After months at it like horny rabbits, a feat you didn’t think possible considering Dick’s baseline libido, it had seemed like an impossible task. You’d long since given up trying, at least until the fertility treatment appointment Bruce has dropped big bucks on, which wasn’t for a few more weeks.
It’s why you didn’t get your hopes up when your period didn’t come as expected. It’s why you didn’t reach for a pregnancy test straight away, why Dick didn’t push the subject. Neither of you wanted to deal with the sting of disappointment that the inevitably negative test would administer.
At least that’s what you’d thought the mutually agreed up status would be. When you emerge from the en-suite, limbo status pee stick in hand, Dick keeps his head down, but you see his stormy blue eyes, peeking out from under his dark locks, his yearning clear as day. It breaks your heart as you picture his face in 10 minutes' time, the same look of disappointment, of grief you’d seen too many times before, plastered on his face, only adding to your own feelings of pain and inadequacy.
But at the same time, it’s Dick who makes you feel better when you’re low, so you climb into the bed beside him and curling up in his arms. Eyes closed, focused only on the soothing fluctuation of his chest and the feel of his lips against your forehead.
“Hey, baby.” Dicks voice stirs you. You’re not sure if you’d been sleeping for a while or if you’d just started to doze but your eyes feel heavy as you look up at your partner. He’s trying to keep a straight face, but the corners of his eyes are creased in a way you recognise as his attempt to hide a smile, and you have to remind yourself not to expect anything. “Look.”
Something shifts in your peripheral, Dick is waving the test back and forth to grab your attention, but the movement makes it hard to read the test window until you reach out to grab it from him.
Two lines.
Two beautiful, beautiful lines.
“We’re…”
He finally cracks, lips twisting into a genuine, sunny smile. One you’d missed wholeheartedly. It doesn’t leave his lips as he presses it to your face, over and over, words marred as he smothers you with his affections. “We’re gonna have to give you a new nickname, cause we’re having a baby, baby!”
There isn’t even a hint of irony or humour in his face. He’s stone-cold serious. More than 200 lbs of muscle, scar tissue, and don’t-fuck-with-me- face, standing in front of you with an unopened pregnancy test.
“You can’t be serious.” He doesn’t falter at your dismissal, position and face held firm even as you roll your eyes and attempt to gently bat the box away. “I think I’d know if I was pregnant.”
“Would you?” The stern look on his face finally waivers, making way for a cocked brow and a teasing smirk. He can be so smug sometimes; Thinks he knows you better than you know yourself.
You might regret giving him an inch, but you concede, slightly. “Okay, maybe I wouldn’t know know, but I’d have a hunch.”
“Yeah? Well, I have a hunch.” He fires back, following close behind you as you attempt to walk away. Right on your heels until you collapse on the couch. “Humour me.”
“A hunch based on what?” You ask as he joins you, lifting your legs to make space for himself before letting them fall back down onto his lap.
“Well…” Milky eyes land on your breasts just long enough to make a point before they trail back down your body, stopping at your ankles, which admittedly have been giving you trouble recently. When he pressed his thumb hard into its joints and starts to massage them, you don’t complain, but you’re not willing to admit defeat just yet. “You’ve been… swelling, and you’ve been peeing a lot. Weird things make you nauseous, things you used to like.”
Of course, you’ve noticed these things too, but when he starts listing them back-to-back like this you can’t deny that his case is might just be a teensy bit compelling.
“You’re tired all the time, and I’m pretty sure you’re-”
“Okay, fine.” You yield, playfully glaring at him as you grab the box from the coffee table where he’d placed it before joining you. “I’ll take the test, but when I’m right, and I will be, you have to go to the store and buy me ice cream.”
“Random food cravings, that's also a sign.” Before you bite back he already raises his arms in surrender, a cheeky, boyish laugh rolling off his tongue under the burn of your glare until you close the bathroom door behind you.
Jason can be quite the sore loser when his stake is high enough, but he’s always been a surprisingly gracious, if quietly complacent, winner. You know this, as you sheepishly exit the bathroom 20 minutes later, positive test in hand.
You’re not quite sure what you’d expected to find upon your emergence, but Jason, grinning ear to ear, ice cream and a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting in hand is certainly a sight you could get used to.
ᴋʏʟᴇ – ᴍoᴍᴍʏ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ.
He’s clueless. Tired as a worn-out rag, as he drags his feet around the apartment. He’s greeted you with a cheery smile, and a long-awaited smooch, undoubtedly happy to be home and with you once again. But Lantern business is arduous, and while his heart might be all in on being home, his brain certainly isn’t switched on.
“I can do all that for you.” You volunteer, watching closely as he boils the kettle, tries to undress, and attempts to unpack what he can, but he’s having none of it.
“No, no, it’s fine. I can do it.” He reassures you, love in his eyes as he blinks slow and sleepily at you, tasks at hand almost forgotten. “I- um- you- you rest. I’m home now, so um- so you don’t have to do everything around here.”
With his attention on you for a moment, you try to avert his gaze downward to the growing bump in your belly, or your t-shirt which states; ‘MOMMY TO BE’ in big, bold, colourful font, but the kettle starts to sing before he comprehends anything, and he’s turns away from you all too soon.
“You do everything all over the universe.” You point out as you join him at the counter, retrieving two mugs for him to fill. “I don’t see why you should have to do everything around here too. Not yet, anyway.”
“Not yet?” He questions slowly, eying you confused, following your hands as you smooth them down your shirt before resting your palms against your stomach. “Mommy to be.”
He reads your shirt aloud, slowly sounding out each syllable before repeating, “Mommy. Momm-eee… Wait, you’re gonna be a mommy?”
Already his drowsy eyes are several inches wider, his mouth agape, curling into a wide grin as you nod. “You’re gonna be a mommy, which means I’m gonna be a dad? Me! A daddy!?”
“Yes!” Clutching your hands tight and bringing them to his chest.
“Oh, this is the best news! This is amazing! I love you so much.” Kyle is the first to start jumping up and down, newfound energy now coursing through his body, but you follow his lead soon after, briefly. All that hopping can't be good for the baby after all.
ʀᴏʏ – ᴘɪɴᴄʜ ᴍᴇ.
Telling Roy became more of a spectacle than you’d hoped. Despite all your best efforts to play things cool, you could feel their eyes on you across the table. Roy’s, Dinah’s, Ollie's. Every glance might seem totally innocuous to any onlookers, but you could see the curiosity behind every prolonged stare and quirked lip as you declined alcohol, and coffee, and coke. Who knew there were so many boundaries on what pregnant people should and shouldn’t eat. No eggs, no poultry, no cheese, no fish.
Obviously, you couldn’t have known that Roy would have succeeded in his long-standing purpose to knock you up when you’d agreed to dinner with the soon-to-be in-laws, but man, had you known, you’d have declined.
At least then you wouldn’t be sweating like a sinner as you try to stomach the only thing on the menu that meets all your new dietary requirements. They're some of the smartest people you know, surely they can tell.
“So,” Dinah starts, and you can feel yourself unraveling. “Are you-”
“Yes! Yes, fine, I’m pregnant.” The word vomit escapes you under the mounting pressure before you even think them through, and you realise very quickly, as you process the barrage of wide, confused eyes staring at you, that your confession may have been unnecessary.
“I was going to ask if you’re enjoying your food.” Dinah clarifies, smiling as her eyes find Roy’s over the table. “But congratulations, how exciting.”
“That is great news. I think another round is in order, don’t you Di? Lemonade all round!” Ollie continues, and you nod and smile politely, but really, your energy is focused on Roy, who hasn’t moved an inch or said a word since your impromptu announcement.
His expression gives nothing away, and his eyes don’t even land on you until he feels the palm of your hand drape over the top of his. “Roy, are you okay? I thought you'd be excited.”
You thought he’d be happier. He’s been begging for this for months, but you have to strain your eyes when he finally speaks up, forest green eyes detached as he whispers. “Pinch me.”
“What?”
“Pinch me.” He repeats, and the relief floods through you as you watch his lips crack into a triumphant smile. Unadulterated joy flooding his face all at once as he grabs both your arms and pulls you closer. “This is the best thing to happen since Lian was born!”
ᴡᴀʟʟʏ – ꜱᴄᴀʀᴇᴅ.
ᴛᴡ: ᴍɪʟᴅ ᴀʀɢᴜɪɴɢ.
“Open up I gotta take a leak.” Your husband calls from the other side of the wood that separates you, stirring you from your disoriented train of thought.
As a couple, you’d been trying for a baby ever since you’d tied the knot, but now that it’s really happening, the reality of the situation has hit you like a ton of bricks. A baby. A real flesh and blood child, a fragile little being who will be reliant on you, who will look to you for guidance and for, well, everything.
“You good?” Wally shouts again, this time knocking on the door, stopping your descent into internal panic before it happens again.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” You lie, shoving the cap back on the test before hiding it in your back pocket, opening the door, and greeting Wally with a smile that even you know doesn’t reach your eyes.
He smiles back at you, but his gaze lingers on your expression, those emerald irises seemingly looking right through you, but the pressure in his bladder must win out because he doesn’t follow you as you swap places, and the sound of his zipper fills your ears before the door is even closed.
You barely make it downstairs before the telltale rush of wind that signifies his presence hits you, however. He’s waiting for you on the couch by the time you reach it, bottom lip between his teeth and he looks at you with big sad eyes.
Before you can even ask him what’s wrong, he pipes up; “So, when where you gonna tell me?”
He looks as troubled as you feel, but apparently for different reasons.
“Tell you what…” You trail off as you clock it; the pink plastic stick that has been in your pocket now twirls deliberately between Wally’s anxiously animated fingers. “Of course I was, I just needed a little time to process first.”
When Wally talks-faster-than-he-runs West has nothing to say, you know there’s something wrong. There is rarely silence between you, and while you’ve never felt the need to justify anything to the man you love, you do feel an itch to make some noise, so you keep talking. “It’s just, I know I should be happy, and I am! I’m just also, scared. You know?”
