#tingly tones

[escapedaudios]

I know it's uncouth to publicly drag another voice actor, but considering that this talentless fuck is using AI voices now I can hardly consider him a fellow VA anymore so it's open season on him. Let the record show that I hate Tingly Tones and I have had nothing but disdain for him from the first time he ever interacted with me. I've never seen someone so deeply involved in making audio roleplay have such a cynical point of view on the medium, it's practically contemptuous the way he disregards even the faintest sliver of integrity.

What the AI generated FUCK am I looking at here. AI generated images, AI generated text to speech, AI mods on his own voice because he burned every bridge he ever had and can't get anyone to collab with him anymore. I suspect he even uses AI generated scripts, seeing as he's a known script thief and God knows this fucking fraud could never string a coherent paragraph together, let alone a script. This dude sincerely sees audio roleplay as a cheap way to get clout and money. He can't even come up with a pitch. He's begged me to collab before, not by actually offering a role or a project mind you, but simply by kissing my ass and hoping that would get me pull all the weight for his sake in exchange for the offer of a nondescript feature on his dogshit channel.

He's tried every cheap in the book to try and grow his channel. Following every stupid trend and popular search term, mass-generating AI images, animating his audios with AI, trying to duct-tape stolen scripts into cohesive ongoing stories, trying to ride other's coattails every time a new VA starts to gain traction, spamming everyone (including minors) trying to peddle his NSFW Patreon. Everything other than actually making a good audio, an ability that he does not have and never will have.

The fact that this hack has more subs than many far more talented VAs is actually disgraceful. The number of Patrons he has bankrolling this slop is embarrassing. Attention coming to channels like this makes the whole audio roleplay scene look like shit, the fact that this garbage even exists is insulting to the medium. If Tingly Tones has zero haters, I'm dead. May his teeth crumble and his tongue rot away.

[audioroleplayconfessions]

YSF, Yagami Yato, Tingly Tones. The unholy trinity of boyfriend ASMR channels that everyone used to watch in 2021 but is now ashamed of.

.

[slettlune]

unsurprised to see that paris the musical is one of my most played albums this year. that musical has a shocking amount of asmr moments for me

[sttoru]

plsplsplspl soft intimate sex with satoru:(

 𝝑𝑒 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒. gojo satoru x female reader. smut, pwp. unprotected. praise kink. spooning position. crēampie. cōckwarming. reader gets called ‘baby, pretty, sweetheart, princess’

“it’s okay, baby, i know,” satoru whispers words of comfort in your ear from behind. one of his arms is wrapped around your waist to keep your body close, the other circles your thigh, holding up your leg so his cock could slide in and out smoothly.

you’ve both just woken up from an afternoon nap, needy for each other’s touch. your lover’s raspy voice paired with his bedhead has been an irresistible combination.

satoru wasted no time in pulling your shorts down and freeing his erection from its confines. he went from rolling his hips against the fat of your ass and fondling your tits under your shirt, to burying his fat dick all the way up your cunt.

he’s so soft—so caring. his butterfly kisses make you drowsy again, the tingly sensations running from your face to your nape, and back down to your shoulders and upper arms. “let it out, yeah—good girl. don’t be shy,” satoru chuckles softly as he grinds his cock upwards, tip prodding at that sweet spot that makes your toes curl.

your eyes are half-lidded and blurry. you’re feeling so good and loved, so pleased and happy to have a partner like him. “right there, ‘toru,” you whimper quietly once you feel the head of his dick rub back and forth on the deepest parts of your velvety insides. satoru happily obliges, hugging your body even tighter to his chest before burying his face into the crook of your neck.

“here, baby?” the white-haired man asks, his hot breath sending a shiver down your spine as it ghosts over your skin. he keeps his dick balls deep inside you and switches to slow and shallow strokes, “y’re so pretty. you always know jus’ how to take it. so, so, so good.”

your hands are scrambling to hold onto the white sheets. you can’t physically take the amount of pleasure you’re getting, that inevitable peak gets closer and closer. your hips involuntarily jolt back against satoru, reciprocating his gentle thrusts. a big hand reaches out to yours that’s tugging at the covers, slender fingers intertwining with your own.

“m’sgood,” you mumble incoherently through a soft whimper. your back is positioned in a nasty arch that makes satoru’s dick tingle. he sighs against your nape before allowing his tongue to wet the skin, sucking on the same spot soon after. he does the same to your sensitive ears and neck—covering you with his love while also filling your body with the same.

satoru holds your hand tightly, squeezing it every now and then to reassure you. “i love you so much, y’know that, right?” he says in a gentle tone. he’s confessed his love to you so many times before, though he always makes it sound like it’s his first time doing so.

“i’m never letting you go, ever,” your partner promises before leaning over your shoulder to catch your lips in a kiss. satoru’s tongue sweeps over your bottom lip before rolling around in your warm mouth. his hips don’t stop, cock repeatedly appearing and disappearing inside of your pussy. the pace never escalates to make the moment last longer.

“mhmm— wanna b-be with you forever,” you mutter against his glossy lips, feeling safe and protected in satoru’s embrace like this. all you’re feeling, hearing and smelling is him. that’s what peace is for you. as long as you got him, you’re going to be just fine.

satoru smiles at your words. you feel so perfect around him, your cunt molded to fit his cock whenever he pleases, remembering its shape and allowing it to ruin your insides. “of course, sweets. i’ll treat you so well, ‘kay? you can count on me,” he comforts you with a forehead kiss.

“pretty girl. you’re perfect,” satoru continues to praise you like no other. his free hand runs over the small of your back and back to your thigh, keeping a gap between them so his cock can move a bit more freely. “let me hear your cute moans, c’mon. fuck, y’ turn me on so much,” he sighs, not knowing what he’d do without you.

satoru is obsessed with all of you. the combination of your personality and looks is heavenly. his lips never stop distracting you, his tender kisses covering your entire upper body. the lovey dovey atmosphere in the room never dulls even once.

“ah, ‘toruu, hnghh—can’t last f’ any longer,” you moan, your eyes nearly rolling back. your lover is all the evidence needed to let you know that sex doesn’t have to be rough to be good. he can make you cum for an infinite amount of times by simply grinding his hips against you—changing his techniques every now and then.

rolling his hips in small circles or simply pressing his cock all the way inside your cunt and then prodding at your sweet spots, is all what’s needed to make you feel like you’re on cloud nine.

“aww, my poor baby. can’t hold it in f’me?” satoru pouts before kissing your temples lovingly. he caresses your hip, other hand still not letting go of your hand. there’s such a deep connection between you two—no one can ever sever it. that strong bond feels more intimate when you’re merged into one like this.

“nooo, can’t,” you shake your head and whine about how close you are. satoru nods at your needy words and dips a hand down to rub your clit. his middle and ring finger move around the small bundle of nerves in circles. “khehe, that’s okay. let’s cum together,” he whispers as kisses find their way down your jawline.

you hum in agreement, little moans filling satoru’s ears as you get closer to your climax. your body trembles and heats up, your tummy tingles and tenses up. satoru’s in the same situation as you, his low moans turning into hisses and even quiet whines against the skin of your shoulder.

he holds you close, preparing both of you to reach your long awaited releases. “sh—shit, ‘m g’nna pull out, baby—give me a second,” you hear him whimper under his breath as his hand tightens its grip around yours. he’s nearly crushing your bones.

you don’t give him time to even think of pulling his cock out. you want to relive the sensation of having his seed spread inside of your cunt, overflowing until it’s dirtying the sheets. “no- ‘toru. inside, please,” you beg quietly as your pussy locks around his cock. your walls cling onto his dick, yearning to milk his heavy balls dry of every drop.

satoru gasps and hisses, trying to speak up, but getting overpowered by his own noises of desperation. “fuck, all right, princess. as you wish,” his voice is husky and deep as he pushes his cock in to the base before dumping his load inside you.

ropes of hot cum come out quickly, one after the other, filling you with a hot creamy liquid. you can feel every drop being drained inside your spasming cunt. your own cum mixes with his, creating a lewd mess between your thighs.

“th-thank you,” you whisper tiredly. your body relaxes in satoru’s embrace. you’re trembling due to the intense aftershocks and your lover wastes no time into kissing it better. your forehead is peppered with small pecks, the rest of your face following.

satoru giggles at your fucked out state. he gives you a head pat and nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck. you can feel him grinning uncontrollably against your skin—the joy emitting from him is contagious.

“any time,” he sighs. you can feel his cock softening after that release, still nestled deep inside of you. he has no intention of pulling out, especially since it’s so comfortable. you let him cum inside you and thus he’ll do everything to keep that hot load buried deep inside your cunt.

you can nearly fall asleep like this with satoru. you have zero complains and simply need to relax after what just happened. perhaps take another nap or two.

the white-haired man kisses your shoulder and rubs your lower tummy, enjoying the softness, “i’m gonna prepare us a warm, relaxing bath in a second. let’s just cuddle some more, baby.”

[yawnderu]

>Simon has a neet weirdo as a best friend Or Simon Riley lets his best friend see his naked body for art references.

This wasn't the way Simon was expecting to spend his PTO; naked in his best friend's bed with his hand covering his soft cock, hoping not to make you uncomfortable as you took notes of his body's reactions.

“Can you like... get hard?” He was trying his best not to get hard, going as far as to think about gross things he's seen throughout the years to distract himself from the feeling of your nails raking up and down his bare stomach, defined muscles tensing and bulging beneath your palm.

“'S not how it works.” He grumbled out, tired brown eyes looking away from you. Simon isn't embarrassed— not at all, he's simply not used to someone inspecting him the way you are, curious eyes fully focused on his body, taking in every single tattoo and scar, living proof of how many times he's kicked death's ass.

“Well, just think about... I don't know, tits.” He lets out a dry chuckle at the awkwardness in your tone, trying your best to keep it professional in the name of art. He looks down at you with pure amusement the moment he sees your hand drifting up, tracing the outline of his defined, muscular pecs.

You take a second to fully admire the view in front of you, absent-mindedly starting to play with his erect nipple, not registering the way his breath hitches. Simon looks like a gladiator— lightly tanned skin making his rippling muscles stand out greatly, becoming the virtual image of ancient Greek fantasies, a plethora of scars showing how often he crosses the edge of death.

“Gettin' a bit touchy there.” His playful tone doesn't save the mild embarrassment, about to let go of his nipple before his rough, calloused hand grasps your wrist, encouraging you to keep touching him.

“'S working.” Simon's other hand moves out of the way slightly, just barely enough for you to see his hardening cock, veins starting to become more prominent along his long, meaty shaft. He doesn't protest when you move his hand out of the way, getting a perfect look at him.

“That's... oddly interesting.” The awkwardness coming from you never fails to amuse him, only making his ego inflate by the second, even when you look down at your notebook to keep taking notes of his body's reactions.

“Does it feel weird to get a boner?” He thinks about it for a few seconds before shaking his head, holding back a laugh at the blunt questions. In the name of art, she says.

“Not weird, just... I don't know, bird.” The expectant look that you give him distracts him for a second, trying to think of a better way to explain it.

“Feels good. Bit tingly most of the time, and you can feel it... y'know, grow.” Explaining what getting a boner feels like isn't the weirdest thing he's done for you, half-lidded brown eyes focused on the way you simply nod and keep taking notes, using his words as inspiration for the erotic novels he knows you write.

The room is almost quiet for a few minutes, Simon's breathing becoming harder being the only sound, feeling your soft hands caressing every single inch of his skin, feeling him up more than he can take... and ultimately edging him without even being aware, stopping to take notes every once in a while.

“I can show you how a man jacks off, too. For the sake of art, yeah?”

[screampied]

boss at work and lovers in private w hiromi? He was very strict with the user at work and acts a bit rude/mean sometimes with reader.

