I NEED LANCE ALVERS HEADCANONS SMUT OR NOT OR BOTH JUST PLEASE! ANYTHING
You have no idea what kind of floodgates you just opened. (˵ ¬ ¬˵)
Here are a bunch of head canons that have definitely rotted my brain a little
Lance is bi, Anyone who wants him badly enough to let him be in charge—that’s hot. Anyone who moans when he spits in their mouth? Hotter. It’s about power, about the chokehold of want, and Lance likes being the reason someone’s knees shake.
When Lance sleeps with Todd, it’s nothing like Kitty. With her, it was sweet. Safe. A little cautious, a little boring. Todd though? Todd's desperate. Lance thrives on that. It’s not just that Todd wants him—it’s how obvious he is about it. Every time he begs, every time his breath hitches when Lance smacks his lips with the head of his cock, Lance feels like a god.
Lance figured out he could focus his powers. He can send low, targeted vibrations right through skin, right under muscle. He didn’t realize how much damage that could really do until one night, with Todd on his back, knees to his chest, squirming in Lance’s grip while he got jerked off slow and mean—Lance tried it. Just a flicker of vibration through his palm. Right up the length of Todd’s cock. The way Todd squeaked—like a fucking dog toy—and then arched clean off the bed, like he’d been electrocuted? Burned itself into Lance’s memory. He still thinks about it sometimes while zoning out at the TV, one hand in his pants. Just the sound Todd made. How wet his eyes went. Like it’d scrambled his brain.
Lance likes a mess. He likes sloppy head, spit dripping down someone’s chin, that soft choking noise when they try to take too much and do it anyway. He likes it when they pull off and there’s a string of saliva still connecting them.
Lance’s cock’s got a little curve to it—enough to hit hard when he’s got someone on their knees, hands in their hair, hips tilted just right. He likes pressing it deep, watching someone struggle not to gag. He’ll mutter soft, shitty things like "C'mon, you're fine. Don't quit now.”
"Act right or get fucked stupid." That’s not just something Lance says. It’s a policy. If his partner’s mouthing off, being difficult, testing him in that particular way that makes his fists curl and his cock twitch, there’s a switch that flips. Lance doesn't always have the words—but he can fuck sense into someone. It’s about taking someone apart until they’re glassy-eyed and pliant, until they’re whispering apologies without knowing what for.
Todd talks too much. Lance likes it. Not that he’d say that out loud. He’ll roll his eyes and grunt about “shutting him up,” but that bratty, high-energy rambling is part of the draw. Still—sometimes? Lance wants quiet and the easiest way to get it? A fist in Todd’s curls and his dick in Todd’s mouth.
He’ll be on the couch, halfway through a boss fight, controller balanced in one hand, while the other curls casually in Todd’s hair, keeping the rhythm slow. Every time Todd tries to pick up the pace—like he’s trying to get Lance to finish just so he can brag—Lance yanks his head back, just enough to warn. “Slow the fuck down,” he’ll mutter, eyes still on the screen. “Did I say you could try that much tongue?”
One time, during an argument with Pietro, Lance got pushed just far enough that his brain misfired. Pietro was smirking, cutting him off mid-sentence, getting under his skin the way only Pietro could—and suddenly, without warning, Lance’s brain just said:
You could shut him up with your cock.
It wasn’t even a fantasy. Just a glitch. A moment of pure ego-logic. And the second it happened? Lance froze. His whole body stiffened like someone dumped cold water down his back. He walked out of the room immediately without another word. He hasn’t spoken about it to anyone.
Lance has a thing for thighs. Thick thighs, toned thighs, thighs that can crush his face while he eats someone out until he can’t breathe. The suffocation kink? It’s there, buried under ego. Kitty’s thighs are soft and strong—he’s definitely been caught jerking off just thinking about being smothered by them. But Todd’s are different—cut, defined from all that jumping. When Lance hooks his arms under Todd’s legs and Todd clamps down around his ears, Lance always ends up rutting against the sheets like he’s starved.