In an instant, the concern etched into his features melts, replaced by the sunshine you’d come to love; his freckles shifting under the stretch of a smile. Your own tense muscles relaxing at the sound of his laugh. “Of course you’re scared, I'm scared too” Having kids is terrifying!”
“Yeah?” You ask quietly, feeling silly for getting so in your head about the situation.
“Yeah!” Wally replies. You watch as he starts to stand before disappearing from view, and reappearing right behind you, arms wrapped tight around your torso, bringing you in for a hug. His lips are soft against the back of your neck as he nuzzles into you. “But we’re gonna be scared together, right, Momma?”
<3
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Req: Omg I see you write for criminal minds. If you please may write a NSFW alphabet for Spencer. Thank you! - Anon
ᝰ.ᐟ A = Aftercare
Aftercare is a different ballpark of intimacy that Spencer needs time to warm to. It’s not that he doesn’t want to provide you with comfort, but he needs time and repetition to feel comfortable both expressing and providing what is needed on both ends, respectively, and the type of aftercare he gives/requires depends on what exactly the two of you have been doing.
He’s not a particularly cuddly person, but he will be if it’s what you need from him. In fact, there is very little you can ask of him that he won't provide if, as mentioned above, he’s given the opportunity to grow comfortable with it, and he will do it well, with a level of care and attention to detail that most cannot even comprehend.
On his end, he’s not really high maintenance in that department. He’s happy with a few chaste kisses and a meaningful compliment. If you’ll hang around and talk to him for the rest of the night, even better.
ᝰ.ᐟ B = Body part
His hair. Yes, he knows it gets quite a bit of slack for being so boy-band-esque, but his hair is actually something he takes pride in being able to care for, and he finds a lot of solace in fidgeting with it, especially when it’s longer.
On a spicier note, he adores having it pulled. To the point that he can barely bite back from smiling if you so much as run your fingers through it while you’re out in public. Having his scalp scratched is cathartic, and feeling your knuckles all tangled up in his roots, pulling hard, keeping him in the moment instead of getting lost in the taste and feel of your pussy while his tongue is deep inside it makes him moan uncontrollably every time.
On you, and I hate to put it so crassly, but he’s a tits guy. He’s discreet about it. You’re unlikely to catch him unless you’re looking for it because he plays the gentleman very well, but if you have even an inch of cleavage on show, he will clock it, and he will peek a glance every single chance he gets.
Once he gets his hands on them, you will not be leaving him without aching nipples and a chest full of hickeys.
ᝰ.ᐟ C = Cum
He doesn’t really have any eccentricities around cumming. He believes in statistics, and what’s safest for the two of you is birth control and condoms. He cums into the condom as is it’s intended purpose.
He is, however, sensitive and highly amenable to your wants. He can’t just cum on queue as is, but blended with the right sort of stimulation, and your voice whining for him to ‘please, please I want you to cum’ or coaxing him, ‘are you gonna cum now? Are you gonna cum for me?’ will have him losing control for you on the spot.
ᝰ.ᐟ D = Dirty secret
See ‘body parts’ ⤴︎
Reid can’t keep his eyes to himself, especially when you’ve got something on show. Luckily, he’s only got eyes for you.
You and that skirt, which rides up and shows off just a little too much thigh to be professional. Or you and those trousers that hug your ass when you’re stretching to reach something.
If you don’t have your own strict organisational system, I can see him re-arranging your wardrobe if you’ll allow him. Optimised to help you get ready in a speedy manner, he claims—he knows a lot about that, given his line of work and the fact that he often loses time when he gets his nose stuck in a pile of books.
He totally will not betray your trust and put the items of clothing he likes in such a place that makes you more likely to reach for them in the mornings.
ᝰ.ᐟ E = Experience
Not in the practical sense. Spencer is more than unlucky with the ladies, as we know. However, if you didn’t know that fact, you would never figure it out because he knows more than enough to make up for it.
He vehemently understands your body better than you do; how it ticks, how to make it do or feel the way he wants it to in excruciating detail. He’s got you clocked.
ᝰ.ᐟ F = Favourite
He wants to maximise your pleasure during sex, and it’s scientifically proven that the best positions to improve female enjoyment during sex, are ones that easily allow for clitoral stimulation. So, missionary with a pillow under your hips, or doggy style that lets his long arms reach around your waist.
Or best of all, cowgirl, which comes with the added benefits of putting you in control and him being able to stare up at you in total adoration. He’s in total awe of you anyway, so you bet he’s watching you ride him with complete and utter reverence every time.
ᝰ.ᐟ G = Goofy
He’s unintentionally funny. He’s not trying to lean one way or the other; it’s just that there is something undeniably funny about the way he will stutteringly info-dump to you about the commonality of anal sex in ancient Rome between quiet gasps as you press your pinkie finger into his ass.
Or telling you about a recent study that revealed how ⅓ of men still don’t believe the clitoris exists, meanwhile your own clit is swollen and tender, your pussy practically pulsing for attention, your brain all soft and empty after he’s made you finish multiple times just from rubbing your clit with his thumb.
ᝰ.ᐟ H = Hair
Well trimmed for sure. He tries to maintain it at that perfect level between overgrown and overly trimmed. Too short and it itches, too long and it becomes overwhelming. It’s very fine and wispy, with a short treasure tail that leads up to his belly button.
ᝰ.ᐟ I = Intimacy
Oh, he’s so, sooo loving. Of course, he has desires of his own, but a lot of his higher-ranking ones revolve around pleasing you. Making sure you feel comfortable and happy, and that you’re having a good time. He doesn’t really talk dirty, but he’s not afraid to be soppy with you; murmuring praise, ‘you make me feel so good’ and sweet nothings, ‘you’re so beautiful’ as he kisses the arch of your neck, and tenderly runs the tips of his fingers over the curves of your body.
ᝰ.ᐟ J = Jack off
Before you started sleeping together, Spence definitely spent a few nights alone in his apartment, stroking his cock to memories of the shape of your body, the scent of your perfume, and the feel of your hand straightening his tie or your fingers lingering on his as you’d passed him a coffee or something. He’s a yearner. He dreams about how you’d look lying naked on his worn-out couch, watching him intently with that intense look you get on your face when you’re concentrating.
ᝰ.ᐟ K = Kink
When I say he’s not a kinky guy, I don’t mean that he has no kinks; I just mean that they’re very tame.
Once he’s comfortable really exploring you, and knowing that you enjoy it, Reid goes hard on the body worship. Your breasts, your belly, your legs, even and maybe especially your feet.
He’s very observant, he likes it when you get dressed up, likes to see you in hosiery and jewellery, especially when he can tell you’re enjoying it and feeling yourself.
He gets lost in his own head and routines sometimes, so free use could be a big one for him. Giving you the freedom to interrupt whatever he’s wrapped up in, pulling a stack of files from his hands and situating yourself on his lap would be good for him.
ᝰ.ᐟ L = Location
He likes his home comforts. Sure, your place is nice, but given the choice, he’d rather be at his own apartment. The surface doesn’t matter, the bed, the couch, the kitchen counters, whatever is closest, really.
And it’s not purely a sexual thing either. He loves seeing you amongst his organised chaos just as much as he likes seeing your lives combined. Your perfume on his bathroom counter, your shoes beside his; next to the door, your snacks in his cupboard. All those little things that help him acclimatise to such a dramatic change in his life.
ᝰ.ᐟ M = Motivation
Challenge him in any capacity. Try to out-smart him, or tease him. He’s got such a competitive streak it’ll rile him right up.
I can also see him losing his mind when he opens up his overnight bag when he’s in a crappy motel 10 states away from you, only to find your used panties or a risqué picture of you. He’s calling you on the spot, rubbing his hard on through his corduroys as he listens to you giggle down the phone.
ᝰ.ᐟ N = No
We all know that Reid has some very intense mommy issues, but they do not present sexually. In fact, the concept of calling you mommy gives him a massive ick. Similarly, he’s not into being called daddy either.
ᝰ.ᐟ O = Oral
He’s 1000% a giver, and I touched on how he gives back in the ‘body parts’ ⤴︎ section, so I’m gonna use this spot as a chance to talk about him receiving because Spencer doesn’t get rough, not really. Not until you’re on your knees, teasing his length with your tongue and seeing how far you can take him down your throat.
When he’s right on the edge, spindly muscles all tight and jerky, desperate to fill your smart mouth with his load. That’s when he can’t help it for a moment, when he locks his hands at the back of your head, apologising as he holds you still while he ruts against your face, jerking himself between your pretty lips until he unleashes a hot load straight onto your tongue as he tells you how good it feels, how well you’re taking it.
ᝰ.ᐟ P = Pace
Generally, when given the freedom to do things without limitations, he likes to take things slowly. He wants to be present, committing every act in detail to his memory bank, to enjoy every second, and to make sure you’re doing the same. Asking you how you’re doing and if you like that isn’t uncommon.
But as time goes on and he gets closer and closer to his own climax, his tempo starts to speed up drastically until he’s pumping into your sensitive pussy, begging you to let him keep going just a little longer until he’s so, so close, please baby, please.
ᝰ.ᐟ Q = Quickie
“I can give you three hours to work on a reconstruction.”
“I can do it in two.”
Reid loooovvvveeees a quickie because he sees it as a challenge, and he loves to overcome a challenge. The chance to get the blood in his brain and his dick pumping at the same time is bliss to him.
That said, there’s a time and a place for those sorts of activities. Feeling frisky, but you’ve got dinner reservations in 20? Hell yes. In the middle of a case or at the office? Absolutely not.
ᝰ.ᐟ R = Risk
Nothing dangerous. He understands the psychology behind riskier kinks, but he’s just not into it. He sees enough pain and has experienced enough in his day-to-day life.
He doesn’t want to inflict anything like that on you, and he certainly doesn’t need to undergo any more of that. Intimacy to him is about making you feel good and letting his own walls down in a safe environment.
That doesn’t mean he’s not down to roleplay or dip his toes into kinks he’s not tried before, especially if it’s something you want. But it's kinkier stuff that's going to take a lot of convincing. He’s a sweet vanilla boy.
