#gilverrrambles

It’s the same reason you just so happen to always do laundry on the same night every week, and why he so often appears to bump into you during your weekly grocery shop. You should really change up your routine.

Thinking about his actions later; they definitely seems worse than they do in the moment. He just likes to spend time with you and hasn't figured out the right way to go about it yet. It’s not like he can just knock on your door out of the blue. That would be weird, right?

So, every few weeks you bring your car to the shop, and Jason tries not to ogle you the whole time he's pretending to check on your suspension, or whatever else. Often, you bring it by after work, and he tells you he won't have time to look at it before closing so that he can drive you back to your apartment complex in near silence but for you complimenting his CD collection and him asking how the rest of your day was. Then he walks you to your door and with pink cheeks and darting eyes he asks if you have any plans for the weekend. Whatever your answer he always replies the same; “Cool. So… Well, goodnight.”

And then he rushes to his own apartment where he’ll eventually fall asleep remembering the enthralling sound of your laughter at one of his jokes earlier, your jeans and the way they hugged your thighs just right, your eyes glinting under the florescent light of his shop sign. How your skin would feel under his hard, oil-stained fingers. Whether he’d have the nerve to finally ask you out when he drops your keys off for the 100th time tomorrow.

[follow up kinda]

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But when push comes to shove, when sparks start to fly under your skin, the coil in your guts growing as tight as your muscles, climax just in reach, it’s Carlos who leaves you high and dry. Tousled hair sticking to his sweat-slicked face as he halts all movement, dick pressed just deep enough into you that you can still feel every vein, every throb against your tender walls with none of the payoff.

“CARLOS! WHAT TH- FUCK-!!!”

It’s then that his smile contorts, pressing into a thin, tight-lipped smirk before he can’t hold back a chuckle any longer. Something about the furrow of your brow, the pout on your lips, the determination in the way you reach out for him, grabbing him by whatever piece of flesh you can get your claws into, just does it for him.

“You want more?” He plays dumb, pretending to ignore that way you’re bruising his wrists, and rutting your hips to muster up any smidge of friction you can, and he’ll keep acting the fool until you ask nicely, or he thinks you’ve had enough, whichever comes sooner.

“Please fuck me, Carlos.”

“All you had to do was ask.”

Chris has a raging size kink, and he doesn’t even know it. Bonus points if you’ve got some meat on your bones as well.

Everything in his life is so rigid. Always adhering to strict protocol, even when the world is collapsing around him, his life is tainted and dark. So many eyes look to him for leadership, for strength. It weighs even the best of men down. All he really wants is a little light in his life, a glimmer of hope.

So, it settles his stress levels when he comes home to you, all soft, and small, and round, waiting at the door with open arms and a smile on your face that doesn’t care about anything but him in that moment. Warms his heart when you ask him to reach things off the top shelf, to carry your heavy shopping bags instead of the weight of the world. It’s partly the mundanity of it all. You don’t need him to be a weapon; you just want him to be your husband.

He loves the feel of your body under his fingertips, your soft belly brushed up against his abs. The squishiness of your thighs under his palms. Your own hands, in all their delicateness, tracing his collar, his pecs. Touching him with a tenderness he’s only ever experienced when he’s alone with you.

From tip to wrist, they’re just barely bigger than his palm. It takes both of them to cover his length when you’re stroking his cock, and that ignites something in him. It’s not like a fire; there’s no rage, no incomprehensible need to ravage or smother you. It’s something gentler. It’s a hazy, reverential, and terribly addictive.

Leon likes to take it slow, lazy even, and with an abundance of praise pouring from his mouth.

He wakes you up, normally the morning after a gruelling night. His hair tickling the nape of your neck as he kisses your exposed skin, his calloused fingers exploring your body, paper-soft in pressure, but greedy in their expedition. His hips, slow and rhythmic as he grinds his half-clothed cock against your ass. It’s like he’s trying not to wake you, but he isn’t trying that hard.

“Good morning, beautiful.” He whispers into the crook of your neck when your breath starts to quicken, and your lids just barely flutter open. It makes his chest shake against your back, the hot breeze of his open mouth sending a tingle down your spine. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Though his movements are leisurely and oh so gentle, he breathes you in hard and deliberate, half-silent hums and moans rolling off his tongue as he basks in your scent. His fingers hooking onto the waist of your underwear and easing them down your thighs before you can even reply to his greeting. “You smell so good, feel so warm and soft, pretty baby.”

