name: lunar loon, Vega, moon, bane of the suns existence, occasionally knockoff amethyst asshole.
I am 18! yay 🫶
✨severe women and nerdy dork lover✨
I believe in weird girl supremacy! most of my writing are probably going to be afab. I will attempt masc, and amab ones in the future.
master list
nerdiness
✧ Tags: #lunar loon speaks - usually my fic writing, or small opinions in the tags. #lunar favs - fics that make me giggle and twirl my hair
✧ you can totally request things! I will try to do them, thouvh i will promise nothing.
-please bare with me, last time i wrote fanfics, i was twelve/thirteen, it was covid, and it was terrible. it was ATLA though.
✧ i used to be on c.ai, however with the new year, I’ve decided to no longer be on there. so any bots that were on there are gone. maybe I’ll rewrite them, but they won’t end up for ai.
✧ what I have/can write for!
👽 Invincible 👽 - I have had spoilers for what happens, I know about the whole invincible war—in comics and in the show. Do remember that I have yet to finish the first season.
⚡️DC ⚡️ - Young Justice (s1-s2, I stopped watching after we lost Wally), Titans (comic and the show), and just characters you request!
💥 Marvel💥 - X-men, avengers, spiderverse, maybe fantastic four, or just characters in general!
(My fav is of course spider verse and x-men.)
🔱 EPIC: the musical 🔱 - I LOVE this. It’s actually what got me into writing again!
And if you’re curious about a fandom I haven’t mentioned, just ask! I will look into it! I can’t promise much, but I can try.
What I will NOT write:
literal incest. - No. go away. Not welcome.
Minor x adult - again, no. go away. (All characters written are at least 18. I’m not writing minors. Not happening.)
• Though if my math is wrong, do let me know. Because I am horrible at math. Like, if I say we were friends at [X age] and the years are off, that’s my fault. Like I wrote Mark x Whimsy!reader to be friends for 12 years, I believe? They met at like 5 1/2-6, ok, it’s not my fault if it’s off. They are 18.
✧ I’m a college freshman! that being said, I cannot promise anything in a timely manner. 
Tags: [mlw][potentially pwp, depending on if I feel a part 2][I do, I just don't wanna be the only one feeling a part 2][lowk a palette cleanser because I've been lacking][crack][mandalorian!reader x jedi knight!Anakin][enemies to lovers][more accurately, annoyed to lovers]
The catina is bustling with smugglers and soldiers alike.
Smoke filling the air, alongside barks of laughter, the loudness of some game with dice carved from bone, the scent of smoked meats and the general chaos that comes from a neutral zone.
Anakin surveys, stormy coloured eyes surveying the crowd. There's a stickiness on the table he's seated at, his back to the wall, Jedi robes dark against the palour of his skin, tanned from the sunny weather of Tatooine, but not enough to make him blend in amongst the colourful characters that surround him.
He's here on a mission.
Tracking a Separatist agent, and his fingers burn with the urge to simply start interrogating everyone in the room.
He could do it. No one could stop him.
"Oh my God, no way!" Your voice is a friendly chirp, carried along the wind, your footsteps heavy in your gear before you drop into the seat across from him, the chair creaking beneath you. And Anakin feels that familiar grimace pull at his otherwise elegant features, perfect brows creasing into a frown, his upper lip pulling into a scowl.
Don't acknowledge her. Don't—
"I'm starting to think you're stalking me," he can hear the smile in your voice, can picture the mischievous twinkle in eyes he's never seen, "maybe you stopped pining for that princess."
Anakin stills.
You're good. You're very good.
Incompetent in all the ways that irk him, but observant and sneaky in a way that annoys and frustrates him more than he's ever been. More frustrating than the fact that Padme barely spares him a glance because who are you, to be able to be unsenseable by him?
He should've felt you. Before you spoke.
He should've. But he didn't.
And the knowledge makes his skin itch.
"I'm not pining." Anakin's voice is steady, belying the internal conflict and the way his hands itch to wrap around your throat. The Force isn't what he wants to use when it comes to physically dismantling you.
And you snort. "Babe, baby, babe. Annie baby." You're motioning for a server with a gloved hand, an enthusiastic wave that makes you stand out all the more against the seriousness of your gear, the heaviness of the fact that Anakin could arrest you, on good account.
But he won't.
Why won't he?
"You look at her like she's the early morning sunlight." You deadpan. "It's very obvious. Anyone could tell. And anyone with eyes like mine; beautiful, deep, doe eyes that see all, can tell."
And you're right.
Padme is sunlight. She's the breath in his lungs, she's the first rays of dawn peeking between smoke coloured clouds, the warmth after a cold night.
You, on the other hand, are the painful moment of sunlight hitting him square in the eyes, bright, unforgiving and relentlessly annoying. The oppressing warmth that changes the air, regardless of where you happen to meet.
A cantina, a smuggler's den. An illegal market with damp streets and eyes that rove over him with suspicion.
You're everything Padme's not.
And it excites and taunts him, all in one.
You're paying.
The fact surprises him when you're handing the server more than enough coin. And his expression falls when he spots a bloodied coin, fresh blood from the looks of it and he's dragging his hand across his face.
Because what the actual fuck is wrong with you?
Paying with blood money, in front of a Jedi Knight?
"What do you want, Mandalorian?" He exhales heavily, eyes lowering to where the spiced ale is set down in front of him, filled to the rim and he glances back towards you, stormy eyes focused on you.
He can't see your face.
He can't read your features, and it disturbs him for a reason he doesn't want to examine too deeply, and he takes a drink.
And you watch.
You watch the way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, eyes roving the long line of his throat from behind your visor and your mouth feels dry.
"Why do you always think I want something?" You huff, arms folding across your chest as you recline in your seat, lips forming a petulant pout and you catch yourself, internally grimacing because you're not that kind of girl.
And your tongue swipes across your bottom lip, before you're resting your elbows on the surface of the table.
"I think you want something."
Anakin watches the way your head tilts. He'd like to deck you in the forehead, watch that stupid helmet spin. Beskar coated steel, a few scorch marks that suggest that you're not as ethical as your manners would suggest, and he raises a dark brow, eyes focused like he's trying to look through the stupidly opaque visor.
"What do you think I want?" He cocks a dark brow.
And the action alone makes you shudder, your booted feet tapping a rhythm that's drowned out by the loudness of the cantina and you suck your teeth.
"You want information. You're looking for a Separatist. But that's not what you need."
Fuck, you hit it right on the nose. But the latter of your words make him stiffen, shoulders squared, back razor straight and his eyes narrow imperceptibly, a muscle twitching beneath his skin, at the curve of his jaw.
He knows he's taking a gamble by asking you this, but the words leave his mouth before his brain can tell him to shut up—
"Then what do I need?"
And oh fuck, do you feel your legs ache for shoulders they've never been on.
Because he's asking you what he needs, in that voice, with sandy coloured hair falling and framing his face, with those intense eyes locked on you like he's trying to see past your suit, and he's just...
You're hoping Padme gets struck down so you can scream dibs.
But you've read enough to know, a fancy girl always gets the super sexy bodyguard.
Your silence is deafening, an answer in of itself and you watch the dawning realization start at the tips of his ears, a ruddy flush spreading along the cartilage, down to the lobes and down the curve of his neck.
"You're disgusting."
You pause. Before gasping.
"Oh!" Your voice is high, "You're—"
"—no."
You raise your hands in mock surrender, the dim lighting reflecting off the metallic braces on your arms, and you let out a hum. "Usually, when a man rejects my advances, it's because he prefers something long and hard."
"Are you sure your personality has nothing to do with it?"
You're resting a hand over your chest, jaw slack, because that was such a good comeback. Well, not actually, but you don't have the highest hopes when it comes to Anakin.
Jedi Knights and their way of behaving with honour.
But still.
"Anakin, when did you stop liking me?"
"I have never liked you. And you tracking me like a hound, makes me like you less." Anakin hisses, gloved hand still curled around the curved wood of his drink, storm coloured eyes narrowing as he regards you with a mixture of contempt and begrudging amusement. "There's no possible reason that you and I, should be in the same place, at the same time, all the time."
You hum, leaning forward, the metal of your arm cuff reflecting the cherry of someone's cigar and your fingers, covered in reinforced materials, tap against the chin of your helm when you cradle your head.
"What if it's—"
"—don't— do not say fate—"
"—the force."
The silence is deafening, Anakin's eyes fluttered shut, long lashes resting against high cheekbones while he tries to recall why, exactly, beating you with the handle of his lightsaber, would be wrong.