ᝰ.ᐟ S = Stamina
The phrase ‘suck his soul out through his dick’ was conceived about earlier seasons Spencer. It doesn’/t matter how many caffeinated electrolyte drinks you have him chugging, the poor guy needs a hot minute and then some before he’s ready for round two.
Later seasons Spencer is another story, however. He’s still human, but he’s not so easily debilitated; he could easily go multiple rounds with intermittent breaks and snacks.
ᝰ.ᐟ T = Toys
He’s surprisingly open to toys. Generally, he’s of the opinion that sex feels good enough as is. It’s one of the few things he'd apply the if it’s not broke, don’t fix it opinion. New things can be intimidating, especially in the sensation department, but he trusts you.
He likes exploring with you, so if you want to bring in some massagers or some hot and cold lubes, those sorts of things, he’d be excited to try that with you.
ᝰ.ᐟ U = Unfair
He likes to tease a moderate amount, but he really, really likes to be teased.
He can be incredibly playful, and he likes it when people meet his wits. Being able to match his energy is honestly a recipe for very sexy disaster.
Sometimes it starts subtly. Playing with his hair and fixing his tie before sending him off to Quantico without a kiss. The slow burn of it will eat him up for hours, days, even depending on the case.
When he finally gets home, he kisses you like a man starved, his normally gentle hands greedily roaming your body. “You know what you did.” He chides when you knowingly, goadingly ask what’s gotten into him.
By the time you stumble to the bedroom, lips barely leaving each other's long enough to catch your breath, your hands are already popping the buttons of his cardigan, pulling the clothes of his body with the same ravenous hunger he greeted you with, but the moment your legs hit the bed, knees buckling and lowering you down, Spencer’s done. He’s curling up under a pile of blankets, claiming to be too tired for anything more, lips pulling into a tight grin, whether you play along or not.
ᝰ.ᐟ V = Volume
Not loud at all. He whispers and whimpers a lot. He can't help but babble to you throughout, but it's always breathy, certain words catching in his throat, pausing on the tip of his tongue and fracturing as your hips slap together.
ᝰ.ᐟ W = Wild card
Did you know, it’s commonly believed that there are 12 types of female orgasms? You will do, and you’ll know in detail once Reid explains them all to you. There are better-known ones, like clitoral and vaginal. Lesser-known ones like anal and nipple… wait, nipple? Yeah, having your breasts massaged, kissed, and sucked on triggers the release of oxytocin, which can lead to what is colloquially known as a nipple-gasm. Blended orgasms, which are achieved by stimulating multiple erogenous spots at once.
But why does he want you to know all this?
Well, one because Reid is the king of info-dumping.
But also because he obviously needs to verify this information himself. If you’re down, he’ll take his time, nice and slow, listening and following along with whatever you need. You can decide this is an ongoing mission or one intensely mind-blowing night.
ᝰ.ᐟ X = X-ray
It's by no means a monster cock, nor is it overly girthy or veiny, but it's long. Slighly curved upward, with wispy hairs at the base and a pinkish-brown head that blushes darker when he's hard.
ᝰ.ᐟ Y = Yapper
I'm gonna sound like a broken record here, so I won't say too much here; just that Spencer talks a lot. Before, during, and especially after.
ᝰ.ᐟ Z = Zzz
He already struggles to sleep, and your presence is a major distraction. He'll be up with you until one of you physically cannot keep your eyes open any longer. Usually you.
And when you do nod off, he'll watch you sleep. With time, whether you're a calm sleeper or a snoring mess, he'll eventually find a sense of calm in watching.
You can make him fall asleep first, however, by reading to him.
★ 𝑹𝑬𝑸𝑼𝑬𝑺𝑻: wesker wesker wesker omg he's all i've been thinking about nowadays >.< i can't stop..i'd love to request "Don’t tempt me." – "What if I want to?" from the spicy prompt list thingy with him! pretty please and thank you <33 you're the best!!! 𝑩𝒀: 🪦🥀
★ 𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮𝑺 - power imbalance (captain/subordinate), gun mentioned, manipulation, subby!Reader, dom!Wesker: general roughness, face-fucking, p in v sex, teasing
The tapping sound of your nails against his desk is irking him; you can tell by the way he tenses his jaw in time with your pointer finger hitting the hard oak wood with each new sweep of your knuckles.
Clack, clench, Clack, Clack, Clack.
Clack, clench, Clack, Clack, Clack.
Clack, clench, Clack, Clack, Clack.
Good. Let it. He had no good reason beyond placating his own ego for keeping you in the office way past quitting time. Sure, the view was nice, but staring directly at Albert Wesker for too long is like gazing directly into the sun. Beautiful. Dangerous. He has an uncanniness about him, skin as smooth and clear as glass, a bone structure better suited to a Milan catwalk than a specialist police force, and the posture of a man who knows all too well the effect he has on others, all neatly packaged in a well-maintained, 6’3, slender but notably toned physique that would make anybody look twice.
It’s a miracle you even made it into the S.T.A.R.S unit. The day he’d approached you to express interest in having you transferred to his team, you’d inhaled your morning coffee too hard and nearly spat it back out on the impeccably crisp, tight blue fabric of his button-up. Nowadays, of course, with time, proximity, and familiarity, his abrasive good looks no longer put you on edge. They just get you hot and bothered at the most inappropriate of times.
Clack, clench, Clack, Clack, Clack.
Clack, clench, Clack, Clack, Clack.
Clack, clench, Clack, Clack, Clack.
Like right now. You’re pissed the fuck off with him; deliberately trying to provoke him even, but at the same time, there’s a reason you like watching his razor-sharp jawline so badly. Besides, it’s all you can do to keep from cleaning Chris’ desk for him. There’s a coffee mug with months’ worth of brown rings and a lingering smell that is screaming to be washed out, but you don’t want to set a precedent. You want to go home.
Clack, clench, Clack, Clack, Cl-
“Will you cease that incessant tapping?” Though it’s phrased like a question, he’s not asking. It's an order, punctuated with a steely, cold glare. He spares you one solitary glance before turning back to his work, continuing in a deadpan tone, “Didn’t I ask you to alphabetise everyone's reports on the Broad Glade and Silver Creek files?”
Yes. Tonight, he’d asked you to stay late to get on top of the aforementioned files. Yesterday, it was to refine meeting notes and arrange for them to be distributed to the rest of the unit. Last Friday, it was to reorganise the shared filing cabinets. It never seems to end.
It had all started so benignly; all you’d done was volunteer to help with the inordinate mountain of paperwork Irons had slapped him with after an extraction gone awry. You’d stayed late so your colleagues could go home to their families and dogs, but ever since, Captain Wesker had been leaning on your kindness a bit too much. Roping you into overtime most nights, asking for small favours, impeaching on your lunch break to discuss 'important' shit. He'd even cut in once when Chris had asked you out for dinner after work.
Every request chipped away at the innocence of the situation. It’s like he’s testing you, punishing you even, and you can't fathom why. You don’t need reminding whose running the show, and you’ve certainly pulled your weight since being inducted; earned your stripes, or S.T.A.R.S as it may be. For fucks sake, he propositioned you. Yet here you are, another late night pushing pencils and pretending it doesn’t make your clit throb every time your boss scolds you instead of getting cosy in front of your TV with a well-earned takeaway.
“Done.” You state, short in spirit but light on your tongue, offering him a maliciously sunny smile when he turns to face you again, expecting more to leave your lips and being left unsatisfied. You’re not normally so antagonistic, but you’re at the end of your tether and enjoying poking his boundaries.
As far as bosses go, you’d never considered Wesker a bad one, or even an annoying one, until recently at least. He’s never been pedantic about titles. Always given everybody grace about occasionally being late or keeping personal items in the office, so long as they do their job well and without cutting corners. Sure, he’s usually the first to call it a night anytime celebratory drinks are in order, but at least he makes the effort to be there.
“I’m not here to babysit you.” His tone is chiding, a direct response to your petulance. “The night is young, and there is plenty of work to be done. Pick something, or do I need to micromanage every aspect of your life?”
You wonder how he might respond to you picking home time as your next job. You’re both adults after all, and he physically cannot force you to stay here. There’s no lock and key; you’re the master of your own destiny.
You’re not going to do that, however, and you know it full well. He knows it. He could tell you to jump, and you wouldn’t even ask how high, you’d just start hopping and perhaps looking up therapists to help you decipher why you’re so eager to please the contentious authority figures in your life and put a stop to it.
Luckily, he doesn’t tell you to start jumping, but you also don’t decide to put your foot down either.
“I need a drink.” He watches closely, hanging fire for the punch line as you stand up, it’s hard to tell where his eyes roam to, but you imagine they’re nowhere appropriate, and the split-second delusion makes your body flush. “From the vending machine.”
He doesn’t laugh. You hadn’t really expected him to; rarely does Albert Wesker laugh at jokes that aren’t his own, and when he does, they’re never yours.
Content to feed your own bad mood by making the night last longer, you grab Chris’ mug, stopping in the washroom to clean it and your mind out. You need a minute to catch your breath and re-circuit your brain. The situation is only as bad as you make it out to be, you remind yourself as you stare at your reflection in the mirror. You’re getting paid, you’re building rapport with your boss and getting to ogle him while you do so. Eventually, you grab your soda from the machine, not bothering to grab anything for Wesker. His ‘body is a temple’ and all that crap, he’d sooner eat dirt than let half a sip of Dr. Pepper pass his hallowed lips.
When you get back to the office, you bypass Wesker’s private office and beeline for your desk to drop off Chris’ sparkly clean mug and take another second to put a smile on your face. Fake it till you make it. Except you don’t get the chance to come to at your own speed.
You smell him before anything else. Musky and sweet. Menthol-ish in an oddly sterile but inviting way. Besides the rare occasion while out on the field and that one time the elevator in the parking garage was overcrowded, you’d never been this close to him. Never felt his ice-cold breath on the back of your neck or how it makes your skin feel warm and tingly.
“Wesker?” Unsure of his intentions, you force yourself to stand at alert, muscles tensing even though you want nothing more than to relax and enjoy the proximity, even if just for a moment.
