#tw size difference

so… yautjas huh? what an alien species and mind you, this is my first impression of these guys. despite the majority of the killer or killers tags thirsting over the warlord — as we all should — i found myself liking the viking predator a lot. the goons are cute too. the three predators of the movie parts even have names too. jotun, oni and baron in the order they appear. of course, the guy in the pic above, the last one everyone is thirsting over, is warlord predator, also called ‘Grendel King’ by one of the characters

anyways, enough geeking over the yautjas of the movie, time to move on to my actual brainworms

yautjas are alien species and just as they are humanoid, some parts of them are indeed humanoid. and some parts, not so much. i have seen a decent amount of yautja smuts on the yautja tag — haven’t read them yet bc i prefer to be the one to fuck rather than get fucked — but one headcanon answer had me thinking multiple things

yautjas — male, female doesn’t matter — have two dicks and a vagina as well as an asshole. bigenital, if you will. every yautja can therefore sire their young, but the female yautjas tend to sire them and grow them in their bellies due to their stomach having more padded muscles, serving as a protective meat shield for the babies. the male yautjas carry them as well, but it’s more common to see the females carry them

i can’t find the author but one author here on tumblr had given their thought that yautjas never knew about blowjobs and lemme add to that — fingering as well. look at their mouths and hands, full of claws, fangs, mandibles and shit. truly a creature meant for hunting and killing rather than feeling fleshly pleasure. yautjas don’t really care about it either, they’re more of an animal mating ritual type of pleasure seekers. find a yautja who shakes your fancy, court them, knot them full and have a few strong, next generation of young’ins. simple and straight to the point like an animal mating ritual. no need for foreplay, fighting and wrestling to see who will knot who is a foreplay enough for their species

blowjobs? never, unless one is trying to bite off the dick of the other one. their mandibles stretch and open, sure. but they will never stretch big enough to take the other’s dick into their mouths. even if they do manage to painfully keep their mandibles open at all times, their fangs and canine sharp teeth will lead to bleeding and injuries soon enough. so even if their two dicks are weeping at the tip, untouched, and their pussy is glistening wet, the easiest way to just get it done with is to fuck their cocks into the other’s folds. it’ll be full of yowls, cracks, chirps and even growls because i personally like to think that the yautjas have a ribbed dick with a spliced tip. not that their tips could open up like their mandibles, but it definitely gives odd sensations. add the constant bumping and ribbing feeling of the scales and folds of their cock and the mating session between yautjas are usually always loud

so what happens when a ‘ooman is thrown into the mix? a great fighter, a blooded one who has been marked by one of their kin (like lex in avp), a recurring champion from the gladiatorial combat? yautjas are impressed, respectful and some are even vying after your attention on the few occasions you’re allowed awake from the cryo sleep and wandering around the strange, deserted, hot world of theirs. their kin usually has a bias against ’oomans due to their race being resourceful and cunning. they’re just as smart as the yautjas, if not, even more. able to use whatever is around them for survival and able to keep going even after multiple injuries (bc adrenaline). they’re an annoying species and yautjas tend to stay away. a little bit less with you, though. they want to be in the presence of the undefeated champion of the gladiatorial combat, size you up and see if you are truly worth the heavy title you bear upon your meager ‘ooman shoulders

maybe one thing would lead to another or one had gotten interested in your strengths in the bedroom as well and that leads to a yautja receiving their first head and fingering. the moment you drop them to the ground and settle between their legs, the yautja is tempted to wrestle. it is a foreplay between their kin after all. but no, he was dealing with a ‘ooman right now and as excited he was about getting to the fucking, he was also curious. how do ‘oomans show affection? how do they mate? how do they carry their young? so many questions, so little time

they would stay down and obedient, an occasional curious thrills and crackles leaving their throat as their mandibles click and clack softly. mutually curious as well, you finally manage to take off their intricate and annoying loincloth like thing, dropping it to the ground. and the hum that escapes you is equally returned by the yautja as they watch, the soft clicking of their ever moving mandibles filling the silent room. a slit like opening. two of them, even, with what you assume is an asshole underneath them. rubbing the back of your finger’s knuckle over the one on top, you hear the slight rumble from their chest like a purr, taking it as a good sign