"The force is just gonna keep pulling us together, until you stop playing hard to get." Your voice is conversational, easy. Like you're not propositioning the Chosen One.
Like you're not treating the Anakin Skywalker like some conquest to be won over, like some easy lay.
"Does this ever get you anywhere?" He questions. "With anyone?"
"It's getting me somewhere with you."
"It's getting you nowhere."
"It's getting me where I need to be," You lean in, close enough for Anakin to count the flecks of cobalt in his eyes, "and now I'm in your head."
The sound that escapes him is a bone deep sigh, shoulders slumping with defeat and Anakin's spreading a gloved hand across the front of your helm, pushing you back into your seat with an exhausted huff.
"This better be the last time I see you."
Your cheeks dimple behind your visor before you're bringing up a hand, tapping the ball of his nose playfully.
"We both know it's not." You hum.
And Anakin finds himself hoping, against his will, that you're right.
having your own money is fucking dangerous because the only person stopping me from buying whatever I want is myself. and myself has bad judgment sometimes
Tags: [mlw][mdni][menophilia][vampire][oral f!rec.][msub?][mean!reader][palate cleanser][drabble][not beta read][threats of violence][tw. blood][needed to get this out there because I couldn't find anything about him and I can't fathom the idea of another girl going through the same plight]
Your life is a series of "why the fuck did I do that" moments.
You've come to terms with it, your friends have come to terms with it, your family. It's just... A very solid part of you.
But you're just a girl. And you're a girl who likes to have her box munched by whoever's a willing party that looks good enough and has a clean enough tongue.
And much to your dismay, there's a very willing, very sexy, very clean looking vampire that had turned his nose up, taken a deep breath, turned his attention towards you, golden irises stretched thin around dilated pupils, fangs aching and he called you and your shedding uterine line out.
And he proceeded to consensually divert from the course of his "mission", and hauled you over one of his broad yet twinky ass shoulders, dragging you into a cobweb filled broom closet.
And normally, you wouldn't even BE outside on your period, but Integra watched you from behind silver rimmed spectacles, took a drag of that sexy cigar that you want her to Bill Clinton you with and said, with a low, husky English drawl, "You'll be bait, darling" and your knees buckled with how fast you agreed.
Because what what Daddy Integra wants, Daddy Integra gets.
And now, you're with your back against a wall, your eyes locked on the Daddy Longlegs in the corner, fat and intimidating, one of your thighs hiked over his shoulder, the heel of your boot digging into his back and your hand resting on the crown of Jan's head.
His cigar tossed, the still burning cherry casts a very small amount of light, not enough to see anything other than the way your dignity's left your body.
The cold tile has to be digging into his knees, pants stretched taut across thick, toned thighs, the bulge in the front undeniable, but you're not interested in that right now.
You're more interested in watching that fucking spider, and feeling the way his tongue drags between bloody folds, the cold ball pressed against your clit and he moans at the musky, metallic taste of your cunt, blood and slick trickling down his jaw.
And he moans, "Oh fuck—"
It's a low, gutterally slutty sound, accompanied by gloved hands grasping the backs of your thighs, fingertips sinking into the doughy flesh and he pulls his head back, and he's finding himself peering up at you with hazy eyes.
"You taste so fuckin' good," Jan shudders, the lower half of his face is a rosy mess that you can't fully appreciate because the spider might disappear and you might go home and find it in your hair, "like, really goo—"
"—shhhh, shut the fuck up," you hiss, "stop talking. You should be seen, and not heard."
Jan whimpers, a low groan rumbling in his chest and he shudders, hiking up your thigh further, watching the way your glossed folds spread.
"I'm so fucking hard right now." His head dips back down, his dextrous tongue pushing into your sopping pussy, blood soaking into his tastebuds, and it's just so... It's so much.
His mouth's so warm, and he's hot in all the right ways, and you haven't focused on your cramps at all.
You're feeling the way his tongue wriggles against your oversensitive walls, his nose bumping against your clit, his hands scaling up the backs of your thighs and he's squeezing the fleshy mounds of your ass and...
Well.
It's been a while.
And he's watching you through long lashes, those pretty fucking eyes making their own light in some sick way, and he's just so into it.
"...fuck, just like that..." You breathe out, chest heaving, head tipped back against a brick wall and you can feel the heat behind your belly button burn like an inferno. And you're like, 90% sure it's not you needing to use the bathroom.
Your fingers grasp at his beanie, tugging it off and you're tangling your fingers in those mahogany hued strands, fisting them and you're pulling him closer, a low sigh escaping you.
You watch him from beneath long, wispy lashes, watching the way his brows, perfect and arched, furrow into one of those little... Pleased frowns, his lips and tongue moving against you, careful with his fangs, so as to not scrape against your skin too hard.
Your cunt spasms, lazy clenches pushing out thick, dark rivulets of blood that he laps up with a desperation that would make him amazing at licking the texture off a fucking rock.
Perfect, pouty lips finding purchase around your clit, and he sucks, his golden lip rings are still cold, and you're coming, lashes fluttering and your jaw falling slack in a silent moan.
"Yeah, that's a good fucking girl —oh— good girl." He groans, tongue pushing past your sloppy pussy lips, nose nestled between your folds, and each low, vibrating moan that he lets out, sends those tingles up your spine that makes your knees feel a little weak.
Jan keeps tonguefucking you, elongating your messy climax until your hands are both fisting in his hair, your hips twitching and bucking, your sensitive clit bumping against his nose, slutty and soaked nymphae feeling the coolness of either of his nose piercings and you're feeling the way your brain melts, a sharp inhale being the only reason you don't drool.
And he pulls back, gilded eyes glazed over, mouth glossy and coated with blood, and his tongue laves over his bottom lip.
And you grimace at the sight. He looks... Fucking feral. Fangs glinting and you can tell that they're aching to sink into the softness of your body, and drink you dry.
Fuck.
It probably shouldn't sound so fucking erotic.
And you swallow hard, schooling your expression into something of mild annoyance.
"You look like you ate palmful's of red sauce with your hands." You grumble, chest still heaving, nipples still pebbled, pressing against the fabric of your shirt, your brain still buzzing, your cheeks hot and your thighs trembling with the aftershocks of your orgasm.
A shit-eating grim creeps onto his features and you're so fucking disturbed because in the post nut clarity, he's actually way hotter than you gave him credit for.
Almond brown skin, dark, chocolatey strands that fall effortlessly, long lashes framing golden eyes and fuck, you've always been weak for piercings. And the golden rings, decorating his features, has your cunt clenching around nothing.
A lean built body, something that shows he doesn't really work out and he has his build because he's... Just blessed? Broad shoulders, slutty waist, thick thighs but proportionately, emo boy coded. And you watch the way he picks his cigar back up, bringing it to his lips and he takes a slow drag, thin, ash grey plumes rising into the air.
"Fuck, you're so mean to me." He breathes out, a gloved hand moving to palm his bulge and he's NAWT subtle, when he's tracing his tip through the darkening fabric, "Let me eat you out again."
You purse your lips, plucking the stogie from between his lips and you keep it balanced between two, manicured fingers.
"Fine, but don't look me in the eyes." You're tangling your fingers back in his hair, nails dragging against his scalp as you pull him closer, listening to that delightful sigh when his tongue nestles between your folds.
And you melt back against the wall, taking a slow, lungful of tobacco before you blow out the puff of smoke, a content hum slipping from your lips.
"I love when my men don't talk."
"So I'm your man?" You can feel the way he smiles against those puffy lips, tongue dragging between your folds, circling your clit with ease and that tongue ring just... Does things.
"Don't make me put this fucking cigar out on you."
Tags: [mlw]🎄[mdni]🎄[somewhat established relationship]🎄[forced labour (not what you think)]🎄[prone bone]🎄[oral (f!rec.)]🎄[overstimulation]🎄[slight size kink]🎄[implied lying of height, on my part]🎄[southern accent?]🎄[pet names]🎄[scott slander]🎄[mating press]
"Don't do it, pretty."
Logan's voice is a slurred grumble, face smushed into the puffed up pillow, eyes hazy and half-lidded as he watches you drag various fruits along his claws.
Claws that you forced out of him by tossing a tomato at his knuckles, and using his reflexes against him.
"The fuck're you doin'?" Logan grumbles sleepily, shifting ever so slightly as he tries to push past his sleepy stupor and focus on the way you're making use of his claws for something so... Stupidly domestic. And he takes a breath through his nose, the scent of bananas and oranges filling the air of his room.
"How'd you even get—"
"Shhhh." You place a manicured finger over his lips, dragging your digit across his slightly chapped lips and all the way over his stubble-adorned chin, stopping at the spot where his Adam's apple bobs. "Don't ask stupid questions, James."
