Slow Burn, Teammates/Rivals to FWB to Lovers but never admit it to enemies to lovers, eventual smut, Roy and Reader fight....a lot. Lian is dead (sorry), Will have good ending!
ollie is always getting dragged into intergalactic interdimensional outer space megabullshit and he literally just wants to be in his shitty norcal city shooting burglars in the foot and then going home. why is he next to alpha centauri he is missing good eats reruns on food network and he forgot to set them to tape
you let hal jordan drag you to space ONE TIME and now everybody's always saying "ollie loves kepler 22B let's make ollie go to kepler 22B" and ollie does not love kepler 22B ollie loves minding his own business. that's a lie ollie loves minding other people's business. on earth.
Matt Murdock/Ben Poindexter (Bullseye)/Frank Castle/Reader, 3.6K
a/n: i got nothing for this one y'all im just writing fantasies atp
cw: suggestive content, bad wagers made over cards, reader is the prize, makeouts, biting, dubious consent, gn!reader
masterlist ao3 requests
PREVIEW:
Only, you don’t expect the prize to be you.
Matt Murdock/Bullseye/Frank Castle/Reader
The thing is, for all of the barbs and hatred and vitriol that they’ve expressed between each other both verbally, physically—morally—perhaps—they always meet once a month for cards. Blackjack, specifically.
It’s the one that Matt can determine the braille on the embossed side the easiest, without giving away the game to Frank and Dex.
And for some reason, once you catch wind of it, the next thing on Frank’s mouth is “why don't you come along with us?”
“Who, me?” You ask with a wry grin. “I’m no good at betting games.”
“Don’t have to play—just keep Red company,” Frank jerks with his head over to Matt, who reclines on an armchair with a grimace of being caught out. “‘Specially when me and Dex wipe the floor with ‘im.”
“Gambling is not one of the virtues upheld by Catholics,” Matt mutters back in good-natured defense. You watch Frank chuckle at the gun he’s swabbing loose powder from.
“Yeah, neither’s dressin’ up at night and beating the fuck outta criminals,” Frank grins at you—you can’t help but resist a small smile of your own—“—But I don’t see you talkin’ bout that in your conversations with God.”
“Different strokes,” you suggest back with a chuckle as Frank sends you a knowing wink. You like him the best out of Matt’s alter-ego friends—something so bracing and without airs that he puts on for you.
“So, how’s about it?” Frank asks. “We’re meetin’ up tomorrow. Maybe it’ll get our third to stop runnin’ his mouth for a second.”
You doubt it—and yet here you are, sitting by the edge of the table, watching as the three of them exchange cards. Surprisingly—the fact that a veneer of civility is exchanged between the three of them is astounding to you, given the history.
Frank sits opposite you, working a stogie in the champ of his teeth that issues that acrid smoke in wreathing manner around his frame. He’s the dealer, interestingly enough. But you suppose neither Dex nor Matt would trust each other enough to let the other dole out the cards.
“Didn’t know Matt had a good luck charm,” you hear that husky, unfamiliar voice croon across the distance of the table—and so you turn to your left to look at the demon near-perched on your shoulder.
Watch the languid yet stiff way that he reclines at his straight-backed chair, his eyes watching you carefully. Perceiving everything that you do as you observe the nuances of this peace-time game.
“Gotta have something in his favor,” you send back easily, trying not to obviously bristle under that unnatural stare. There’s something uncanny in that handsome pair of eyes, in that set of that jaw that works rabid grin. He’s sizing you up.
“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Dex sends back, and finally his eyes drag off of yours to look across the table, to your right. “Wouldn’t wanna go home with his tail between his legs.”
At this, you finally turn to settle your gaze to Matt, who sits in unnaturally cool repose, a jaunty smirk that works over his face as he return ire of gaze in directionless sights.
“Don’t mind him—”—Matt says your name with a slant of possessiveness that even in this smoky room you cannot ignore—“—When we go home, you can tell me your honest opinion of him.”
When we go home—staking territory not quite claimed, cutting lines into the sand between you and Dex. It’s such a startling overture that you can’t help but cock up an eyebrow in game surprise, though you don’t correct him. Though Dex already is making suffused chuckle between his teeth as he lounges back in his seat.
“No need to lie to me, sweetheart,” Dex croons back, in bid to make you return your attention back to him, “I don’t get my feelings hurt too bad.”
“Is that so?” You ask calmly, pressing your cheek into the curve of your palm. “I find that a little hard to believe.”
He displays teeth at this, impressed by your advancing offense. His reply is calm, collected.
“The packaging the words come in make a lot easier to hear,” he sends back, and when his eyes trail hot fire down the length of your body, you have to ignore the tactile goosebumps that are sent up it.
You can feel the way that Matt bristles besides you, take in the sharp albeit subdued intake of air that he makes—and you find yourself stymied without word to defend yourself with.
“Alright, ladies,” Frank cuts in, finally removing the cigar from his mouth with forefinger and thumb, “Let’s go ahead and play real nice now, okay?”
Dex retreats against the plateau of his chair with a smirk; in your periphery, you’re aware of the smile that grows on Matt’s own face, though it appears to be little more than rictus in imitation of the expression.
And you sit on the high-legged stool that you’ve taken grounding in to be witness to this tableau before you.
“I can if you can, Dex,” Matt replies back with same composed litigational intonation you’re used to hearing. You just don't usually hear the inlaid threat that comes carried in this one.
“No problem, Murdock.” Dex says. You catch the way that his eyes dart back over to you in interest, before working to accept the cards that are sent careening in direct arc from the deal of Frank’s hands.
For a second, there’s only a brief moment of contemplation as they take straight-faced observation over their cards. Dex looks at the card that is paired with his ace—Matt stares in unyielding fashion across the plateau of the table, his thumb working over the card that matches his King.
Frank takes a sizzling drag, issuing thick, arterial smoke that further clouds the heady atmosphere of the room.
“What’re we thinkin’, fellas?” Frank asks, once he deems that enough appropriate time has elapsed for them to have decided their strategy.
“Hit me,” Matt says without hesitation—Dex appears a little more reticent before he holds up an index to summon his own. Frank dutifully doles out the gold-backed cards for them to accept, as they consider the merit of their choices or not.
It’s here that Dex speaks. “How about a wager?”
“What kind of wager?” Matt asks with such immediacy that you wonder if it’s been premeditated. Or, if he is just simply expressing outward tension that he’s seemed to carry since the onset of this meeting. You watch as his knuckles jut through the housing of his skin, white-hot and clenched as they hold the cards he has yet to reveal.