Cock warming is one of Lance’s top-tier secret kinks. He doesn’t talk about it. Doesn’t ask for it. But when someone ends up in his lap, still full, still twitching from the last round? That’s heaven. No thrusting. No teasing. Lance will just sit back, arms draped loose, eyes half-lidded as his partner wriggles, trying not to grind. He’ll just hum. Let the tension build. Maybe let one hand drift down their spine. Maybe whisper something like: "Yeah, that’s right. Stay right there. Don’t move unless I say.” His cock throbs when they whimper. When they beg for friction. When they grind anyway and he has to grab their hips and make them stop—that’s when Lance really feels in control.
The Wanda Dream is one of those memories Lance doesn’t talk about, doesn’t think about—and yet? It lives in his brain like a parasite. Wanda had him flat on his back, wrists pinned. She stuffed her panties into his mouth to shut him up, leaned down close with a smirk like she knew exactly how fucked he was. Her nails left angry red marks down his chest. She choked him with one hand, rode him with the kind of control that made Lance’s toes curl and hips buck. He woke up with cum in his boxers and shame in his throat. Couldn’t meet her eyes for three full days. Every time she walked in the room, something in him twitched. To this day, he still doesn’t know if it was a nightmare or the hottest thing his brain’s ever produced.
Lance and Todd will light a joint in the middle of a lazy night, watch cartoons or a B-movie they don’t care about, and twenty minutes later, they’re making out sideways on the couch, hands already down each other’s pants. Todd gets ruined on weed. Whiny, touch-starved, quick to melt down. It makes Lance feel stronger, more in control. Even when he’s slow, even when his brain’s half-sludge, he can pull Todd apart with two fingers and a few dirty words.
Sub Lance is rare, but it happens. Usually when he’s lazy, high, or weirdly emotionally vulnerable. It’s always his call, though. When he lets Kitty or Todd ride him, it’s a slow surrender—deliberate. He likes the visual. The control flipped on its head. The way Kitty’s tits bounce when she rides him, or how Todd leans forward and smirks like he knows something Lance doesn’t. Oh and when they press their nails into his chest? Lance moans. Real and shameless. He likes being pinned like that. He likes when Kitty pulls his head back by the hair mid-suck like she’s the one calling shots. Todd doesn’t have tits, but Lance has definitely sucked his nipples like he was starving, and Todd had the nerve to laugh—the kind of breathless, cocky giggle that made Lance flip him over and ruin him for it.
When they get stupid high—like whole-tray-of-edibles, see-through-time, wait-for-the-walls-to-breathe high—Lance shifts. He gets quiet. Loose. Starts touching Todd like he needs the anchor. Like if he doesn’t hold on, he’ll float right out of his skin. If Todd’s feeling dominant, he’ll take advantage—press Lance down into the mattress, hands gripping his hips tight to stop the squirming while Lance bites the pillow and breathes hard through his teeth.
When Todd’s feeling soft, that’s when things really flip. He’ll climb on top, slow and confident. Let Lance watch him. Let him feel every inch sink in. He keeps his eyes locked with Lance’s while he rides, dragging his nails down Lance’s chest in lazy, claiming lines. Lance melts. High as hell, lips parted, flushed all the way down his throat, he just nods when Todd leans in close and murmurs, “You like being my toy, don’t you?” It’s the only time Todd can get away with calling him good boy and not immediately end up pinned and fucked into next week. Hell, he’s even pushed it—one night Lance was so far gone he whispered “Daddy…” in the dark, voice cracked and raw like he didn’t know he’d said it. Todd’s been having wet dreams about it since. When Lance is that pliant, that needy, every word hits like a lightning strike. He can’t tell the difference between praise and degradation—and honestly? Neither can Todd. He’ll say shit like, “You’re lucky I still want to fuck you, you needy little bitch,” and Lance will moan. “Good boy, always making such a mess," He’ll buck up like he’s trying to fuck Todd deeper even though there’s no deeper left.