Alice

He’s so backed up that it’s borderline ridiculous. You’ve managed to make his tight shorts all sticky just from swiping your tongue across his bottom lip. He’s fully whipped for you, desperate for you to come around and make his life mean something more than waffle cones and butterscotch.

He’s never felt so low, and he’s never felt so good.

You give him anything he wants. It feels good to be so wanted and so helpful. And sometimes, you can’t stop yourself from planting ideas into his pretty little brain.

You’re jerking him off from the back. Pressing hot, open mouthed kisses along his freckled neck while he desperately tries to stop himself from fucking into your fist.

“Shouldn’t waste it,” you whisper, rolling your fist, making him moan. “Wanna paint my face?”

Upon the last syllable, he’s coming. Muscles flexing, his stomach trembling, ropes of cum landing on the break room table while his toes curl in his tennis shoes.

You pout over his shoulder while his chest heaves, his cock slowly softening in your palm, his big hands gripping onto your forearms.

“Should’ve made a mess on me instead.”

Another pathetic little shot of cum makes his legs weak. You smile and bite his earlobe, tasting the salt of his sweat.

“Does that sound like a good idea, Steve?”

He grits his teeth. It does, but he doesn’t know how to say it without sounding like a disrespectful asshole.

His cock speaks for him, though. Managing to stiffen again, his balls twitching, ready for more. Ready for the sight of his come on your face. Like he really fucking owns you. Like he’s on top and in control for the first time in a year.

“Pretty please?” you plead softly, the corners of your lips tilting up. “Ruin me, sailor.”

In a blur, you’re on your knees, and he’s towering over you. One of his hands wraps around his shaft, and his biceps flex as he begins stroking himself off. His shorts rest right below his aching balls, and he feels so goddamn dumb. But you’re still on your knees, and you’re looking up at him with puppy dog eyes.

He almost misses his chance. Anxious about taking too long on his break, or someone walking in. He’s working with the new hire today, not Robin, and he doesn’t know if that’s better or worse. He just can’t seem to come — until you softly whisper, “please?”

Steve’s stomach tenses, and then he comes with a long, low groan, eyelids hooded and his bottom lip bit pink by his teeth. You smile, eyes closed, each rope of come painting your beautiful face.

“Holy shit,” Steve mumbles, his voice gravelly in his chest, his legs shaking as he finishes. It’s hard to keep his eyes open, but he must — the sight of you is too good to lose.

Your hands find his hips and you hold them, trying to help him stay upright.

“Do I look pretty?” you ask.