Early morning light filters through the cracks in the curtains, streaks of gold painting Logan in soft and warm shades, his muscles carved out in light and shadows, and an unruly head of hair nearly shrouds his face from the intrusive rays. Logan lifts his head, running a pink tongue across his lips as he watches the way you carefully gather each cubed fruit in a bowl.
"You're a weird one." He murmurs sleepily, wriggling just enough to reach his free hand towards the bowl, grabbing a tangerine segment and biting into it, enjoying the juice that bursts across his palate. And he lets out a low hum of satisfaction before shifting, his broad back pressed against the messy sheets and he makes himself comfortable before a large, rough hand pats his belly.
Muscles covered in the thinnest layer of pudge, muscular hips carved in the fat and Logan stares at you, brilliant blue pools watching you from beneath dark lashes.
"Come up 'ere. Pretty things like you shouldn't be on the floor."
Guiding you to sit down on his lower belly, thighs tucked against his sides, and Logan's hands find purchase on your thighs, muscular digits grasping and squeezing the flesh in his palms, absentmindedly opening his mouth to each fruit that you bring to his lips, his eyes still bleary as they watch you intently.
"It's Christmas morning, Logan."
You're pushing another fruit segment past his lips before you lean forward, lips pressed against the curve of his jaw, stubble rough against your lips and your hips roll against his lazily.
You can feel the thickness of him through the fabric of his worn pajama bottoms, a hardening softness that makes your nipples harden in your shirt.
"Lemme be your elf on a shelf."
The words are whispered against the skin of his neck, and you feel the way he lets out a laugh, a deep, belly laugh, as his arms, beefy and sooo strong curl around your waist, pressing you against him.
And he's so warm and soft with sleep.
"'nd what does that mean, sugar?"
Your lips curl.
"You can have me on a shelf," your tongue traces the shell of his ear, and you feel the way his cock twitches, "or I can tell Santa if you're naughty or nice. And if you're nice...." You pause, inhaling that musky scent that's a mixture of aged liquor, cologne and the smell of his skin, "you get to stuff a big piece of coal in my stocking."
Meaty hands palm the fat of your ass, massaging the globes with something bordering on reverent.
"Now, what were you actually plannin' on saying, pretty?"
You giggle. "I can smile and watch you shower."
"Fuckin' creep." His voice is a rumble. "You shower, doll?" Logan's nose prickles with the scent of soap, something sweet and faintly floral clinging to your skin, and you nod, mumbling the weakest "mhm" as you press lazy kisses over his throat.
"Now that jus' won't do, bub."
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨🎄୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
"James Logan Howlett, you fucking-" Your skin bristles. "I don't wanna cut wood!"
Your scarf's wrapped around your neck like you're ready to wage a winter war, your thermal tights are layered under another pair of thermal tights, and your ears are covered by the fuzziest muffs known to man.
You've been chopping logs for at least ten minutes. And it's uncomfortable.
You weren't made for hard labour. You were made for walking around barefoot in a house built for you, with a burly man who eats your ass.
But said burly man, is full of shit in a way that makes you contemplate beating him with one of the misshapen logs.
Logan watches you from behind frosted glass, lips curled as he brings his mug to his lips, his robe clutched tightly to his frame and he takes a slow sip. Hazel eyes focused on the way you look, gloved hands grasping the handle of an axe and he hums, lips curling into what can only be described as a devious grin.
He can see the way your pillowy lips form curses, the way your brows knit and the way your form shudders with every chilled breeze.
You raise your head, expression hardened and Logan can't help but blow hot air against the window, bringing up a calloused fingertip to trace a lopsided heart into the fogged up glass.
Your hand fists, middle finger raised in his direction.
"I hate you!" You huff, puffed air escaping your lips. "I hope you die."
"So does Scott." Logan's cheeks dimple, pearly white and pointed canines on display and you scowl.
"Scott's a fucking pussy." Your axe slams down, splitting a log in a way that would make any self-respecting lumberjack wince but all that Logan's interested in, is the sweat prickling beneath the layers of your clothing. "He's so far up Jean's ass, you'd think he's her next shit."
The bark of laughter that escapes Logan is rough, a low rumble in his chest that's barely audible, traveling on the snowy breeze as a whisper.
He's rugged. He's sexy, he's the moment. He's the kind of man your mother warns you about but she's got a starry eyed look so you take it with a pinch of salt.
Timeskip to he's got you crying in the rain because he loves you but he can't commit. So you know, he's that kind of man.
But it's okay, you can fix him.
"Can I come inside now?" You frown. "My arms are tired and 'm gross and sweaty."
"Depends," Logan takes a slow, downright obnoxious sip of his coffee, accented with just the right amount of Irish whiskey, "can I come inside?"
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨🎄୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
"Oh...— God—"
Your lashes are fluttering, back arched and you're getting fucked through the mattress.
Logan's weight keeps you anchored into place, his face tucked into the curve of your neck, and his knees dimple the mattress on either side of you, sinewy muscles bunching with each lazy thrust of those ridiculously carved hips.
Low groans leave his lips, and he brings up one of his arms, bicep bulging and forearm thick with veins, and it curls around your throat, and your thighs shake. Ass pressing against him, and your nails dig into his arm, manicured and festive, and your eyes go hazy.
The veins of his cock drag against your insides, filling and teasing crevices and spots you didn't even know were sensitive and your brain melts when the weakest little 'oh' falls from your lips.
"Yeah?" Logan's voice is rough, lips moving along the shell of your ear before he sinks his teeth into the lobe. The pain of pointed canines mixing with the burn just behind your navel.
"You take me real easy, darlin'." He breathes against your skin and your hips twitch, pushing back against him needily.
"Logan," your voice cracks, a gasp caught in your throat when you feel the way his bicep flexes against your cheek, "harder..."
His hips snap into yours and your lips part in a silent mewl, drool trickling down your raw bitten bottom lip and your nails scratch at his forearm, back arched and headboard rocking against the wall with each buck of Logan's hips.
Each thrust has the blunt, mushroom-y tip meeting the plug of your cervix, syrupy gossamers of slick and precum smearing against your oversensitive walls.
"Who's this for, huh?" His words are blunt, growled against the curve of your neck.
You babble weakly, incoherent mewls and gasps slipping from your lips, and you feel heavy balls smack against your poor, neglected clit, your folds puffy and slick and the flickering embers in your lower belly turns to a blazing pit.
"Say it," he huffs, "whose pussy?"
You whine. Tumbling headfirst into your orgasm, eyes squeezing shut, lips parting in a moan and you breathe out, "Yours— fuck, fuck, fuck— s'yours...."
Your thighs are shaking, hips jerking beneath his and you're soaking the sheets in a way that would have you embarrassed if you weren't sure that you're having an out of body experience.
Your body falls limp beneath him.
You're melted into a pliant puddle, and you're barely able to complain when he's pulling out of you, cock still soaked with your slick, a frothy ring wrapped around the base of him and he groans, flushed cheeks dimpled and his tongue swipes across his bottom lip.
"Look at that," he sighs, "you went and made a mess on me."
Logan's moving you with ease, flipping you onto your back, your thighs spread and he looks down at your slick, creamy cunt from beneath short lashes, hazel eyes darkening and he swallows.
You're so fucking pretty.
Long lashes fluttering, big doe eyes bleary as you watch the way he shifts his body, beefy biceps curling around your thighs and you watch the way his tongue drags between your folds.
Broad and textured, perfectly pressured and you're pulling your knees up, toes curling in your fuzzy socks and you watch the way his lips close around your clit.
"Hah— Logan— s'too sens—"
"You ain't too sensitive," your thighs are pushed to your chest, tits flush against your knees, and your fingers tangle in his hair, "go on— give me another."
He drags his wet muscle along your slit, stopping to flick his tongue against your clit and your jaw falls slack.
His hair's so soft.
That's the thought you're clinging to when he's coaxing you into another mind-shattering orgasm, your nails scratch against his scalp and carding through those inky tufts like they're your last string to sanity.
Your thighs are locked on place, arms bulging when he pulls you closer and you feel the way he slurps your clit, the sound lewd and filling your ears.
"Logan— Logan— I can't—"
"Yeah, you can." He groans. "I can feel it."
Your hips buck, fingers tangling in his hair and you're punted into your next orgasm with the subtly of a brick being tossed through a window.
Your legs lock, and your back arches of the mattress, but Logan's groaning against your pussy, the lower half of his face soaked and you can hear the way his hips jerk against the mattress, leaky cock questing for any sort of friction.
