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Quietly, you shuffled out of the covers and pulled up your nightgown. Resting one knee near his ear, you brought your other leg over, nestling yourself on his nose and mouth. He gave a grunt of acknowledgement and you wiggled your hips, clit pressed to the tip of his nose.

It didn’t take much for you, dripping as you were, to finish. He’d stirred enough to lap at your lips lazily, a sated cat with a bowl of milk.

You shifted, moving your legs as you worked your way down and back under the covers. He was half-hard, you discovered, and with a little finesse, you freed him from the soft pants he slept in, admiring his worn member.

All it took was teasing his tip with your entrance. You wanted nothing more than to slide all the way down, soak his length and balls with your slick, but you held back. He deserved the intensity, a slow but strong build-up, to wake up dazed and vaguely aware that he’d exploded all over you and his night-clothes.

You didn’t stop, even after he’d gushed ropes, sliding his softening member inside you for good measure.

“You intend to drain me before I’ve even woken properly?” he mumbled into your ear.

“I thought I’d spoil you this morning. I love it when you’re sleepy, you let yourself enjoy it more.”

You rotated your hips for emphasis, earning yourself a spank. His warning backfired and your walls squeezed him tight, eliciting a groan.

“Insatiable little thing,” he grumbled as you reached down to fondle him, skin sticky and slick. “You’re not leaving this room until noon.”

__________________

Eighteen paused mid-step, synthetic endorphins rushing through his simulated veins. They didn’t need to breathe but his diaphragm tightened all the same. Blood pooled in his groin, his focus on the book he was finding all but gone. It was over too quick, his pants sticky.

“Fuck that old man,” he hissed. “Not now.”

Nearby, Twenty-Five’s ears perked up. “It’s too early for—“

His eyes rolled behind his glasses. “I didn’t think she could do that.”

“She never comes to me for such needs,” Thirty-five mumbled, adjusting his pants. “It’s a shame he never lets us touch her. She’d be unable to walk for days.”

Forty-five and Sixty-five shared a look across the room, snickering. It was short-lived for them by comparison, a fleeting sensation like a morning tide as Forty-five excused himself to a separate room.

Sixty-five sighed and made use of a nearby beaker. “At least this specimen might be useful.”

When Zandik finally returned to his laboratory, he felt the heavy gaze of each of his former selves.

Eighteen chucked a bag of laundry at his creator’s feet.