“Think you know what I’m bettin’, Matt,” Dex returns back. There’s something hooded in the shadows that fall over Frank’s eyes as he takes reckoning of this. “But because I know you’re nervous about losin’ em, I’ll start small.”
Losing ‘em? What does that mean? You think across the perimeter of the table where a chain reaction seems to begin; how Matt’s shoulders bristle and tick out in barely-restrained ire seething beneath the surface. Frank makes a knowing chuckle at this, exhaling gust of excess into the dissipating air, Dex’s grin grows a little wider at the reactions instigated.
“I win next round,” Dex says in such velvet manner, and he says your name without even looking so that you’re slow to react, slow to realize what part you play in this, “—Takes a seat on my lap for the round.”
“No. Absolutely not,” Matt grinds through his teeth, so averse to the idea that you can’t help but be rendered immobilized by this wager made without even your input. Thankfully, Frank intercedes, holding out a broad hand that wields still-lit cigar, embers fading into the darkness that seems to swallow up the table.
“Easy, girlies,” Frank cuts in, “Think we oughta hear if they wanna piece of whatever dick-swingin’ you’re doin’.”
And at this, three pairs of eyes drag over to you; Matt’s head swivels to you with immediacy, Frank keeps level stare opposite you, Dex’s eyes slink over like glittering snake in the grass. All three waiting to hear your contribution to this discussion of rights to you, now that you’ve been given entry into the game.
You don’t know what you’re thinking, save for the electric heat that is thrumming through your body, through the charter of your veins, in the pulse between your legs. Matt draws still—and you wonder if he has already sensed what you have yet to confess.
“I get to decide if I’m okay with what you want me to do,” You say with stilted, halted thought conjured on spur-of-the-moment, “And in the meantime—I sit on Frank’s lap.”
At this, you see ripple of emotion work through the trio: Matt seems to bear resignation, Dex smug victory that spirits over his face—and Frank hoots aloud at the debacle.
“Don’t mind if I do, honey,” Frank pushes back from the table with a screech upon the linoleum, clapping a hand to the meat of his thigh. “Why dontcha come over and keep ol’ Frankie company from these two idiots?”
“Gladly,” you say, and when you stand, you hope that no one notices the tremble that your leg bears as you find your footing. As you walk over to Frank’s awaiting lap with a hand that lingers past the taper of Matt’s back, something coaxing and reassuring that makes him settle only a little.
“Happy you joined the party, sweetheart,” Frank says as he ticks out his leg for you to seat yourself upon. And do so with ease, feeling yourself conforming to the shape of his toned body, the scalding heat that seems to roil off of him, tasting the motes of cedar and teak that his cologne makes in dizzying olfactory blend.
You, for your part, play along, trying not to openly exude the anxiety that is leaching out of your body as you take comfort in Frank’s body.
“Are they usually this…adversarial?” You ask as Frank makes motion to re-collect the cards. Matt and Dex both do so obediently as they share the heat of exchanged stares. Frank chuckles, and the laugh roils through the the two of you.
“Usually. But they don’t have such high stakes on the line like this.” With one hand, you watch as he takes the 52-pickup and works it in the machinations of his fingers; the other hand takes steadying buoy on the meat of your bicep, rolling a soothing thumb up and down the skin.
You can’t help but melt into the touch, to which you receive a chuckle from Frank that goes to all the accessible parts of your body it can.
“That so?” You ask as he places the deck face down, the crook of his wrist displaying expert flex of fingers and muscle. The cards are dealt out again. Matt accepts. Dex gloats. Both of them bear kings.
“Feelin’ lucky, Matt?” Dex asks as he spares no more than instantaneous glance to his concealed card. Matt keeps impartial expression, neutral as he rolls his thumb over the embossed braille.
“Do you?” Matt asks back, and there’s a type of confidence that he bears in his voice. He does not move.
“Any of you girlies need another card?” Frank asks. You find yourself needing to wrap an arm around his torso as he leans over. Something odd is taking tumultuous flip in the pit of your stomach as they both stare each other down.
“Easy, hon,” Frank grins down at you as you tick your arm round the span of his back, “Might not wanna letcha go, you keep hangin’ on like that.”
“Can’t help it,” You mutter back; again, you’re rewarded with thundering rumble of laugh as he takes another drag of his cigar.
“I don’t need another card,” Dex returns with such smug, slick reassurance that you can’t deny the way that your heart begins to uptick in tempo.
“Neither do I.” Matt says—Dex’s teeth show in baring of canines.
“Alright. Read ‘em and weep, kiddies,” Frank says, his hand bracing as he holds you to him. And both of them reveal their cards—for brief second, you forget rules of the game as you comprehend the numbers, calculate the totals.
Dex bears King and Ten: 20. Matt bears King and ace: 21.
“No fuckin’ way,” Frank chortles. Matt’s real, genuine smile finally breaks dawn on the horizon of his face. And something releases tension in the length of your body. But Dex still continues to grin as his eyes find visual purchase upon you.
“Go find yer man,” Frank directs, clapping you gently on the shoulder to coax you up and off the safe ledge of his leg. There’s something buoyant that makes the tread of your walk light as you round the footage of the table, pausing right before Matt who beams up at you.
“Hi there, stranger.” You greet. “Mind if I sit on your lap?”
“Been waiting for you to say that for a while now,” Matt returns easily as he scoots back. When you ease down upon him, there’s something that feels so oddly fitting about the way that you relax against the plateau of his chest.
His hand settles in careful anchoring against the slope of your waist. And how easily your legs intersect in the spread of his own as you thank your good luck.
In the midst of the cozy atmosphere, Dex accepts the new cards that Frank has metered out to the two of them; Matt has to accept his one-handed as he holds you like prized possession you are.
The careful tempo of his heart thrums through you in careful deliberation, rooting you back into the moment.
“Next wager,” Dex says in easy deliberation, without looking at his second card, “They give a kiss.”
You will yourself to stay calm in the safe harbor of Matt’s arms, keep your heartbeat steady. You can already feel the possessive clutch of fingers that are working over your flesh, kneading you in mooring rhythm.
“Didn’t know you wanted to try it that bad.” You reply back, more self-assured as you take residence in Matt’s arms. As he chuckles something relaxed into the press of your shoulder.
“Whatever’s good enough for him is good enough for me,” Dex sends back without preamble. “And I want a taste.”
“Yeah, well—”—Frank cuts in as Matt’s fingers clutch tighter at the statement. As Dex gives you smug grin that he takes aim with salacious wink at you—“—Gotta win first, Dex.”
“Hit me,” Matt says as he contemplates his cards—you can’t look. There’s something better, you think, in the privilege of not knowing until final moment. Dex again signals for another and appraises the score as Matt does similar.