“Stand down, officer.” That’s an order, you can tell it by the rigid tenor of his voice, but there’s a little embellishment at the end, a hum paired with the tentative placement of his hand on your hips. It could almost be a totally innocent touch, one meant to put you at ease, if not for the simple fact that he is also the cause of your tension. Still, you hesitantly let your shoulders slump back down, instinctively cocking your hip and your head to one side, ‘accidentally’ allowing him further access to the nooks of your body. “You’ve been so defiant all evening. You’re not behaving like yourself. Why is that?”
“I- uh- I don’t know.” You do know, you know very well, you just don’t know how to say it without sounding whiny and paranoid. Two things you know full well Wesker cannot tolerate amongst his Alpha team. “I guess I-”
“-Think you’re being punished, or tested?” You don’t have to come up with an excuse; he’s a step ahead, his hands getting bolder as his fingers splay and feel their way around your lower torso, making you grateful he hadn’t let you finish lest you fumble and whimper through your words. “Taken advantage of perhaps?”
Barely able to rub two thoughts together, you place your hands over top of his, trying to reel him back, to slow him while you articulate an answer to his probing. Had you put up a real fight, maybe it would have worked, but your attempt is cursory at best and only seems to motivate him further. He holds on tight to you, squeezing you closer until his lips brush the back of your ears, and either his Beretta or something way less appropriate presses into the fat of your ass.
Oh.
“I can assure you those were never my intentions. To put it plainly, I like having you around; I can let my guard down to some degree. Don’t have to pretend to be the cool boss you all love so much.”
Double. Oh.
You had no idea your silly little workplace crush might be reciprocated. Even less of an idea how to feel about it. He’s supposed to be the sensible one, yet here you are, left to calculate your next step and the repercussions it might provoke.
You turn, wanting to face him. Sensing your intentions, he released his grip, letting his hands linger leisurely around your waist. There's no emotion on his face, and that fact rattles you more than you already are. Even with his shades halfway down his nose, there’s no remorse, or hope, or urgency in his baby blues. Perhaps it’s a defence mechanism to appear so unbiased after such a confession. Maybe he’s testing you. Or maybe he really is just a heartless bastard, playing the love-sick fool just to manipulate you. It’s hard to tell, and it makes you even more nervous.
“Captain.” It’s not habit that brings his title to your lips; the word feels clunky and ill-fitting in your mouth. Rarely has he asked any of the team to refer to him as their superior officer, but that doesn’t change the fact that he is, and as much as you desperately want to throw yourself at him, it would be a human resources nightmare with catastrophic consequences for both of your careers- a fact he seemingly needs to be reminded of.
It doesn’t get the intended response, however. Instead, his grip on you tightens, and he rolls his head back, tongue poking out between his teeth just a smidge, stifling a groan of pleasure. When he looks back at you, his glasses have tilted back into place, and there is a smirk pulling at the right-hand corner of his fair lips. “Call me that again.”
“Cap-Wesker. We can’t do this.” Your course correction is fruitless. The moment Wesker cups your face and tips your jaw to look straight at him instead of scanning his features for signs and tells, your instinctive resistance falters. You can feel the sincerity of his confession in his fingertips as they trace the arch of your cheeks with reverence.
“A new dawn is breaking, my dear. Will you rise with it, or will you be left, blindly stumbling through the dark with the rest of the chaff?”
Could be that you’re entirely too focused on the smirk that remains on his face and how it makes your heart beat rapidly, or the adrenaline rush of coming to terms with the fact that being with Wesker in any capacity besides professionally is about to happen for real, but you seem to have gotten lost somewhere along the way because you’re no longer sure your have any idea what he’s talking about. “Huh?”
“I can’t explain it all to you now, but things will be changing, and soon.” That’s ominous, you want to joke, but the gravity in his tone keeps your wit at bay. “This is a precious opportunity; there will be no room for half measures. No going back once you're committed to it, but if you’ll join me and stay by my side, I can assure you, my love, you won’t regret it.”
That’s quite an intense proposal for what you thought would be an office fling, not to mention the implications it holds for the future. So, like a coward, you don’t answer him decisively. Instead, you reach up on your toes and place your lips on his cautiously, knowing full well the implications of your actions.
He kisses back purposefully, borderline aggressively, his fingers fixing tightly around your neck and jaw to pull you closer. No wavering on his end. His tongue readily pushes between your lips like he already knows them intimately.
It’s your turn to paw at him; you’re gentler with his body than he has been with yours, careful not to come on too heavy and spoil the mood, though given his zeal as he pulls back from your mouth only to nibble and peck at your jaw, you doubt that’s possible. Yet he’s softer than you’d pictured on all those lonely nights, feeling guilty and euphoric as you’d pictured moments like these playing out.
Beneath his fitted blue shirt lie powerful, hard-earned muscles, but the flesh between is supple and smooth. Growing in confidence and hungry for a better feel, you thread a finger between his top two buttons only to be met with the resistance you’d feared. He grabs your wrist hard enough to shock you, pulling you out of your kissing-fuelled intoxication.
“You haven’t answered me.” Evidently, he won’t allow room for ambiguity. Devious of him to demand some sort of vow from you when your inhibitions are already shedding.
“Yes?” You’re answering on vibes alone, still unsure exactly what his plans are and how you fit into them. “You can trust me to follow wherever you lead, Captain.”
That placates him for only a second, earning you another smirk and a chance to finally pop those buttons. You soak in the sight of his exposed collarbone, relishing the feel of his silken skin against your pointer finger until his grip tightens once again.
“Prove it.” He instructs, guiding your hand towards his groin. The heat of his gaze, though hidden beneath his glasses, still burns into you. Should it surprise you that the leader of your team is so direct with his desires? No. But it still makes you gasp when he places his other hand around your throat and slowly but firmly guides you to your knees.
Skilful fingers save you from fumbling; he loosens his belt and trousers in a few short seconds, presenting his cock to you, and allowing you all the time you need to admire it. It’s long, cut, and pale. Marbled with bluish veins and crowned with a dusty pink tip that you quickly start to lather with sloppy kisses, pushing out your saliva until there’s enough of it to start working up and down his shaft in slow strokes.
The moment you fully wrap your lips around the head, however, is when his patience follows your common sense out the window. He’s considerate enough not to force your nose against his hairless pelvis in one fell swoop, instead grabbing the back of your head as he fucks into your open mouth just a little deeper with each thrust. Over and over, grunts of pleasure caught between gritted teeth sporadically.
He’s not considerate enough to think about your oxygen levels until your cheeks feel as though they’re ablaze and you start tapping on his thigh for a time-out. Even then, he doesn’t let up straight away, set on making sure your bottom lip kisses his balls at least once before permitting you to come up for air.
You’re too busy coughing and gasping for air to comment on it, but you shoot him a glare, and the message behind it must be received because he cocks his head to the side, sarcastically cooing as he softly brushes the same parts of your head he’d just had trapped in his clutches.
“Don’t look at me like that, dear. I’m setting the bar for you. If you want me to play nice, all you have to do is meet my expectations.”
Oh, he knows just how to take advantage of the part of your brain that craves validation. You maintain your glare a few seconds longer, pretending like his pretentious words aren’t making you wetter by the second, petulant to the end. But you follow his orders, biting back your gag reflex and sinking your face down on his cock over and over again, letting your spit dribble around his cock and drip onto your shirt.
You gorge yourself on him, only allowing yourself a reprieve to breathe when you start to feel weak and dizzy. Again, and again, until eventually it becomes obvious that he’s getting close. You can tell by the way his stringent posture starts to ease, the grip of his fingers on the back of your head relaxing slightly.
“You're going to make me cum.” He tells you. It’s not a compliment, but it feels like praise, nonetheless. His voice is strained, just barely a whisper, not stopping long enough to let you get a word in edgeways. “That’s what you want, isn't it, you little minx?”
His cock is lodged too far down your throat for you to give him any legible answer. Well enough, since neither of you would have it any other way. “That’s it, dear. You want my precious cum, don't you? You've no idea how valuable it really is, you just want me to finish all over that pretty face, don't you?”
Fuck yes. You're nodding as you bob along his length. Had you been hoping to get your own rocks off? Yes. Is your pussy aching for him? Absolutely.
But you desperately want to make him feel good, and you especially want to see what he looks like when he's coming undone. Will he shake and pant, or is he more of a tensed-up, near-silent type? Your money is on the latter, but you're sure that whatever he does, he’ll look beautiful doing it.
“Don’t tempt me.” He scolds, like you’re doing something wrong by milking his cock.
“But…” You pause with the head of his cock still gingerly draped against the tip of your tongue. His pale cock shines with your spit, his brow curved expectantly as you look up into his eyes before slurring: “What if I want to?"
His cock twitches at that, and you finally garner a laugh from him, one you can only assume is meant to stifle how obviously your keen gaze and teasing words have affected him. Both are victories, and the win feels sweet on your tongue as he lets out a feral growl, one so disorienting that you don’t even wince as he tightens his grip on your head again, holding you vice still with his cock on your tongue as he grabs the base and starts jerking himself to completion, giving you exactly what you wanted; three sharp strokes and warm, creamy cum starts to gush from his head, pooling on your tongue, tainting your taste buds with its musty, salt laden flavour.
He spoils you, using his grip to turn your head back and forth, side to side, smearing his release all across your face, not a drop wasted. He never actually tells you not to drink it down, but you instinctively don’t, holding his cum in your mouth and proudly presenting it to him when he finally seizes his climax.
“That’s a good girl. You can swallow it now.” You’ve barely gulped it down when he cups your jaw once more and directs you to stand on your wobbly legs. Calling you a good girl is one thing, but hearing him pur as he examines your soiled face makes your heart race more than any kind of oxygen deprivation could. “You’ve no idea how privileged you are. Seeds of greatness, wasted on your face in the name of debauchery.”
You don’t have the hindsight of post-nut clarity. Your brain can register what he sounds like (-fucking nuts) right now, but your pussy is calling the shots, and your pussy wants Captain Wesker to keep playing with you until it finds satisfaction.
Instead of questioning him, you do your best to comply, unabashedly rubbing your legs together and staring at his slightly reddened face. “Thank you for… letting me taste your… greatness?”
