Sexually Frustrated Headcanons with Ralph Spina x Reader, Bull Randleman x Reader, Floyd Talbert x Reader, and Babe Heffron x Reader
tw// mdni (18+), adult content, explicit sexual content
[PROMPT] The second part to the Sexually Frustrated Headcanons series, I guess. LOL. Part 1 is here.🔵 😂 Part 3 is here. Part 4 is here. Part 5 is here. Part 6 is here.
Ralph Spina x Reader
Yeah, he was already prepared for the long absence. Ralphie Boy over here wasn't a plum fool by a longshot; else, if he was, he'd be one of the many suckers, a grunt. But Ralph Francis Spina wasn't one for any rug-pulling or being caught unaware or being an idiot with no leverage. Being the contraband distributor in the company wasn't an easy title. Took some major brains besides guts.
He had amassed a large collection of your pictures in various provocative positions. Titled, dated, each photo stored in laminated pockets that he kept in a waterproof leather envelope. Saucy letters. Your handkerchief sprayed with your personal perfume.
Your underwear. Five pairs. He would've brought more, but he was only allowed a small amount of storage in his pack. They were neatly folded in their own waterproof drawstring bags, and he could tell which one he'd draw up in the dark just by intuition alone.
He didn't give a fuck if some dumb joe caught on. In fact, he knew jealousy oozed from every pore of each of these losers because they knew. They knew about how he had personal material to use at his sexual leisure, material that they bitterly griped about not having access to. Too bad for 'em: He'd not take a dime or any stack of dough to give your gifts away. They were for his eyes, his nose, his hands only, to aid in him fisting his cock to quick completion in a rare moment of privacy.
But still, nothing beat the real thing. While he pumped his dick, his gums ached at not having you in front of him, under him, over him, sitting on his face, clawing at his back. No matter how much he pawed at your undergarments, perused photo after photo of you unashamedly posing for him, your perfume faded by the day, his frustration grew by the second, every minute, every hour, every damned day.
Every cursed month. Hell on Earth the way tree pulp, ink, linen, oil and alcohol, only lead to more hunger, more thirst. Setting an inferno even through the bite of harsh European winters. Through the sting of bullets. His insatiable appetite only kept at bay by the screams for "Doc!". Else, he'd jump right into the frigid waters and swim his way all the way back home.
Where you'd lay waiting for him. In bed. In your soft clothes smelling of the sun and chocolates and all things nice. And he wouldn't have to image scraps of you because you'd be there in the flesh, smiling. You'd be there to play with his hair as his hands worship every inch of you, in the heat of summer, where ice and death didn't entrap him to only pray in front of a printed picture of your face.
Bull Randleman x Reader
Yeah, he a was a damned idiot for nobody else. And you didn't have to do a thing for him to be nothing but a castrated bovine when it came to you.
Might as well take the "Bull" away from his name. When you told him to come hither, he'd run on over. Sit: Oh, he'd sit right then and there. Bellow, he'd do it until you told him to hush and lay at your feet.
And when you let him rut? When you saucily opened up your legs with a measured wink?
Thank the Lord for the meal he was about to receive, because this was no dine and dash. This was course after course, position after position, the type of shit that could make a man give up his soul the way you sucked the ever living hell out of his dick. Let him press the weight of his whole body down into you and just fuck. Hips snapping, bed springs popping, might as well have the windows wide open, because keeping them closed did nothing to hide the carnal sounds coming out of the house.
Only you. Nobody else. Nobody else could take the entirety of him with full enthusiasm, take the savage nature of his thrusts and his size like a damned champ. And that was what he imagined late at night, in the biting cold of Belgium. England, France, Germany. In Austria, when he was finally out of dirt and within four walls, conjuring up image after image of your body, melting his form down into the stiff mattress of his bunk.
His jokes, his smiles, gained an edge every day he was away from you. He wanted you. He needed you. He poured over your letters like a madman, rereading them over and over. Malark and the rest of the boys may have had their coins and rosaries, but he had your handwriting protecting him from whatever, whenever. Frustration. Hunger. Sweat and dirt and blood, miles away from where you beckoned to him with an impish smile. The famine gnawed away at his bones when he pumped his member in the dark, slow and full, then hard and fast, rushing himself to an unsatisfactory, fast completion that had him cursing exasperatedly at its emptiness.
Furlough was coming up soon. Furlough back between your legs. He could feel impatience stiffening his joints, filling his mind full of wicked desire and the urge to constantly look out to the sky, as if he could transport himself to where he needed to be the most. He'd take it. He'd take it without hesitation, just like how he'd take you once he opened that door, opened your legs. He'd let himself be locked in between the apex of your thighs forever, and heaven forbid if you gave him room to be forced back into his uniform.