But once they got home he fucks her nice and slow in bed as an apology for being mean at work <3

❤︎ ໋𓈒 higuruma who’s strictly mean in the workplace but makes sure to make it up to you at home.

warnings. fem! reader, dirty talk, unprotected, doggystyle, praise.

higuruma was a man who always took work seriously…

a workaholic if you will.

you always found yourself trying to tease him sometimes whenever he’d be working, and he’d just give you a glare. oftentimes, he’d be a bit stern and perhaps rude. although you couldn’t deny the bass in his tone whenever he spoke to you with such seriousness made you feel a bit…tingly.

just the rough rasp in his tone whenever he spoke directly to you, withholding intimate eye contact and telling you to stop fooling around and focus at the job at hand.

nevertheless, he did feel a bit bad, in fear that feasibly he was a bit too mean to his pretty baby. so he promises to make it up to you once the two of you get home. and that’s exactly what he does.

you couldn’t wait and neither could he. higuruma remained with his work clothes on, long black slacks pulled down briefly and the only sounds you could make out was the clanking of his belt. letting off a choked whine, you were willingly taking him from behind, and his touch..

higuruma stretches you out continuously with such ease, he’s got both of your wrists pinned behind your back before muttering, “i’m sorry baby. was i annoying you earlier?”

“y-yeah.” you moaned, feeling his tip brush right against that spot.

amorously, he slides a tongue across his lips while drilling into your cunt—you’re a stuttering mess. with a low chuckle departing from his lips, he hums.

“good,” and you bite your lip, his thrusts fulfilling you entirely. each sloppy hit that went against you time and time again, it left your mind completely dumbfounded. a quite perfect synonym to define your current state after all. “oh, don't whine all cute like that, y’know ‘m just teasing..”

higuruma’s words were so smooth and his tone was wholly soft spoken.

for a second, he dips his hips against you and you whimper, running your restrained fingers against his.

“god, you’re so pretty from behind. you know that, sweetheart?” his words went straight towards your pussy, that never failed to twitch on constant repeat. “such a perfect view. wish you could see for yourself, my love.”

“h-hirooo,” you’d mewl out, the right side of your cheek pressed down against the plump mattress. he knew just where to strike you with his dick, not too rough and not too soft.

just right. immensely, your toes curled each time he’d run his tip against your g-spot for a good two seconds, eliciting a loud moan from you. “fuck, f-fuck.”

“baby, you’ve got quite the mouth on you, huh?” he pokes fun, and you shiver once you feel the cold band of his watch trail against your skin. he presses a hand down your back, making you arch for him just a bit more and your eyes roll back yet again. “you’ve been pestering me at work all day, ‘s this what you wanted hm? wanted some attention—?”

the pleasures that pierced through your body was indefinable.

all you knew was that it felt so good, the way he pivots and smacks his hips softly against your ass, rolling and rotating them to where your head’s spinning like a merri go round.

“no,” you lied, and he huffs out a breath, grinning at you still having some brat left within you. once he deepens his thrusts for a short second, your mind pauses—you’re dumb, cock dumb if that even was a correct term for it, and you moan out. “y-yes.. you’re right, you were just so m-mean.”

he groans, feeling your slick start to stick against him throughout each movement he makes by rutting in and out of your greedy pussy.

“if i make you cum one more time, will that make up for it then, sweetheart?”

“m-mhm,” you’d nod, strings of your own spit falling against the sheets — oh, how much of a mess you were for him. only higuruma could have you like this, in this position. face nearly pushed against the mattress yet he’s presenting you with soft gentle thrusts. “make me cum, please hiromi.”

“pretty girl, you know i will,” he murmurs, and you let off a muffled moan once you bite your teeth into the pillow that remained underneath your chest. it was just the way his thickness dragged so easily against your folds. you could never get enough, his size had you drooling with such lewdness. “relax, don’t wanna strain that cute voice with all that moaning do ya?”

he watches you shake your head, and he chortles.

“sweet thing,” and his hips were so sensual against you, it was unfathomable to how good it made you feel. how good he made you feel. in the pit of your stomach—you felt something stirring, brewing up inside. butterflies perhaps, you pulsed between your thighs before he feels your leg start to jitter in utter anticipation. “ooh. ‘s coming isn’t it? you feel it too, my love?”

“r-right there,” you’d squeal, and by this particular point, your legs grew limp. his movements were unpredictable. higuruma’s jaw tightens as he’s balls deep, gawking at you clawing your nails down the white silkened sheets before bawling it up into the palms of your hands. “gonna c-cum, hiro. hiro.”

he slides a thumb against the corner of your back, maintaining a gentle tip against your hips before uttering in a husky voice, “yeah you are. c’mon baby. just let go for me. ‘s okay to be a little messy, yeah?”

“okay,” you’d babble, such thick inches that remained inside of you. your knees grew weak, he had such a grip against your waist that the pads of his thumbs pressed lightly down before caressing. higuruma always knew your most tenderest bits, the spots to drive you crazy. “h-hiro, ‘m cumming..”

a gasp exits from your mouth once you felt it, your entire body paused and juddered as a response.

your lips parted and the feeling made you grow quiet for a moment — ears, the very tips of them reaching such warmth of heat before you moan out his name once more. “t-thank you, thank you.”

“don’t thank me yet, gorgeous.” he whispers, leaning in to press a kiss against your back. “we aren’t done,” he says, and your legs still shook, sensitive before he turns you over to face him, pressing a wet kiss against your mouth. “i need more of you, and you need to be reminded of your place,” and his words were filled with such flirtatiousness yet was delivered so sweet. “so, just lie back and let me fond over this body just a little while longer.”

[starkeyisthelastname]

neeeeeeed more dilf!husband rafe 😭🙏

been thinking about him 🤭💦

Because one of dilf/husband!Rafe’s favorite things to do during the holidays is fuck you by the fireplace. While there was one downstairs, you two did take full advantage of the beautiful one in master bedroom you shared. Lights dim, furry blanket spread out, empty wine glasses knocked out all while you were getting piped down by your gorgeous husband. The two of you’s bodies glistened from the heat of the fireplace and rounds you had been going at now for hours.

Rafe had a crazy amount of stamina, and being in his thirties didn’t slow him down one bit. The way the fire cast a glow over his muscled frame, showing every bit of hard work he put in the gym had you mesmerized. Even after being together for so long, he never failed to amaze you. He had your legs over his broad shoulders, giving it to you deep as he pressed his toned hips into yours. Those striking cerulean eyes were hooded, looking down at you with the utmost admiration.

“Baby… can’t get over how fucking beautiful you are.” He would breathe out, voice raspy. “You know I love to make mama feel good.” The fat tip kept hitting your sweet spot, your pussy filled to the brim with his huge cock. He was making you feel more than good, and you knew it was only a matter of minutes before you had another orgasm. Rafe knew it too by the way your cunt was squeezing his length so deliciously.

Your huge diamond ring and glittery band shined against his skin as you pressed your expensive manicured nails into his chest. “R-rafe… fuck baby… I’m gonna cum again!” You cried out, your pretty eyes rolling back and toes curling against him. The tingly in your lower stomach and your breathing becoming heavier was all signs that you were about to explode with pleasure.

Hearing that only made his thrusts harder, his own eyes threatening to roll back as he had held his own climax in for a few of hours now. He was ready to paint those walls, and be covered in your sweet juice. His buzz was damp, cheeks pink, breath quick as he laid into you deep. “Yeah? Keep those fucking eyes on me. There you go beautiful… make a fucking mess again.” His tone low, as his blue irises darkened at the way you started to squirt for the 10th time that night.

[eternityofend]

Another type of milk.

PAIRING: Francis Mosses x Female!Reader ( Slight Doppelganger!Francis Mosses x Reader. )

Requested: Can I request something for Francis, the Milkman? Like the scenario is: Y'all be talking then, they do it under the desk while the reader is working?

MDNI +18, NSFW.

You scroll through your phone, time ticking with each passing second as you get even more bored. Your job as a doorman was nice however the hours needed to work were plenty enough of time for you to wish you had never taken up such a job in the first place.

You hear a tap on the window as you see Francis in front of you, holding a carton of milk in his hands, his movements were sluggish and his eye bags were darker than when you last saw him.

You ignored the concern building in you and tried to find your wallet to pay for the milk you ordered from Francis, keyword: tried. You frantically searched your pockets and the drawers but there was no sign of a leather wallet in all of the places you searched.

Francis stares at you with a blank expression, completely minding his own business as he didn't question the amount of time it took for you to find your wallet.

"Hey.. can I pay you up in a different way?"

Francis raises his eyebrows, skeptical about your request but nods his head; far too kept up with how much time this delivery was taking. He wasn't used to social interaction anyway, he just wanted to get out.

You motion for him to come into your office, opening the gate for him and closing it once he went through.

A few minutes later, Francis knocks on your door and you let him in, he's still holding onto the carton of milk which you help him put on your desk.

"Mmmm.. so what's this different method of payment are you talking about?.." Francis mutters, his voice husky with the tiredness he felt from his job, tone as curious as ever.

You walk up to him, putting your hand on his chest while smiling innocently.

Francis looked at you with a curious expression, gulping as he was nervous about what you were going to do with him.

Francis looked at your eyelashes, and your pretty eyes, trying to distract himself from the weird thoughts he was thinking; perhaps he was watching too much inappropriate stuff, he should limit himself on that.

"Do you live alone?" You asked, knowing well what his answer would be.

Francis tore his gaze away from you, now staring at your wall. "Yes.."

He hears a small laugh come from you, and his body feels tingly with extreme nervousness. Why were you laughing? Did you expect him to have a roommate or something?

"So you have no one to milk you at home then?" You whisper in Francis's ears, watching him tense up as he caved in to your voice and touch.

You saw the way his knees trembled to hold onto his body, cheeks turning redder than the scarlet milk he frequently delivers.

You put a hand on his cheek, making him look at you with a smile on your face. "Let me help you, that's my payment." You utter, watching his eyes widen as he came across a conflicted statement-- not knowing what to choose.

You really didn't have to wait long.

Francis stares up at you, hand on his mouth as he leans against the wall, ears flushing with blush as he attempted to conceal his noises from you, afraid of someone hearing.

You rubbed your shoe against his bulge, looking at him with a mischievous look on your face, wanting to make him cum from a dry orgasm before you fully fuck him.

"Ah~ Hnn~ Ngn~" Francis moans out, his sounds muffled by how hard he was biting on his hand, throwing his head back at how lewd your method to pleasure him was.

His eyes were teary and his cheeks were flushed, he looked as if he already got fucked by you even if you hadn't advanced that fast yet.

You grin, pressing on his erection with the heel of your shoe-- enjoying the way he stuttered, gripping onto your leg with his free hand.

A tap on the window stops you from admiring him longer, and Francis panics. He couldn't run out because it would be suspicious if the visitor were to see someone come from below your desk, he didn't want to spread rumours as well if someone recognized him.

So he just sat there, both hands covering his mouth.

Wait.. what were you doing?

Francis bites onto his hand, heart pulsing as he felt your shoe rub more against his dick, you were crazy! Why were you still continuing?!

You grinned, twirling your hair as you faced a doppelganger of one of the visitors, not even having to check the ID to know it was a doppelganger.

You had to admit, it sure mimicked the resident properly, but if it weren't for the real Francis already being below your desk, you would've let the doppelganger of Francis in, there were barely any differences as well.

"Oh? My appearance..? I don't quite follow.." The doppelganger muttered, trying to keep calm as he felt rage from how fast you figured out he was a doppelganger.

You were not only a pretty doorman but a smart one too, the doppelganger held back on transforming, wanting to see if he could still convince you that he was the real one.

You chuckle at the doppelganger's confused expression, adding a bit more pressure to your shoe as you pressed on Francis's erection, hearing a small moan come out of him.

The doppelganger's eyes widened, looking around as he was confused at where the noise came from.

What a shame, you'd so tease the real Francis using the doppelganger if only you weren't allowed to spread the fact that Doppelgangers existed.

"I'm sorry, but I don't quite think I can let you in."

You rang the DDD and let them handle the situation, completely forgetting about Francis beneath you, trembling at how much pressure he was receiving.

By the time you remembered about him, you were already finished with the doppelganger situation, seeing him all teary and red just from your shoe.

You laugh, lifting his face up as you stop rubbing your shoe against his dick, grinning at him with a new idea in mind.

"Let's start with the milking process now, shall we, Milkman? But first, why don't you eat me out first?"

You catch his flustered expression as he nodded, moving his hands all the way to your thighs as he got rid of your panties.

Francis moves closer to your pussy, licking on it as his eyes widened from the taste, it was much different than the milk he was used to.

You let out a breathy moan, spreading your legs wider as you felt Francis shove his tongue straight into you, eating you out as if he was a man that was starved for years.