You're still shivering with the tremors of your orgasm when he's pushing his tip past your syrupy slick pussy lips, bracing your thighs over broad, sinewy shoulders and he fills you in one smooth thrust.
His face tucked into the curve of your throat, your nails dragging down his back in those slow, agonizing strokes and your breath hitches in your throat, the strands just above his cock tickling your clit in a way that has your expression screwing up so prettily.
"Pretty thing... Look at you." His accent's thicker. Something southern and low, a husky breath against your skin that makes your toes curl.
"Always so damn pretty for me."
You shudder. "Logan, I can't—"
His lips press against yours in something messy and possessive, but he can't hide the way he melts against you, hips stuttering just a bit when your fingers sink into the hair at his nape.
And he pulls back.
"You got another one in you, sugar." His lips curl at the edges.
Tags: [mlw]🎄[mdni]🎄[strangers to lovers?]🎄[age gap?]🎄[period sex]🎄[size difference]🎄[missionary]🎄[unprotected]🎄[oral (f!rec)]🎄[nipple sucking]🎄[glasses]🎄[can you tell I'm on my period?]🎄[tinder date-y]🎄[southern twang]
"No!"
Your voice cracks when you're peering down at the bloody gusset of your panties, red seeping into the cotton, and you slump back against the toilet lid, leaning back against the cistern of your toilet and the porcelain does little to cool the flaming rage beneath your skin.
You're not supposed to be due for another four days.
That was the plan.
But now, you've got a platter of cookies, sexy lingerie and someone's sexy dad coming to your house in less than 15 minutes.
And now....
God.
All you can really hope is that the period shits don't get you while you're batting pretty lashes and tilting your head so y/n-ily to give him a whiff of that fancy vanilla perfume.
You make quick work of cleaning yourself up, opting for something with a little more coverage than the decadent, lace that you'd opted for and you straighten up, although that heavy slump in your shoulders remains as you move around your apartment.
Straightening bowls, lighting those scented candles that always make you horny because the scent of—
Your train of thought is interrupted by the polite knock on the door, and you're nearly tripping over your own feet as you scramble, sparing yourself a glance in the mirror, mounted right beside the door.
You deep cleaned, you've been up since before noon, you cooked, you took an everything shower and you personally feel like you've never been smoother than this exact moment. Freshly moisturized, skin glowing and lips perfectly glossy, but not in the intimidating way.
Perfect.
You've worked all day for this, and you deserve to get some nookie (even if you can't get some nookie).
Your hand twists the handle.
"Clark!" Your cheeks rise with the way you smile, and you shift out of the way, trying not to moan when he thrusts a pretty bouquet into your arms.
"They're so pretty." You coo, nose brushing against silky smooth petals, vibrant hues standing out against the snowy wrapping paper.
Fuck. Why'd you sniff so close?
You swallow the sneeze.
"Your house smells just like cake." He comments before focusing on the praise at hand. "I'm glad you like 'em." That subtle drawl makes your already numb cunt clench in your panties, and you bring the blossoms back up to your nose, inhaling the admittedly saccharine scent.
"My ma helped me arrange it."
It feels like your world narrows to that exact moment, and in your mind's eye, you can see yourself dropping to your knees. Plush lips parted and wrapped around him, and you swallow, snapping yourself back to reality.
"You arranged it yourself?" You question, and God, the way those brilliant blue eyes twinkle behind his spectacles has your throat tightening and you're starting to sweat.
Profusely.
Clark nods, broad shoulders shrugging off his windbreaker and you watch the way the fabric of his shirt stretches across beefy muscle, and you're internally sobbing.
Frothing at the mouth, clawing at your cage because you've never wanted to suck the skin off someone's dick before.
"Thought it'd be more personal." He rakes thick fingers through obsidian strands, the hairs falling in that carelessly tousled way.
"Especially with... Later's plans."
You're sweating bullets. You can feel it trail down the slope of your back, and down your crack.
"Uh..." You swallow. "About that, I um... Started my period. So we can't..."
There's a silence.
Inky brows knit and for a moment, your brain supplies you with the mental image of Clark shrugging his jacket back onto those broad, claw-worthy shoulders, blue eyes darkening with distaste.
But instead, he's just got that confused puppy look about him.
A confused puppy. And you kicked it with a period.
"I've never met a woman who didn't own towels before." He murmurs, almost quietly. "But s'alright. We can still have dinner and a movie."
Clark's not stupid.
He knew you were having your period. He knew when he was still admiring your welcome mat, which wasn't so much as a welcome mat, so much as a 'Visitation Times from 12 to 3' mat.
He could hear the sound of your cramps, blood sloshing and muscles tensing and spasming rhythmically.
All it did was make him half-hard.
"I— um..." You swallow. "I have towels, Clark. Like, 9."
Your brows knit in confusion before his words dawn on you and your cunt clenches, the sound audible to Clark and he feels his knees buckle.
"You're chill with like, the blood?" You question softly.
Clark looks offended. "If you're callin' me a Nancy, you can spend your night by yourself."
Your palms are sweaty, your gaze flickering towards the lit candles, the still steaming pie, and you swallow, moving around the room with ease as you extinguish each of the candles.
Because the last thing you'd want is for your building to burn.
"What're you—" He can hear the pounding of your heart, he can hear the way you're muttering under your breath.
"We can eat later." You huff out, fingers wrapping around his thick wrist, feeling how steady his pulse is and you're salivating at the idea of making a 6 foot 6 sweat.
And you drag him up the staircase, and Clark nearly stumbles over his feet, his socks slipping against the carpet of your staircase.
"Are we—"
"Yes. Do you have condoms?"
Clark pauses, his body stilling in a way that nearly has you eating shit because how the fuck were you dragging him and all of a sudden, bro turns to a slab of steel and concrete. And he exhales heavily, eyes shut behind thick rimmed spectacles and he swallows.
"That's what I was forgetting." He breathes out. "Condoms."
Your voice is a whisper. "We can go raw?"
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Clark Kent.
Divorced dad.
Superman.
A multifaceted man that has thick, calloused fingers digging into the pudge of your thighs, his tongue swirling circles over your swollen and sensitive clit. Your manicured fingers remain tangled in obsidian strands, nails dragging against his scalp.
Clark's glasses are fogged up, cheeks smeared with the odd red streak marring perfect skin, full brows knitted and his eyes are fluttered shut.
He rests on his belly, legs kicking in that way that says he's exactly where he wants to be.
Not even in that way.
He's delighted.
Wet muscle dragging between crimson soaked folds, a mess of spit, slick and blood coating full lips and a good portion of the lower half of his face.
Clark's nose bumps against your clit when he's sticking his tongue into your cunt, textured surface dragging against already-sensitive walls, pressing against that gooey spot that no one's ever reached before and your back arches off your mattress.
Thighs pressing against his temples.
"Jus' like that— jus' like that, don't stop, don't stop—" Your voice cracks when you're diving headfirst into your orgasm, bouts of pleasure crashing against your psyche like ocean waves crashes against the jagged edges of rocks that break the water's surface.
The slurp is lewd.
He's sucking sloppy folds into his lips, tongue flat against your pulsing clit and he suckles, and your toes point, feet lifting from the bed and your thighs press against his temples, hips rocking against his face when he shakes his head, the sound so fucking nasty that you can feel your ancestors shunning you.
Like... Mulan-style.
Clark pulls away when you're trembling.
His eyes are darkened and you watch the way he wipes the excess blood from his cheeks, the sleeve of his shirt's probably stained, but before you can comment on it, and how you have wet wipes in your nightstand (you eat chips late at night), he's starting to strip.
It's not graceful whatsoever.
No... Sensual shrugging, no sexy unbuttoning.
He's fumbling with his buttons, and the frustration is evident because he's definitely the kind of guy who wears button-ups on the usual, and he tosses it to the floor.
He's unusually jacked for a reporter.
Sinewy biceps that bulge when he reaches for the edge of his undershirt, and when it comes off, your cunt squelches, slick soaking into the towel beneath you.
Abs.
Definitely abs. But not in the weird, work out for one hour every minute way.
There's a healthy layer of pudge that coats him. The evidence of a man who rolls up his sleeves when he eats, elbows on the table and takes a second helping.
And you've never wanted to be a meal so bad.
His hips carve into the fat, sculpted and sexy, and he fumbles with his belt, the tips of his ears burning redder with each second he takes.
"I— uh— I'm not usually this... Slow." He breathes out, and he discards his jeans into a heap on your floor.
The giggle that slips from his lips has your thighs shivering, your nipples pebbling and your asshole winking like it's ready to make an acquaintance.
But you let your eyes flicker downward.
And God.