“Any other takers?” Frank asks, Matt makes a jutting nod of his jaw as he rubs his hand up your forearm, letting you sigh into him.
“Didn’t know you were so good at this,” You murmur to him. “Holding people.”
“Comes with the LSAT prep,” Matt sends back; you can’t help but giggle at this admission. Dex sits across the table, stewing in myriad of indiscernible emotion.
“We ready?” Frank asks, taking silence as consent. “Show ‘em.”
Matt reveals the cards: a Jack, a five, a four. 19. Dex shows his hands: 10 and 10. Twenty.
“Think I want that kiss, sweetheart,” His voice drawls in cool tether that drags across the table. Urging you to come pay your dues.
You sit in the comfort of Matt’s lap for a solid second, still reeling over the shock—and find yourself moving against your own accord. Matt's hand clenches along the surface of your body for as long as able moment is given, until you have made free work of his grasp.
And then you cross the table, making way to those eyes that hunger after you with thirst yet to be slaked.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Dex taunts, his legs schooling wide for you. “Been waitin’ for this.”
“Yeah?” You ask as you find yourself sitting down on the firm musculature of his thigh. God, there’s not an ounce of give or fat on him—he’s corded steel in every inch of his body. “How’s that work?”
His arm encourages its way around your back, slinking to get access around your waist, your thigh, sending scald wherever his fingers reach. “Well, I hear Murdock talk about you so long—”
His thumb darts over the full of your bottom lip. “I can’t help but want to see you for myself.”
“Taste me, you mean?” You ask, arching your brow. There’s that flicker of that snake in the grass again, in the span of his eyes.
“Yeah,” He chuckles, “Somethin’ like that.”
When he kisses you, it’s like making contact with marble that breathes flesh and blood. His mouth slots against yours with such intense hunger that you can’t help but try to rise to the challenge, your hands digging into his scalp as his own ruck around your hips.
When his tongue presses against the territory of your mouth, you can’t help but give it back, working to establish the hierarchy of your own against his, tasting blood. Something in your roars for more.
He groans at this, at the adversarial nature of the kiss, at the way that you fight back. His tongue licks slow and leisurely against the landscape of your teeth, leaving after-taste of that iron that loiters on your soft palate.
And when he finally pulls away, there’s something glassy-eyed in the arc of his gaze. Something still hungering, but still momentarily sated as he regards you.
“Just like I thought,” Dex says—and someone snickers from behind.
You’re fairly certain it’s Frank, for you can all but feel the burgeoning hatred that radiates from Matt’s corner, where you can’t bring yourself to look.
“How about we up the stakes, Murdock?” Dex asks, and you finally bring it in yourself to use reserves of courage to look back to Matt, where he sits at full attention.
Where his jaw is set, his brow is knit, his knuckles clenched over span of table as he bears murderous thought all-but-verbally-articulated as he looks at you both.
“Name it,” Matt says, and Dex navigates his hand down the slope of your thigh so that he can track the nuance of your skin with his fingers. You swallow down whatever shiver your body wishes to make on instinct, ignoring the heat that is growing to life in marked pulse at junction of your legs.
“Whoever wins the next one gets to leave a mark on them.” Dex says.
“You can’t hurt them.” Matt warns. Something akin to adrenaline begin to resurface through your body at the notion—but Dex makes quiet noise of amusement. This does little to reassure you, as his hands keep that slow specificity of motion on you.
“Didn't mean knives,” Dex gloats, “I was thinkin’ more of a love bite, if you catch my drift.”
His free hand ghosts over your pulse, the rough pad of his thumb scraping to mark territory yet-claimed. “Right here.”
Matt looks at Dex, at you—and then turns to Frank. “Deal me in.”
“Thought so,” Dex says in such audible fashion that only you at close proximity—and Matt—can hear. Frank’s eyebrows, which have made slow ascent up the real estate of his forehead, finally settle down as he deals out this round.
It’s done in silence that is only demarcated by the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears, and the subtle rasp of Dex’s fingers over your body. They both accept the cards without hesitation.
“Hit me,” Dex says, and Matt requests for similar. Again, you look away, finding something of comfort in the way that Frank levies arch of brow at you—but you shake your head in imperceptible fashion.
“Anyone else?” Frank asks. There’s no request given. “Alright, ladies—for all the money—”
Dex flips first. Ten, five, five. Twenty. Matt reveals his: ten and ten. Twenty.
“Fuckin’ tie,” Frank claps a hand to the table, “All my fuckin’ days—”
“I can share if you can, Murdock,” Dex says, but makes no indication to release you from his tenterhooks. If Matt wants to savor the delight of this draw—he must come to you. To him.
Matt draws up with such silent deliberation that you’ve never witnessed before: taking smart, deliberate strides over to the two of you. Looking down to you as you stare back up to him.
Dex tugs down the loose collar of your shirt with impatient insistence, his breath ghosting over your collarbone, hot and heavy.
“Hi, stranger,” You greet him weakly. Matt’s hand finds your chin as he gives you reconciliatory smile: no ill will borne this way. Only a need to make it right.
“Better dive in,” Dex warns, and then his mouth latches on the sensitive skin with such ferocity that you can’t help but whimper out a breathy moan at the drag of teeth, the lave of a needy tongue.
Matt is soon to follow, leaning down to the pulse that he exposes with the tilt of your head, drawing that vulnerable access of your body into his mouth with intensity that grows the longer he works against you.
And you, sandwiched in between the middle of them, as Dex marks claim on you he is happy to leave, the rugged scuff of his teeth; as Matt grates tongue against your neck to worship sanctity of the column of your throat—as you moan at the attention both of them are determined to win on the terrain of your body.
As you let yourself be lost to sensation, you know one thing: no matter who’s won, you’ve lost.
a/n: a request for @filmcamerasanddice, hope you enjoy :)
cw: hurt/comfort/angst, practice fighting, reader feels inadequate, Roy is surprisingly good at advice, kissing, gn!reader (no description of features/clothing)
masterlist ao3 requests
PREVIEW:
When you're at your lowest, Roy is there to pick you up.
Roy Harper/Reader
It’s a delicate task to walk from the distance of the hangar bay to the gym while you feel as though every internal barometer of your body is firing off klaxon bells. As everything roils within in utmost turmoil, a chaotic din of thoughts and emotions, yet you must maintain brave face to your teammates as they all head their different ways to retire for the night.
There’s something that twists in sharp, jagged nature within the real estate of your ribs—as you watch the way that Dick and Kori meander off hand-in-hand, lost in a world of their own making. As Donna and Vic stroll in wayward departure with Wally tagging gamely along for whatever they have planned.