His tongue flicks against your clit, and you let out a full moan, suddenly closing your thighs around Francis's head, he didn't seem to mind however.

"Shit... you sure know how to eat pussy.." You mumble, biting on your lip as you run your fingers through his hair, enjoying the sensation of his cold wet tongue.

Francis's hooked nose makes you moan as it pressed against your pussy because of how close he was.

You moan, throwing your head back when you feel Francis's tongue licking on your clit, lapping it up as if it was water.

Your grip on his hair tightens, clenching down on his tongue as you orgasmed.

Francis moans beneath you, the vibration running across your entire body making you shake and tremble.

You breathe out, your pussy pulsing while Francis explored your insides, eager to drink up all of your cum, not letting a single drop go to waste.

You pull Francis's head away to face towards you. And the moment you see the expression on his face, your pussy twitches at the sight. His eyes are half-lidded, staring at you while his tongue and mouth were filled with your cum.

Francis smiles, and swallows your cum right in front of you, making you bite your lip from how aroused you were.

"We aren't done yet, Milkman." You grin.

But apparently the story is done! I hope you enjoyed the story, this is my second time writing smut :)

[anantaru]

・✶ ｡ synopsis — wanting alhaitham's attention wasn't a want, it was a need <3

warnings — neck kissing, dry humping, fingering, fem! reader <3

mouth parting and lingering open wide, you don't even bother to be subtle anymore— what mattered was that alhaitham's lap had been so comfortable as he sat fully focused on his desk, engrossed in ancient texts while never giving you a single drop of his attention.

you watch his every move with a mischievous glint in your eye, "you're pretty when you focus," you began, your voice low and playful, "but you also look a little stiff, here—"

alhaitham's hand froze mid-turn of a page as you brushed a digit over his neck, his face turning to you, eyebrows raised and cheeks aflame, "is that so?" he murmurs and swallows a growl, his tone more intrigued than surprised, really.

without waiting for a response, you slant your head lower, your hands finding their way to his shoulders as you press down on his neck— here you were, inhaling his scent as his breath hitches immediately, your lips brushing against his skin before he grits his teeth.

the moment you lick across the skin, he feels an almost tingly feeling burn down the pit in his stomach when you find his sweet spot— his body tensing up, only resulting in you sucking harder and hollowing your cheeks.

it's cruel— but alhaitham knows you by now, despite that he was trying so hard not to moan but it's just so difficult when you're grinding down on his dick too, you hear? so miserably difficult.

fuck, you're so hot.

he closes his eyes, leaning into your touch, the words and pages of his book long since forgotten as the sensation of your lips on his neck took over the entirety of his mind.

his large palms cup your ass as he began to rub you back and forth his erection, tensing, his fingers gripping at the edge of your waist when his eyes flash with hunger, intoxication and the need to feel something, more than he already did.

right after you found that perfect spot just below his ear, he shudders, his hands sliding down your garments and underwear to hold a fistful of your bare behind, "trying not to moan, are we?" you tease, sucking harder.

a low groan escapes his lips, "you're insufferable," as he whispers, but there was no real irritation in his voice, only a deep, simmering need that needed to be fed.

you approvingly smile against his skin, your sucks and laps of tongue growing more difficult to ignore before you slide one hand into his hair, tugging hard— you can see it in his eyes, his composure was slowly slipping and you fucking reveled in it.

kissing your way up his neck, each of your licks were with purpose, growing inside a tantalizing bubble.

alhaitham's breath grew ragged, his control unraveling under the assault of your lips— and naturally, you took your time, worshipping his neck with your mouth as his digits hovered over your folds, collecting your slick and starting to slowly pump one in and out.

you moan, nibbling gently at his earlobe as he inserts another finger, scissoring your cunt while simultaneously trapping you with one large arm wrapped around your waist.

he elicits a sharp intake of breath from you, his tongue now too, hiding in your neck and tracing a slow, sensual path along the curve of your neck, savoring the taste of your skin.

©2024 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[emmyrosee]

Geto doesn’t know how to respond to pet names.

It took him a long enough time to become used to the traditional “baby” and “love,” it was just recently when you started busting out these absurd nicknames for whatever thing you could be subjecting him too.

You were cooking once, and you called him “scnhookums” and asked him to pass the peppers. He dropped the tray.

Driving, you told your “stinky man” to take a left. He slammed on his brakes.

You’d been painting his nails and got some on his cuticle, and you asked your “little poop” to pass you some acetone. He just took his hands away.

It’s not that he doesn’t… like them, they’re just not quite what he expects. They’re so extreme, so left field that in a way, he feels as if you’re mocking him, making fun of him.

He doesn’t like that feeling.

But what he hates even more, is when you pause on giving him disgustingly sweet pet names. This, makes him feel like you no longer care, no longer wanting to take the time to come up with the gushy names that keep him in a shy state.

And you haven’t given him one in days.

He hasn’t been able to sleep. Nothing major, nightmares plaguing the dreams he thinks should be pleasant, 

“Shhh,” you soothe. “Stay asleep. I’ve got you.”

He merely nods and lets his head bury back into the pillows, your lips press against his temple before he lets his breathing even out once again.

As if your kiss soothed the monsters that dance, he’s able to sleep a few more hours, waking up disgustingly late and pouting to find your side of the bed cold.

He’s not proud of the pout okay, you’re just really good at scratching the affectionate itch that digs his brain. all he wants is his ‘pooky bear’ to cuddle their little ‘chickadee’ and let him fall back asleep in their arms.

He’s sure those names aren’t far in your arsenal of names.

When he finally does come to search you out, he’s not completely surprised to see you, stretched out on the couch and in a state of relaxation he finds envy in.

“What’re you watching?” He asks, shuffling into the living room. You smile up at him and say nothing, but instead pat your lap as an invitation for him to come and curl against you.

With a nod, he does just that, letting himself lay down on the couch with you, his head nestled in your thighs. Your fingers instantly start their magic on carding his loose hair, and his eyes slack slightly at the tingly feeling.

“Feel better?” You ask, and he hums contently. “I told you more sleep would help. You just never listen to me.”

He says nothing, merely letting his fingers gently trace the lines on your kneecap.

There’s a whirl of silence in the room, and he feels his eyes grow tired from your loving touch, the post warmth of his shower, and the cat that’s curled on his feet, keeping them warm under her rhythmic breathing.

“My handsome man,” you mumble, bending down to plant a kiss at his temple. his eyes widen as he cranes his head up to look at you, curved in surprise and a glimmer of love in his dark pools. “So pretty it hurts… my handsome, pretty man.”

That. That, he could get used to.

He smiles dopily and turns his head to nuzzle into your thigh, trying to hide the heating of his cheeks from you and your potential teasing by keeping his face buried.

But you don’t pick on him. Instead, you click your tongue adoringly and press another kiss to his temple. He feels your nose taking deep breaths of his scent, and your thumb strokes his cheek lovingly.

“Shut up”, Suguru says happily, as an acceptance, letting his sleepy eyes close and allowing your affections to swallow him whole.

Yes, he thinks to himself. It’s the fluttery feeling everyone talks about. The air filling his lungs and his head skipping beats just by the tone of which you call him handsome.

You call him your man.

Maybe pet names don’t always have to be sticky and sweet; but it just makes the most meaningful ones penetrate his heart that much more.

And this pet name, he hopes you decide to keep.

[weltraum-vaquero]

A pillar, familiar

Jayce Talis x Gender Neutral Reader

[Part 1] (not necessary for context) -> [Part 2]

Summary: You pick up the pieces of what is left of Jayce. Mending them, however, is another thing entirely.

Word count: 9k

NSFW UNDER THE CUT. MDNI

Tags: hurt/comfort, angst, established relationship, shame, past Jayvik x reader. Jayce getting washed like a dirty stinky puppy. Handjobs. Panic attacks. Traumatized Jayce.

Notes: This would not leave my brain. I need to hold him. This takes place after episode 6. Enjoy.

“It’s done.”

It startles you out of your skin, the tone of his voice, the way he’s braced against the doorframe to avoid toppling over the moment you open.

There are a million questions flashing through your head, but the buzz of them goes quiet when faced with the sight of Jayce, somehow worse for wear than before.

So you reach for his wrist — the one belonging to the hand he’s bracing his weight with, fingers wrapping gently around paler skin, the tan lines of where his beloved bracelet used to sit—

Oh.

The inside of his wrist is warmer than the rest of him, feels vaguely charged, tingly under your fingertips, akin to a soft electric current. There is something… hard and shiny embedded into his skin, his soft skin now ribbed with something—

“Don’t,” Jayce breathes. 

So you let go. Try to linger at his palm or fingers instead, but he escapes your touch and sends a marked message with it. 

“Are you hungry?” You offer instead.

That seems to be a step in the right direction. Jayce nods.

“Can’t… remember the last time I wasn’t.”

—

Jayce, tender, loving, sweet Jayce, Jayce who chased touch and chased your hands and chased your warmth, flinches under it now.

Flinches away when you set your hand on his shoulder along with the plate of warmed up leftovers on the table in front of him.

And he eats like a starving man. He’d always been quick with his food, eager, but this is a new, horrifying layer of desperation. Jayce devours the warm leftovers in rabid silence, scrapes the plate clean with his spoon, damn near close to licking it, before you offer seconds.

Those, he’s a tad slower about. Swallows them down at a vaguely more paced rate than before, and by the time he’s near done with them, Jayce has stopped altogether, nudges what remains of the food with his spoon.

That’s not an unusual sight either. It wasn’t rare to have Jayce and Viktor deep in thought after dinner at your shared table. You used to nudge his leg with your foot, or tangle your pinky with Viktor’s — to snap them out of it. It used to make them smile in spite of it all.

Right now, you don’t dare do either of those things.

“I feel… disgusting,” he confesses after another few moments of silence. Something in his voice is equal parts meek and angry.

Your heart aches. The old Jayce would have been nuzzling into a hug by now, and though you ache to scoop him up into one all the same, hold him until the burdens he bears so quietly soak up into you instead, he needs a different kind of tenderness now. And above all else, he needs tending to.

“I could run you a bath,” you suggest, and he scoffs at it like it’s a silly idea.

“I wish a bath could fix…” Jayce goes quiet. Settles the spoon on the plate, settles his elbows on the table, and shoves his face into his bandaged hands.

“It can’t make it any worse,” you argue, and that seems convincing enough.

“Okay.” His voice comes muffled from behind his hands. You expect he’ll lift his face after he sighs, but he keeps himself hidden, and it strikes you then that he hadn’t looked in your eyes once. “Okay. Yeah.”

“I’ll be right back.”

—

“Don’t say anything.” He utters it when you slide his coat, lovely white-gilded thing now ratty and torn and ragged, off his shoulders, and reveal an array of new scars on his arms. Even more await you below the grey undershirt he lets you lift up and off him. At your silence, Jayce insists: “Please.”

You know the look of battle scars on him. You’ve tended to the one on his back and just shy of his neck — deep and lacerated and sawed into him — yourself. But these look unlike the usual kind — nicks, bruises, scrapes, cuts, as though he’s been crawling through hell, rather than fighting. Whatever Jayce has been through, he has not brawled near as much as he has survived. The scar on his back remains the only one of its magnitude and size, his fingernails are worn raw and dirty, and the different skin you’d felt on his wrist is a dark, horrifying purple webbed around the crystal of his bracelet, now burnt into his skin.

And he stinks, too. You do your damndest not to wrinkle your nose. It’s not his fault.

Jayce shrinks under your gaze further.

“I won’t,” you promise, realizing you’ve been far too quiet for far too long. He flinches when you take his hands in yours, but doesn’t pull away this time around, so you count it as a small victory, before you point him to the closed toilet right behind him. “Have a seat, Jayce.”

With a fatigued grunt, and shifting his weight off the leg with the brace, he does so slowly. Every movement of his is sluggish with the weight of his fatigue, and it makes you ache all over in sympathy when he finally settles on the ceramic lid with a small whimper.

You kneel in front of him, near eye level with the brace that spans his entire left leg.

It’s… in his signature colours — red, golden, tattered white, and it makes you wonder… 

“I’ve got it,” he interrupts your train of thought as if aware of what you’re thinking, starting to work on the contrived latches and belts that barely hold it together. The mechanics of it are intimately familiar to him, and you realize it’s not just because he’s built it with his own two hands, but because it’s like Viktor’s was. Before it fused to his leg. Recognizable metal on unrecognizable flesh. There’s no doubting it.