He's thick in his boxers. Precum soaking into the fabric, creating a dark patch on his thigh. You can make out the ridge of his tip and you don't wanna be a starfish and just lay there, but by the time you're finding the strength to push yourself up, he's already hooked those pudgy thumbs into his waistband and...
"Wow." The word tumbles from your lips effortlessly. His cock hangs heavy between his thighs, a bead of pearly precum already gathering at his flushed tip and you watch the way he sets his underwear aside, before he's scooching closer, muscular thighs bulging and he guides your legs to part.
Wide and obscene.
Pussy to the wind, and Clark swipes his rosy tip between your folds, divot catching on the subtle swell of your clit.
Your back nearly arches but you sink your teeth into your bottom lip, long lashes fluttering and you're bringing a hand down, wrapping around the thick base of him and you watch the way the thick cords in his thighs bunch at the contact.
Clark's lips part and his eyes glaze over just a bit more behind those fogged up spectacles.
"Your hand's so warm..."
And you stroke him slow, hand tightening just a bit and you're spreading his precum over him, your eyes locked on the way his breath hitches, his jaw clenching and his brows knitting.
Clark's hips jerk into your palm and he leans forward just enough, hands bracketing either side of your head and he nearly melts into you when you guide his thick, mushroom-y tip past your puffy lips.
"You're so warm..." He breathes out, face tucking itself into the curve of your neck and he breathes in the scent of your skin.
Sweet. So, so fucking sweet.
Inch by inch, your cunt greedily swallows him. The stretch is overstimulating, your feet have left the softness of your mattress and are instead, much more comfortable on either side of his hips, kept airborne by nothing but the whore in you.
When his hips are flush against yours, the bulge just below your belly button has him dizzy, a meaty hand moving to press down over the swell, and you squirm.
Gooey walls clinging to him and Clark's voice is breathless.
"Golly..." He sighs. "You're tight."
You bring up a hand, your palm's sweaty but you're raking your fingers through his hair, starting at his nape and ending at the crown of his head, fisting your digits and you bring him down into a kiss.
It's unceremonious.
Messy, and intimate, his tongue pushing past your lips and you can taste yourself on his taste buds, and while you'd grimace a little because you know, blood, your brain's too fuzzy to focus on anything other than the way his veins drag against your walls.
His thrusts aren't fast. Or shallow.
They're the slow, deep thrusts that have his hips rolling against yours in a rhythm that's almost artistic, blunt tip grinding against your slightly dilated cervix and you're so pliable beneath him.
Thighs snug against his waist, your lips pressed against his while your fingers are tangled in silky hair, and your other hand has your nails dragging down his back.
It's a ticklish sensation, you're so warm and your cunt squeezes him so snugly, blood warm and you're so comfortable and he pulls back, saliva between you. Before he's pressing kisses to the slope of your neck.
Grinding into you lazily, the muscles in his back shifting beneath your hands and you whine into his lips.
"S'so good, Clark..." Your voice cracks, syrupy sweet mewls slipping from your lips, breaths panted against his temple and he groans.
"God, you're so pretty," he moans against your skin, "so, so pretty..."
Your heels dig into the carved muscle of his ass, your nails dragging down his back and you're shifting your hips to meet each of his thrusts.
Your eyes go bleary when he grinds into that spongy spot that has your vision clustering with stars and baby names, and you're moaning.
It's pornographic.
It's lewd and when you think it can't get worse, Clark's fingers are pushing up your knitted sweater. The sweater you insisted on keeping on because something about your armpits and shoulders being open during sex was just... Weird.
His lips wrap around a pebbled bud and your brows furrow, your cunt spasming around him and pinkish slick pools beneath your ass.
His tongue flicks, your back arches and he shifts his weight. One beefy arm curled around your waist, the muscle enough to keep your hips tilted in a way that allows him to fuck into you and hit that sweet spot with each hump of his hips.
And the other scales up your side, groping at your unattended breast, thumbing over the sensitive bud because your period turns you into a ball of erogenous zones.
"You take me so well..." He praises you. "Like you were made for it."
And Clark smiles against your skin, his voice something weak and breathy, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose and you're bringing up a hand to readjust the frame.
And those crystalline irises stretch thin around dilated pupils.
And he looks so pretty.
Blue eyes blown wide, cheeks and ears flushed with a hue that travels down his neck and his glasses slip carelessly, but you'd rather die than take them off.
His hair's messy from your fingers and you're genuinely planning your wedding when he drags his tongue up. Starting at the swell of your breast, your nipples oversensitive and glossy with spit, and he drags his tongue over your jugular vein, stopping at the hollow beneath your ear.
"You're about to have a really good Christmas, sweetheart. Real good."
Taglist: [mlw]🎄[mdni]🎄[established relationship]🎄[our turn🌼 universe]🎄[can eve do this]🎄[analingus]🎄[ass play]🎄[festive]🎄[sub!mark]🎄[oral (m!rec.)]🎄[swallowing]🎄[friends to lovers]🎄
"It's really weird that this is what you want for Christmas."
"It's weird that you'll only let me do this on Christmas."
Mark's cheeks flush, both pairs, and he shifts comfortably. Or at least, as comfortable as you can be when you're Winnie the Pooh style in one of your girlfriend's oversized Christmas sweaters.
"Dude, can you just," he shifts, knees dimpling the mattress, and a pillow remains tucked under the curve of his jaw, "like... Finish?"
"Fuck, fine." You huff, before you're tracing a manicured finger down the crease of Mark's ass, watching the way the muscles in the backs of his beefy and tensed thighs twitch.
"How does this feel?"
"Don't stick your finger in my ass."
The silence is deafening.
"Markus," You sigh, "if you don't want me to eat your ass, I won't."
Pouty lips purse in contemplation. "I— I want it, but its— you gotta admit, it's weird as fuck. And— hah— holy...shit..."
Mark's words die in his throat when he feels the way your tongue, warm and wet, drags up the seam of his sack, over the puckered hole and you pull back, a string of saliva connecting you.
"Thats— stop that shit!" He hisses when he hears the way your lips smack, eyes narrowed contemplatively, your hands resting on the fleshy and toned swells of his ass. Manicured nails dig into the muscle and you watch the way his cock twitches between his thighs.
"Why does your ass taste like hand sanitizer?"
The silence is deafening. The emptiness echoing around your room, the quiet sound of a crackling fireplace on loop on your TV, only drawing attention to the undeniably apparent truth.
"Did you sanitize your taint?" The laughter tumbles from your lips before you can stop it, your cheek resting against the curve of one of his asscheeks and your shoulders shake.
"Baby, you can't be that paranoid."
He bristles. Dextrous fingers curling into your sheets, the tips of his ears reddened and his cheeks are flushed with embarrassment.
"You're full of shit. It doesn't taste like hand sanitizer." He's lying. When you told him what you wanted for Christmas, he'd done stretches that he's never seen in non-pornographic circumstances to clean himself in a way that felt like he was preparing for something holy and sacred.
"Mark, this isn't what a taint tastes like." You snort and he glares at you over his shoulder, dark brows furrowing and puppy brown eyes narrow.
"Why the fuck do you know what a taint tastes like?"
"I'm guessing!"
You're shifting comfortably, sock covered feet kicking lazily and your hands find purchase on the backs of his thighs, nails raking down his skin and you press your lips against the curve of his ass.
And you laugh.
But it's not a regular laugh. It's low, husky, accompanied by the undeniable sound of your tongue swiping across your lips.
"Can I eat it?"
Mark groans, forehead colliding with the puffed up pillow. "I fucking hate— oh God..."
Mark's voice cracks. Your tongue swiping over that pretty, puckered hole in a way that makes his entire body seize up, muscles clenching and flexing.
Your hands spread his cheeks with ease, your tongue pressed against his perineum enough to feel the way his body twitches under the even and experimental pressure of your wet muscle.
"Does it feel okay?" You're spitting a glob of saliva into your palm, wrapping it around the base of his cock. It hands heavy between his thighs, pretty and flushed at the leaking tip, veins throbbing because this is the most intense experience he's ever had.
And he's been beaten within an inch of his life.
"Uh...huh..." Mark's voice is pitched.
Brows knitted, jaw slack and eyes glazed over as his forehead remains pressed against the pillow beneath him, drool threatening to trickle from his bottom lip because holy shit, his brain's melting.
His abs flex with each stroke of your hand, palm gliding over his engorged tip in a way that makes his hips jerk and twitch, knuckles whitening at the way he grasps his sheets.
"Don't put a—"
"I won't." You reassure, the tip of your tongue narrowly pushing into the ring of muscle. Just enough for his hips to buck, and his cock to fuck into your hand. "I'll lose a finger if you clench."