the slit on top is bigger than the one underneath. they’re much more harder and covered with protective shells and scales as well, rather then the second one underneath that seems more softer and gummy like a vagina. messing with the scaled one, you watch with an ever growing interest as the slit opens more and more before a cockhead is pushed out, followed by a second cockhead which was a little bit smaller. so, the yautjas have both anatomies huh? like certain animals and how their two cocks are kept inside a protective slit like some reptiles and lizards’

it’s bumpy, it’s ribbed, it even has little round shaped ribs on its sides too. such curious beings, how alike they could be to your kin but also so different. of course, there was much needed poking, prodding and an eager snooping around. two large uniquely shaped cocks and a vaginal opening as well as an asshole. interesting

hearing the impatient hisses of the yautja, you merely grumble under your breath, hissing back at him with annoyance upon being cut short of your little experiment. what do yautjas even do for pleasure anyways? do they fuck like humans do? must be it, right? at least they had the anatomy for it

the moment you get down on them, head between their strong, tight thighs and restless shifting body, a sound like a warning growl was heard before it was swiftly replaced by some soft noises like the purring of a cat. yautjas don’t know what blowjobs and fingering meant after all, their bodies prevented from such types of pleasure. so when your soft, small ‘ooman mouth took in the head of the bigger cock, the warmth around it felt like the yautja was melting in the fiery chasms of the many volcanoes of the yautja prime. it was soft, it was hot and it felt good. way too good to the point the creature was growling, groaning and even letting out odd hitched noises that you guessed was the closest to a moan

and when you put their entire dick into your mouth — with much anticipated gagging, choking and the constant wild bucks into your open mouth — deep throating the bigger cock while gently stroking their smaller cock using the slimy substance the tip oozed, the yautja has basically experienced heaven. the urge to just let go of ‘honor’ and ‘instincts’ and knot inside your warm, tight throat was strong. a deep, gurgly sound escaping them as their mandibles shook all over, unknowing of what to do when your free hand slipped further down and pushing your finger into their softer slit

if you thought the yautja was loud before, they were even louder now. constant, short little noises leaving them, rattling their huge body and even causing you to shake alongside as well. strong legs kicking and clawed hands tearing off the poor floor into shreds. it was a good feeling, the very best, even more than having a clan leader recognize them or hunting down the most honorable prey. ‘oomans’ hands and mouth felt good, they were amazing at fleshly pleasures and had the yautja acted on their interest in you a little bit earlier, they would have. they honestly should have because whatever you were doing to his poor life time long neglected dicks and gushing pussy were making the yautja feel odd. so so very odd. a tight coiling in their stomach, and they for a moment, thought you infected them with something

and then, the tight coils of his stomach is gone within a moment. a loud roar leaving the beast as their body went rigid like a spring, dreadlocks slipping into the floor in a heap as their legs even gave a little tremble. the tip lodged inside your throat twitched and shook, a thick substance filling up your mouth before you could pull it off, causing you to hack and cough out the strange liquid. it didn’t take long until their smaller dick was following along, spilling a smaller load into your jaws and chest, second slit tightening around your fingers as a soft, more thinner liquid like the one from his bigger cock coat your palm. all because your little ‘ooman fingers delved inside their cunt a bit further and seemed to have found a soft spot, loud roars and short breathy growls being switched to little cat like yowls. so, they were just as sensitive as humans, huh?

A deep voice rings from behind you, and you already know who it belongs to.

Your eyes don’t stray from your computer screen, not bothering to turn around and greet your colleague. You had been hoping, foolishly, that he might just let things go unspoken, that your interactions would be limited to staff meetings and you could get away with never exchanging more than a few words with him ever again.

You were sorely mistaken, because unfortunately for you, Clark Kent is too friendly for his own good.