“Did you… make this out of your hammer?” You ask. 

That makes him stop. Hesitate.

“…yeah.”

“Resourceful,” you praise in spite of the obvious shame he carries because of it. And with your words, some of the tension he holds so tightly in his joints dissipates. Jayce lets you slide the brace off his leg once it’s undone, winces a little when he has to shift his hips to facilitate it.

You know what comes next, and so does he. Yet, when you reach for the waistband of his pants, Jayce squeezes his eyes shut; not with reluctance, but pure dread.

You’re horrified of what you might find below.

“It’s okay,” you coo, as though comforting a spooked animal. “I promised I wouldn’t ask.”

Jayce nods. Braces himself on weary arms and lifts his hips off the toilet lid so you can get them down to his thighs. Off his knees, where they’re torn and sticky with blood and almost embedded into his skin (no doubt about it, he’d spent a long time crawling), down to his ankles.

You have to eat your promise at the newly revealed sight. His left calf is half scarred, half infected, skin colored unnaturally (greens, reds, purples, yellows) in webbed patterns like the ones on his wrist. It’s still leaking with both blood and what looks to be lymph, but more saturated in color, and somehow near iridescent, like an oil slick. Something about the placement and integrity of his shinbone is… not as it should be.

It’s making something in your stomach squeeze with nausea. You’re not up for the task of treating something like this — frankly, you doubt anyone in Piltover is. Jayce must have lived with this… anomaly, this corrupting and unnatural something on his body for months. 

“Does it hurt?” You ask, cupping the part of his calf that’s still his own.

Jayce’s eyes fall lidded at the question, hiding a line of fresh tears under thick lashes. The question must have caught him off guard.

“Not… um, not as much as… when it happened.” His voice is warbled, the way you know it sounds when his vocal chords go tight right before a first sniffle breaks him. But now, he simply wipes at his eyes, takes a deep breath, and suppresses.

Oh, your poor, sweet, Jayce.

You slip his pants off his ankles.

Jayce swallows something thick and nervous when you return to his waist, now covered only by his boxers. Embarrassment is an old sight on him — he hadn’t been embarrassed around you, in front of you, since… since… god, you can’t even remember. But the image of him hesitating the first time you got to see him in all his naked glory, wide-eyed and puppylike, offers a semblance of comfort. You’d coaxed him out of his shell then, you will coax him out again.

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” you reassure.

“I know.” He squeezes his eyes shut, and leans back on his hands to be able to raise his hips off the lid. “Go ahead.”

You make quick work of taking his boxers off, because his thighs (the soft, jiggly padding you’d grown to adore now shrunken) start shaking with the effort of holding himself up after just a few seconds. Once they’re past his knees, Jayce plops back down with a pained groan.

“Tub’s full and hot.” Your voice makes his eyes snap open, and a shadow of terror passes his face, as though he’s only now remembering where he is. You offer him your hands and a smile, because there isn’t much else you can give. “Any takers?”

Your weak attempt at a joke earns you not a smile, but something deeper and far more poignant in Jayce’s eyes. His waterline glistens with held back tears, he takes you in with all the desperation of a man who has lost, and will lose again.

And then he reluctantly puts his hands in yours.

Jayce was never light, and that hasn’t changed, but he feels undoubtedly lighter as he uses you to rise back to his feet, clinging to you. You’d braced his weight before, oftentimes when he’d thrown up (a sensitive stomach and sensitive feelings made him quite prone to it), and it’d been much more of a daunting task.

It comes instinctively to you, once he grabs onto your shoulder rather than your arm, to hold his middle instead. Startled with the touch, Jayce flinches as though burnt, and it makes something heavy and painful in your gut sink, your palm hovering above warm skin.

“I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. Doesn’t say anything else, but puts his hand over yours, and presses it to his side.

The short way to the bathtub is made long and difficult by Jayce’s limp. There were times when you’d helped Viktor cross small distances in this same apartment when he didn’t have a mobility aid at hand for whatever reason — but those instances had been incomparable to this. Viktor, having lived with his condition his whole life, had gained a certain sense of tact when it came to moving his weight like this. Jayce has not — the wound is fresh, unfamiliar torture.

Still, you somehow make it to the edge of the bathtub with him, sliding your hand from his back to below his elbow while he steadies himself against the wall and sits on the edge of the tub.

You linger close, ready to catch him, when he lifs his right foot off the ground and crosses over into the tub, now straddling its edge, before he reluctantly follows with his left leg. Nearly, Jayce topples, but finds purchase on the tile against all odds, and ultimately makes it where he intends.

His arms — thinner now, just like the rest of him — still house enough strength for him to lower the rest of himself into the tub. The damp white tile is grey-brown where he’s touched it. 

All of him shivers once he settles, accompanied by a little sniffle, before he finally, finally looks at you. Genuinely; raw and broken and gathering what little he has left of himself to meekly ask:

“Could you help me?”

Like the answer to that would ever be anything but yes.

You take your spot at his side on the edge of the bathtub, and uncertain of where to lay your hands, you instead reach for the steel pitcher Viktor used for his baths. You and Jayce had always been the type to shower; quicker, easier, no prep required. But Viktor — especially when it came to washing his hair, preferred to make a small ritual out of it. Rubbing the shampoo into his scalp until it tingled, or letting you or Jayce do it for him, before he would dip the pitcher into the tub and rinse it off.

Since he’s been gone, since Jayce has been gone, you’ve picked up the habit yourself. Couldn’t bring yourself to throw the bent and dented thing out because it was Viktor’s, and pieces of his old self were growing increasingly sparse.

Once Jayce had disappeared too, it hadn’t even come into question that you would keep it, permanently.

Jayce looks at it, then at you, before he lowers his head and hisses. Recoils visibly, teeth gritted so hard you can see the tendons in his skinny neck rising, dips his head into his hand and paws at his forehead like he’s desperate to dig a thought out.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” you utter gently though it’s crystal fuckin’ clear it’s anything but. What has he seen? What has he done? Your hand hovers hesitantly over his shoulder, but the way he’s been recoiling has you deciding against touching him any further. Instead, you attempt: “You’re safe, now.”

And that alone makes something in Jayce shift. He scoffs at the mere concept of it, and spits, with venom meant to conceal fear: “None of us are.”

The last thing he needs is you panicking — but you’d be lying if you claimed you weren’t scared to death just now. 

He inhales a long, winded breath, and reluctantly looks up at you. He must have sniffed out the horror in your expression, because his eyes soften, and he sighs. Adds on a softer, more discouraged tone:

“Not until… I fix this.”

Fix it how? you wonder, but don’t dare say it.

“We’ll fix it. By doing what we do best,” you say with a conviction you lack. “Figure it out. Together.”

The old Jayce would have reached for your hand with a dopey, enamored look on his face. Would have said something sickeningly sweet and hopeful before he’d lean in for a hug or a kiss.

This Jayce swallows his words, looks down at himself, and brings his healthy leg closer to his chest, until he can hug it for comfort. 

“How long…” Jayce’s voice falters. He lays his forehead on the top of his knee, and closes his eyes. “How long was I gone?”

The truth makes you choke. It comes out of your throat like a ball of thorns, unwilling and scarring.

“Well over six months.”

“Shit.” It hits him somewhere painful — his eyes go damp, and he swallows a knot in his throat. Water droplets pearl off his arm and fingertips as he reaches for your hand, the one you’re holding Viktor’s pitcher with, and gives it a loose little squeeze around your knuckles, before he lets it fall back into the water. “I’m so sorry.” 

“I’m just glad you’re back.” You stifle a sniffle, reign in the shake of your voice, you can’t be the one falling apart right now, he needs you. “I thought I’d lost you.”

At that, he falls silent, fully. Stares down at the murky water below for a long, uncertain moment until you realize you need to take the reins back into your hands lest the two of you are left sitting here for any longer than need be. 

“Close your eyes and lean your head back for me, puppy. I’m gonna wash your hair.”

Jayce complies with the same willingness as his old self, though not as fast. Something in his back pops a little when he tips his chin up, so you rush to support the weight of his head with one hand, while you dip the pitcher into the tub with the other. 

His hair’s never been this long. Always the kind to keep it nice and tidy, Jayce often said something about how the feeling of it on his nape bothered him, how it made him run too hot in the summer. Now it sticks to his forehead, to the back of his neck, falls behind his ears once you pour water over it. Something about it must startle Jayce, because when the stream of water rushes over his ear, he flinches first, frowning something fierce, before his hand finds the width of the forearm you’re holding his head with. And he clings to you.

You let him. 

You keep it there even as it becomes a difficult task to lather his scalp in shampoo with just one free hand (it hardly foams), you keep it there even as you rinse it off. He’ll need a second wash, but the water’s already so murky it’ll be an impossible task for him to be anywhere close to clean if you reuse it.

“I’m gonna unplug the drain and turn the shower on, okay? Water’s getting too dirty.”

Jayce tips his head back up straight once you tell him so, and watches with dread as you stick your hand into the brown-grey water to feel around for the drain. After you succeed, the water level begins to slowly but surely fall, and you can’t exactly tell what Jayce is looking at — just that he’s dreading it. Only when you turn the faucet on, and switch the water to the shower head to return to him with it, do you understand.

“I’m disgusting,” he mutters. 

The water level had left a ring of dirt on the bathtub.

“It’s not your fault,” you console. “And I’m not disgusted.”

He doesn’t look you in the eye, but that doesn’t make the rest of his sentence sound any less genuine.

“You should be.”

You try not to let it sting. It can’t be just about the state of him — he must have done something, something he thinks would make you recoil.

It doesn’t matter. Wherever he’s been, whatever he’s had to do to survive long enough to get back, you know your Jayce would never do something horrific out of anything but necessity. 

So you don’t say a word. Only put the shower head in his hand and tell him to lean his head back once more so you can shampoo his hair a second time. You don’t plan on making a whole thing out of it, don’t plan on scrubbing his scalp more than strictly necessary. But his frown begins to melt at the same time as the shampoo starts to foam up nice and proper, scarred lips part in a lax expression of pleasure — and who are you to deny him more of it? You keep at it until his eyes crack open just enough to peek at you in question, until the murky water’s sunk down to his hips. 

It’s a quiet form of communication that Jayce still speaks, albeit not as fluently as before, when you nod for it and he hands you the shower head, and lets you rinse his hair off. Once it’s done, he lifts his head and lets out a deflated sigh, shoulders sinking with relief.

“Better?”

He nods. 

“Told you so.”

The scarred corner of his lips curl upwards for a fraction of a second at that, before a shiver shakes him, and, reminded of the quickly draining water, he curls in on himself a little to preserve heat. Struck with an idea, you put the shower head on its support on the wall above.

“I think it’d be faster if I helped you shower, instead of drawing you a second bath.” you begin. “I’ll help you stand so we can rinse you off, alright?”

Jayce hums affirmatively.

You thought it would stay a dream, a distant longing to strip for Jayce ever again. There’s some delight to be had in doing it still, though not the way you’d imagined in all those lonely nights with nothing but your own hands to console you, but you’re glad to be doing it nonetheless — even if it’s to help him above all else. He watches you quietly, not hungrily, but with a hearty mix of nostalgia and curiosity as you step into the tub between his knees, naked, and crouch down to his level.

His arms are heavy wrapped around your shoulders (Jayce always went for the shoulders in embraces — you’re glad that hasn’t changed) as you help him scramble up to his feet. It’s a daunting task, one that has you wondering how the hell you’ve even succeeded once he’s up and leaning on you, his left leg hovering off the ground. It doesn’t matter. 

You’re reminded of how you used to waltz with Jayce at those fancy events as you carefully maneuver him around so that he can stand under the water stream. How he moved with a distinct lack of grace even then, how it used to make Viktor smile from the sidelines. How the three of you would be on each-other the second your apartment door shut behind you, and oftentimes far before that.

Under the grime, the dread, the fear, he is still your Jayce. Warm and pliant and willing in your arms, tucking his face into your neck and sighing once the warm water hits his back. 

“Can you stand on your own for a bit?”

“Not for long.”

“I’ll make it quick.”