A breathless laugh slips from Mark's lips, face pressed into the pillowcase and he inhales the scent of your shampoo, the smell of your moisturizer. The essence of you that's soaked into the fibres and he melts.
The curve of his spine arching in a way that makes your nails dig into the fat of his ass, slutty and devious, his cheeks are flushed and he's drooling in a way that makes him ashamed and simultaneously thrilled.
Because who else would eat his ass as their Christmas present, other than you?
Nobody.
Literally nobody.
"Did you wanna come like this or like—"
"In your mouth." Mark sighs. Brows knitting and cock twitching in your hand, precum leaking and trickling down the length of your forearm because he might actually be in heaven.
Cock being stroked by your increasingly firm grip, the lewd shlick!shlick!shlick! of your palm gliding against his skin makes the blood in his ears rush so much faster and the way you're teasing your tongue against his perineum, making spitbubbles in a way that would usually have him clutching his shit because why the fuck do you know this?
But the pleasure becomes mind-numbing when you're dragging the bottom of your tongue down the seam of his balls, veins and blood vessels pumping against sensitive skin and you shift, settling between his thighs like some kind of fucking mechanic, your tongue curls around his mushroom-y tip, before you sigh.
Content and sweet, your long lashes fluttering when your plush, pillowy lips wrap around him, warm muscle pressed against his frenulum.
And you hum.
"Oh my G— fuck, you're gonna make—"
His hips jerk, moans slipping breathlessly from his lips and mewls are muffled by your pillow when he's spilling into your mouth.
Sweet, and warm, pearlescent spent paints the inside of your mouth and you keep sucking, your lashes fluttering, cheeks hollowing in that soft way and you keep your eyes on his face.
Or at least, on what you can see.
Spit soaked lips, twitching brows and the rosiest cheeks since.... God, since a ginger's been out in the sun.
Mark shudders. Skin prickling, and bated breaths slipping from glossy lips, and he shifts, pulling himself up just enough to hover over your chest, beefy thighs bracketing your face.
And dextrous fingers reach for the edge of the knitted Christmas sweater, tinsel uncomfortable against his skin but he's ignored it in the sense of the holiday.
Festive and all that.
You watch the way sinewy muscles flex beneath taut skin, muscles shifting with each movement and the sweater's tossed. His skin's covered in the thinnest sheen of sweat, hair just a bit damp and he peers down at you from beneath long lashes.
Puppy brown eyes darkened, lips plush and rosy, raw-bitten.
"Now it's time for my gift." His voice is low. Something akin to the feeling of having the shell of your ear licked just right.
And you swallow, before motioning towards the clock on your beside.
"It's past Christmas...."
His expression falls. All sultry magic slipping from his features and he's undeniably boyish. Lips pursed into a frown and brows knitted.
Sprawled across a king-size bed, legs parted, supple stomach exposed to the warm air of your apartment, and your jaw slack. Drool's dried against your cheek, your eyes nearly rolled back in your head and your bonnet exposing an amount of your forehead that makes it look bigger than it usually is.
You're exhausted.
A day of running around to find a suitable gift for the world's sweetest and most agreeable toddler isn't the easiest thing. But Winnie asks for so little, and well, you're wrapped around those chubby, sticky fingers.
You're in that peaceful, dead to the world state when the feel of a wet cookie being pushed into your agape mouth shatters your peace, squishy knuckles knocking against your molars and your teeth nearly clamp down, your eyes shooting open, and you watch Winnie giggle with rosy, flour-dusted cheeks.
Short, pearly teeth peeking from pink gums and you melt back against the pillow.
"Did mommy like the cookie, Pooh?" Rex looks like he's been up for hours. Deep hued apricot strands pulled back half-heartedly, strands curling against the nape of his neck, a tacky 'Slip the Cook a 5' apron tied at the small of his back, sunkissed skin catching the golden light of the hallway, lining his flesh in shadows and heavenly glow.
"Uh huh!" Winnie chirps, and she's pulling the cookie out of your mouth, bringing it to her own mouth and she sucks on one of the corners, eyes thoughtless as she looks between her half-asleep mother and eternally cocky father.
The cookie's still glossy with spittle when it nudges at your bottom lip, it's soft and you feel like it's gone back to being cookie dough and it takes so much to not recoil. Your lashes flutter shut, and the scream dies in your throat.
But you're saved.
Rex moves across the room, socks quiet against plush carpet and he scoops Winnie up with ease, neck craning when she tries to forcefeed him the cookie of horror.
"No, no—" Rex doesn't pull a face when she shoves it into his mouth, but you watch the way juniper hues glaze over, and you stifle your laughter, rubbing your hands over your face to get rid of the last bit of sleepiness, before you exhale.
"Okay, let's... Get to the kitchen while Daddy—"
"Cries." Rex supplies quietly, pinched fingers reaching into his mouth and pulling a hair from his tongue, and the silence is deafening.
"...whose fucking hair is this?"
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Your teeth sink into your bottom lip when you watch the way Winnie climbs Rex like some kind of hunky jungle gym.
Biceps flexing under her weight when she hangs from his arm, chubby fingers clasped tightly, the yellow beads around Rex's wrist clacking in the softest sounds as he continues using his free hand to cut various, Christmas-y shapes out of dough.
"You not gonna help?"
"Nope." You feed yourself another spoonful of ice cream, the frosty sweetness soothing your parched throat but not in the way you want. "Daddy Daughter time."
You watch muscles shift beneath his T-shirt, his back moving like tectonic plates shifting into place and you're gaslighting yourself into believing that your upper thighs are just freakishly sweaty.
Because nothing is worse for your ego, than being turned on by a man as ran through as Rex Sloan.
You would much rather eat a denim jacket. Buttons included.
Winnie babbles. "Dlickwee!" Chubby, sock covered feet kick at Rex's flank when she rocks herself back and forward, and you're sweating behind your knees at the way he shifts.
Arm moving like some contortionist super daddy and she's tucked under his armpit like a 13kg football with teeth and she giggles, feet kicking excitedly and you feel yourself melt.
"Gypsy Rose looking fucker."
The melting leaves you instantaneously and all you wanna do, is throw the nearest ceramic at Rex's fat fucking head.
"My baby doesn't look like Gypsy Rose, you dildo." You defend, brows knitting and lips pursing.
"Winnie barely has teeth." Rex counters. "Like Gypsy."
"Gypsy has a mouth full of teeth."
Rex barks out a laugh. "I call bullshit."
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"Huh." Rex's eyes are trained on the picture on your screen, plush lips pursing in contemplation. Winnie's half-asleep in his arms, cradled like a newborn against beefy biceps and veiny forearms. "Then why—"
"Shhhh," you're placing a manicured finger over his lips, "you'll get cancelled if you say what you wanna say."
The silence is deafening.
And you're swiping your digit across his lips, tracing over his cupid's bow in a way that should seem sexy, but is so... Criminally unsexy because you've got that dead, fish-eyed stare and it....
It's kinda working for him.
"What's.... happening right now?" Rex's eyes narrow contemplatively, biceps bulging as he shifts Winnie. Her jaw slack, and drool trickling down her cheek, long lashes fluttering, with a tiny hand fisted in the fabric of his T-shirt.
"Like, I'm into it but—"
"Go put Winnie down."
Your voice is quiet in a way that makes his skin prickle. His tongue swipes across his teeth, coming to a stop at a pointed edge before he hums.
"Yes, ma'am."
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Your hand's clamped over your mouth, toes pointed and your thighs bracketing Rex's head.
His tongue traces over puffy folds, eyes glazed over and half-lidded when his hands come up to cradle your thighs, guiding them onto his broad shoulders, and he sighs.
Sucking your clit into his mouth and your legs shake.
You need to be quiet.
That's all you can focus on, or try to focus on. Because you need at least 40 minutes to get through a half-assed round and you've never needed anything more.
Your fingers rake through gingery strands, manicured nails scratching and dragging against his scalp and your tummy dips inward when his tongue flicks in the way you like.
Rex laps at your cunt lazily. Not in a way that makes you think he's waiting for his turn, but in the way that makes you feel like he could do it all night.
The wet muscle drags over your swollen bundle, flat and warm, and so perfectly pressured that you're feeling your pussy spasm around nothing, clenching weakly and leaking slick that catches the light just right.
"Oh god—" Your voice cracks, lashes fluttering and eyes already damp.
"...put it —fuck, right there— in..." Your voice cracks, and your hips twitch against his face.
You've been aching for weeks. Schedules aren't aligning like they should and when they do, you both direct your time towards Winnie.