“What do we have to talk about?” You reply, wincing internally, because as much as you’d like to appear nonchalant, your biting tone gives you away. You keep your eyes ahead, willing them not to stray towards him, because you’d hate for him to see the hurt in your eyes.

But then he places a plastic cup on your desk. Your favourite, elaborate, concerningly sugary frozen coffee drink from the cafe on the ground floor. You only buy it on Fridays and when your articles make it to the front page, a little reward for a job well done. You’ve never mentioned this ritual to anyone, but of course Clark noticed.

“Please,” He says simply, and the desperation in his voice finally makes you break. You steal a glance up at him, hovering in the entryway of your cubicle.

Clark Kent never looks anything less than beautiful, but this is the worst you’ve ever seen him. Dark circles under his eyes reveal how low on sleep he is, and his curls, while rarely ever gelled down, are particularly unruly today, like he couldn’t even be bothered with a comb this morning. You have to admit, it makes you feel just a little bit better to see him this way; you put your all into looking prim and polished this morning, determined to give zero hint of the hours you spent crying yourself to sleep the night before.

Without a word, you stand from your chair and grab the frozen treat, brushing past him and briskly making your way towards the break room. You don’t have to turn back to know Clark is following you.

You take your sweet time looking for the break room’s supply of plastic straws, checking three different cabinets even though you know they’re always on the left, bottom shelf. It forces Clark to sit in his discomfort for a minute more, and more importantly, it gives you a few more seconds to steel yourself for when you finally turn around. He’s staring at you with wide, pleading eyes when you do, and you try not to think about how often you used to wish he would spare you a glance.

“Talk.”

“I’msosorry,” He rushes out. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I didn’t mean to stand you up, I- I bought you flowers, it’s just-“

“Just what? What happened that you couldn’t even-“ You can’t stop your hurt from revealing itself then. “You didn’t even text me.”

And Clark knows he’s caught. He can’t tell you he left his phone in his apartment in a rush to get the suit on, or that you already know where he was all night, because you’d no doubt seen him on the front page of the Planet this morning, fighting off another extraterrestrial villain. He can’t tell you the truth just yet, and he can’t bear to lie to you. His Pa taught him to never base a relationship on lies.

“Something came up,” is all he’s got.

You scoff, looking down at the floor while you blink rapidly, forcing the tears that burn your eyes not to fall.

“Is that all?”

“I’m sorry,” He repeats. You nod, furrowing your brows, still unable to meet his eyes. You stare down at your drink instead, fiddling with the straw, waiting until the lump in your throat clears so you can speak without your voice trembling.

“Yeah. You said that already.”

This hurts more than you’ll ever admit, to him, to Lois, to yourself or your diary. You’ve been here before. You’ve been lied to by men before, convinced to take a chance on someone you’re not sure of, only for them to make it clear they only wanted you for one thing.

This feels worse.

Because you were sure of Clark. He was always so kind, not just to you, but to everyone he came across. He held doors open, never forgot a name, never refused to proofread a colleague’s article no matter how much work he had piling up. He remembers every little thing you’ve ever told him, even if it was only mentioned in passing. He notices if you styled your hair differently, or got a haircut, or wore something new. And when he looked at you, you could’ve sworn-

You’d been so ready to dismiss your crush, convincing yourself that you were just being delusional, that he might just want to be friends, but when even Lois, who you know would never bullshit you, pointed out how he looked at you “like you hung the stars in the sky” you thought maybe, just this once, you’d gotten it right.

“You could’ve just told me you don’t like me that way,” You finally breathe out. “I would’ve been okay with it. But I won’t- I won’t tell anyone what happened, don’t worry. I don’t want things to be weird with our friends.”

“Sweetheart-” He starts, but you brush past him before he can say anything else.

You wish you had thrown the drink out, too, just to be petty, but the sugar was exactly the kind of comfort you needed on a morning like this.

Later, when Lois comes up to you and asks how it went, playfully kicking and shoving you the way she does when she’s way too excited, you steel yourself again. You keep your face blank, even when hers drops.