Jayce braces himself on the wall with one hand and watches you lather your palms up before you hand him the soap bar and get to work. His face comes first, unfamiliar in your hands. You rub at his forehead, the bridge of his nose, tell him to close his eyes when he just won’t. Massage gently at his closed lids, then scrub at his beard — still a strange sight on him. By the time the suds have been rinsed off, he already looks a good five years younger. Looks just a fraction more like your Jayce, too.

He squeezes the water out of his eyes before he opens them to look at you, so close now your breaths are shared. Under damp lashes, his pupils go wide at the closeness, the way you hold him for a long second, face cradled between your palms, and look at him. The new, deeper creases in his face — his crow’s feet, between his brows, between his lips and nose — the nicks and cuts where the dusty pink of his lips meets the rest of him, the broken, profound weariness he carries in his pretty amber eyes. 

Jayce lets them fall shut again as though on the edge of sleep, before he presses his face into your palms like a dog. A long, winded breath leaves him before he sits still in your hold.

The old Jayce would have kissed your palms in worship, would have whispered a sweet little something. This Jayce soaks up the mere act of being held like a rare delicacy, does so in silence. And doesn’t allow himself too much, because he pulls from your hands less than a minute later, and tells you he can’t stand for much longer.

The tremble in his right thigh is testament to it.

So you make quick work of lathering him up everywhere else. His neck, the back of it. His shoulders, his fuzzy chest, whatever you can reach of his back. His stomach, his hips—

“No. I’ll do it,” he interrupts when you reach the lovely spot where his hips draw into a V. You’re not about to argue, especially not about… this. It’s not something new per se, you’ve seen and touched him in various vulnerable and embarrassing ways — but this Jayce has different limits for what he deems acceptable, this Jayce goes rigid under your hands instead of soft, this Jayce hasn’t asked for a kiss once yet.

Your Jayce is scattered within this new, unfamiliar version of him. You will find what’s left of him — and you will find a way to love the rest of him too. At his pace.

So you hand him the soap bar wordlessly, and step a little closer to help brace his weight instead. Jayce takes the assistance offered, wraps the arm around your shoulders tighter, and tucks the other between your bodies to get to work. Scrubs in the front, the back, then leans a little heavier on you when he has to spread his legs to be thorough. You grasp the underside of his left thigh and look at him in silent question.

“Yeah, that’d help,” he replies. After a moment of silence: “Thank you.”

So you hoist his injured leg a little further up, until you can hold it securely next to your hip. That allows Jayce to lean most of his weight on you, and also has him pressing against your leg, an intimately familiar position. You swear you can feel… something, prodding at your thigh before his hand wedges in-between. But that’s wrong to think about right now, when he needs you in plenty of other, far more important ways. You must have imagined it.

You busy yourself with the next best thing to avoid your mind drawing any other unneeded conclusions: taking the soap bar and lathering up his thighs while Jayce rinses himself off. You linger somewhere safe, on just the outside of them, before you work your way inward, gauging Jayce’s reaction every step of the way.

There’s a little sound that comes from him, a half-whine half-groan that has your eyes flicking to his face, finding it downturned, before you look away. 

You really need to stop.

You turn your attention back to his thighs with eager hands instead, kneading at the still plump fullness of them. This is where he always stored weight, other than his stomach and his hips, and though they’re visibly thinner now, they still have some heft to them. Oh, how you’ve missed squeezing the soft flesh, missed brushing your fingers through the curly fuzz on them, missed the way it grows thicker, darker, coarser near his crotch, where his pubes are now sopping wet. 

Jayce hands you the shower head wordlessly, and you have to remind yourself not to be disappointed at the received message. He’s tired, and you’ve indulged enough. It’s alright.

You don’t question the hand he keeps between his legs. Focusing on the task at hand instead, you rinse his thighs off as well. Are about to step back and gently set his injured foot on the ground, until he breathes desperately, and groans.

“Oh, come on.” 

His head falls to your shoulder as if in shame, the arm tucked between your bodies flexes. Your first worry is that you’ve somehow hurt him. 

“What’s wrong, Jayce?”

He groans, shaking his head. “I didn’t mean to… fuck, this is the last thing I need right now.”

Confused, you lean back just enough to get a better look at him, but are left none the wiser with the way he’s hanging his head and his hair’s curtaining his eyes.

“Didn’t mean to what?”

He sighs. Swallows. Tells you the truth like it’s dreadful. 

“… I’m hard.”

Oh.

You’re almost inclined to laugh at the absurdity of it. Out of all the issues there are, this is at the very bottom of the list — if on it at all.

Poor, sweet Jayce. Had he considered himself an inconvenience? Thought you wouldn’t want to?

“It’s okay, I don’t mind. I can take care of it,” you assure, nuzzling at the side of his face that’s closest to you. Brushing the cup of your palm to his knuckles, where he’s fisting his own cock, unmoving. “And I’d like to, if you want me to.”

He shakes his head again. You try not to let disappointment sink in your gut. 

“No. I… Not here. Not now.” He tilts his head to glance at you from below thick, dark lashes, and exhales a shaky breath. ”I really… hah, I need to sit down. My leg hurts bad.”

You know better than to ignore Jayce — in general, but also especially when he sounds like that. On the verge of crumbling. The water’s shut off quick, before both hands come to rest under his arms to help him move his weight, until his back faces the edge of the tub. Slowly, you help him sit.

He sighs with relief once he settles, brushing the hand that isn’t still cupped over his cock over his right thigh, flexing and shaking with the effort of having supported his weight for so long. It’d be wisest not to wait, and dry him off before the cold gets to him. As for you, you’ll decidedly live, and the chill that takes you hardly feels significant as you wade over the tub’s edge, to the drawer where you keep the towels. You take the fluffiest, biggest one — coincidentally one of Jayce’s old towels which you’d still kept in use — and you return to him. He’s managed to cross over to the other side, facing you, breathing subtly with the effort.

You waste no time in draping it over his head — and try not to think about the sight of Viktor, freshly out of the hexcore chrysalis, blanket you and Jayce had shared draped over him. Jayce raises one of his hands to his head, but you’re faster.

“I’ve got you,” you assure. Place both hands over the towel and start to rub at his hair the way he used to when he stepped out of the shower in what perhaps was a small cry for attention from you and Viktor. Nothing around his body — just a towel draped over his head and shoulders, hair still damp and tousled. 

Jayce hums at the contact low and long, like a cat’s purr, before he lets himself dip forward slowly, until his forehead comes to rest upon your damp chest. He sits through it dutifully, lets you rub the towel down his back then his front. Takes it from you once again when you reach lower, and dries himself off down to his feet. 

You hang it up to dry, then retrieve another towel for yourself. Coincidentally, one of Viktor’s. Jayce says nothing, but reaches out for it by the time you’re drying your middle. Fiddles with the edge for a moment, swallowing audibly, before he lets go and sinks his head. 

As far as Viktor goes, you’d gotten a little better at managing your grief. Jayce, wherever he’s been, whatever he’s done, seems taken with the same pain as the day Vik had walked out on you and Jayce with nothing but a blanket to his name, never to be seen again. Well, sort of. You’ve heard rumors — and you will let Jayce in on them, once he’s rested.

You finish drying yourself off too, and ready yourself for another long, painful walk. Jayce seems to dread it just as much as you, burying his face in his hands for a moment, before he lets you have them instead. Pulls himself up with what little strength he still has, breath coming out in labored bursts against your neck when he finally manages to stand.

He’s very warm. And though not as soft as he used to be, on account of having lost quite some weight, his hips and his waist are still pliant under your touch when you wrap your arm around him.

The walk to the bedroom is torture. You have to stop halfway there and catch your breaths together, to whisper something encouraging at him before you brave through the rest of the way. 

Jayce positively crashes on the bed once you reach it. The mattress protests under his weight with a pained creak, but it stifles under his long, languid sigh. He’s made no effort to position himself properly; his right leg hangs off the bed, his left is tucked a little closer so that it’ll fit on the mattress. You can’t help but get an eyeful of his ass, of the dark peach fuzz on his cheeks, growing thicker below where they go fullest, thinner up his back. There are dimples that were not so visible before at his lower back, just above his ass — another telltale sign that he’s been eating far too little. He shoves his face into the sheets, nuzzling at them, his trembling hands fist the pillows, his chest expands with how he breathes it all in. Jayce chokes on the exhale like he’s overwhelmed, before he gasps, more to himself than to you: “Hah… Oh my god.”

He must have not had a bed to sleep in for a long time.

You’re not sure what to say, so you don’t. Only crawl onto the sheets next to him, and linger, hand above him. And you’re not sure where you should touch either — if you even should.

Jayce tilts his head to look at you from where he’s pressed into the sheets, before he closes his eyes, and nods.

“Please,” he mumbles.

So you go for the closest part of him that’s within reach, which is his head. 

It’s… abnormal, to be running your fingers through hair as long as Viktor’s on a head that isn’t Viktor’s. Jayce hums, and after another few moments of gently scratching at his scalp, finds it within himself to crawl closer. Until all of his body’s on the mattress, until he can rest his damp head on your chest and — after a second of reluctance — sling his arm over your middle. Curl up next to you like he wants to be small, knees bumping your leg.

“There you are.” You talk to him the way you would to a wounded animal. Lay a kiss on his forehead that has him pressing his skull into your lips desperately, like it could fix him. 

And maybe it can. Maybe every single reluctant touch is slowly going to bring your Jayce back, going to mend the broken pieces he came to you with into the man you cherished. Maybe love will fill in the cracks like gold. 

You go for the blanket at your feet and tug it over the both of you, heavy and comforting, before Jayce settles back against you, cuddles a little closer. Lays his injured leg atop your hip, which you reach for instantly. You cradle his knee reluctantly for a second, before Jayce nods, and you begin pressing your knuckles into the top of his thigh… up, down, up, down. 

“O-oh…”

A shiver rattles him, from the base of his skull to his tailbone.

“Where does it hurt, sweet thing?”

“Lower.” And after a second of hesitation, he adds: “Be gentle.”

As if you’d ever be anything but. 

Your palms brush lower, under the scrapes on his knee, to his shinbone. It’s palpably crooked right under the joint, you can feel the bump, the way his bone fused back wrong. It has you wondering if he’ll be able to walk without an aid ever again.

You test the waters with a soft press of your fingertips on the abnormal skin on his calf, trying not to think too hard about the smooth, wax-like ridges and ripples of purple skin you’re gently stroking, gauging his breathing for any signs of pain. It’s steady, grows steadier and shallower still as he relaxes. You stick to that. Cupping your palm around the back of his calf, kneading gently. 

“My thigh,” he breathes his next instruction, sounding significantly less pained. 

His hamstrings are drawn tight and rigid. You try with just a rubbing of your palm, but soon realize that your method will yield nothing. So you ball your fist tight and use your knuckles instead.

Jayce tilts his hips to press against you and moans. It sends a shiver through you, how equally exhausted and ecstatic he sounds, how he paws at you at a lack for any other way to express how overwhelming it is.

“Good?” You ask.

He nods. 

“Don’t stop.”

So you insist, press at the underside of his thigh (drawn violin-string-tight and knotted with months’ worth of pain), then at the bulging muscle at the top of it, and finally, press your palm into the muscle on his ass to rub in circles, bringing him closer to you.

That has the hard-earned laxness of his body turning to uncomfortable tension.

“Shit. Sorry.”

You’re about to ask what for, until you can feel it. Poking your thigh the same as in the shower. His cock, leaking at the tip, leaves cold dampness where it’s nudged you.

“I’m— It’s a reaction,” he rushes to justify himself. “I haven’t been… and this is… ’s good. I just…  I don’t want… god.” His next sigh sounds a little too close to a sob. “I just wanna sleep.”

Sweet boy. You brush a strand of hair behind his ear — something you’d subconsciously always wanted to do to him, frankly — before you tell him.

“Do you want me to get you off, baby? I can make it quick.”

Or, you used to be able to. Not like it was a particularly difficult feat anyhow.

Jayce takes a moment — doesn’t look you in the eye at all — before he reluctantly nods.

“If you want to.”

If there is one thing you know about Jayce, is that he can always use a little more tenderness. And you suspect that hasn’t changed one bit.

“Of course I do.”