He laughs again, but this time it doesn’t feel like a triumph; it feels amorously condescending. Hurtful but arousing at the same time. “Don’t thank me yet; we’re not done yet. Now, be a dear; take off your clothes and bend over Chris’ desk for me.”
“Chris’ desk?” Sure, it’s right there, but like… so is yours.
“Don’t spoil things now.” There’s a warning in his tone; it’s playful, but there’s an edge to it. That doesn’t stop you from staring at him, perplexed as he starts to round you. You’d have liked to do it yourself, but you don’t complain when he pulls his shirt over his head, unveiling a lean, well-kempt chest that makes your breath catch. “If you want your reward, you’ll keep doing as you’re told.”
Your thighs brush up against Chris’ desk chair before you even realise you’ve been herded, and while you feel kind of pliable for being so easily moved, this isn’t a hill you want to die on. For good measure, though, your captain starts to embed soft kisses along the back of your neck, shifting lower to your shoulders and back, even your hips, as you unveil more and more skin to him. You’re practically buzzing, head twirling around on cloud nine by the time you drop your panties to the floor.
"Such a beautiful specimen." The whiplash of Wesker swapping from laying tender, worship-like kisses along your spine to him manhandling you into a bent-over position almost overwhelms you, but you react just in time to catch yourself before your cum soaked face hits the pine wood top.
The wetness of your pussy is obscene. The squelching, clicking sounds it makes as he explores your lips rings in your ears.
“I think she likes me.” He’s egregiously smug as he probes your entrance with two curved fingers, coaxing even more slickness from you and smearing it all along your taint and deep into the rim of your ass.
“Don’t tease.” Your voice is so whiny now, you barely recognise it. In all your fantasies, you hadn’t pictured this; you, presenting yourself, spreading your legs and arching your back like some bitch in heat. It’s like your clit has climbed up your body through the nervous system and taken control of your brain.
You’re so wound up that when he tuts, “Are you telling me, or asking me?” you don’t even entertain the idea of being snarky, you just keep on going;
“Asking! Please, Captain, please don’t tease me anymore.” Your voice is feeble; you must seem so pitiful to him right now, but he must like that, because you’re immediately compensated for it. He shoves two fingers into your cunt with ease and a thumb into your ass with less ease—it burns, intoxicatingly so.
The thought of not wanting to smear Wesker’s cum all over your colleague's desk is the only thing that stops you from fully melting as he massages the wall between your two holes, but every pump of his fingers feels so good. It gets harder and harder not to lose that final thread of self-awareness. As the nerve-tingling sensation of euphoria starts to creep into your bones, two things happen;
One: You give way to your body, letting it fall limp in preparation for your oncoming climax. No longer concerned with the mess you’re making.
Two: Wesker pulls his fingers out of you, callous and likely even amused given the visceral screech you emit in retaliation. It’s like he’s ripped the light right out of you, and you make your displeasure known, sharply turning back to offer him a seething glare. One can’t be a slave to their pleasure if said pleasure is snatched away. “What the fuck, W-Captain!?”
“Patience.” He punctuates his rebuke with a harsh slap to your tender pussy, and despite your defiance, you let out a petulant yelp, one that’s quickly silenced by the combination of Wesker's quiet, patronising shushing and the feel of him slowly dragging his now protected cock between your folds.
He hesitates on your clit, ghosting over the sensitive spot until you rapidly start to feel hazy and limp. You settle back down, hands and head on the desk, and your commanding officer rewards you by teasing the crown of his cock at your entrance. “Say the magic word, pet.”
You don’t need to be told twice; your cunt is already throbbing in near-painful anticipation. “Please!”
He’s tentative as he sheathes himself inside you, slowly pumping between your walls, allowing you to stretch and adjust to his girth. His gentleness doesn’t last long, however. The moment the words “more… please, Captain.” drip from your lips, he takes it as permission to abuse your pussy whatever way he desires.
“You feel so fucking good.” His voice is low and drawling, but you’re more taken by his foul language. Albert Wesker may curse and cut with his words, but he never swears. “Like you were made for me.”
You want to say something in response, to thank him for the compliment or offer your own praise, but when your mouth opens, all that comes out are incomprehensible mewls, their tempo disjointed by the slap of his hips hitting your ass. The bliss you’d lost earlier is already tantalisingly close, and it grows increasingly when he leans over you, trapping you beneath his chest.
The cool of his breath tickles your skin and makes your toes curl as he whispers his next order: “Touch yourself for me.”
It’s awkward and uncomfortable, the way you have to squish your arms beneath his weight and your own to frantically rub at your clit, but well worth it. The way you writhe beneath your Captain has him swiftly approaching his own orgasm every time you clench around his shaft.
Wesker, who has always prided himself on being practised and precise in everything he does, starts to lose his timing, rutting his cock into you in uneven thrusts. One hand presses harshly against your shoulder, trying and failing to give himself steadier footing.
Every grunt into your ear sends a chill up your spine, every erratic thrust sending butterflies through your tummy.
Oh god, Captain, I’m gonna cum. Is what you plan to say, but as though reading your mind, Wesker beats you to the punch, barking at you too: “Cum, now.”
It’s taken him less than an hour to tame you into his perfect pet, cumming around his cock on cue and in synch with his crescendo. His monotone voice applauding you all the way through, only interrupted every few syllables by his own gratification. “That’s it, my dear, that’s it.”
You ride it out together, sweat-slick bodies melting together, his chest and your back meeting with each ragged breath until eventually his cock starts to soften and he pulls out of you. You take a while longer to come too, your legs still shaking as you stagger back into Chris’ desk chair, surveying the mess you’re not looking forward to cleaning up, cringing at the fluids leaking onto the beaten pleather while Wesker disposes of the condom and straightens himself up.
Eventually, he returns to you, still sweaty hands resting on your shoulders. He squeezes gently, but it doesn’t distract you from the train of thought that’s returning to its tracks post-sex-haze, even though your lids are growing heavy.
You look up at him with tired eyes, heart aflutter at the prospect of building a future with this man, pit sinking deeper and deeper in your guts at the prospect of what HR and the rest of your team will make of this, but most importantly… “What did you mean? A new dawn is breaking? No room for half measures?”
“Don’t you worry, dear-heart. All will become clear soon enough.” It’s not an adequate response, but the chaste kiss he presses to your scalp feels final. For now.
Random Jason Todd headcanons that I think about too much. Heavy on bookworm!Jason cause I love bookworm!Jason.
Calls you his backpack, when he gives you a ride on the back of his bike.
Lets you personalise his spare helmet, and does not care when his siblings/other passangers complain about having to wear whatever you've created with stickers and gemstones, or whatever you're into.
If there are two seats available, he’ll sit in one then put his feet up in the other, or otherwise occupy the second seat so you’re forced to sit in his lap. He doesn’t care how much you weigh; he just wants you as close as possible, wants to feel you against him, put his hands on you.
Even if they’re not his kind of book, he’ll still read and annotate your favourites.
He doesn’t really have guilty pleasures. He’ll happily binge watch 90s chick-flics, or barbie films without shame, if that’s what you’re into.
Buys you pill dispensers for your meds/vitamins/whatevers, and leaves you little reminders to take them along with other things like – ‘don’t forget to eat some protein today x’ or ‘if you’re gonna rot in front of the TV all day, OPEN A WINDOW ♡’
Will respond to your texts with the most out of pocket stuff that knocks you off your feet, some fun, some romantic, often book quotes.
23:58: Jay, when are you coming home. I miss kisses xx
00:04: Soon, you should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how. Xx
02:03: You should be asleep, but in case you’re not, sleep well babe x
06:15: Good morning my heart, my life, my one and only thought x
17:45: What do you want to eat tonight? Xx
17:58: You xx
18:00: You can’t eat me, I’m not a substantial meal! x
18:06: Don’t talk bad about yourself like that xx 18:06: I ate you last night, I would eat you every night if I could xx
18:09: Your choices are pasta or take out x
18:16: 😔
18:18: Fine, you can eat me, but you have to have real food first x
18:18: I’ll pick up thai food on the way xx
Buys you gas station flowers, or candies, or books by your favourite authors, whenever he sees them, wherever he is, just cause they make him think of you.
Likes it when you massage his muscles, when you gently ghost your fingertips over his scars.
Loves it when you run your fingers through his hair, scratching your nails against his scalp and behind his ears.
When you pull his hair, oh boy. Pull his hair.
You’re hot when you’re angry. Not that he would ever intentionally try to wind you up.
You’re hot when you’re bossy too.
Complains when you steal his t-shirts and hoodies, but if he sees you deciding between one of his jackets and one of your own, and you don’t pick his, he’ll get mad about it.
You're one of very few people he lets wear the brown jacket, because he couldn't say no to you if he tried.
<3
Likes are highly appreciated, but comments and reblogs are cherished!
Request: Ooh could you do a NSFW alphabet for Kyle or Wally? - By: 💚🦇✨
A/N :Idk, can I? (Sorry, tha wasn't funny plus It took me like 6 months, so maybe not haha) Yeah, yeah I can ♥️
⚡️ A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
First priority, food. Gotta keep you —and, most importantly, him—fed.
No, fr, all those speedster exclusive moves he's pulling, the vibrating, the multiple orgasms on both ends, the switching up positions and placements in the blink of an eye, that all burns through his energy. Gotta keep up with that accelerated metabolism and replen those cells and nutrients.
Secondly, it's cuddle time. It's pillow talk time. It's tickle time. It's round-two time? It's let him touch you time basically. He's very affectionate, very handsy, specifically.
And also very talkative. He's very likely to fuck you into a stupor, then talk your ear off while you're lying beside him half-conscious.
⚡️ B = Body part (their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
There's a lot to like about Wally's body. Those bright, bottle green eyes. The constellation of freckles that span his athletic body. The copper hair scattered here and there, not least the curls on his head. The many abilities blessed upon him alongside his superspeed.
But the thing he likes most about himself is his brain. Sure, he's smart, not like Brainiac, or Batman smart, but still very smart. And more importantly, he functions and processes things faster than most. So he can read when you're turned on before you even feel it. He can tell when you're gonna cum and react appropriately before you can even moan his name.