“What do you mean?!” She cries, a little too loud, but it’s a busy day in the bullpen, busy enough that nobody notices.

“I don’t know what else to tell you, Lois. We’re better off friends.” You repeat.

“Do I have to beat Clark up? Is he really that much of a dumbass?”

“No!” You manage to laugh a little, because you know she really would on your behalf. “It’s not his fault, nobody’s fault really.” He was just too polite to tell me no.

Lois looks at you then. Really looks at you, with a calculating gaze you’re all too familiar with, the same look she gives politicians and businessmen that lie through their teeth in interviews.

“You sure nothing happened?” She asks, patiently. And you hate to lie to her face, but you’d hate to cause a rift between her and Clark, too.

“I’m sure.” You think she must hear the pleading in your voice, because her gaze softens, and she drops it after that.

The leaves change. Metropolis becomes an array of oranges, reds, and yellows, the sun sets earlier and earlier every day, and you learn to lean on Lois.

She backed off that day, but for months after that morning, Lois watches you closely. Hovers, really. Insists on hanging out outside of work at least once a week, even if it just means grabbing takeout at the end of the day and eating it at her place, while you both bitch for hours about everything and nothing. She asks what you had for lunch every day, offers to split her daily sweet treats with you. She tells you to visit the park more often, like she’s worried you’ll wilt without sunlight.

You tell her everything. Except, of course, what happened with Clark. She tells you everything, except, she carefully omits anything to do with Clark, even though you’re well aware they’re still good friends. And though she undoubtedly notices that you don’t even look at Clark anymore unless it’s absolutely necessary, she never pries.

You used to stare at his back for hours.

“Don’t say you’re not coming,” Lois instructs, holding out the ticket she grabbed for you.

The whole newsroom had been in good spirits this week, having been treated to free tickets to the Metropolis County Fair for the entire Daily Planet crew, a reward for several of your teammates recently winning awards for their articles. If you had to guess, you’d assume at least half of your colleagues and their families would be at the Fair on Saturday, which is why Lois was insisting on dragging you there.

“It’s going to be crowded. The wait times for the rides-“

“We don’t have to go on the rides!” She appeals. “We can just play the games! And eat funnel cake! Cat will be there, it’ll be fun-“

“Lois, I’m going, I’m just telling you it’s gonna be crowded. I don’t wanna hear you complain about how long the lines are, because I am definitely going to make you stand in them.” She breaks out into a grin, shoving your shoulder and setting your ticket down on your desk.

“You had me goin’ there for a second,” She admits. “Jimmy and Cat will be excited to see you outside of this office. You haven’t been to a happy hour in forever.”

You’ll be happy to see them, too, even if it means avoiding eye contact with Clark the whole night, because you know he will undoubtedly be joining.

You’d kept your promise. You didn’t make things weird with your circle of friends at the Planet. But you’d kept your distance from them these past months, unable to stomach the thought of moping around in the corner. You didn’t want to join in on the fun if it meant having to be around Clark, pretending everything is still the same, that you’re still good friends.

Moping around at home is much more dignified.

So after months of careful avoidance, you might be ready for a group outing. You’d only need several hours to spend planning out conversation topics, mulling over appropriate responses to any questions that might come up during the night, arranging the perfect outfit for the outing after triple-checking the weather forecast, and repeatedly assuring yourself that if you felt any sort of discomfort you could make up an excuse about an urgent deadline and duck out. Then you’ll be ready.

It’s fun. You feel a bit silly for thinking it wouldn’t be, making up scenarios where everything would go horribly wrong and you would somehow turn all your work friends against you in one night. But once you and Lois stroll up to the spot where you all agreed to meet – a high-pitched squeal is the only warning you get before Cat launches herself at you, interrogating you on where you got every piece of your outfit from – you know you freaked yourself out about nothing. It’s easy to be around your work friends; in your haze of insecurity and anxiety, you let yourself forget that these people actually want you around, and the presence of them makes it easy to ignore Clark, who lingers in your periphery, wearing a button-up flannel instead of the suit you usually see him in. Not that you care what he wears.