All of them smile and wave goodbye, making sure that you are included in the number. It feels as though you’ve drawn agonizing rictus on the musculature of your face to force the smile that makes way. To force yourself to draw through the motions that you wish you could easily cast aside. And it disappears as soon as there’s no one necessary to see it.
With no audience to take heed, you allow the facade to drop. The gloom that hangs about you in diseased malaise before you retreat to the one place that you feel you can achieve any form of catharsis. All the while, you remain unaware of the final occupant of the jet that watches your stilted, as if on tenterhooks departure as you stalk away.
But it turns out that the gym offers no solace either. Each time that you sink a swaggering blow into the give of the punching bag that flails on teetering pendulum, it offers no balm.
The pain that shocks through the ridge of your knuckles, the flat of your fist only festers and rots, rather than summon that dissociative haze that you wish you could retreat into. And still your thoughts continue to cloud, continue to cast intrepid doubt to worsen your mood.
You hook a jab into the bag with your left, the jangle of the chain the bag hangs from dissonant and discordant as the thoughts that plague you. It seems that it’ll do no good: your hands seize out on instinct to still the bag, to allow you to catch the chuffed breath that you’ve denied yourself in the meantime.
And you finally acknowledge the elephant in the room that’s watched you from the doorway.
“You want the punching bag, Harper,” You say more to the leather than the figure you can see in the reflection of the wall-length mirror, “It’s all yours.”
Roy’s voice is a mellow note that hums out into the tepid air of the gym; you watch as he lopes a casual, languid step into the room. The arc that he curves into the perimeter of the shared space is less linear to you, but more of meandering means. Almost as if he is seeking your permission to remain in the room.
“Don’t want the punching bag,” Roy responds in that markedly calm manner, “Just want to see you.”
“What? Why?” You ask, and it’s the exhaustion that makes your voice more terse than it needs to be. You turn and see that Roy seems overall unaffected by your rather dour mood.
“Looks like you got a lot on your mind,” He asserts into the space between you. It’s not an inquiry, it’s a dedicated observation he makes on your behalf. All you return back to him is a hissing note of amusement that almost qualifies as a chuckle.
“Thought you might want to talk to someone about it.” Roy concludes as he completes his journey before you, taking decent berth in distance from you. Still ever-seeking the privilege of your company that you have yet to verbally offer.
“If I wanted to talk about it, I would have asked,” You say—there’s not any real bite to it, but there’s not exactly any pleasant temperament that you try to shore up for him.
You’re not even certain how you look, the weariness that you made no effort to disguise for him plainly expressed on the terrain of your face. All he does is watch you with that evergreen expression that demonstrates an ennui that almost maddens you the longer you watch him.
“Yeah, well, you could ask for some tips on punching the bag too,” Roy returns, crossing his arms over the plateau of that firm chest, “But I don’t see you lookin’ around for that, either.”
A shock of anger, a split-second of fury that you’re certain registers on his face: and all that he returns to you is a smile that you don’t qualify as smug. It’s benevolent.
And that makes you more angry as you approach, taking the initiative to step into his space.
“Well, if you ask me,” You articulate in low, pitched means to him, “It sounds like you’re asking for a fight.”
“Maybe I am.” Roy says. “So are you gonna hit me, or what?”
You don’t look a gift invitation in the mouth. The first swing that you make out is something that goes wide, unfortunately—too clouded by the haze of anger, Roy’s easily able to dodge the trajectory of your fist. This only prompts a snarl of rage, a vicious scowl that heralds the beginning of the fight.
You proceed further into his space, sending out a kick that takes purchase on his shin—he makes a grunt that acknowledges the pain you’ve caused him, before retreating further across the mats.
When he sends his own punch in return that connects with the full of your shoulder, there’s a spasm of pain, a gasp of protracted agony you expel like expletive.
“Lucky shot,” You pant, fixing your stance. Maintaining ground that you refuse to surrender to him.
“Luckier if you hit me,” He offers—and the grin that he gives you is clear that he knows the game he’s playing. But you take the bait anyways, a grunt of irritation making headway through your lips. And your haymaker takes aim—
“Ouch,” Roy praises in monotone as you drive the arc of your fist into the sink of his ribs, “That’ll hurt tomorrow.”
“Want it to hurt—”—You say like a curse—“—Now.”
When you take aim with your kick, it whiffs through the air towards the after-image of him. But he’s long gone, already advancing to regain conceded territory.
“Cause it didn’t hurt enough during the mission?” Roy’s in your face quicker than you realize, exercising alacrity that has you off-guard; the flat of his palm smacks into the hand you put up as guard.
His other fist curls and delivers a bolt of pain that blooms out from where it makes landing in your stomach—you gasp with punched-out air that’s no longer yours to command.
“Fuck—”—You dart back across the negotiated area, and he follows. “Should’ve hurt—more—”
He ducks the quick jab but accepts the brunt of your uppercut as it connects with his pec; the expulsion of oath that he makes indicates to you that it’ll sting when he breathes.
“You think that’ll make you earn your place on this team?” Roy grits through his teeth, his jaw working as he tries to keep the words of perfect clarity. As the two of you regard each other, waiting for the other to make a move.
“You think it’ll make us respect you more?” Roy asks—it’s clear from the way that he watches you, appraises the way you make facial reaction that he wants to ask more.
But you’re too busy diving for the full of his waist; the two of you collide with cacophonous impact and Roy is too distracted by his imperative to keep balance.
When you tumble, it’s he who accepts the impact, his arms wrapping around you to take care in preventing you from suffering the same. For a brief second, there is a sanctuary, a warmth, a comfort that he communicates in the way his arms tick around you, settle in soothing manner around the small of your back—
But you’re up on your feet, inching away from him.
“No,” You spit out to him, taking trembling footing as he works to seat himself up. “But it’ll make me feel like I did something worthwhile.”
And this makes him draw silent, the truth of the matter achieved. The gravity of your statement settles between both of you, drawn open like exposed nerve, pained wound; something gleams in his eyes that you don’t want to acknowledge.
“What if people don’t want you to get hurt?” He asks, and there’s something so tender in the ken of his voice that you have to swallow thickly, lest you choke on your emotions.
“Who?” You ask, but the venom is fading. The fight is leaching from you like a sieve with the way that those blue eyes continue to watch you. “Dick? Wally? Donna?”
“‘Course they do,” He says. “But I was thinking of someone a lot closer to you.”
“Figuratively or literally?” You ask—he chuckles as he finally makes lanky stance before you, a crooked smile making foundation on his face.
“Both, I think,” He comments dryly, “Unless you didn’t mean that kiss during monitor duty last week.”
The noise you make is both disapproving and embarrassed, stunted through the gap of your teeth. But the pleasure of the warmth that spreads through your ribs is undeniable—you won’t lie to him.