Because her having good memories is more important than an earth shattering orgasm.
"Whatever you want." Rex breathes out, straightening himself just enough to free his cock from the confines of his boxers, and his swollen tip drags between sloppy folds.
Tapping against your already sensitive clit and he leans forward, face tucking itself into the curve of your neck and he whines when he pushes past your puffy lips, and your cunt sucks him in greedily.
Your fingers sink into the hair at the nape of his neck, fisting the strands as you sink your teeth into your bottom lip, eager to swallow any sound down.
The kitchen counter's cool beneath you, a platter of cookies still cooling, waiting to be stuffed into a container, a half eaten spoonful of cookie dough that you'd abandoned when Rex told you to get on the counter.
"You're so sexy." He breathes against your pulse, tongue laving over sensitive flesh as he pulls his ridiculously carved hips back, veins dragging against your sensitive and gummy walls, before he pushes back into you.
Smearing translucent precum against your insides as he does, and Rex is slow. Savouring every fucking inch of your cunt while he can.
And he pulls his face away from your neck, cheeks flushed and God, he's so pretty.
Long lashes fluttering with each stroke, imposing form blocking out the overhead kitchen light that'd definitely be giving you a headache if you were staring into it for too long and plush lips, curled inward to muffle the moans. His brows knit, a muscle in his jaw ticks and Rex brings up a hand to push your sweater up, all the way to your chin.
And he leans forward.
You watch the way pretty lips wrap around a pert bud, and your head tips back. You're pushed up onto your elbows, thighs wrapped around his waist with one hand grasping the back of his head.
"God, I've missed your tits." Rex breathes out, his tongue tracing a circle around your nipple and your hips twitch. Cunt clenching around him and you watch the way his eyes glaze just a bit more.
"So pretty."
Rex lavishes the slowest and messiest kisses over your chest, suckling and dragging his tongue over your buds until your eyes are watery and your bottom lip is bitten raw.
His abs flex with each buck of his hips, and your sock-covered heels press into his lower back. You can feel the way his mushroom-y tip drags against that spongy spot and your vision begins to become clustered with stars.
"baby.... g—hah— go harder." You breathe out, eyes hazy and cheeks hot.
Your knees are pinned on the outer sides of your shoulders. You're not this flexible. Or at least, not according to your own knowledge.
But you're so fucking malleable when it comes to Rex that you take it in stride, and he kisses you. Hard.
Tongue pushing past your lips, dragging against your palate and he smiles into the kiss. And it's something cocky, something you'd prod at but he's fucking into you, ramming into that spot like you owe him fucking money.
And you moan into Rex's mouth.
Your hands moving under his shirt, and your nails dig into his back, dragging and leaving streaks down the shifting muscles and you're panting like you ran a mile even though you wouldn't be caught dead on a race track.
"Who's is it?" He groans against your lips, a hand cradling the curve of your jaw as he pulls his face just a bit further from yours, eyes locked on yours.
And it feels so intimate.
"Whose pussy is it?"
"...y—yours." You whine.
He bucks into you, the neatest happy trail you've ever seen grinds against your clit in the most tantalizing way and your brows knit, jaw slack and head tipping back. And Rex smacks his palm over your mouth when you crash head first into your orgasm.
Pleasure crashes over you in waves.
Each wave making your body twitch, cunt spasming and clenching, sucking Rex deeper until you're drenching the front of his thighs and he moans.
"That's it..." He groans. "That's my pretty fucking girl." A hand comes up to cradle your face, fingers press into the chub of your cheeks and he presses his thumb against your tongue, coaxing out the wet muscle before he spits into your mouth.
It tastes like cookie dough and your brain lags for a hot minute before ultimately deciding to just... Stop.
He pulls back and you get to watch the way his shirt clings to his sweat-slickened skin, your thighs still spread obscenely wide and you watch with bleary eyes the way he spits at your cunt. Saliva trickling down your slippery folds and he drags each inch out of you, slow in a way that makes your skin crawl.
In a good way.
"Play with your pussy." Rex whispers softly. His voice is quiet in the dimmed kitchen, a low husk sending shivers up your spine and you're bringing down your fingers, circling your clit in a way that makes your body go slack.
Head tipping back and he pushes back into you, smearing a thick glob of precum against your cervix.
"No, baby." A veiny hand wraps around the back of your neck, pulling you back up and he forces you to look him in the eyes.
And you watch the way emerald irises stretch thin around dilated pupils.
"I want you to watch." His voice makes your cunt spasm. "I want you to watch the way your man fucks you."
There's something about the way he says it. Your man. It brings you just a bit closer to coherence and there's a hefty in his voice that says he's not just meaning "boyfriend" anymore.
Tags: [mlw]🎄[mdni]🎄[potential for a part 2]🎄[ass play]🎄[analingus]🎄[eating from the back]🎄[denied orgasm]🎄[anal fingering]🎄[anonymous sex]🎄[semi-public]🎄
You don't know what you're supposed to be doing at a strip club.
Well. You do.
But the music's kinda shitty, flaccid dicks look like molemen and you'd much rather not be overstimulated by flashes of red, white and green, with some variation of Santa shoving his sack against your forehead in lazy thrusts.
So, instead, you do what any normal person would do.
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨🎄୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
"And then," You huff out a sigh, plush lips pursing into a scowl, "my boss tells me like, 'you need to put in 150% because you can't expect everyone in the team to give their all because people have responsibilities'. Like I don't?"
You've been ranting to some unfortunate soul, barely paying attention to his face because all you really need to do, is release the tension that's been making your back ache every morning and keeping you up till 3. You've sunken into the Santa chair you're supposed to be getting a lap dance in, soft suede tickling the backs of your arms because your coat's tossed somewhere, and so is your cardigan.
"Wow, that's crazy." Toji mumbles half-heartedly, manspread in the seat across you, oiled up biceps bulging when he crosses his arms over his broad, exposed chest, seasonal shorts stretched taut across beefy thighs that you'd definitely be drooling over if you weren't just denied the promotion you've been working your ass off all year for.
"And it goes to some bald headed bitch, with big ass eyes, and she barely even— she doesn't even come up to my fucking tits. She's so," your voice takes on a sweet, almost naive tone, "so dainty, and delicate." Your expression falls.
"Everyone can tell she's fucking the CEO. She's always in his office, working on 'special assignments'." And you scoff. "What kind of special assignments gives you hickeys that you didn't come in with?"
You pause.
"Toji," your hands clap in front of his face, and he snaps out of his reverie, long lashes fluttering as he blinks the sleep out of his eyes.
"Huh? What? I'm sorry, I zoned out." He clears his throat. "She's a slut." He hopes for the best. He hasn't been paying attention for the past ten minutes, and he's hoping you were shit talking a coworker.
You suck your teeth. "I wouldn't go that far, but she's making everyone else pick up her slack." You cross your legs over one another and Toji's eyes flicker down to where pantyhose clad thighs brush against one another and he swallows.
"Do you know what else happened?" You shift in your seat, just a bit more comfortable. "The building had a power outage, and she immediately grabbed the CEO's arm, and she like, whispered that she's scared of the dark. You know what he does? He deadass looks at our head of HR."
You pause, Toji stares.
And it takes a few seconds for the words to sink into his sleep-addled brain, before he curls his lips inward, dimples deepening in his cheeks.
He doesn't wanna laugh.
"That's mad fucked up."
Toji brings up a hand, raking it through those inky strands, but they just fall back into place, just as messy, strands falling over perfect brows, and he shifts in his seat.
"But listen gorgeous," he exhales, "with all due respect, —which is a lot, because I saw your wallet— I do not give a shit about any of these people. And you shouldn't either."
You hum softly, plush and pouty lips pursing in contemplation and Toji feels his cock twitch at the way your bottom lip juts out just a bit.
He's been at half-mast since you stepped into the club, wide eyed, with tension buzzing under your skin like electricity and he'd leapt at the opportunity to be your dancer. But the only dance he seems to be doing, is navigating through your array of emotions.
"What do you think I should do?" Your voice is soft, genuine and something twists in his beefy chest.
Toji pauses, canines worrying at his plump bottom lip for a moment before he pushes himself out of his seat. "How cool are you with ass play?"
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Your lips form the prettiest 'o' shape when Toji's hands grasp the back of your thighs, warm spit trickling over your furled hole. Your knees dimple the suede cushion of the Santa chair, cheek smushed against the ornate chest rail and your hands grasp at the golden ears of the armchair.
Toji's tongue is flexible.
That's the first thing you notice when it drags up between your puffy lips, pressing just right against your clit before he moves through your sloppy folds and all the way up until he's circling your asshole.