You completely forget about him once Charlie challenges you to a shooting game in the prize alley. Your competitive side takes over your brain until you’ve shot down all the cardboard targets with the toy BB gun and you’re being handed a giant teddy bear for your marksmanship, much to Charlie’s surprise.

“Didn’t know I’d been working next to Deadshot all these years,” He says, good-naturedly.

“I’m great at keeping secrets.” You reply, wincing internally at how monotone it comes out, when you meant to match his joking tone.

“C’mon, Deadshot!” Cat says, saving you from your own awkwardness. She grabs you by the arm and drags you in the direction of the Tilt-a-whirl, which you know her and Lois have been the most excited for all week, and which you are most certainly regretting agreeing to.

You let the fair worker strap you down into your seat on the ride despite your pounding heart and your fear of getting motion sickness all over the rollercoaster and your friends; you’re suddenly very glad you turned down one of the corn dogs Clark bought all of you.

You get through the ride by the grace of whatever god there is out there, shutting your eyes tightly so you don’t feel so dizzy, and when it’s mercifully over you stumble off with Cat and Lois, barely nodding along to their enthusiasm over what you would consider torture.

You’re in the midst of a disoriented, giggling fit with them when the explosion goes off, and you don’t get a second to collect yourself before Lois is grabbing your hand, gathering you and Cat up and dragging you far away from the fire. The force of her tugging you away makes you yelp and drop your prize teddy bear in the dirt, and you have no time to retrieve it. You hold Lois’s hand as tight as you can and run without thought, heart pounding in your ears, frantically whipping your head around to look for the rest of your group.

You find them eventually, gathered on the outskirts of the fairgrounds, looking equally frantic; some of them searching the crowd for the three of you, some of them fervidly trying to get more information out of the cops and firefighters on the scene, because the Reporter part of their brain is impossible to turn off and a potential terrorist attack at the Metropolis County Fair is undoubtedly front page material.

Jimmy spots you first, immediately shouting and waving to catch your attention, and when you’re within arms reach he pulls you into a rib-crushing hug.

“Where were you guys?” He presses, moving to pull Lois into an equally tight embrace.

“We were trying out the Tilt-a-whirl, and thank god we weren’t still on it when the explosion happened, we were- we were pretty fuckin’ close to it.” She rambles, looking back towards the fairgrounds like she’s already trying to calculate where the explosion came from.

“Do they think it’s an electrical fire?” Cat chips in.

“Did one of the rides blow up?” Veronica-

“Do we know how many injuries there are?” Lois-

“Where’s Clark?” You interrupt.

Everyone pauses. Heads turn from left to right, confirming what you’ve already realised: Clark hasn’t made it out yet. Your stomach sinks.

You don’t give it much thought before you’re squeezing back through the fair barricades, quicker than Lois can move to stop you, and running in the opposite direction of the crowd, back into the fray, in search of Clark.

You have no idea where he might be, why he would’ve split from the group, how he could’ve slipped away without Jimmy noticing. You run back through the now-deserted prize game alley, past abandoned food carts and empty rollercoasters, getting closer and closer to the site of the explosion, calling Clark’s name until your voice starts to feel hoarse from inhaling smoke and your legs start to ache.

You’re about to give up, run back to your friends and ask every EMT in the area if they’ve seen a 6’4” man with puppy dog eyes, when you wander behind an empty circus tent and finally spot him.

You open your mouth to call out his name in relief. Then he turns towards you, halfway through unbuttoning his flannel shirt with one hand, fully revealing the giant yellow-and-red “S” emblem on his chest underneath. In his other hand are his glasses, and when you trail your eyes up from his chest and see Superman’s face, everything starts to click.

And then the ground shakes underneath you with the force of another explosion – another bomb, you realise – going off closeby, too close. You’re surprised you don’t fall over from the force of it, but your eyes are still fixed on your coworker- your crush- Superman.

“Clark?” You breathe out, making his head snap toward you, eyes wide with surprise.