“It meant something.” You confess in quiet manner.
“Something enough for me to tell you the truth?” He asks—he’s testing the waters again. Checking for your permission granted for him to speak to you, one-on-one. To let him let himself in.
“What?” You ask, looking up to him. Hoping that the answers are in the slant of those blue eyes that seem to only have you to admire.
“That your self-doubt’s a bunch of bullshit.” Roy explains in rather self-explanatory manner—straight-to-the-point, direct, in very Roy manner. “And the pain’s better when it’s shared.”
“You hear that from your therapist?” You ask dryly. But you don’t deny the way that his hands ghost up your arms—tending rather than tearing. Healing rather than hurting.
“My AA sponsor, actually,” He tells you, that moseying smile making foundation again. “But it’s still the truth. Sorrow shared is sorrow halved, somethin’ like that.”
“And you want to share it with me?” You ask, hoping he’ll say the right thing. “Why?”
You dart your eyes back to the scars, the tattoos that litter the columns of his arm, that decorate the marked years before the two of you crossed paths. A lifetime of pain—and lessons learned.
“It’s awful work.” You mumble, letting your voice drop, much as your eyes do to the unerring floor. “And I’m not worth the trouble.”
“You know,” Roy says, his thumb gentle press under the curve of your jaw, “You should let me decide that, honey.”
When your eyes drag up to the landscape of that handsome face, you only have one question.
“And what do you think?” You whisper.
“I think if it’s you—it’ll always be worth it to me.” He confesses—and there’s no ounce of doubt, no modicum of sincerity that you could question in it.
You think the poets knew something of true love. But you don’t know if they ever knew a true peace as it was in the press of Roy Harper’s lips as they find yours. As they offer oasis in the storm, safe harbor in the turmoil—and for a brief second, all is well once more.
cw: smut/18+ ONLY, sub!roy, dom!reader, Roy gets stepped on + wears a leash, riding Roy, ambiguous genitalia, gn!reader
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...And you're the only one who gets to know.
Roy Harper/Reader (18+)
You know what he likes. You know that when it comes down to likes—the best place that he enjoys being is on his knees. And the only thing that completes this experience is one thing. That would be the feel of that comfortable leather that takes presence in tight wrench around the hollow of his throat.
The one that’s connected to the leash that you hold languidly in your hand—after all, you don’t expect any resistance. Not from your dearest apostle who takes worship on his knees, eyes glassy and framed by tousled hair.
“You like where you are, Roy?” You ask with soft, coquettish tone. You make tentative tug to assess the resistance he gives; the leash pulls taut, pulling straight against the thick column of his throat.
You allow yourself privilege to look at the strain of his neck muscles as he makes good posture for you, back straight, bulge tenting widely in his pants.
“Of course I do.” He husks, his voice crushed velvet as he looks up to you with idolizing visual cant. The way his hands settle on the meat of his thighs, at rest, bearing no resistance.
You smile. “Good. Then you’ll like this more.”
And without any hesitation, you let your foot ascend through the air, before pressing the arch of your toes into the divot of his chest: right where his heart beats in increased uptick at the contact that you grace him with.
Roy relies on the exertion of clenched muscles, the ability to descend to the awaiting ground below him as you continue to encourage him down to where he belongs.
Down to where he gladly glows, the glimmer of obeisance glowing brightly in his eyes as he watches you in his journey downward.
It’s not until he finally settles on the ground with a grunt of air, arms flexed in steep coil, abdomen flat and taut, that he allows a low grunt to escape him. And then you permit your foot to settle on him in flat manner, your smile growing in delighted means.
“Do you like this more?” You ask, maintaining light tone and mischievous arc of gaze down to him.
For emphasis, you allow your foot to assume more pressure on the plateau of his chest—there’s no mistaking the lustful groan that snakes through gritted teeth. Through the set jaw that displays almost-boozy grin.
“I sure do,” Roy replies in lazy contentment, exactly where he wants to be. “I could use a little more weight, though.”
“Oh?” You ask, allowing your brow to arch at his impertinence. Asking for more than you’re given him privilege of at the moment. “And how do you ask?”
His exhortation comes without hesitation, much as you watch the bulge grow in definition between his legs, desperate with need.
“Please,” He asks in dutiful prayer, “Step on me.”
“Why?” You ask, letting your teeth finally show in display.
“Because,” Roy elaborates without hesitation, “I need to feel you on me.”
Another elapsing of second as you wait for him to suggest further explanation—it comes without pause. “And because I want to feel you riding me.”
“Sure you can handle it?” You tease, working the heel of your foot into him. The noise that he makes is more subdued but no less punched-out, no less tight with desire.
“Always,” He swears to you, “I don’t want anything else.”
“Alright.” You grin, finally acquiescing to his wishes. “I’ll take good care of you, Roy.”
“You always do,” He says—it’s the only thing that he says until you’re riding him, your thighs pinned against himself to keep the proper rhythm as you sink up and down his cock.
“Fuckin’ perfect,” Roy manages through his set jaw, eyelashes fluttering around that pretty, glassy-eyed look he gives you.
All you do is smile—and give Roy Harper what he needs.
a/n: i needed to write something for myself and this was just the ticket :]
cw: brief off-screen domestic violence (not from Bullseye), reader is injured, reader is a bartender, Bullseye is a dog, drinking, gn!reader (no description of features/clothing)
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And you just happen to be an excellent host.
Bullseye/Bartender!Reader
You like working the late shift at your job. And job is more of an overstatement. If anything, at this hour, you’re more caretaker for the bleary-eyed apostles that need alcoholic baptism in lurid neon lighting.
Your avenue of employment is nothing to write home about. It’s a dingy, stuffy bar that’s overdue for renovations. It bears typical signs of disrepair: clotted with cracked, peeling walls, dim lighting to obscure the rest, and ample inventory of alcohol to blur that which doesn’t appeal to the senses. At least the toilet still flushes when you need it to.
All this means is that when potential clientele look for the opportunity to find some spirits to drawn their sorrows—they spot your locale and move right on by. But that suits you fine. It means that you get the dregs of New York sub-society.
The ones looking to scour their memories with the scald of alcohol, the dissociative who sit on the threshold of death’s door. The forgotten who drift in and and out of life, long having forsaken thought of finding more purpose than occupying the housing of a world-weary body.
But sometimes—and this happens so rarely indeed—you get an interesting character to shake things up.
When this particular character makes their introduction to your doorstep, it’s three in the morning on a sleepy-eyed Thursday. There are a few customers that occupy the corner by slow-petering rotating fan. Another remains hunched over their self-proclaimed final drink that’s extended into a few half-dozen.