His hands are calloused when they spread the fleshy mounds, your skirt pushed up to your hips and pantyhose tugged down to your knees.
You feel like a whore.
You probably are.
But the thought bleeds out of your brain when the tip of the wet muscle prods, spit slicked and lewd and your teeth sink into your bottom lip.
"You want me to play with your pretty pussy, baby?" His voice is rough, one of his hands moving to your inner thigh, and you can feel the way a rough finger pad ghosts over where you want him the most.
Your voice cracks, your cheeks are aflame and you're praying to God that you don't sweat. "I want you to play with my pussy, Toji..."
Your eyes roll back into your head when a calloused thumb presses snugly against your clit, rubbing the slowest circles between sloppy folds and you mewl when his tongue's pushed past that tight ring of muscle.
It's sloppy, and slippery.
Spit trickling down between your cheeks, your jaw slackens and you can feel the way Toji tonguefucks you. And it's so nasty.
The heat burns just behind your navel. It's so much and ultimately, not enough.
You never thought you'd let anyone near your backdoor. But you had shoved a rolled up wad of singles into the nearest stripper's hands, so... You know, "never" is a suggestion at this point in your life.
"Toji, I—..." The words die in your throat when he pulls away, his free hand pushing a thick, meaty finger into your ass, feeling the way each knuckle has your hips twitching aimlessly.
"Ooooh," he croons, "s'tight here." His tongue swipes over his bottom lip and he presses his lips against the curve of your ass, soft, lazy kisses that have your skin breaking out in goosebumps.
"No one's ever fucked you here, have they." It's not really a question. It's an observation.
Simply based off how fucked out and tight you are, your body tensing rhythmically.
"N— no...." You whine, when a second finger pushes into you and he fucks you slow.
Knuckles dragging against sensitive flesh, tongue flicking against your perineum and your brain begins to fuzz. And suddenly, you can't even remember what you were thinking about.
All you can focus on, is the heat blooming beneath your skin and the way your blood begins to rush in your ears.
But Toji pulls back, pulls out his fingers and he sucks them clean. You watch through bleary eyes as his tongue laves over thick digits, tracing over the knuckles and he hums.
"You know, sweet girl like you shouldn't come from ass play alone."
Your brows knit, cheeks still flushed and brain hazy. You have sweat and spit in crevices where you forbade yourself from sweating and now.... "Bitch, what...?"
A huff of laughter slips from his lips, and his tongue prods at that scar. So small yet so, so sexy.
"Lucky, for you, I know a Santa who loves cookies."
Juniper hues flicker towards the opaque curtain, and you follow his gaze, eyes locked on the way inked fingers push the curtain aside.
Thick bands of ink, broad shoulders, and salmon hued hair that would have you cooing if it wasn't on the head of a 6 foot something man, with biceps bigger than your head and a scowl that looks so natural, you'd think he was born with it.
Tags: [mlw][mdni][established relationship][teasing][lil bit of begging][handjob][subby!wally][desperate!wally]
🌺⊱ wc. 1019⊰🌺 apparently. Personally, it doesn't look like it OR feel like it but my writing app says it is? I would've made it extra slutty but like... I was supposed to keep it 500 to 700.
You exhale heavily.
"Wally—"
"One for the road, please." Wally shuffles toward you, emerald hues peeking up at you through long lashes, freckled cheeks flushed and plush lips parted to let out the sweetest huffs of petulance, need and frustration.
Your stirring ceases, eyes half-lidded and bleary with sleep. The sun's barely peeking over the horizon, steely blue light filtering through nearly opaque clouds, the soft twinkling of mid-november snow tumbling towards the still-damp pavements and roads. The kitchen blinds are cracked, and you're lifting your mug to your lips.
Taking a slow sip.
It's been exactly 3 days since the start of November and since Wally had stupidly brought up No Nut November, alongside the notion that you wouldn't be able to last.
And that just didn't sit right with you.
The mere idea to losing to a man who gets hard whenever you play with his ears, is... Insulting.
"No." The word falls from your lips effortlessly. Your feet soft as they pad against the cool linoleum, fuzzy socks sliding down your ankles from years of wear, and you're sinking into one of the cozy sofas. Tugging a quilt up and over the smooth expanse of your thighs.
And you focus on the TV screen, although, the wincing that follows you doesn't fall on deaf ears. The quiet huffing, coupled with pathetic snifflings and shuddered sighs.
And Wally's rounding the sofa with slumped shoulders, muscled arms limp at his sides and you watch the way his fingers flex, twitching with the ache to touch you.
Preferably sexually, but he can't even trust himself to touch your shoulder.
The smooth curve, exposed by where your sweater's drooped, neckline wide and knitted fabric pooling at your hips and you're leaning forward, setting down your mug atop the coffee table, right on the coaster. And you sigh.
"You really wanna lose the bet we have going?" The corners of your mouth tilt upwards because you can't even pretend to be upset.
"What bet?" Strawberry brows furrow into a frown and he sinks into the seat beside you, broad shoulders brushing against yours and it's like a shiver's sent down his spine.
"The one you agreed to when you were entirely conscious and awake." Your cheeks rise into a grin. You remember the night well.
You were stewing.
"Baby, baby," you're shaking Wally, gently jostling him just enough for his lashes to flutter open, "if I last longer than you, do I own your dignity?"
A snort of sleepy laughter tumbles from his lips. "Sure." It's just a little condescending. Not enough to be arrogant, but enough to guarantee that him folding with leave emotional damage. "If. You last longer than me."
"I don't remember that..."
"Yeah, that's what losers usually say." You dismiss him. "So...?" You trail off, almost expectantly and he exhales, nodding his head.
"I'll be okay with losing." The words taste bitter in his mouth but it's better a bitter taste than the dryness that comes with watching the curve of your neck when you're stretching out a crick, the way your jugular bobs when you swallow.
God.
Precum's painting the inside of his boxers. "Just touch me..."
⋅ ⋅──⊱ ⋆🌺⋆ ⊰──⋅ ⋅
"Oooh, s'so pretty." You coo. "Wally, look!"
His cock throbs, the elastic waistband pushed below heavy and swollen balls, pent up and his hips are twitching with each lazy flick of your wrist. Your bracelet jingles, and you watch the way veins pulse beneath flushed skin, his hand grasping your thigh and fingers sink into the doughy flesh.
"Wally," Your strokes pause, slowing to something barely perceptible if it wasn't for the way your grip tightens when you get to the flushed tip, beads of precum rolling between your knuckles, "are you looking?"
"Uh huh," he's breathless, "m'looking..."
He is definitely not looking. Juniper gaze remains squeezed shut, long lashes fluttering and teeth sink into his plump bottom lip because if he's gonna be goaded all the way until he comes, he'll deprive you of those sweet, whiny noises that pour from his lips like liquid honey.
His cheeks burn, his ears are tinged and ringing, the only sound that manages to penetrate them is the sloppy shlick!shlick!shlick! of your palm as you stroke him.
There's a rotation in your wrist.
It's something new and fun and so exciting that it makes his abs flex with each shuddering inhale and your teeth sink into your bottom lip, muffling a throaty groan.
This is like crack.
Your thumb swipes along the leaking divot at his tip, and carved hips twitch, strawberry hued locks tousled with and falling over his forehead in mischievous strands, and his head tips back.
His heart's pounding in his chest and a mewl cracks in his throat when he feels the way you shift, knee bumping against his thigh and both hands wrap around him.
His eyes peek open just enough to watch a glob of saliva drip from your pretty, pouty lips, and plop down onto the tip of his cock.
"Oh my Go—" Wally whines, the muscles of thickly corded thighs tensing, "jus' like that, baby."
Your wrists twist in tandem, slow and spreading the slick mixture of your spit and his precum over pulsing veins and heated flesh. His tummy burns. Heat unspooling behind his navel like something mystical, toes curling in Superman socks and he watches you.
Not your hands but your face. Your body language.
The way your eyebrows screw up in contemplation, the corners of your mouth twitching into a grin that he's definitely not supposed to be seeing and the way your thighs press together makes his brain all the more fuzzy.
And Wally's voice cracks.
"Baby," His tongue darts out to wet his lips and he feels the way an inferno blazes to life when you let out that sweet little hum, your hands stroking him, your grip firm and tightening just a bit when you get to the tip, "can you- can I-"
You lift your gaze to meet his and those pretty, leafy pools are dilated and teary.
It makes me sad when someone makes Wally "dumb" in their stories... Isn't he like an engineer? He knows physics and can solve mechanical issues. C'mon guys, give me more nerd! wally west 😭