“What are you doing here?” He’s striding towards you, and you can’t help but walk towards him, too, like magnets drawn together. “I thought- why didn’t you run?”

“I was looking for you!” You tell him just as reaches you, grabbing you by the shoulders, pushing you back towards the exit, towards safety.

“You need to get out of here.” His tone makes it clear there is no room for negotiation, but you argue anyway.

“I am not just going to-”

“Go. Go back to your apartment, and I swear to you, sweetheart, I will come find you, but you have to leave. Now.”

And then you see it, in his eyes. They aren’t wide with shock at your presence, they’re wide with fear, and that makes you relent.

You nod slowly at his instructions, backing out of his hold. “Come find me afterwards, please.”

And then you turn and run, back in the direction you came from, into the arms of your very pissed off best friend.

You’re finally back in the safety of your apartment. You’re not sure how long you’ve been here.

You’ve been sitting on your couch, unmoving, still in your adorable, meticulously crafted outfit from the fair. You don’t have the will to get up, to shower and scrub the soot off your face, to change into your pajamas. You have no idea if it’s been 15 minutes, or 5 hours. You’re frozen in wait.

Your poor kitten has meowed at you curiously a few times, no doubt wondering why you haven’t given him the customary greeting of kisses and pets, but all you can do is shush him gently from your seat.

Relief floods through you when you hear your window – the one you purposefully left unlocked – being carefully shimmied open, like he’s scared to accidentally break the frame. You didn’t even hear him land on your fire escape. It occurs to you then that Clark is so gentle with everyone, everything, constantly mindful of his strength. How exhausting that must be.

He slips into your living room just as quietly, and then Superman is standing in front of you, in your space, lit only by dim fairy lights you’ve had since undergrad, and covered in dirt, ash, and blood that you can only hope isn’t his.

You’ll have to forgive him for getting it on your floor.

Clutched tightly in his hand is the giant teddy bear you won, dusted with dirt but otherwise unharmed, and your eyes well up at the sight of it. He takes slow steps towards you, like he’s afraid he’ll spook you, and sets it down next to your frozen figure.

You stand up to meet him, suddenly, and then he’s cupping your face in both of his hands, smearing his lips against yours. You brace your hands against his chest, clutching at the rough material of his suit, and you don’t hesitate to kiss him back.

“‘M sorry,” He mutters against your lips. “‘M so sorry-” kiss- “I wanted-” kiss- “I wanted to tell you-”

“Clark-“ You try to pull away, but he ducks his head to capture your lips again, chasing the taste of you. “I’m not mad, I jus- just need-“

“I know what you need,” He hums, trailing his hands down your curves, till he curls them around your thighs and hoists you up, wrapping your legs around his waist. You tangle a hand in his curls just to tug him closer, you need him closer, holding you after so many months of keeping your distance.

He sets you carefully on the kitchen counter, breaking away from your lips only to trail kisses behind your ear, on your jawline, down your neck, overwhelming your senses. The sheer size of him – you can feel the stretch in your thighs from how wide they’re parted, bracketing his hips. Your grip doesn’t leave his hair, the soft touch of his curls grounding you, reminding you he’s really here, safe.

“I missed you,” You whisper it like a confession, and he groans in response, burying his face in your neck.

“I should’ve told you,” His hands skirt underneath the hem of your top, “I made you think that I-”

“It’s okay,” You reassure him.

“No, it’s not,” He shakes his head

Then he’s dropping to his knees in front of you, lifting your legs onto his shoulders and placing sweet, open-mouthed kisses on your inner thighs.

“Oh!” You gasp, feeling his mouth reach closer and closer to your center. You tighten your hand in his hair, pulling him back from between your thighs, and the hunger in his eyes when he looks up at you makes your head spin.

“Let me make it up to you like this, baby,” He says, verging on desperation.

“But I-” You feel your face flush, blood rushing to your cheeks, and your next words come out as a quiet plea. “I want you inside.”

Your words draw another pained groan from him. You watch as one of his hands snakes down to adjust his bulge in the suit, the armored material giving you a full view of the outline of his cock, and it’s- painfully thick.