“Good morning to you, too, stranger.” You reply, barely holding back your own whimpers and sighs at each measured, sloppy kiss Leon presses to your shoulders. You try to roll back, wanting to cup his face and return his kisses, but he gives you no quarter. There’s no force, no push back, but he keeps you in place, removing the tender touch of his palm just long enough to reach down, freeing his cock from his boxers and poking the head between your thighs, hot pre-cum already dripping between your legs.

“No, don’t move. Please, baby. Let me give it to you like this.” Maybe it’s the morning daze, the reverence of his voice, the intoxicating feeling of his length dragging against your own arousal, or a combination of all three, but you don’t even pretend to fight him on it, instead relaxing further into the bed, as you let him have his way. “That’s it, just like that. You’re so good for me.”

With any luck, Leon won’t get called away too soon, and there will be time for kisses and catching up later.  

Wesker loves to see you beg. To plead for his attention, his time, his approval. Doesn’t matter what. Just to see you so needy, so desperate, so eager to appease. It’s so very gratifying to him.

But it’s not about you, per se. Not about your pretty eyes, glossy with tears of desperation. It’s not about the way your voice cracks, how you stutter over your words, anxious to be clear and concise, to please him despite the way his presence, his words, turns every vowel to mush before it can reach the tip of your tongue.

“I’m sorry, Wesker. Please, Captain. May I, Sir…”

Not about how you lick your quaking lips in anticipation, or the way you ignore the bitter taste of metal and leather as you glide your tongue against his crotch, greedy for a taste of what lies beneath. Not the makeup you worked so hard on, now smeared across your face as he smudges it beneath his gloved digits.

“So placid, so willing to let me do whatever I want to you. Isn’t that right, Dear Heart?”

Not even the spark of enthusiasm in your face, the tweak in your posture as he lets you take his fingers down your gullet, or when he orders you bent over, hands spreading your hole wide.

But the way you whine and murmur, praying over and over again for your god to give you an offering, to pump you full of his thick, hot seed. The way you’ll concede anything, your independence, your dignity, your restraint. You’ll do, you’ll say anything he wills you to, anything to placate the man pulling all your strings. As you should.

Without a second thought, he leans over to tuck it back in for you but as his fingers slip below the band you stand, having already started the motion to move back over to him. The sequence of mis-timed events results in your bottoms being pulled just low enough to bare your ass.

Perhaps if he was feeling 100% himself, Tim would have had the graciousness to look even a little bit guilty about it. You doubt it very much though. Instead, he bites his lips, eyes roving the curve of your backside before following the arc of your body right up to your face where he greets you with a lopsided but decisively provocative smile before whispering; “Oopssss.”

“If Punchline hadn’t already done it, I’d smack you upside the head.” You chide, brushing his hand away and pulling your pants back up much to Tim’s disappointment.

“Awh, c’mon. Don’t be like that.” He’s still smiling as you push him back into place so you can continue to see to his injuries. “Was just a happy accident.”   

There's a chill in your bones, one so sudden and biting that it jolts you awake. The first thing you notice is the imposing shadow at the end of your bed. Instinctively you shoot up into a seated position, pushing your body backwards and against your headboard until you start to recognise features of the silhouette before you; the lean shoulders, and stiff posture. The glaringly blankness of his chiselled lower face, and the emblem on his chest.

"Bru- Batman?" You exclaim irritated but relieved. “You scared me!”

Your sort-of-but-we-haven’t-quite-defined-it-yet-boyfriend doesn’t reply, and you start to worry again, inclining toward him unconsciously until he deliberately clears his throat. Between the mask and the darkness of the room, you’ve no idea what he’d been looking at exactly, but the polite, intentional turn of his head has it dawning on you quickly.

In an instant you snap your legs closed, embarrassed to have been so exposed but one panic fades to another as Bruce begins to rummage in your wardrobe, informing you that he has reason to believe you’re in danger and that he’s taking you to a safe house for your own protection as he hurtles underwear and pair of trousers at you.