On you, it's gotta be your voice.
You don't have to be a dirty talker, you don't even need to be a moaner. It's great if you are, but really, you just need to say his name, innocently enough, and he's grinning. Laugh at his jokes and he's fawning immediately. Call him handsome, or smart, and he's totally smitten. You love him? Great, d'you wanna have kids before or after the wedding? Speaking of, how does a winter wedding sound to you?
⚡️ C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
As slightly touched on before, (initially brought to my attention here), most speedsters have a refractory period of approximately 0.1 seconds.
So for every orgasm Wally gives you, you can give them back.
Every time he pins you by your hips, and spends all night lapping between your legs, making you cum over and over, until you're a shaking, brain-dead mess, so long as you're able to keep count, you can return the favour; sucking his cock until your jaw aches and your belly is full with load after load. Until that man is sweating, and trembling, and aching. Until he's unable to keep his eyes open, or his fingers flexed in your hair, until the only thing that can leave those pretty lips is your name on repeat.
⚡️ D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
He's self-aware enough to not let it ruin his life, but Wally has a raging forbidden fruit kink. His roommate's sibling? His team lead's spouse? His best friend's parent? His best friend? His step-sibling?
Fuuuuckkkkkk.
He will not wreck homes and relationships, but damn if he won't fantasise about it. Just something about the possibility, being so bad, borderline taboo, drives him wild.
Also, we all knew this anyway, but he's totally a souvenir keeper. He's got a shoe box under his bed filled with used underwear, lipsticks, ticket stubs, bottle caps, anything and everything he can hold onto post-banging, especially if they're one-time things, and he'd bold-faced lie about it if you text him the next day asking if you left your pendant at his place.
⚡️ E = Experience (how experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)
He's by no means a playboy, in fact, I'd pin his body count on the lower end. Under average.
But what he may lack in experience he makes up for in enthusiasm and an intense need to impress you. Just say the word babe, and he'll do it. Give him notice? He'll study it. On the spot? He'll just keep doing it over and over until he hits the chord that makes you sing for him.
⚡️ F = Favourite position (this goes without saying)
He loves it when you sit on his face. Doesn't matter whether the view is of your front, back, or total darkness. Just let him eat your hole all night long, and he'll sport the happiest, dopiest grin you've ever seen all week long.
Penetration-wise, v for victory and similar situations that keep your legs out of his path, and your walls tight around him even when he's close to practically about to phase through you.
⚡️ G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? Are they humorous? etc.)
Totally humorous. He can play it serious if you want to role-play, but he will be laughing his ass off internally, and eventually he'll have to let it all out afterwards.
But his default is to tease and joke, and flirt with you like you've not ridden his cock a hundred times before.
He's also a beggar. When you're calling the shots and he's on edge, damn, he's pleading and pleading, making such pretty promises if you'll let him cum, now, please baby, please.
⚡️ H = Hair (how well-groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
Trimmed, with a fluffy, fiery red trail that just barely hides the myriad of concentrated freckles that adorn his pelvis region.
⚡️I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? The romantic aspect.)
As discussed, Wally has a penchant for being intentionally cheesy, which might seem distant, but he does it because he loves you, because he feels comfortable enough to not hide that part of himself from you.
He's not constantly spouting off jokes and observations because he's trying to impress you (bonus points if he does though), he does it because it's just his personality.
When you're first exploring the more intimate parts of your relationship, it's tempting to try to shut that part of his brain up, to pick more appropriate times, but if you respond well to that side of him, if you make him feel like it's okay to be himself then whoooo boy, he’ll know you're the one.
⚡️J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
This man does not masturbate.
He had, he did, but once he's committed, it goes out the window. He can run to you in 2 seconds flat, even if you're on the other side of the world, hitting him up for a booty call at 1 AM.
He's got a phone packed full of pictures of you that he could scroll through for hours, but when it comes to the deed, he'd much rather wait for the real thing.
⚡️ K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
Roleplay (Doctor/patient, step-siblings, perfect strangers, hero/villain, boss/employee, dare I say student/teacher-he'll have fun with most of them, but especially the more out of bounds ones)
Objectification (He's not a man, he's a toy, he’s a chair. Sit. On. Him.)
Lil bit of a breeding kink. He doesn't even realise it until you bring up the subject of having kids.
↪ On extension, Mommy/Daddy kink. Not in a power play, or dom kind of way, just in a you're a mommy/daddy and he's a daddy way.
Bondage (It's kinda redundant, given his powers, it's more for the show of submission and/or trust)
Praise kink. (Wally will do crazy things for you if you make him feel loved and cherish)
Edging and orgasm control (It goes both ways)
Cucking (He's the bull, see forbidden fruit fetish mentioned in 'dirty secret')
I don't think there's an official term for this, but taking and hoarding photos and video. Amature porn making basically.
⚡️ L = Location (favourite places to do the do)
For a man who could literally take you anywhere, any time, he's pretty vanilla in that sense.
He likes fucking you at home, in bed, especially if it's your shared bed. That's your private little space, away from the world. It's warm and cosy and intimate. A spot that is completely and totally yours.
When you're not around, he could spend hours smelling your perfume and sweat in the sheets, staring at the trinkets and books you leave on your side. Trying to soothe just how much he misses you.
He's sentimental, okay!
⚡️ M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
Lightning fast libido, so many things, but some highlights include:
Sending him dirty texts or photos
Shamelessly flirting back with him
Matching his quick wit
Calling him daddy. (I.e "Can daddy pass mommy her keys, please?) or other such roleplay.
Physical touch; curling your fingers in his hair, tracing his freckles, leaning into his chest.
⚡️ N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs)
Public/exhibitionism. The videos he films, the photos he takes, those are for his eyes only.
Even cucking, that's between the three of you.
Ironically, Wally is really protective of you in that more intimate sense. It's not that he's insecure; if anything, it's a level of toxic masculinity and it's very hypocritical; he does not want anybody else objectifying his spouse.
⚡️ O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
Baby, he's the giver.
If you turned around one day and told him you never wanted to have sex again, that he's banned from fucking you with anything but his tongue for the foreseeable future, that'd be just fine by him.
If it were possible, he would live off of your pussy juices and nothing else. He just gets lost, making out with your fat, puffy cunt. It's the second sweetest thing he's ever tasted, your pretty moans being 1st place, of course.
⚡️ P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
He sure can try to slow down, but it really just is not his forte.
You'll know, though, that he's truly in love when he decelerates on his own accord. When he starts to savour, every agonisingly slow moment with you, every touch, every sound, every sight. And though every second feels like a lifetime to him, it will never be enough.
⚡️ Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
¬‿¬
Positive, often. Distractingly so. It might be seconds/minutes for him, but you're left with the feeling of a stretched-out, cum filled pussy all day. If he's not deliberately denying you the satisfaction anyway.
Maybe he’ll keep coming back, fucking that sweet cunt when you have a moment to spare, and leaving you with nothing but the wind in his wake and the feeling of a gaping, hungry, unsatisfied pussy.
⚡️ R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
Always. He's game for trying whatever you have in mind, or whatever random ideas pop into his own head. There are limits, of course, as there should always be, but for the most part, Wally lives to experiment, and even more so, to please you and your whims.
⚡️ S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? How long do they last?)
¬‿¬
More rounds than you can handle. Longer than you can imagine. Do not give Wally free rein to dictate the length of frequency of your lovemaking, unless you too have some superhuman tricks up your sleeve for withstanding it.
⚡️ T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? with a partner or themselves?)
Let's be honest, Wally takes pride in being a human sex toy.
That being said, other toys aren't a deal breaker. He likes ropes, and cuffs. He's certainly not opposed to pegging, or other sorts of penetration toys.
⚡️ U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
So, so, sooooo much.
Verbally. Pointing out how whiny you get, how your legs shake more than his whole body does when he does that thing. Finding the compliments that make you hot and sheepish so he can repeat them over and over. "Ohh, baby, you're so cute when you're all choked up like that. Will you make that noise for me again? No? C’mon, I’ll love you forever if you do. What if I do this one more time? Will you m- ah, yeah, there it is."
Physically. Fucking you with his fingers, his mouth, his cock, over and over. Pulling away just when the sweet, euphoric taste of ecstasy starts to sizzle under your skin. Or worse, giving you every orgasm your body begs for, until you're twitching and broken. Not stopping, because you're too braindead and cock drunk to muster the words "Wally, please stop, it's too much."
⚡️ V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
Not loud, per se, just vocal. Even when he's not chattering away, trying to make you giggle between salacious moans of his name, then he's purring up a storm of his own. Humming, and hissing, and groaning with every flick of your finger, every grind of your hips.
Look right in his eyes as he starts panting, and whatever whine is leaking from his throat will descend into a full-on discordance of whimpers and cries.
⚡️ W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
Really into being your first.
Not necessarily in the sense of virginity, just first.
The first to make you squirt, the first to get you off by penetration only, the first to explore a new kink with you. Makes him feel like he, and he alone, knows you and your body better than anybody else, maybe even yourself.
⚡️ X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
A respectable 6.5 inches, give or take with some pretty decent thickness and a downward arch.
Not a grower. It’s about 5 inches soft, and noticeable if he ever forgets to belt/cup it. In his off time, he's 100% a grey sweatpants wearer, and he does not shy away from being looked at.
If he catches you eying it up, he's gonna pretend to be none the wiser and start stretching. Gonna plonk down beside you, legs wide open, back artfully arched, a smidgen of v-line showing to tactfully guide your already captivated gaze.
⚡️ Y = Yapper (how is their pillow talk?)
I'll repeat, he's very likely to fuck you into a stupor, then talk your ear off while you're lying beside him half-conscious.
He'll compliment your performance, he'll fish for feedback of his own. He'll gossip, he'll flirt—gauging how quickly you'll be up for the next round. He'll put on a TV show and then talk right through it.
He'll tell you stories, and hum you songs, and stroke your back until you're fast asleep and drooling onto his chest.