You kiss between his knitted brows as if to urge them apart before you brush your fingers down the fur on the front of his flat stomach. You miss the small bump of padding under his bellybutton, miss the way the skin of his hips spilled over his boxers if the waist was too low. It’s unfamiliar to be able to feel the hardness of his hipbone, to have it jutting out in a way reminiscent of Viktor‘s body.

But oh, thank god, his cock’s just the same as it always was. Short but chubby, the slight curve to his right, the abundant dripping that damn near lubricates the whole expanse of his tip, the vein that goes from frenulum to the seam of his balls. Scorching hot as though freshly pulled out of an oven, the slightest give at the squeeze of your fist until it goes rigid. He damn near spills in your palm then and there, curling up and closer like a puppy, pressing his face into your neck for comfort.

Jayce whimpers with delight, relief, as though being touched — and being touched like this — is a rare, divine gift.

He’s significantly hairier — Jayce was as adamant about keeping himself trimmed below the belt as he was about his haircut. Not so much for pleasure or aesthetics (though those played a part, certainly) but moreso because it bothered him if it got too long. 

It never bothered you. Certainly doesn’t now, either, when you stroke his foreskin back and fist his length until you reach the thick, rich hair at the root.

You’re ecstatic at how soft he is here, too. Everywhere else on his body, he’s scarred, scraped, wounded. Not here — his cock is as silky smooth in your palm as it was the first time you touched him here, all doe-eyed and muffled puppy whimpers as you stroked him into his first release.

It nearly has you forgetting that you’re stroking him dry, and that it can’t be good, until he squirms a little at the overstimulating squeeze at his tip.

“Mm… Lube?” He asks, voice muted against your skin.

You’ll give him something much better. He deserves it — always had, really, but now more than ever.

“I’ll use my mouth,” you promise with another kiss to his forehead. Work your way down between his brows — furrowed again — to the bridge of his nose. “Missed tasting you.”

”Don’t.” You can feel his nose nudging your lips as he shakes his head, how he grips you a little tighter when you shift just a hint. “I want you here.“

“I am here,” you assure, not quite sure what he means. A kiss to his cupid’s bow to settle him, a brush of your palm to his cockhead, gentle and careful, not enough to slide his hood back. “Just close your eyes and lay back. I’ll make it good for you, Jayce.”

That does little to change how he clings to you.

“No. Want… you to hold me. Please, use your hand — it’ll do.”

That is when it hits you that he had ached to be held much more than he’d ached to get off. Of course he had — of course Jayce would.

Of course you’re going to give him what he needs.

“Okay,” you coo. Kiss his cheek to reassure him. “I can do that.”

He clings to you a little tighter when you have to unfortunately turn away from him to search the nightstand drawer for the bottle. 

You want it to be good. Want it to be comfortable, tender, easy. So you pour a generous amount into your palm, and rub it until it warms thoroughly, before you reach for him again.

Your other arm wraps tigher around his shoulders, comes to cradle the back of his head with splayed fingers. 

Jayce sighs shakily, as though on the verge of breaking, when you stroke his cock into slickness with one glide of your hand, swollen tip to twitching root.

“Thank you,” he moans into your neck. “Oh, thank you.”

“Thank you,” you counter. Stroking his foreskin up over his tip, then back down, and thumbing at the underside of his crown, where he’s most sensitive. Jayce mewls for it, blunt nails scratch at your arms — they would have broken skin, had they been any sharper. “For coming back. For letting me take care of you.”

“Sorry,” he says anyway. And as you ease him out of the crook of your neck to gaze into his eyes, glittering in the moonlight, you intrinsically understand what for. Sorry for making you do it. Sorry for how I am, sorry for how much I am.

You scratch at his scalp gently as you speed up the strokes of your hand. It has him tipping his head back in ecstasy, pawing at you a little more desperately.

“Don’t ever apologize for that again.” You kiss the column of his neck; thinner now. “This…” Your voice falters, and you make up for it by twisting your palm around his cock as you steady your tone. He gasps, but keeps his eyes open, keeps them on you, soaking up every word. “Jayce, this has been the best day of my life since…”

The explosion. Since Viktor left. Since Jayce disappeared, too.

“Me too,” he chokes out. You can hear the tears in it, the way his throat must be stringing tight with the cracking dam he’s built to hold back his sobs. “I missed…”

You nod. Pet his locks like he’s just a scared little boy — because behind it all, he always has been. “I know, baby, I know.” 

His face finds its way back into the warmth below your jaw, as though that is the one place left where he’s safe. And maybe it is… you dread to think of it.

And you shouldn’t think of it, not when you have the far more important ultimate goal of granting Jayce release, reprieve, reverence. 

“M-mh… close,” he tells you, and the way his cock gives a vehement twitch as though he were coming already only confirms it. 

Already. 

It almost makes you cry, the fact that he’s still so eager to melt from the slightest touch. Your Jayce.

You wish you had a third arm, more to touch him with, to pet his hair, to fondle his swollen balls, to hug him closer, because god, does he look like he needs it. Jayce presses his body to yours as though he wishes the edges of your beings were blurred, overlapping, entwined. It’s hard to stroke him through it, the angle makes your wrist ache, but you’re not about to let him down. 

His lashes tickle your neck with how they flutter shut, before his forehead presses into you, his nose crushes your collarbone. And he sobs. Sweet, familiar little sniffles that are borne of pleasure, of overwhelming. 

His chubby cock is heavy in your hand, on the verge of bursting. You can feel his balls against your thigh, the way they softly twitch, drawing up against his body. All of Jayce swells like a rising tidal wave. Almost there.

You blindly reach for the tissues on your night stand, tug out two for good measure. His eyes snap open at the sound, alert, scared, searching. You suspect it will be a while until he stops being on guard so tirelessly.

“I’ve got you,” you assure him. His damp hair is soft between your fingers when you pet it, and his dick twitches when you thumb at his weeping cockhead. Jayce settles, nods, and nuzzles at your chest for comfort. You can feel his breath on your collarbone, labored and coming through his nose and gritted teeth, until his mouth audibly falls open, and he whines on his next exhale. Something in his hip pops painfully when he snaps forward into your grip — once, twice, thrice, until he gasps, and oh, “There it is…”

His dick pulses in your hand the way a fresh wound does, hurt and struggling as his orgasm consumes him. 

Jayce curls up as if from a gut punch, hurt leg rising from where it’d been draped on your hip to your stomach. The first thick rope of his cum shoots across your tummy, sticky and lukewarm, all the way up to your lowest rib. 

You barely manage to hold his tip into the tissues in time, and it overflows moments later regardless. His cum pools in your palm heavy and thick and it just won’t stop, but then again, neither do you, dutifully stroking him off into the tissue.

His orgasms were never this long, and it’s clearly new to him, as well. Dazed and overwhelmed by the intensity, the duration of his own peak, Jayce begins to writhe about halfway through, until it has him shivering, wheezing for air, tears and snot on one of your shoulders, desperate near-painful grip of his on the other.

You slow your touches to languid strokes, steering clear of his tip, simply massaging his shaft to get all his orgasm’s worth while he comes down from it. 

“Sweet boy,” you praise before you go for even more tissues, slowly dabbing him dry while he tries to catch his breath. You can hear his heart beating from all the way there, can feel the way his ribcage expands with each breath as if he’s run a marathon.

You clean up his mess in the meantime. Jayce whines when you get up and retrieve the small garbage bin you keep in your bedroom and toss all the tissues there, then go for more, to wipe yourself off.

His brows knit into an uncomfortable frown, but ultimately he doesn’t complain further when you peel the blanket off him to clean him up. There’s just a few droplets, in the fuzz at the base of his cock, which you make quick work of, before you seal your work with a kiss to his stomach. The rest of him has gone slick with fresh sweat, and his eyes, damp and glassy little things, crack open to watch you.

You wipe the remnants of his tears next, but Jayce doesn’t seem particularly moved by it. He lets it happen, same as the kiss you press to his cheek, then at his jaw.

“How was that?” You ask through the trail of chaste pecks you plant down his neck. 

Jayce just hums affirmatively.

“Come back,” he tells you.

He’s gotten what he needed — now, you want your fill. And maybe it’s selfish, but you want, you need to feel his skin on your lips. Need to kiss down his body the way you used to before, so that you may at least wake up happy and satisfied if this was all just a dream. 

“In a second.”

He smells like himself again. Clean, familiar, warm, the scent of his skin imbues you, begs you to go further. Down his chest, his hairy stomach, over the sensitive crest of his hip. You can feel his stomach clenching.

“I said I don’t want—“

“It’s not that,” you interrupt. “Just wanna kiss you. Let me have this for a bit. Please.”

His hand finds your shoulder, before he sighs, and nods.

“Okay.”

Down the fuzz of his thigh, you nuzzle at him where his scent’s a little more potent, before you move on further down.

A kiss on his knee, and then, the final destination, your lips graze the place where his shinbone is cracked apart, where it bumps his skin from within. 

“Don’t,” he says.

“I love you,” you counter. 

At that, he swallows. Stares up at the ceiling like the answer might be there, somewhere, among the stars he cannot see.

He inhales shakily, swallowing, before he mutters:  “I can’t—“

“I don’t care. I love you.”

At that, Jayce sits up from where he’s laying, and stares down at you with a heaving chest, a tight throat, and wide eyes.

You gently lay your cheek on his knee, cradle the weight of his wrong calf in both your palms like it’s precious anyway — and it is, because it’s an undeniable part of him, no matter what.

And then you kiss his knee again, holding eye contact.

At that, something in Jayce breaks.

He scrambles away as if hurt, to the edge of the bed. Sets his feet on the ground and sits up, about to stand, until it dawns on him, momentum still drawing him forward, but not up, that he can’t.

So Jayce just hunches over, a sight worryingly similar to Viktor on days when he was hurting so terribly he could do nothing but sit and sob. Jayce buries his face in his hands, and after a long moment of silence, wheezes, chokes on his own spit, starts coughing.

Reluctantly, you turn to him, with the sinking feeling of having undone all the shakily built progress of tonight with a kiss.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, though you’re not sure what for, only that you really are.

Except his coughing doesn’t calm. It turns into a spluttering, a barely drawn breath, an interrupted exhale, another stilted, brusque, wheezing inhale.

Jayce paws at his own breastbone with one hand, as if to tear his heart out, bunches his hair up in the other.

“Fuck,” he coughs it more than says it, the whole expanse ribcage widens with another labored inhale. It whistles on the way into his lungs, windpipe drawn tight in resistance.

Oh, no. You know exactly what this is, based on the way sweat starts to bead at his brow, the way his hands clench, scratching at his chest, legs trembling with pure panic.

Touching him was a double edged sword in moments like these even far before… he became who he is right now. But there were other things that worked, and you pray they still do.

“Jayce?”

He looks at you for a brief moment, startled like a feral animal in a trap.

“Easy.” You try your best to keep your voice steady. You go for old reliable — if this won’t work, hauling him all the way back to the bathroom and running cold water down his wrists will. “Tell me two red things you can see right now.”

Your attempt goes ignored, unacknowledged. Jayce swallows a sad little sound, and finally, finally speaks.

“You… we used to kiss him like that.” On his leg, you realize. On days when the pain was gnawing at Viktor’s joints and bones, or on days when he looked into the mirror like he wished to throttle his reflection. Jayce drags in another breath. Whimpers and cradles his head in both hands now, wincing and flinching. “Fuck.”

“You mean… Viktor?” You ask carefully. It’s a territory that is thin, crackling ice for you as is — and it can only be worse for Jayce, who has decidedly not spent his absence processing his grief.

He nods.

Nothing could have prepared you for his next sentence.

“I killed him.”

What?

Jayce sinks at the same time as your stomach does, until his elbows rest on his knees, and he sobs so hard you fear he might throw up. Under a metaphorical just as much as corporeal pressure, he crumbles, he breaks, he cracks.

“I killed him,” he repeats. His shoulders shake with another cry, and he winces like someone’s grabbed him by the neck and squeezed. “Put a hole. Th-through his chest. You can’t imagine… how it was gaping, magic sparking like, like… some broken circuits on a fucking machine, a-and the way he looked at me. Oh, god.”

And though there are a million questions racing through your head, at odds with the bile rising in your gut, you find it within yourself to ask just one.

“Why?”

“I had to,” Jayce says. “I had to, you have to… you have to believe me.”