Your nerves begin to calm as you sit in the passenger seat of The Batmobile listening carefully as he brings you up to speed with everything that’s happened and how he plans to fix it.

At least until he begins speaking in a voice that feels intentionally a little smoother than his vigilante persona would typically use. “If you’d like, you’re welcome to take your pants back off when we get there.” And again, you can’t tell where he’s looking, but the coy smile on his lips tells you all you need to know about what he’s thinking.  

Dicks always had a habit of hooking his fingers into the waist of your pants to get your attention by pulling you closer or to direct you around busy areas. Even before you’d started dating.

You’d woken before him, but he’d followed not long after, sensing your missing presence from the bed and following the smell of breakfast. It’s the most natural thing in the world for him to grab you by the drawstring band of your joggers as a greeting, planning on pulling you away from the sink so he can accost you with morning-breath-laced kisses.

There is a solid 10-second interval in which he stands, staring at you, stock still and silent as he registers the lack of barrier between his skin and yours, and a further 10 more as he examines your face, searching for signs of distress. When he finds nothing but bashful excitement he grins at you, devilish, sinking his fingers further down so he can graze the space just above your stirring sex before fisting the fabric to pull you closer.

“For me?” He quizzes with a quirked brow as he leans in close to you, still watching every micromovement of your face.

“For comfort.” You correct him with a playful grin, lacing your fingers in his shirt regardless.  

Feigning disappointment, he sucks on his teeth for a second, rolling his eyes and head back before turning to you with a pout. “An’ here I thought I was special.” Despite his ‘dismay’ you feel his free hand decisively press into the small of your back, holding you in place as the other begins to explore beneath your joggers.

But most of all, you hate the sickly sweet smell of the perfume he diligently applies to you. It’s too clean, too powdery; it stings the inside of your nose and makes you long for the comfort of home, for your own amenities.

And what's worse, it reminds you of your own broken will. Your body always complied, but at least you’d think about resisting. He’d run a comb through your hair as your head filled with violent daydreams; kicking, scratching, biting, and spitting at the captor you'd once called a peer. Even begging for your freedom would be better than bleeding complacency the way you do now.

At least when you're here, playing dolls, he's not out there hurting anyone else. At least you're not hurting anyone or aiding his determination to speed run humanities ruin.

It brings a tear to your eye, and you watch in your reflection as it wells up in an eye you don't recognise, barely making it to your cheekbone before Wesker gently pats it away with the side of his thumb.

"Now, now, dear." His tone is soft, but you're under no impression that his words aren't meant to scold. "We wouldn't want to marr you lovely make-up, now would we?"

It is lovely. The attention to detail he's put in was astounding. Colours complementary to your skin, applied with precision. No cakeyness to be found; just the right amount to highlight all the features he'd deemed the best.

The face in the mirror is beautiful, but it's not you.

It's not really a person, more a life-sized, mint-condition figurine. From your head to your painted toes. Even your clothes aren't your own. While the pretty lace that decorates your skin is a nice change from the too-tight lycra he typically has you in, it's no less unsettling.

You shake your head in agreement anyway. Smiling when he gestures to his own lips, offering you an example grin, one that morphs into a pride-filled simper when you obey so easily.

You're his prized possession. More and more valuable to him with every time he's able to bend your will just a little more without the aid of his handy-dandy brainwashing device.

He always shares the same sour expression as your sibling when you turn up unannounced, but he's too courteous to really chew you out about it despite the twitch in his jaw, the telltale that he desperately wants to give you a verbal tongue lashing, much to the chagrin of the little devil on your shoulder that aches to see him lose his composure—too much of a professional to humour your advances.

But he wants you too. He’s not so subtle as he tries to be, or perhaps he's merely hiding his attraction from everybody but you.

Whatever the case may be, you’ve seen how his scowl simmers into a smirk when he catches you staring for too long. How his eyes peer over those god-forsaken sunglasses, hungrily mesmerising the image of you all postured perfectly, begging for him to soak you in.

How he inches closer and closer to you every time you bump into him on your way to the S.T.A.R.S office, the dark aroma of his musky, leather-steeped cologne making you slightly dazed as you engage in curt but polite small talk that seems to go on longer and longer every time it happens.