A brittle wind ghosts through the open door, offering little to any wayward spirit that needs a drink. But still you keep the post-midnight oil burning, swabbing what you can of the greasy counter—every hand down with the ship, after all.
This is what distracts you from the new wayward soul that meanders in to the bar and seats himself down at the counter. You only catch him in your peripheral as he settles himself with lithe ease on a bar-stool that you could’ve sworn always creaks.
But for him, it makes nary a sound; you get the feeling that the only reason that you’re aware of his arrival is because he allowed you permission to perceive it. You afford one final cursory swipe over the counter’s edge before you look up to him, taking in your new patron of the night.
You don’t recognize him, this man in his casual wear, a hat tucked over his head even though it’s past midnight and the shadows could disguise what he needs obscured. His eyes are focused on the smeared chalkboard labeling the specials of the day that have been the same the past week. But you know that he’s aware of you.
There’s something in his eyes that makes it quite clear that he’s keener than anyone in the bar: he’d already made studious inventory of everything by the time that he took three paces in.
His hand scratches idly at the edge of that sharp jaw, giving you marked observation of the fresh bruises, the cracked, barely-coagulated blood that mars the ridge of his knuckles.
But it doesn’t seem to bother him any: almost as though this is something that he’s used to. Perhaps you needn’t question the hat after all, though he doesn’t seem to be taking any pains to conceal more of his appearance.
Seems like you owe him the ol’ customer introduction; this one looks like he can handle his alcohol. There’s a half-finished bottle of Sazerac that you keep under the register, honeyed amber liquid caramelized and velvet in pour as you ease it into an open shot glass. Let this be your olive branch as you approach your newest patron.
He doesn’t spare you the heat of those intense eyes until you’ve planted yourself directly in front of him, gently placed the shot glass that gleams with sterling clarity even in the suffused lighting.
Sharing the meter of that gaze—the way that that sly, glacial quality of blue sinks an ominous feeling down the marrow of your veins: he’s trouble.
But still you hold your ground. Still you stand before him with the shot, until his stare finally drags down to your introductory gift.
“What’s this for?” He asks, and he takes physical purchase on it with long, dexterous fingers; he offers it appreciative appraisal as he holds it up to what limited illumination the bar offers. Admiring the spirit turned bronzed when given proper incandescence.
You consider it wise to opt for honesty with a man like this, so you do so. “You look like you need it.”
It’s a creeping slink of sensation as his eyes finally turn back to you. The shot glass is lowered back to the bar counter with nary an echo of noise.
“You should see the other guy.” He returns, and when he grins, it’s an unkind expression. Enough to inform you that whatever sincerity that he provides answer with, it’s genuine.
You’ve heard things amongst similar line from those who tread water through here, so this doesn’t faze you much. You offer your own observation.
“I’m assuming if he can drink,” You nod your head in the direction of the glass your guest has forefinger and thumb eased around, “It's probably through a straw.”
This prompts a laugh, a harsh chord of sound that he makes through his teeth, serpentine in quality. Still the arc of his gaze remains centered upon you, this interloper who has placed themselves directly in his sights.
“Yeah, somethin’ like that.” He returns. Finally he raises the drink in ascent to the zenith of his mouth and downs it in laggard particularity. Whilst others would knock it back in hopes of downing it, he savors it. You knew that you chose the right drink for the right man.
And, though it may contrast with your necessity to operate by common sense, you can’t help but be interested. Interested in this man who seems to have undressed you with his eyes down to the bone.
“What brings you in here today?” You ask, taking posture to lean your elbows on the counter’s edge. You’re the watchman for tonight, it’s your bar. And yet something insists in the background of your mind that this is unwise to step into the big cat’s cage like this.
But the growing smile on his face seems to indicate that he likes the challenge that you’re rising to. The hint of teeth that you see only confirm it.
“I like looking at crappy hole-in-the-wall bars,” He returns with glib, cavalier intonation. “It gives me something to do while I let the paint dry.”
At this, he finally settles down the shot that he’s nursed in appropriate, whiling manner: waiting to see if you will rise to the bait. But you think that you have better retort in your arsenal.
You shrug, keeping your tone blithe. “This might be the best crappy hole-in-the-wall.”
“Because of the smell?” He sneers. You think that you take offense to this, considering you spent the better half of an hour cleaning it when you clocked in. But you don’t let it ruffle your feathers that way he wants to see if it will.
“That’s there for atmosphere,” You say, reaching for the shot glass—ignoring the way that your fingers brush against his own, yet to relinquish his trophy of the night. “A customer-exclusive perk, you know.”
The smile grows, though classification of it as one is just barely skirting the definition.
“You want another?” You ask, holding up the empty vessel to him. The Sazerac packs a punch—you’ve had the misfortune of trying it before. But his eyes seem clear as ever as they seize upon you.
“No—”—He returns—“—Just your name.”
You know this song and dance. You have just the retort you need to keep this fella on his toes.
“You want the fake one or the real one?” Your hand props on the crutch of your hip. While the sight would entice others, his sight never wavers from the full of yours.
“Which one do I get, honey?” He inquires, no necessity made to undercut the taunt in his voice. He likes to play the game, this one.
You hum against your lips, a pert tone of amusement as you wander back to the Sazerac.
“You get the real one if you become a regular.” You make answer to him as you reach for the glassy neck of the bottle. You can feel the heat of his focus even when you tear your eyes away from him; it’s scorching with the gravity that he affords it.
You resurface with bottle and glass, making swift return.
“I give you the fake one if you’re only stopping by.” With this, you settle the bottle, contents sloshing around the interior in arterial means.
“That so?” He asks, reaching for the bottle. You let him: it’s not often in this line of work that you find yourself a man who can hold his liquor. You watch as those arms roll to splay taut muscles barely restrained by the sleeves.
“Yeah, it is.” You let him know that this is a boundary that you will brook no argument for as he makes liberal pour for himself.
“So what’s it gonna be, handsome?” You ask. He relinquishes the bottle besides your awaiting hand that rests on countertop. No decibel of noise is made as he does so.
“Guess you’ll find out when I see you next time.” He grins—and you think that you see blood caked in between the intervals of his teeth. But you don’t spare too much investment into it; the plea of another customer arriving to hallowed ground calls you away.
You spare your tall, dark and handsome stranger one final smirk before you turn to offer your services elsewhere. “Sure thing.”
It’s a quick refill. But somehow in the process of doing so, though you still face the only exit: he manages to disappear into the night without so much as a farewell.
Well, discounting the liberal stack of cash that he leaves under the heel of the bottle. You can’t help but note that he’s an excellent tipper as you count and re-count to make sure your eyes aren't deceiving you.