Why the hell would I? and How could I not? should not be equal statements that weigh on your mind the same. But they are.  

“I’m sorry.” Jayce tries again at your silence. And you realize that is what he had been truly apologizing for all this time —  not his helplessness, not his pain, but his sins. “I’m so sorry. Please.”

What is he pleading for? Forgiveness? Comfort? 

He sniffles, shifts a little closer to you. You don’t embrace him when he settles his head on your shoulder and sobs. But you let him find a semblance of comfort in your warmth all the same as he starts to sob so hard it makes him choke and tremble like he isn’t all lean, scarred muscle.

He killed Viktor. 

“If I told you even half of what I’d seen while I was gone… you would never believe me.” He swallows another set of tears, and lifts his head to look at you.

He is not, and will never be your Jayce again. You feel it burning at your stomach, the disgust he’d predicted. He knows you well.

You should kick him out of what once was your — all three of yours — sacred space. You shouldn’t want him tainting the memory of tender hands with his bloodied ones, you shouldn’t want a lover turned killer in your bed. 

But you will take what you can get. You will take what’s left.

You will cradle the jaws that bite, you will hold the hands that pulled the trigger. You will kiss the eyes that have seen Viktor dying.

“Try me anyway,” you say.

And you brush your hand to his own. 

[audioroleplayconfessions]

if i see fuckass tingly tones or one of his billion other channels in my recommended one more time i'm building a bomb

.

[lovelyjj]

💔

Having JJ as your boyfriend was exhilarating. There was never a dull moment. You loved each other with every fiber of your being. The two of you were soulmates, destined to be together. JJ brought out the best in you. JJ wanted to be a better man for you because you deserved the world. You have been dating for a while now. It was nothing short of amazing. Not only did you love each other, you wanted a future together.

Your sex life was truly unbelievable. It was mind blowing. JJ was a expert. He knew your body like the back of his hand. He always made you feel comfortable and listened to what felt good. Having sex with JJ was magical. Two people making love and enjoying each other’s company. JJ did his best to make you happy and focused on your pleasure.

The two of were in JJ’s room at the château, lounging in JJ’s bed. JJ was tracing shapes on your thigh. You were cuddling. Both of you were enjoying the peacefulness of the evening. JJ breaks the silence by saying, “I love you so much baby, so glad I have you by my side.” “I love you too,” you replied. JJ cups your face and leans in for a kiss. Your lips crush together in a messy kiss. JJ feels so lucky to have you. He feels his heart beat faster. Your stomach does little flips and you feel tingly as you make out.

JJ’s tongue slides into your mouth. Your tongues dance together as you kiss. “Need you so bad baby,” JJ pulls back a little and whispers over your lips. You smile at his words and run a hand through his hair. “Can I take this off?” JJ asks pulling at your shirt. “Yes.”

JJ removes your shirt leaving you in your lacey black bra. Then JJ takes off his shirt revealing his toned abs. You place your hands on his stomach and run your fingers over his abs causing JJ to chuckle. JJ starts to kiss your neck sucking deep purple marks onto your skin. JJ pushed your bra straps off your shoulders and unclipped it. He kissed both of your breasts and massaged them with his hands.

You arched your back pushing your boobs into JJ’s hand and let out a soft moan. “Need to be inside you,” JJ pants. You nod your head and remove your shorts. JJ slides his pants off along with his boxers. You lay on your back as JJ hovers over you. He lines his cock at your entrance. “Ready for me baby?”

“Yes.” JJ slowly entered you with a deep groan. He gives you a minute to adjust before he moves. Then JJ pulls all the way out just to slam back in. He sets a brutal pace as he fucks you deep and raw. You squeezed around him and JJ saw stars. “You feel so good,” JJ exclaimed.

JJ easily slid in and out with how wet you were. You could tell he was getting close with the way his dick was twitching. He could tell you were getting close because your walls were spasming. “I’m gonna cum,” JJ breathed.

“Give it to me,” you begged. JJ thrusted again and again as he released deep inside you. “Oh god, baby… Yes… Tiffany… Yes…” JJ yelled as he came. He continued to move through his release drawing it out.

“Who is Tiffany?” You paused absolutely shocked and sick to your stomach.

JJ freezes, realizes his mistake. His eyes widen as he processes what he just said. “Oh god, I’m so sorry Tiffany was my ex. We broke up years ago.” He looks at you with a pained expression. “Please forgive me.”

“JJ what the fuck?!” You were furious. How could he have done this to you. You thought he loved you.

JJ pulls out and puts some sweats on. He starts pacing the room. "I don't know what came over me. It was a slip of the tongue, I swear. Tiffany and I haven't been together in so long. You mean everything to me."

“Hmm,” you speak.

He stands still, running a hand through his hair in distress. "I know I messed up badly. Calling out her name while making love to you... It's unforgivable. I'm so sorry." He looks at you imploringly. "Can you tell me what you're thinking?"

“Im thinking how can you love me when your thinking about another girl. how can this happen? i thought you loved me and only me now i’m not so sure.”

His expression turns agonized. "No, no, baby, please don't think that. I love you with all my heart. Tiffany is just a ghost from my past. I never loved her the way I love you. Please, please believe me. I'm begging you."

“I’ll have to think about it.”

He nods solemnly, his heart breaking. "I understand. I've given you reason to doubt me and that kills me. Take all the time you need to think. I'll be here, hoping and praying that you'll forgive me someday. I never meant to hurt you. You're my whole world.”

You stand up and get dressed. “I’m gonna sleep on the couch.”

He watches helplessly as you walk to the couch, his heart heavy with sorrow. "Baby, please... Don't do this. We can talk, work through this together. The couch is not the answer." He follows you, kneeling beside the couch.

“I think i just need some space.” You admit.

“Oh um okay, I’ll be just in the next room if you need me, again i’m so sorry,” JJ replied sadly. He never felt so guilty and ashamed.

JJ went to sleep that night thinking of ways he could prove to you he loved you and to win you back. He couldn’t loose you and that’s what scared him the most. He didn’t think he would survive loosing you.

[earth2steve]

eddie ramblings from my notes app: vol 2

18+, fem!reader

eddie smiles at you exactly the same way over a bowl of cereal that he does when he's between your legs and it is absolutely, positively ruining your life. 

he high fives you when he comes off stage with the same routine as he does when you both collapse side by-side on the mattress. calls you sweetheart in public with exactly the same tone as he does when you’re sticky in his lap. 

something awful flutters around in your chest when he does it now, sidling up beside you on a bench outside your work in a mess of too-long limbs and clunky jewelry. 

“what flavor?” his eyes track your mouth around a piece of bubblegum. 

you poke the piece of chewed up purple out of your mouth in lieu of an answer, and then he’s moving too fast for you to stop him. one big, ringed hand grabs you softly by the cheeks and squeezes just so, and then he’s reaching forward and fishing it from between your lips; tossing it past his own. 

you have the decency to look disgusted. eddie just grins. 

“gross, eddie.”

“gross!” he shrieks. “gross, she says.”

he leans in, kisses you so hard your head hits the window behind you. there’s a track of dried spit on your cheek when he pulls away. “i’ll give you gross.”

“you’re a sicko. we're in public." you emphasise, shoving him back and grabbing your bag from the seat beside you. "do you get off on embarrassing me, or something?”

a smile splits his sun kissed face. “mhmm. makes me all tingly inside."

“shut up,” you push your things into his arms and move for the door, thinking of ten different ways you'll get him back when you're alone. “gimme a sec and then we can go — i gotta use the bathroom.”

a searing look in his eye, the same one as when his chain dangles in your face.

“can i come?”

[verstappen-cult]

You and Charles give Max’s lip freckle a little bit of love.

You’re curled up in Max’s lap, warm blanket wrapped around your body, Charles beside him on the couch, snuggling closer to the Dutchman and tightening his hold on your hand, thumb caressing the pulse point of your wrist.

They’re watching a football game and you couldn’t care less about it. You could be doing something else, anything really, but you prefer to endure an hour of guys running behind a ball if that means spending some time with your boyfriends before they leave for the first race after the summer break.

You look up, still resting your head on his shoulder, and Max doesn’t even notice, too focused on the TV.

You love everything about Max, from his icy blue eyes to how sweet, — not only with you and Charles, but with anybody else — caring and just perfect he is. But what you love the most about him is the freckle on his upper lip.

And from the first moment you met him, you were mesmerized by it.

Slowly, very slowly, you lift your hand, touching the freckle with the pad of your finger. It’s a barely there touch, and if Max notices he doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t even move, he just keeps watching the TV.

You move your head just a little, enough to have free access to his lips, and without a second thought you lick his upper lip, just where the freckle is.

When you pull away, Max and Charles are already looking at you.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Max asks, a small smile on his lips.

Charles looks amused as he sits up, turning his whole body so he’s facing you two.

“Oh, so that’s what you’re doing.” He smirks, making you blush. Max just looks confused between you and the Monégasque.

“You have a freckle on your lip.” You say, gaze glued to that little thing that screams at you to kiss it, and lick it, and show it some love.

“I know I have it.” He laughs, but his cheeks begin to gain a soft pink tone that shows how affected he is by you giving so much attention to a freckle.

“So you know you have it,” Charles leans in, stopping just a few centimeters from his face. Max’s blue eyes widening as he waits for his next move. “You also know how hot it is, too?”

“It’s not—” He dismisses the compliment with a roll of his eyes, immediately looking down embarrassed. But you force him to keep his face up with your fingers on his chin.

“I can’t stop looking at it,” You trace his lips with your index finger as Charles, finally, reduces the distance and starts kissing his jaw. “Every time you talk,”

“Every time you lean in to kiss us.” Charles whispers in his ear as you lick his lip again, and this time Max’s whole body reacts to the attention both you and Charles are giving him.

“It’s not that—” He groans, closing his eyes. “It’s just a freckle.”

“It’s you, Max.” You cup his cheek, looking into his pretty, blue eyes. “And everything about you.”

And it’s then that you capture his lips with your own. You feel the blood rushing through your veins, a tingly feeling in your stomach, as Max reciprocates the kiss, his hand finding your waist and squeezing ever so slightly.

Charles keeps his assault on his jaw, trailing kisses down his neck, sucking and biting, leaving love bites behind. And Max can’t help the moan that escapes his lips when Charles sucks over his pulse point. He tangles his free hand in Charles hair, keeping him there until he can’t take it anymore and pulls away.

Max tries to catch his breath while looking between you and Charles, pupils dilated and chest heaving, heart thumping.

But Charles doesn’t give him time to catch up with what’s happening because he’s already kissing him with everything he has. It’s messy and aggressive, you see it and you feel it in the way Max pulls you closer to him, flush against his chest between him and Charles.

When they pull away, there’s a string of saliva still connecting their lips. Their faces are flushed and it makes you whimper, making them look at you immediately.

You and Charles spend the entire night showing Max just how much you love the freckle on his lip.

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part nineteen —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

The cool paste feels tingly on your skin as you rub it against your bruised stomach, wincing. Christ. Maybe Ghost was right to think he might break you. Beneath the mottled patchwork, another kind of pain stirs— your muscles are growing. Firm and tight. The only soft parts of you left are your breasts and your ass. Gently applying the paste to a nasty purple one on your left cheek, you curiously pinch the sore flesh between your fingers. Scratch that. Even your ass is firming up. 

Arnica has healing properties. Yesterday, you found a patch of it with Blue and created a salve with some water. You already applied some last night before bed. Whether or not it’s helping probably doesn't mean much when new ones are about to be added; still, the placebo effect brings some comfort.

You're still massaging your backside when the bathroom door groans beneath a heavy fist. 

"Hurry up. Grab your bow."

“Shit.” You startle, almost dropping the salve. "Uh, coming.”

Chucking on a clean shirt and your old pair of jeans, you pad out of the bathroom, ignoring the cry of your joints. Ghost is outside waiting for you. Wait— bow? Confusion delivers an uptick to your pulse; you never bring your bow to train.

“What’s going on?”

"The air," he replies in a flat tone.

The stale smell offers enough explanation. You cringe. "Should we split up?"

He shakes his head and nods towards the direction the gentle breeze is rolling in. "No need. It's coming from this way."

