.

“Please, please,” he begs no one in particular, screwing his eyes shut tighter against the tears of frustration. It’s useless, and Bob tastes salt when the frustration becomes too much to bear.

He wonders if you’d let him lick up your tears and he feels himself jerk violently in his hand.

“Oh no,” he moans, even as he lets his mind wander a little further and his wrist jerk a little faster. He wants to kiss the tears off your cheeks, feel their wetness on his finger tips while he rubs them away and coos gentle comforts in your ear.

Guilt slithers through Bob’s chest as he uses his other hand to squeeze at his balls, the pleasure making his thighs tremble. You were his team mate. A new team mate who clung to his every word and asked him for advice and trusted him enough to cry in front of him.

You’d cried in front of him and he was rubbing one out to the tears on your face.

He feels like a traitor, but once he’s found that sweet spot it’s impossible to stop, so he shoves the guilt away and thinks instead about what it’d be like to feed you every inch of him. You didn’t look like you could take it — not without gagging and tearing up, at least.

Lights hum above him as every drag of his palm across the ridges of his shaft sends pleasure shooting straight into his toes. He wants to watch you choke on it, tears streaming down your face while he encourages you. Wants you to look at him the entire time so he can watch the way the tears make your eyes glisten.

“Oh god, please I’m so close,” he groans, using his other hand to brace against the tile wall. The steam is thick and suffocating but he doesn’t care.

His mind flashes violently to the way your breath catches under him whenever he has you pinned down after an impossibly long sparring session and he aches with the desire to wear you out, fuck you over and over and over again until you’re a limp crying mess beneath him. The light at the far end of the bathroom blows out with a loud pop, but Bob doesn’t care, his hand only moving faster.

He wonders how much it would take to make you cry. Could he use his tongue alone or would you need a little more? Would you beg if he teased you enough? Say ‘please’ the same way you did when you were asking him to help you with combat?

Another light goes, then another as Bob strokes himself through every possible position he can get you in.

“Come on honey, cry for me,” he groans, as the fucked out version of you in his head whimpers with need. His other hand tightens into a fist then splays out against the tile wall as he tries to control himself but he’s too far gone.

He wants to feel your body weight beneath his as he punches into you in time with your shuddering breaths. A violent tremor runs through him, as he imagines you leaving a wet pillow case where he’s held your head into the pillow as he ploughs into you from behind.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans, the slick sound of his hand gliding over his cock only drowned out by the sound of the hand dryer turning on, its electric system going haywire.

The tiles crack beneath the weight of Bob’s arm, falling to his feet in sharp, blue and white fragments, but his hand never lets go.

He strokes and twists and squeezes until Fantasy You is sobbing and trembling, pleading with him for some relief, the tears uncontrollable as he buries himself to the hilt, your tight hole like a vice around him as you milk him.

The last light goes, and the tiles beneath his hand give in to the weight of him as he finally comes, cock jerking violently as he cries out into the empty shower room, ears ringing with the sound of various machines whirring out of control. It’s jerky and prolonged, ropes of come splattering across the wall in front of him as he tries to breathe through it.

When he finally opens his fist and lets his cock hang heavy between his legs he’s lightheaded and dizzy. He’s in the dark, and there’s a distinctly hand shaped dent in the wall that he’ll have to explain to the others, but at least he’s no longer uncomfortable.