You're in no state to really pay close attention, but you can't recall the last time he blinked, his big round eyes are captivated by your every move, he’s on the edge of his seat listening to Roy’s every word as the redhead explains each move. How brushing your sweet spot soft and slow makes you needy, makes you buck your hips as you silently beg for more, and building pressure and speed is what truly makes you come undone.

But despite bringing you right up to it, Roy doesn't take you over the edge. Instead, he wraps his arms tight around you until you quit squirming and begging, until your heartbeat slows back down, offering Jay an almost blank slate to start fresh on as he keeps your legs and lips parted.

Jay- his hands aren't so nimble. His thick, hard fingers work slowly and clumsily as he tries to emulate what he's just watched. His eyes are still locked on you, so intensely that it takes your breath away. He's watching for tells, trying to gauge your reaction to every stroke and flick of his fingers. His bitten lips breaking into a smile every time a moan escapes your lips.

All the while Roy is still at your ear, praising you both. “You're such a good girl, sitting still for us” and “isn't Jay doing such a top job, making you feel good? Yeah? Tell him.”

As you get closer and closer, legs tightly squeezing around his thighs, Roy tells Jay to push two fingers inside you.

Jason hesitates slightly, watching your face for signs of distress as he follows orders, his lengthy digits slipping inside of you with ease, but he finds only ecstasy in your features. The smile that has been ghosting his lips cracks into a real, pride-filled grin as you release into his hands. The lids of his wide eyes faltering, narrowing into a look so predatory and evocative that even Roy lets out a deep, rattled huff of breath.

Jay sucks your slick from his fingers, grunts of enjoyment keeping you on the edge of your seat Roy’s lap but when asked “That good, J-Bird?” Jason turns red and sheepish again, nodding his head and averting his gaze.

And your night continues much like that, each man taking turns to spread and pose your body for the others' convenience. Roy showing off, toying with your body, bringing you to the edge with his tongue, his fingers, his cock, over and over, getting you wound up and keeping you ready, but always pulling back at the pinnacle moment so that Jay can have the honour of taking you there himself.

With every achievement, Jay builds his confidence, maybe even gets a bit cocky seeing you lose yourself, give yourself up even, sandwiched between them, cumming over and over.

He comments on how dumb you look much to Roy’s amusement. Pointing out how you're slack-jawed, and glassy-eyed, panting at even the slightest touch. He finds the tender spot at the back of your neck and runs his tongue over it every time you try to squeeze out a comeback, or anything that isn't “fuck, Roy, please! Jason more moremoremore..”

All of that changes though when Roy lowers you onto Jay’s cock, especially once they’re both inside you, rubbing against each other with only the thin back wall of your pussy between them. The combination of your tight core, your sweet gasping, Roy’s encouragement “Atta boy, Jay. That's it, that stretch feels good, don’t it? Keep going.” all of it, has him close to cuming in minutes.

It’s a struggle for him, trying to find an outlet, a distraction to keep from pumping you full of cum embarrassingly fast, but all he can think to do is squeeze you tighter, a thought that scares the shit out of him, for fear you’ll shatter under his touch.

In the end, its Roy who clocks on and pulls him through it, pinning his hand above his head even though Jay’s grip is like a vice.

He still doesn't last much longer than he’d hoped though, it's all a bit too much, too good, too intimate. He blows his load with his eyes squeezed shut, and his teeth gritted, calling your name until the last second. Then he begs Roy to keep you in the same position, watching from below and Roy keeps pounding into your ass, whispering in your ear, kissing on your neck. He watches as his cum leaks out of your pussy, dripping back onto his softening cock. He watches as yet another orgasm wracks through you, how the sheen of sweat on your bodies makes you both glow. Watches the menace and gratification in Roy’s eye as he fucks you through it, one last time before filling your other hole.

And when it's all over it's basically a dog pile. You; still stuck between their thick, clammy bodies. Jay; clinging to you both for as long as you’ll let him. Roy; unable to stay still for long, being the first to roll out of the bed in search of water and other post-sex necessities for all of you.

Roy also being the first one to broach the subject of round two. He’s pushy about it. Now that he’s shown Jason the ropes he wants a chance to be more selfish with you. And Jay certainly isn't gonna pass on the chance to show you he can go a lot longer.

<3

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