But you decide to tuck that away and wonder when he’ll darken your doorstep next.
You aren’t spoiled with the lack of his company for long: he returns from whence he came a week later, in the passage of night to cusp of dawn. Not that you mind.
You can’t help but let an instinctive, curious smile rise to your face as you watch him take a seat that he made no audial or visual announcement for.
“Hi, stranger.” You offer in quiet gentility, as though you don’t want to intrude on the night’s ambience. “Want a shot?”
Already, you reach for the Sazerac when he speaks, his voice corrugated with huskiness beset by lack of speaking.
“Want to take you out on a date.” He returns. Your hand stalls on the bottle, but only for a moment. You allow yourself to laugh at the absurdity of an idea, whilst smothering the interest that blooms nascent in the pit of your stomach.
“Oh, yeah?” You ask as you place both glass and bottle before him. When you cross your arms over the plateau of your chest, he allows himself to the well-earned trophy he’s apparently earned.
That is, if trophies he makes are the slab of meat his knuckles have been reduced to, the bruises taking burgeoning maturation on his temple, his jaw, the corner of his mouth.
“You got date money?” You ask as he rewards himself with another unsparing pour, barely exceeding the amber meniscus of the glass.
“That'n more, sugar.” He retorts back with casual, malicious glee. When he raises the overfull glass to his lips, he spills nary a drop as he waters himself, watching for your reaction.
“So how’s about it?” Is the question that he resurfaces with when he’s taken his draining fill.
You set a dubious smirk upon him. Far be him from being the first to ask you out in the span of your shift. But this is the first one that approaches with lucidity of sobriety and ambiguous malevolence.
“Is a date with you gonna end with me trying to figure out how to get your hands out of my pants?” You ask dryly. The empty glass is relocated back onto the counter, reflecting broken fractals of light from the neon sign the two of you are set awash in.
“‘Course not.” He lies through his teeth, but how the visual is so appealing to you, with that angular cut of jaw, those daring, brilliant eyes, that wicked smile. “I’m a real gentlemanly type of fella.”
“That so?” You ask, and this time you finally permit him the privilege of a full-bodied grin at his baldfaced lie. “You a walking on the beach type of guy?”
“Sure I am.” He continues with gracious, ebullient response. “Open the door for you and everything, honey.”
“Hmmm.” You pretend to think, though you don’t move: motion-based predators require the balking of prey in their sights to make strike, after all. “You’ll have to let me think about it.”
“Sure thing.” He chuckles, and it’s clear that this quarter that is given is only temporary. “I’m patient.”
“I bet you are.” You say. The punch of laughter he makes from deep within only complements the reverb of rye that flows into his glass.
He becomes more familiar customer, allowing you the confidential allowance of calling him “B” whenever he stops by. You still have yet to provide yours, but it appears that he’s well-suited to this challenge of whiling away your defenses. In regularity, he becomes someone that you look forward to seeing when he makes gracious appearance to you.
Except this time. As you try to maintain generous attitude that you always do when clocking in. But with one caveat: to exact your side profile to keep from the customers seeing—and then doing the next worst part, which is asking.
But as is customary with the two of you, you don’t have privilege of foresight to know when he arrives: so he sees it all the same. Though you can barely see him through the limited visual acuity the bruise has barred you with.
It hurts to smile, tugs on the meat of your cheeks in painful rictus, but you still manage it for your favorite customer. In odd, uncharacteristic manner, rather than make comment to introduce the prelude to conversation, he surveys you.
While the gawking evaluation from the other customers has been excruciating in its own right, the way that you are perceived now is different. There is no smile on his face as he evaluates you. As he takes in the approach you make to him with familiar offers of tribute.
You wouldn’t say that his voice is more regulated in delivery when he accepts the bottle. But there’s something that ripples in odd undercurrent as he speaks.
“Who gave you that one?” He asks. Something belatedly makes recognition as to what he speaks with. But you need to provide the lie that you’ve given everyone else.
“Oh, no one.” You’d roll your eyes, but it’s no small agony to do so; you opt to shrug instead. “I tripped and hit my head on the doorframe.”
He makes acknowledging grunt, allowing the rye to reach transparent rim. Still keeps careful visual ken upon you.
“This doorframe got a name?”
Figures he wouldn’t swallow that one. But still you hesitate in answer, knowing the doors you may be opening. You proceed down the boulevard of vague answers.
“Not any worthwhile one.” You reply, deigning him with the privilege only he has received: a full, regarding stare. “Just an ex trying to start some shit.”
“That so?” He clarifies. You finally can apply categorization to the tone he’s striking: wrath.
He takes his typical swallow before he proceeds forward, voice casual.
“I'm pretty good at startin’ shit myself.”
The door beckons open, under-the-counter offer overt in such clandestine means. You skirt around what he holds palm-out to you.
“Bet you actually do something worthwhile when you do.” You say; it’s not affirmation. But it is admission. It is acknowledgement.
He drains the glass without drop spared, squaring that stare upon you.
“So I hear.” He tells you. “Haven’t let down a customer yet.”
Your silence is far too long to be negation. And in the elapsing of that time—you think he knows what choice you have made. But when you find verbalization again, your voice is of normal pitch and cadence.
“Speaking of which—”—You gesture to the rye and its sole consumer—“—You want another, or try something different?”
The possessive slink of his hand around the bottle would almost be comical, if you had the strength to shore up a laugh.
“Think I’ll stick with the usual.” He informs you.
“Stickler for punishment, huh?” You ask.
“Always, sugar.” And when he refills, he does not blink once as he continues to regard the disrupted symmetry of your face. Almost as though he is lost in thought.
World always travels fast amongst the rats in the underbelly. So, when quick-footed gossip finally reaches you, you realize that you already have known before anyone came wandering your way.
Your ex has died—home robbery. A few marginal things stolen to classify an open case, a tragic set of circumstances.
But what draws raised eyebrows and hushed whispers is the closed-off crime scene, the retching police officers that must rotate in revolving door shifts as they carry the pieces of him out. The extra manned forces that are made to guard where he spent his last brutalized minutes in, to keep wandering eyes out.
You hear his family is apoplectic with grief, the necessity for closed casket ceremony adding insult to injury. But when you hear the news, all you can think of is the tightness that your healing eye makes every time you blink.
So all that you can do is smile.
He strolls back in a few days later, a familiar grin on his face and nary a scratch to his name. He’s chosen his arrival well—all other customers have vacated the premises as the sun begins to breach the horizon. You are still in the throes of dusk as night makes vacancy for other misbegotten realms.
But still, he sits at his familiar table. Still watches you as you approach with familiar goods and services to offer him.