⚡️ Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
Not straight away, but eventually. He needs at least 9-10 hours of shut-eye in order for his brain to catch up with him and retain information long-term, but it takes a lot of time and meditation to will his body into a state of calm and relaxation that allows him to sleep.
The gentle rise and fall of your chest, the hum of your steady snoring helps, however.
Req: 28. [redacted for spoilers] W/roy harper, please 🙏 🙏🙏 By: ☮️Anon
A/N: FLUFF ALERT FLUFF ALERT I know Roy is a fluff lover and he's not shy about it
It's the hottest thing he's seen in, well, ever and you're not even fucking trying. It makes leaving you so much easier when he gets to come home to this.
To you, dozing on the couch in your cosiest tee. His spare cap pulled over your eyes, an episode of your favourite show still playing on the TV. The whole sight fills his heart with bliss, makes him feel all giddy inside that he's lucky enough to have you in his life
You don't stir at the sound of his boots on the carpet or when he turns off the TV. Its not until you're in his arms, being carried to the bedroom that you look up at him, hat askew, excitement sparking in your eyes even though the rest of your face is too sleepy to keep up.
Hi. Is what he means to say. Instead the words “Will you marry me?" burst out when he opens his lips, overcome with the need ensure he always gets to come home to you.
send me a pairing/character + a number and i'll write you a drabble/blurb
Nobody asked but I did it anyway,
GN!Reader, ≈400 words
CWs: mild angst? non specific hurt/comfort but primarily fluff.
Despite his imposing stature, his proclivity for destruction, Jason sure can be quiet when he wants to be. Like a phantom in the night. You don’t know how long he’s been there. Don’t know when he climbed through your window and sat himself central on your couch, but you do know that looking at him right now makes your chest feel heavy, makes you long to alleviate whatever strain is weighing on him. His hair and shoulders hang low, his skin unusually pale and sallow but for the dark circles below his eyes.
He’s an immovable object, so you become the unstoppable force, splaying your fingers through his hair, gently brushing his scalp as you press yourself against him until his head fits snuggly against your sternum. Bar the subtle tension beneath his skin, he doesn’t respond and that makes you feel worse.
“Is this okay?” You should have asked sooner.
“More than okay.” You should have done this sooner.
He melts into you, muscles easing, upper body growing slack until you’re supporting the bulk of his upper body weight against your stomach. Gloved hands shake as they ghost across your legs, then, swiftly as though you might dissipate if he doesn’t act fast enough, he locks his arms around your thighs and pulls you closer still. Your bodies work in tandem, you open your legs, allowing him to slot his own between them, and he nuzzles his face deeper into the space between your ribs. Your hands gingerly slip downwards, one to cup the nape of his neck, the other to rub soothing circles between his shoulder blades.
“I can’t…” His already hoarse voice catches for a moment. You’re careful not to react, intentionally continuing your movements so as not to discourage him. “I can’t remember the last time I did this with… well anyone.”
“It’s okay.” You keep your voice even, unpatronising. “Take what you need.”
Without warning he shifts position, bringing you down, seating you on his lap so that you’re face to face. Your gentle grip on his back never wavers, nor do the concentric strokes of your fingertips.
“It’s not too much?” He asks, and you shake your head.
“Never.” There’s a smile on his lips then, he tries to hide it in the soft spot where your shoulder meets your collar, but you catch it before he can conceal himself in your comfort and you take a selfish moment to revel in the pride of lifting his spirits, if even for a moment before continuing; determined to reassure him, to emphasise that he will always be safe in your arms you repeat: “You will never be too much Jason.”
<3
Likes are highly appreciated, but comments and reblogs are cherished!
Commissioned by a ko-fi supporter ♡
A/N: Another one? Thank you [AKA What could be better than Kyle Rayner? Maybe Two Kyle Rayners?]
Warnings: Reader has long nails, hair of a length and texture that can be played with, and a vagina | unprotected dp | swearing | soft-dom!Kyle | confessions | inappropriate usage of a green lantern ring | back scratching | denial | over-stim | teasing | mentions of self-cest | mild degradation | petnames used: sweetheart, baby
Kyle Rayner is an artist, and not just on the canvas. Who’d have known that under his casual charm, unsuspecting smile, and those strikingly unwitting forest green eyes, is a debauched, creative streak that could put Bad Dragon to shame.
The thick, ribbed, frankly monstrous fabrication pulsing deep inside your cunt is proof of that. Skin ablaze, brain frenzied, breath growing shorter with each gentle, deliberate pump of the construct, it’s a miracle you haven’t broken yet.
The butter had melted from his face, revealing the true perverseness you knew he possessed. He coos at you, fingers tenderly cradling your heated face, watching as your own composure cracks with each second, your cries becoming weaker and more desperate as the piece of art inside you starts to swell, further stretching out your walls.
“So, sweetheart, is this like, so totally sick and twisted to you?” he taunts, leaning in until his lips are tantalisingly close to yours. “You still maintaining that you’ve never wanted to try anything that wasn’t vanilla?”
He’s persistent, too. He’s been trying to get you to confess your dirtiest, most depraved desires since your third date. You’re not shy; half of the Corp can attest to your impassively, and unabashedly cold nature. You’ve never really been one for hiding yourself or your thoughts. Nor are your bedroom tastes as tame as you’ve been attempting to convey.
The heart of your dilemma lies solely in your incapacity to define the line between being kinda kinky, and being a complete and utter, total fucking degenerate. For all of his fantastical, deviant creations, Kyle’s got nothing on you.
You bite your lip and shake your head, but just as you think you're about to claw back some of your resolve, something latches onto your clit, something that starts to suck in time with the thrusting inside your cunt, knocking your will, and making your back and eyes roll simultaneously.
“Fuck- KYLE.” Question forgotten, you grab at his bare shoulders for purchase as your hips start to buck wildly. Pussy greedily trying to take as much of his masterpiece as possible. “Fuck I’m gonnaa~”
Before you can manifest the pleasure from the tip of your tongue, Kyle relinquishes his soft grasp on your face in favour of gripping your tousled hair, pulling just enough to keep you earthbound. “No. No, no, no, answer the question first.”
“No, no, no.” You repeat back, petulant and frustrated, feeling increasingly needy and empty as his fabrication starts to vanish. “Okay, fine!”
There are very few people in the universe you can stand, and you should know, as a Green Lantern, you’ve travelled a lot of it, gotten to meet beings from all sorts of worlds and walks of life. But Kyle, in particular, not only can you stand him; you’re obsessed with him. When he’s not around, he consumes your every thought. It takes a substantial amount of resolve to keep playing it cool around him for fear that you’ll scare him off.
You trust him completely, and in your heart of hearts, you know any confession you make is unlikely to send him packing, but secrets start to feel far too comforting the longer you hold onto them, until just the thought of letting them go is too unbearable to even think of. Now he’s watching you, in all his infinite compassion, patient and loving as he affectionately massages the back of your neck.
Finding your voice takes a while, not just because the thought of speaking your fantasies into reality is daunting, but because your whole body, and especially your tongue, still feels hollow and jelly-like from the orgasm that very nearly was. Eventually, though, after a few minutes of catching your breath, steeling your nerves, and twiddling your fingers in the backs of Kyle’s dark, floppy hair, you’re able to compose yourself.
“Well…” For a second, you avert your eyes from his, but quickly you realise his doting attention puts you at far more ease. “Sometimes I think about us having a threesome.”
That seems to throw him through a loop. His smile falters, but never falls completely as he tilts his head in consideration.
“With who?” When he asks, his brows are knitted, his question very much laced in genuine curiosity, if a little amusement. “Please don’t say Guy.”
“Ew, no.” He might be Kyle's partner an’ all, but as to be expected, you can't stand the man.
“Then who?” You want to say it, but it’s caught between your lips; it’s not until Kyle starts coaxing you once again that you let it out. “Baby…”
“You.”
“Me?”
“You!”
It takes him a moment to connect the dots, but you can see it clear as day: that spark inside him, reflected through his eyes, but still, he unabashedly challenges you, determined to drag this out; “Me? How would that work?”
“Umm…” You’re in deep enough to commit, but before you can tie up your confession, Kyle swoops down, fixing his lips to the crook of your neck. His nimble fingers tickling your soft skin accidentally on purpose as they travel down your body. “Kyle!!!”
“Keep going.” He instructs, eyes scrunched as he watches you, speech muffled from pressing kisses to your chest. “Don’t let me stop you.”
Easier said than done, but eventually you manage to get your answer out between giggles and gasps. “It would be a construct.”
“Hm.” His assault stops just long enough for Kyle to nod in acknowledgement, lips caught in a tight smile, well aware of what his questioning and gentle touch is doing to you, keeping you hot and bothered and on the edge of sanity. “How would that work?”
Before he can stroke his fingers across your hips or graze his lips over the curves of your breast, you grab his wrists, pushing up. He moves in time with you until you’re seated on the bed, Kyle kneeling between your open legs, expectant smile on his face, and you try and fail to glare at him.
“What do you mean?” Having a threesome seems pretty self-explanatory.
Your bravado is lost when he clarifies, slow but smiling the whole time. “Whose going where? You want it to be like a train, or an Eiffel Tower? You’ve gotta gimme the specifics if you wanna make it happen.”
“Oh, right.” The blood that had been rushing around your body suddenly starts pooling in your guts, like butterflies in the belly, making you feel all gooey and nervous again. What little ichor isn’t curling your toes catches in your cheeks as you envision your fantasies, trying to find the right words to bring them to life.
How do you tell your pretty, pain in the ass, lover boy of a boyfriend that you want him to be just that, a pain in your ass? That in his absence, you’ve spent countless nights, with both hands between your thighs, wishing it were more than just your fingers inside of you, wishing you could reach deeper. Eyeing up your ring with more and more lascivious notions.
“I was actually thinking more of a double penetration thing.”
“Fuuuckkkk, I knew you wanted to try something filthy.” His excitement is evident in his raised brows and husky voice, in the way he dips down to capture your lips, kissing you with so much heat and vigour that your anxieties immediately melt away.