“I have to get you ready first,” He chokes out. “Can’t hurt you.”

He slips your panties off with ease, lifting you and guiding them down your legs. Your hips cant towards him instinctually, and he wastes no time opening his mouth over you, lapping at your sex just to relish in the taste of you for a moment. The intimacy is overwhelming, letting him taste you where you’re softest.

Then he switches, fixing his lips around the crest of you, working his mouth around your clit to give you delicious pressure with hard pulses. Your thighs tense, your knuckles hurt from the tight hold you’ve got on his curls, and it doesn’t take him long to tip you over the edge, your hips grinding into his mouth as his soft lips guide you to your end. He doesn’t pull away, not until you loosen your hand from his curls and gently push his head away, weak and whimpering.

He lifts off his knees, crowding you against the counter again. You realise too late that he’s speaking to you, whispering praise and devotion as he kisses you, bringing you back down to Earth. Your hands fumble for the belt on his suit, and then pause.

“How do I- how do you get this off?” You stumble over your words, desperate to have him on you again. He chuckles at your impatience, covering your hands with his, and guiding you through the process of taking him out of the suit, baring his broad chest, the expanse of smooth muscle on his torso. He hisses quietly when his cock is released from the confines of his suit, your hand coming up to wrap around it, your fingers barely meeting each other.

If you had more time, you’d get on your knees for him, stretch your jaw and taste him on your tongue till he spills down your throat. But you know you’ll have time to get your mouth on him later — right now, you need to feel him in you.

His lips coming to meet yours are the only thing that draws your gaze away from his cock. Your breath catches when you feel the blunt tip of him bump against your entrance, clenching instinctually at the anticipated stretch of him. Clark breaks away from your lips briefly, resting his forehead against yours while he looks down at where you meet, then carefully leans down and lets a wad of his spit dribble down onto your entrance, slicking you up for him.

Then he’s pressing into you, slowly, keeping his eyes on your expression to search for any sign of discomfort, and you can’t hold back a whimper at the stretch of him. Just the tip has you digging your nails into his shoulders, trying to ground yourself.

“Breathe,” He reminds you, trailing kisses along your jawline and moving to rub your clit with a calloused thumb, the friction of it making you impossibly wetter, and you instinctually buck your hips towards him. “That’s it, baby, open up f’r me,”

He gives it to you inch by inch, sliding in carefully till he bottoms out, his tip brushing against your cervix, and he swears under his breath in amazement.

“Can’t believe you’re taking me like this,” He mutters, rocking into you slowly, barely pulling out. You think you could cum with just this, clinging to his body, his warmth, your forehead against his while you grind into each other, desperate to stay close.

Your second climax takes you by surprise, and he grants you no reprieve, rubbing your clit till you’re reaching down to push his hand away.

“N-no baby, you asked for this,” He grabs your hand, guiding it to his shoulder and adjusting the angle of his hips, pulling out further with every thrust and into you harder. “Know you can take it, c’mon, baby-”

All you can do is hang onto him as he ruts into you, overwhelming your senses, pulling your hips into his, whispering praise and devotion until he brings you to a second high, clenching impossibly tighter around him and mewling his name over and over again.

You know he’s close when his hips start to stutter, his lips finding yours in an attempt to muffle the way his groans turn to whimpers, his hands on you tightening enough to bruise.

“C-can I- please, baby-“ You nod before he can even finish asking, and then he’s spilling deep inside you, groans coming from deep in his throat, flushed from his hairline to his chest. You don’t pull away from each other, even after he’s come down from his high, trading desperate kisses and clinging like it would physically pain him to leave your warmth.

He takes you two more times that night. Once on the couch with you straddling his lap, his hands gripping your hips and guiding your rocking motions, and then again in the shower, crowding you against the tile wall before putting one of your legs over his shoulder and forcing you to take him even deeper. You wash blood and ash out of his hair and he holds you tight, whispering apologies and making up for lost time.

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.