The only thing that errs in routine is you, when you say your name to him—and find that it rolls off the tongue as easily as breathing.
“What’s that?” He asks, though the cant to his eyes already indicates that he’s well-aware. He only wants to bask in the privilege of you saying so.
“My name.” You confess to him. “My real one.”
“Oh?” He deigns in nonchalance as he uncorks the bottle, makes a final aperitif to the coming new day. “What’s that for?”
You smile—the bruise has been consumed by the passage of time, and it causes you no anguish to give one to him.
“For giving me the best present anyone’s ever given.”
“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, sweetheart.” He says, and when he gives you his teeth, it’s a dare. Another hurdle that he wants to see you clear.
So you do, leaning forward to eat up distance you have deliberately kept between you both.
“Then I’ll say it in a language you get.” And when you pull him forward to kiss you, you find that his tongue is already searching for yours, eager to taste you.
Eager to scrape the flat of the muscle against yours, starving to swipe in slick, greedy motion against the back of your teeth. Desperate to grab handfuls of you that you are already seizing of him. Swallowing up the moan that you confess to him of desire you've made concealed for far too long.
When you finally release him, pull away so that you can acquiesce to the necessity of air—you don’t think you’ve ever seen him look more handsome in this rising ascent of light.
“Think I get it more, sweetheart.” He smirks, and you like the look of it on him. You think that you can suffer the taste of iron evaporating on your soft palate, if he keeps kissing you like that.
“You’ll get more once I'm off the clock.” You say, and tug him forward in forewarning. “I like Italian food.”
His smile grows with the determination of a man looking to slake his thirst. “I think I know a place.”
dividers and banner made by me :)
the vibe i had the entire time I was writing this:
a/n: a request i received in the askbox that i put my own twist on hehe
cw: smut/18+ only, reader is riding Wally, reader is drinking Wally's blood, Wally is into everything, sub!Wally, ambiguous genitalia, gn!reader
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Wally loves it when you drink from him.
Wally West/Vampire!Reader (18+)
What he doesn’t know, or perhaps, what he doesn’t realize, is the fact that you can very astutely tell how fast his heart is beating whenever the two of you engage in this.
You have eyes to take in the way that his pulse jumps in the caging of his throat, a staccato beat that indicates the adrenaline that wracks down the track of his veins, the excitement that spurs him to devoted attention upon you.
After so much time devoted to the blood, you can tell the measure of a person’s heart: and where it indicates they are on the emotional compass. He radiates a joyful thrill whereas others that you have slaked your thirst from have shied away in muted terror.
Of course, the other indicator of his enthusiasm is the way that his cock juts out fully erect from the fine hair curled in the junction of his legs. The muscles of his bare thighs twitch against the soft sheets that the two of you take occupation upon—he lying, you reclining further down his legs to prepare him.
He’s enthusiastic about the way that you prepare him, rolling your hand up the length of his cock, lingering at the curve of his head. Letting your thumb slink down the head of his cock where a bead of precum pearls in tantalizing, mouthwatering manner.
“Please—”—He groans, and it’s best described as a wanton, broken plea for catharsis, for gratification—“—I need you, honey.”
You let your eyes drag up from the view of your hand gliding down the shaft, just in time to catch the way that his mouth opens in perfect, blissful agony. His eyes remain fixated upon you, a silent plea of desire.
“I need you too,” You hum back against the full of your lips, a pleased chord. Always so willing, always so needy, always so lively. “Are you ready, Wally?”
In answer, his hips buck into you, the slick of his exertion making the glide easier up your hand. Another word finally breaks from the last modicum of propriety he has, a barely uttered whisper. “Please.”
You laugh, though it’s without malice—only endearment. “As you wish, Wally.”
There’s a degree of relief that makes foundation in his face, though it’s quickly replaced by lust as you clench your thighs to rise up. And it’s replaced by abject pleasure as you press your entrance against his cock.
“Fuck—”—He breathes, the entire meter of his body drawn rigid under you, his cock jerking against you in instinctive manner—“—You look so hot like that.”
“Yeah?” You ask, letting a sly smile make appearance as you sink down. As you deny him the chance to reply as his brows twist in euphoria, as you let his cock glide into you, filling you up.
“Oh, fuck—”—He shucks a ragged breath out of him as you sheath him to the hilt with marked ease, a perfect fit for you. You keep a hand on the toned plateau of his stomach.
Under the pads of your fingers, you can admire the way that his abs roll with the need to satiate himself with you. You may as well accommodate him; you let your legs pitch against his thighs and rise up in torturously slow ascent.
“God—”—His fingers twist into the sheets, the whites of his knuckles protruding through the tender flesh of his skin—“—Oh baby, please go faster.”
“World’s fastest man—”—Your grin is beatific, wicked as you sink back down, his eyes rolling back with overwhelming pleasure—“—Can’t handle going slow?”
“Not—”—He grits this confession through his teeth as you seat yourself fully on him again—“—Not with you.”
“Charmer,” You giggle, before you adjust your angle so that you may inch along the taut muscle of his torso, his pecs, his shoulders that are tacky with the sheen of effort. Until you have finally reached the zenith of your journey, where you may huff steamed breath over the pulse that hammers in delicious pace.
“Do you want me?” You ask, punctuating your inquiry with the wet lave of your tongue upon his lifesblood. All he gives you is a roll of his hips that has you sigh in delight at the shock of pleasure through your body, sweet and honeyed and perfect.
“Please,” He begs once more in dire evocation, “I need you.”
You pitch your hips so that you sink down on his cock once more—letting his breath catch in his throat—before you sink your fangs into the give of his skin. And when you take your first heady swallow of his blood, you’re rewarded with an oath muttered on his lips before he groans at the sheer ecstasy.
It’s here you have to take over—Wally’s busy on two fronts, after all. But you’ve grown good at multitasking, at working the breath through your nostrils as you take greedy swallow from his body, and ride the thick length of his cock as it pumps into you.
As the skin of his thighs slaps in lewd manner against you, the whimpers of his rapture taking sinful harmony with it. As you take what is his—and he happily gives it to you.
But you don’t need much—after all, you still have your ride to think of, as you rise back up to allow a moment to bounce on the curve of his length. To take in the way his eyes are glassy, glaze-over, at a satisfaction he only achieves with you; you wipe a droplet of blood away that skirts down from the corner of your mouth.
“Let me taste it,” Wally begs, his face flushed with desire only you can sate him with.
You smile, knowing that he can regard his blood that stains your teeth. As you close the distance back down to him, his thrusts into you jerky and disoriented but still eking out pleasure yet to be fulfilled.
And when he tastes himself on your tongue, you can savor the tang of his moan on yours.