The second Kyle is and isn't a mirror of your boyfriend. The differences are so minute, but you've committed every part of the real thing to memory, so the distinctions stand out like beacons.
The missing imperfections, freckles you've counted, scars you've kissed.
His waist is slightly too small, his hair too neat.
His skin is too rigid, but you fit all the same, with your back against his chest, tucked cosily under his chin, his hard fingers firmly spreading your legs, holding onto your thighs as the real Kyle settles between them.
His lubed fingers practically sizzle as they make contact with your heated rim, but it’s a welcome chill, even if it has you hissing and withering, legs twitching beneath luminous green hands as Kyle tentatively starts to push the tip of his middle finger inside of you.
“Remember, you gotta say something if you wanna stop. Can you do that for me?” He asks for your assurance once again. Shaking his head at your quiet mews and nods of affirmation, the tip of his finger paused at your entrance, awaiting a solid confirmation.
“Yes, I promise, just do-IT.” You snap, voice cracking as Kyle surges his finger forward, breaching your ass and causing you to croon.
“Someone’s demanding tonight.” It’s not really a chide, not when he’s laughing playfully.
You’re tight, and the girth of his finger stings. But it stings in a way that has your eyes rolling back, your head lolling on the chest behind you. Ethereal hair tickling your face as construct Kyle leans down to kiss your head.
Kyle is far more patient than your pussy would like; you're practically leaking onto his palm as he carefully works the length of his finger into you in short thrusts. Stopping to lean down and kiss your belly once he’s knuckle deep. Careful as he eases back out of you, dutifully squeezing more lube across his fingers before he pushes back in, this time with a second digit to help him stretch your taut core.
“Keep breathing.” He instructs when your breath catches, his thumb finding your clit as he starts to scissor his fingers in and out of you; only plunging deeper or lazily rolling the bed of this thumb against your needy clit when you keep your breath steady and your muscles relaxed.
It’s hard, though, to keep your cool, especially when he slots a third finger inside of your ass, the wet sound of your leaking pussy juices and the foaming lube adding to the salacious, fucking pornographic sounds dripping from your lips.
To steady yourself, you lurch forward, grabbing Kyle by the shoulders and digging your nails in. As mitigating as it feels, it doesn’t stop you from bucking your hips, trying to push Kyle deeper into you. Aided by the sound of your boyfriend's own grunts, it only fuels you on.
But it’s his wide, astonished eyes and rhetoric, “Are you gonna cum from having your ass fingered?” that does it for you.
Yes.Yes, you are, and yes, you do, talons cutting into him for dear life, his hands working to take you there, the hands of his double tight on your legs, keeping you from squeezing your legs closed, forcing you open as your pussy clenches around nothing, your sphincter pulsing, mouth open as you cum, wild and wet all over the bed.
“It’s a good thing there’s two of us to keep you retrained.” Kyle winks when you start to come down, aware of your watchful gaze from beneath heavy lids. Even heavier breaths keep you mostly placid as Kyle begins to kiss your body again.
Two pairs of hands start to explore your sated body. You’re not overstimulated, just strung up and sensitive, and it’s obvious. Maybe you made a mistake. This man already knows how to drive you crazy, and now you’ve willed a second one into existence. A second one to keep your hair from your face, as the other assails your hips. To trail his unbending knuckles along your jaw, gently tracing the curve of your neck and the jut of your collarbone while the other beads your nipple between the glossy beds of their fingers. You’re helpless, and truthfully, unwilling to stop it.
“Is it everything you’d wanted, so far?” Kyle asks, clearly noting the look of satisfaction on your dreamy face. As overpowered as you may feel, this is literally a dream come true. It’s exactly what you’d wanted.
Like a spoiled cat, basking in cream, you answer, “Hhmmm, everything.”
“What made you think of something like this, anyway?” Instinctively, your eyes wander, intent to examine the ceiling as you consider your answer, but a firm grip fixed to your chin, bringing your face downward until you’re looking straight at Kyle, forcing you to watch how he hungrily eats up your limp body, hands delicately, self-indulgently, pinching and rolling your skin as he awaits your reply.
Why it’s harder to admit is a mystery to you; perhaps it’s the sudden realisation of just how willingly vulnerable you are now, but that familiar feeling of shame starts to boil under your skin.
“Don’t go shy on me now.” Kyle’s teasing is no help; the brazen way he runs his tongue over the length of his fingers, the very same ones that had been inside you minutes ago, certainly replaces the burn with something far more sinful.
“I never actually did it, but…” You’d thought long and hard about it, starting the very same day you’d met Kyle. That’s how down bad you’d been. He was, and is, like a light in the deep dark expanse that is the universe. “It kinda grew from me thinking about using a construct of you to, you know…”
“I don’t know.” He so fucking knows, it’s in the twinkle of his eye as he leans down, wet fingers circling your tender clit as he starts to kiss upward from your sternum. “You’ve gotta tell me. Especially if you want to carry on.”
“To get off with.”
“Fuuuuuck, you're so bad.” His voice is a whisper; it’s all he needs. Bypassing the duplicated hands on your cheeks, he lays his lips on yours, eating up the moans he evokes from you as he rubs your soft spot and pretends to scold, barely able to detach himself long enough for the words to be comprehensible. “That’s not what the ring is for, you know? Dirty girl.”
It’s bittersweet when he eventually pulls away, depriving you of his kisses and guiding you to roll over, so you can swap positions.
This night has been such a rush, you’re not sure if the second Kyle has always been sporting an enticingly thick, and scaled cock, or if Kyle had thought of the addition later on. Either way, you don’t need eithers encouragement to straddle his lap.
Despite its size, you slide down with ease, all too happy to have your cunt filled up again after your first orgasm was so cruelly withheld from you in an act of sexual torture.
You don’t need the help, but two pairs of hands clutch at you, one on your ass, the others on your hips, keeping you steady as your pussy ravenously stretches around the uncanny length. Keeping your movements measured as you ride it with your head thrown back, and your hands locked up in locks of constructed emerald hair.
It’s not until you feel the crown of Kyle's cock pushing against your back entrance, slick and cool with a fresh coat of lube, that you slow. Ever the gentleman, he’s gentle and cautious as he enters you, pushing just a little bit deeper with each testing thrust until he’s fully inside you, and breathing heavy against the back of your neck.
The sensation is everything you’d imagined and more. Your holes are overfilled, nothing but a thin wall of pussy between their cocks, both plunging into untouched depths as you headily rut and grind on them, desperate, practically aching for more.
Kyle is feeling it too, the unending pressure of your ass on his cock makes it feel like he’s throbbing. Until this moment, he’d felt like he was in control of the situation, but now his motions are unmeasured, his mind hazy with pleasure, his palms sweaty as he holds you to him.
He’s so frazzled, he could collapse on you, but he’s not done tormenting yet.
He holds it back just long enough, reigning himself in until you’re putty, barely held up by the two sets of hands he has on you. A third apparition, wobbly as they may be, is needed to stop you from crumbling. One hand wrapped up in your messy, sweat-dampened hair, the other pushing two fingers into your mouth.
“Tell me another secret.” He purrs against your spine, almost cumming on the spot when you practically choke, trembling and jerking between his two bodies. “Tell me what we’re trying next if you wanna cum.”
“Fuck, KYLE!” Despite your slurred, drool-laden speech, this is the loudest and most vexed you’ve been all night. He’s grateful to be behind you, watching how your fists ball up in his double’s hair. “Fuck-fuck- FUCK YOU.”
Your curses don’t scathe him; if anything, they give him a newfound boost. The feel of him giggling into your shoulder blade as he fucks you harder has your body ablaze. Your bleary brain reeling into overtime as you think up and blurt out the first idea that comes to mind. “I wanna watch you fuck yourself. Y-your construct… I mean.”
He doesn’t confirm if that’s enough. You adore him, but you don’t care enough to wait. You can’t wait. It’s too intense. Your body can’t keep up.
But Kyle must approve because he helps you through it, 5 hands now pushing, pulling, posing you, making sure every hole is packed, as you let go, calling his name over and over as the most intense pleasure you’ve ever felt consumes you entirely. Only letting you go when your muscles fall lax, your body too exhausted to even keep your knees bent.
He lowers you to the mattress, allowing his creations to dissipate, still evenly bucking into you as you catch your breath. Kyle allows you respite for exactly as long as it takes for you to find your rhythm again. As soon as you start to roll back against him, he pulls away.
You only whine once, catching up when he tells you to; “Roll over, I wanna look in your pretty eyes when I cum in your ass.” and you don’t need to be told twice.
He’s as much a sticky mess as you are, cheeks pink and puffy, hair tangled, eyes wild as he starts fucking you again, face to face this time. A beautiful fucking mess, he seems to be splitting your ass apart all over again from this new angle.
“I didn’t mean it.” You mumble, only half lucid, nails in his back once more to placate the overwhelming sensation of his dick dragging against your tired, fucked-out walls. “When I said ‘fuck you’. I love you, Kyle. I wish everyone were more like you.”
“I know.” He hums softly, kissing your head through stray strands of messy hair. “I love- love-”
His back arches suddenly, chest tight as he huffs and cries his affections, pumping his hips hard, holding you tight as he finishes inside you. “I love you too.”
The worst part of the night is how empty you feel once his softened cock is pulled out of you. Everything feels gapingly vacant and idle. And while you’re excited to find out if he’ll put his money where his mouth is in regard to fucking himself, first and foremost, you want him inside of you again.
You’ve always known you could never get enough of him; you just didn’t think it would be so literal. He might have pushed your buttons and boundaries tonight, but he did it well, and respectfully, and you're truly grateful.
“Thank you.” You offer, when he nuzzles into your chest, eyes closing restfully as he catches his breath. Your eyes trail along his spine. Only now do you note just how severely you’d dug your nails into him. Your mark thoroughly etched into him. You make a mental note to kiss them all better. “I’m glad you got me to finally tell you all that. It was amazing.”
“Me too.” Kyle affirms, looking up at you lovingly, not even flinching when you start to gingerly trace his new wounds, examining the damage you’ve done. “I’m looking forward to seeing what else that inventive, perverted brain of yours can come up with.”