Floyd Talbert x Reader
Oh, so it was like that. You wanted to play. Well, Floyd Talbert wasn't ever one to back down from a challenge. You could count on that.
You knew what you were doing. When you told him no, but you still curled your fingers when you pushed at his chest. You told him no, but somehow you still flicked at his jump wings. Why, sure, you'd take the drinks he paid for quite readily. Hope he didn't mind when you held a finger to his lips when he tried to kiss you, no alcohol involved. And when he looked away for the briefest moment to greet a fellow grunt, it seemed all right to let him stand alone as you blended back into the crowd.
Each and every time. Taunting him. Eluding him. Carrot-and-stick, and Talbert could only grin in knowing glee as you stared at him from across the bar. Oh, so it really was like that. Two could play this game, and don't you know that Tab wasn't one to ever give up?
So go ahead and get a head-start. He'll catch up. Hell, he'll be at the front, soon turning you around right into his arms, pulling you flush against him, his bated breaths tickling the crook of your neck and shoulder. Rabbit in the snare. Maybe all too willingly, because you'd let yourself be caught, coyly looking at him, daring him to do his worst.
Daring him to meet your expectations. And you needn't have to worry about that. Never. He aimed to please until you screamed from overstimulation, begging for reprieve. He wondered how you liked it: on the bed, floor, kitchen, outside. How you liked to keen his name at three a.m. so loud, the neighbors hated the both of you.
How you'd take control in an instant and fuck him, bouncing on his dick, squeezing him tight to torture him with denial. How you'd climb on his face and use him for all he was worth. Take all the ugliness of war, grit, and death away from his head. Pull the frustration right out of his cock until the both of you uncontrollably laughed at the sheer lunacy of what you'd done to each other.
How all of this was a figment of his imagination, a fantasy he generated in foxholes riddled with ammo. How he still hadn't held you in his arms, memorized the scent of your skin and hair, a mirage taunting a starving man shaking in the snow. How he wished you were still at that bar. How he wished he was at that bar, making his way towards you.
How a million cigarettes and shitty booze couldn't erase the maddening visage of him slowly laying it down. How he'd let bullets rain, stacked body after body, lost himself in the dismal throng of tired joes, but he couldn't satiate the pull of loss and arousal. How he should've been, once again, back at that bar. Just you and him, staring at each other, even through the haze of a million other people.
Just him and you. And this time, would you still dangle the carrot in front of him, Rabbit?
Babe Heffron x Reader
Shit was ugly. Chewing on stale cigarettes. Sharp words. Mr. Morose. The type of shit that made his fingers dig into his rosary, because nothing was working. Fuckin' nothing.
The type of frustration that got him sporting wood like some idiot teen seeing Titter mags for the first time. Juvenile. Hunger that got him randy and aggressive, and he nearly popped off on one of Gonorrhea's dumb jokes that even had Martin surprised. He was losing it. Fuckin' lo-sing-it. And, no, whacking off did nothing to calm his junior down.
Call him crazy the way he got his ass caught trying to sneak away from camp and run the ten miles back to town in the dead of winter. Luz called him an impressive idiot, but all Babe wanted to do was tel him to fuck off and reattempt his marathon in the snow.
He needed to get his ass back to you. He needed to get his face right up to yours, pull you in for a kiss so nasty, it'd make the both of you come right then and there. He needed him on top of you, you on top of him, the both of your bodies writhing together in a rhythm that'd make you moan his name like a prayer. He needed—
The chaplain to unfortunately fuck right off as he sat in the stock after his fifth escape attempt, listening to the other man drone on and on about praying for peace and calm. How the hell was a ravenous man supposed to keep sane when the most delicious meal was waiting for him in town? How the hell was he supposed to let the army drag him around to every battle, every skirmish, skirting around your location. So, close, yet so far away. So near the warmth of your inviting body, yet so distant from your voice screaming his name.
Shit got him hallucinating. Shit got him antsy, destroying cig after cig, a menace; too fucking bad for any German soldier who dared to get in way, because he was in no mood for a second lost in raining hellfire. Shit ironically got him a weekend leave for his kills, and as soon as Lip gave him the go-ahead, he'd blasted off right into his Class A's before sprinting for the jeeps heading into town.
Shit got him rushing right up to your door. And when you came, answering the familiar, heavy thuds, he'd done what he'd planned to do. Captured your lips in less than a second, teeth and tongue, grinding your front against his right out in the open. Sucking and laving at your neck as you weakly lead him inside past the threshold. Scratching up his back with sharp wails as he took you in the entryway, scraping your teeth against his collarbone, gnawing at his shoulder.
Leading him into your home further and further. Place after place. Taking him as much as he took you. Pulling his hair, grabbing at his ass, cooing into his ear as you played with him. Over and over, time and time again, because he was always hungry, and you never shied away from matching his appetite.