In the violet wash of morning, you trail beside him over tall grasses and scattered groundhog burrows as the air leads the way, luring you opposite the clearing where you train. There haven't been any Greys since the one you burned together. For the past few weeks, you'd almost forgotten about their existence— a pleasant naivety for once. 

Neither of you bothers with much small talk. He asks if you're sore, probably noticing how stiff you are, and you answer honestly. That's it.

You keep your attention strictly on the wood bow molded into your palm and the slight rustling of leaves all around you, scanning for signs of anything astray. You don't look at Ghost, even when you feel his eyes flicker to the side of your head. Staring at him for even a second longer than necessary rouses something in your gut that was once easy to label as fear; now you don't know what to call it.

He is wearing thicker clothes today, the intimidating vest stocked with ammo glued to his chest. You'd gotten used to his more casual wardrobe of gym shorts and hoodies. They make him look... softer, almost. A little less like a death omen. Though, you sincerely doubt there are any soft parts of Ghost left under all that gear, given the rigid planes you felt beneath your hands when you—

"There."

You snap your gaze in the direction Ghost is pointing at.

At first, you don't see anything.

Then, squinting, you make out a red color far too metallic to naturally sprout among the conifers. 

An arrow is urgently slotted on the bowstring as the two of you head towards it, your brows tightly knitted. You've been this way a few times and never saw a— is that a red car?— before. Closing in, your suspicions are confirmed when a stroke of sunlight bounces off the metal bumper. The patchy sedan is tucked within a bush, tail-end sticking out, with half-flat tires resting on corroded rims. Shadows of movement dance behind the tinted windows, too disjointed to be natural.

"What the fuck?" you mutter under your breath, boots scuffing over a long-faded gravel pathway that is now shrouded in weeds. The car must've been following it before winding up in the bush— the occupants no longer human enough to drive.

"They... they must have just turned while they were driving," you think aloud. "When did this even get here?"

"Maybe during the night," Ghost mutters.

He paces forward and swings open the passenger door. A string of moans is released as a Grey lurches within the confinements of the seatbelt, but he quickly silences it with a bullet to the forehead, causing it to flop sideways out of the car. Maybe just a day ago, it was a young man. His hair is fully intact and he's wearing a blue shirt with the Chelsea Football Club logo on the back.

"I wonder why they were driving this way to begin with," you say quietly, stomach rolling.

In the driver's seat is the slumped-over corpse of an older man, having died from so many bite wounds before the infection could take hold. The early stages of decomposition smell almost worse than the infection and you have to breathe through your mouth as you head for the back door. 

"There's another here I think."

You're ready to shoot and put whoever it once was out of their misery when you pry open the door, but the sight of a small body wriggling around makes you freeze. Curled up against the faded leather is an infected boy, no older than eight or nine. His eyes are all white except for the outer rim where a few vessels are still filled with red blood. Your fingertips dig fiercely into the frame of the door as you stare down at him; his soft brown hair, his small hands, his Minecraft shirt. He whimpers and tries to claw at you, mouth hung open in mindless hunger.

The feeling that washes over you is hot and cold at the same time. It's not the first or last time you've seen an infected child, so you don't know why the sight traps you for a few heartbeats.

A voice emerges beside you. "It's not a kid anymore."

You almost forgot Ghost was there. Your teeth clench. "Yeah, I know."

You feel his eyes burning into you. Your fingers tighten and untighten around the arrow's stem as you aim. 

"Hone it, Twix— the anger."

The tension in your jaw releases at the same time as your arrow snaps forward, cutting through the boy's skull and driving his limp body down to the car floor.

“You good?”

You forcefully swallow and look away, giving Ghost a short nod. "Guess that's all of them."

He slowly nods in agreement, studying you, but all he says is, "For now."

“Don’t you think it’s strange?”

“Seen stranger things over the years,” he says. “It seems like they were headed somewhere, maybe needed a new place to settle, and one of them got bit. Infected the others.”

You nod, thinking it over. “What about the car?"

"No fuel left, so it's pretty useless." Rifle still in his grip, he moves around to the hood and props it open. "Might have some parts I can use, though."

While he scavenges for gears that aren't rusted beyond functionality, you take a look at their belongings. There is an empty bottle of whiskey in the cupholder. In the boy's lap is a stuffed tiger that you assume was once white, but now it's a worn of grey. You carefully shift his corpse and take it.

"I have a friend who might be able to care of this for you."

In the trunk, at least, you find some tripwire. 

Dragging the two adult bodies back to the trench for burning is your 'strength' training for the day. Since they haven't decomposed much yet, they're heavy; you go back and forth, taking one at a time. Ghost carries the small one over his shoulder. After the flames snuff out the smell of rot, he relieves you, claiming he has other shit to take care of—more traps to set with the newfound tripwire.

"Hey. Would you like this?" you ask Blue when she's up, handing her the tiger. 

"I'm kinda too old for dolls, Twix." She must see the expression on your face because she shakes her head and disappears into her room for a minute before coming out with a teddy bear. "My mom gave me this one when I was a baby and it just sits on my bed by itself, but now it can have a friend."

You smile and nod. "Yeah, okay."

The day is spent playing board games with her. When she notices how sore you are, she offers an exclusive massage from Grim, who hops over your back and legs as you relax face-down on the couch. However, even with the honorary treatment, the aching lingers. 

"Auntie, I'm over here!"

In a violet-tinted field, you search for the voice.

It's barren and hazy, with no hard edges or places for a little boy to hide; so why is it so hard to find him? You call his name. You wander around, aimless, until you catch a familiar whiff of baked cinnamon and fresh laundry. This way. He's this way. You start running fervently. When a small hand tugs at yours, you whip around and try to grab him, but the soft touch dissolves through your fingers like ash. 

When you wake up, there's a hand on your back and blood on your tongue, evidence that you'd bitten through it during your sleep. The taste is quickly replaced with bile as you launch up, grabbing the sleeve of someone's shirt.

"Oh no, you don't."

The hand moves to your hair, wrapping it around in a fistful before forcing your head to tilt down. A bucket is tucked beneath your chin. You vomit into it, the cool metal rim hissing against your fingertips. Again and again. When it's all out, your throat feels like sandpaper. 

"Done?"

The dark room surrounds you; the perfect place to hide what you know must be a ghastly look on your face. Awareness creeps in, and you're not thrilled by the fact that you've thrown up in front of him twice now. Without looking up at the white skull you know is there, you nod.

Wordlessly, he takes out a cigarette and lighter. You hear a deep inhale. See the dull glow of the flame. Then, he passes it to you and leaves.

"You look like shit today."

You can't even be offended, fully aware of the purple painted beneath your eyes. One look at you quirks his brow up in that annoying mannerism of his.

You offer a tight-lipped simper, mumbling. "At least I can always count on you for brutal honesty."

"Good trait to look for in an ally." He throws the gauze at you and you begin wrapping up. "I don't suppose it has anything to do with the fact you nearly ruined another shirt of mine last night."

You tie off the gauze and glance up. "Look, I'm s—" you stop yourself, "I mean, I'm not sorry, because you wanted my box open so now it's open. You already knew the potential consequences."

"Try opening it without emptying your stomach next time."

You flash him a look. "I think I miss when you pretended I didn't exist."

"And I miss getting a full night of sleep."

"Can we just get started? I'm ready."

Ghost keeps his eyes on you as he motions a fisted hand. "As you wish."

When the familiar dance begins, and adrenaline ripples up your spine, you realize that you missed this yesterday. The rest felt good, but this— the thrill of seeing Ghost start to get as worked up as you, the sweat stains on his shirt matching your own... it is something you itch for these days. 

You get a few hits in that have your ego swelling. But then— the rough night catches up with you after half an hour of wordless sparring. Your breathing grows labored, while his is barely winded.

"Tired yet?" he asks.

"No," you say, but he calls you out immediately.

"You're a terrible liar," he reminds you. A few more swings have your lungs burning as you dodge until one finally catches up with you, and whatever healing your homemade salve has done is erased by a fresh layer of pain. 

As you clutch your side, he changes the subject. "Are you going to tell me what it was about then?"

"What what was about?"

"Whatever was making you whimper in your sleep."

Your face twists. "I wasn't 'whimpering'."

"Fine, then. Crying," he corrects plainly.

You sigh through your nose, averting your gaze only for a moment, then focusing back on him before he can strike you again. His words hang in the air, ignored, as you jab an elbow toward his ribs. He grabs you by the knob of it and pulls you unnecessarily close to his chest. When you try to wriggle free by placing a hand on his chest, he fists your hair, which has slipped out of a bun into a haphazard ponytail, and tugs hard enough to force your eyes up to his.

His gaze is demanding but his voice is light— a mere breath over your forehead. "Tell me why someone who has seen plenty of infected kids by now seemed so bothered by the one she saw yesterday. He reminded you of someone, didn't he?"

The mention of it makes you snap. "Stop."

"Stop what?"

"Trying to act like you know anything about me."

"I know enough. You are easy to read."

So that feeling you get when he looks at you isn't just in your head; he truly can see through. Your nails dig into your palm. "There's no need to read me. We're not friends. We're just... allies, or whatever."

"Or whatever," he repeats thoughtfully, tasting the words. "You talk like a teenager."

"Compared to you I might as well be," you retort.

"Jesus." He chuffs out an exhale, eyes flickering down for a moment before returning up to yours, narrowing. "Let's not change the subject here." 

"Fine. Take this stupid Halloween mask off," you lift the hand on his chest up to the hem of his balaclava, feeling how weighted the fabric is with sweat. "And I will tell you all about it."

His jaw flexes before he gently guides your hand away. "Tempting offer, but I'll pass."

You refuse to acknowledge the tinge of embarrassment at his dismissal and inch back as far as the hand on your hair will allow. The close proximity, or harsh sun, is making it hard to breathe. "Well, it's not fair for you to ask me shit about my life when you don't even let me see your face."

"I never claimed to be fair." 

"I promise I won't vomit no matter how ugly you are. I've seen worse things out here."

His hand tightens. "I think I miss when you were scared of me. Less mouthy back then."

"Well, I'm not anymore."

"No?" He flips you around so your back is against him, one hand settling on the toned curve of your hip. His voice lowers to your ear. "Maybe I need to fix that."

An unwelcomed shiver courses through you. He lets go. A wristbone nudges against your spine, shoving you forward. Irritation simmers in your veins when his remark finally registers, and you whirl around, readying your stance. 

"If you even think about threatening me after I explicitly asked you not to, then I would suggest sleeping with a knife tonight."

"Who's threatening who, Twix?" He gives a low chuckle. "Relax. I'm sure I could handle you in my sleep, anyway."

He's egging you on; you know it. And yet, you stubbornly take the bait. His knee— the right one. That's where you got him last time that made him falter. Maybe an old injury. But when you swing a boot at it, he expects your attempt, knocking you away by the ankle. 

"Ah. Eager to get me beneath you again?"

Pink sears your cheeks as you wipe a trickle of sweat from your forehead. "I'm eager to humble you for once."

"Might need to keep your dinner down to do that."

You grit your teeth. So maybe he did allow it last time. The realization darts your eyes to his wide stance, searching for an idea. Without second-guessing yourself, you kick at the other knee. He must find your second attempt amusing because he easily predicts it, but before he can catch your leg, you snap it back and drop yourself to the ground.

The brief distraction allows the second of time needed to fit yourself between his legs. You're slim enough to push through, kicking at the inside of both knees once you're on the other side. His legs buckle, and you reach up to pull his arm, finishing the job.

Once he's down, you scramble to get on top, not caring if your boot kicks his face in the process. You grab both of his wrists and bring them above his head, but it's impossible to wrap your fingers all the way around them. Instead, you lace them through his fingers, breathing hard in his face as your breasts meld against the solid heat of him.

"Did you allow that?" 

His voice is rougher than you've ever heard it. "No."

Your lips furl. "Good."

A dark gleam passes through his dilated pupils that makes your head fuzzy. You let go of his hands. Immediately, they gravitate to your hips again, thumbs fiercely pressing into the sliver of skin exposed from where your shirt rides up. You don't move even an inch, frozen in place as you stare down at where he grips you against him. That feeling in your gut deepens and spreads. It is hard to pinpoint—so insane and foreign yet familiar at the same time—but one thing is certain: it begins and ends where his rough skin touches yours.

Before you can figure anything else out, a scream shatters the air, and Ghost rips you off of him in one swift movement.