ྀི🍒—pookie—🍒ྀྀི

The laughter slips out of you in a snort, warmth taking over your features in a way that has his gaze flickering over your face, taking in how the apples of your cheeks rise and the way gleam lights up your face. Fuck, you're gorgeous.

The corners of your eyes crinkle when you smile, those lines at the sides of your mouth deepen and you look like a ray of sunshine in dreary London.

"I'm not taking that from a man who has camel toe."

And the thought that you're beautiful, gets stuffed to the back of his head because you're a fucking pain. You never keep your mouth shut enough for him to appreciate you.

"Fuck off," he's patting at his pockets before letting out an exhausted exhale, "light?"

You're fishing in the front of your apron before you're handing it to him. Sleek silver, still full of gas, and you watch with keen eyes as John lights his cigarette, the cherry burning a vibrant red and his eyes flutter shut when he takes the first drag. Keeping the smoke in his lungs for a short stretch before the smoke leaves his nose in two plumes.

Watching him smoke has always been the sexiest thing to you.

The way he seems to melt under the effects of tobacco, how the tension bleeds out of his features and he actually looks his age instead of like a man who's already decided life is a shitshow.

"When's your shift ending, love?" He's sliding the lighter into his back pocket, peering down at you from beneath long, black lashes, eyeliner still artfully smudged.

"My condolences."

A voice tugs John out of his daydream, and he's peering towards, an honest to God, candyman.

Red and white striped apron, a vibrant red bow tie clipped to the collar of his shirt and he looks... Weathered. Expression soft and mourning, eyes flickering towards the patch of soil, moist and fertile like a rototiller just came through.

John's brows knit.

"Same to you." He exhales a puff of smoke, fingers absentmindedly flicking ash onto the ground below his already mud-caked boots. "How'd you know her?"

"She came to my store every day, for a decade." The man explains, eyes downcast, crow's feet at the corners and jowls just a bit droopy.

"I'm surprised it wasn't diabetes."

"I look forward to when you don't have teeth." John hears the sound of you slipping another candy past your lips, the wrapper crinkling before you're leaning across him, tossing the plastic into his ashtray. "Maybe you'd stop chewing on my cock."

You gasp. Scandalized. "I've never used my teeth!"

The covers shift around the both of you, plumes of smoke filtering into the air from the end of his cigarette, his back braced against your puffed up pillows, one arm tossed over his eyes to block out the silvery morning sunlight.

"You always use your teeth." He grunts. "Like an old woman gumming a fuckin’ carrot."

"Maybe I'll stop gumming your carrot." Your eyes narrow, fingers curling around his forearm, thumb swiping across raised skin that you don't ask too many questions about, and you're prying away his limb, forcing him to face you head-on.

"I'll kill you and me." Those piercing blue eyes watch you from beneath pretty lashes, eyes half-lidded, eyeliner smudged worse than before, and you're reaching up, cleaning the crust of him inner corners before your lips press against the sharp line of his jaw, laughter bubbling in your chest before you pull back.

"You hungry?"

He hums, blowing out one last puff of smoke into the air before he responds, "I can eat." Before he's stubbing out his cigarette without fanfare, and dipping his body beneath the covers.

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John's always been good at eating pussy.

You don't know why, but something about the way he looks, just has you melting back against puffed up pillows. He has one arm snaked around your thigh, ringed fingers parting plush pussy lips while his tongue drags between your sodden folds. His lashes are lowered, the covers are kicked off and you can watch each stroke of his wet muscle as he takes you apart, piece by piece.

"Mm..." Your hips shift against the mattress, the sheet beneath you soaking slowly with the dripping slick of your cunt, mixed with his warm saliva, because he's just so messy. Your fingers remain tangled in those fair strands, tufts poking between your fingers and your head falls back against your pillow. "That's so good..."

John hums, and he's all you're hearing when you're both soaked in the cool-toned sunlight, his hair a pretty platinum in the rays that peek through your parted curtains and the muscles of his back and biceps shift beneath his skin each time your hips move and twitch upwards.

He's all you can hear. All you can feel.

Everything seems so quiet, the humdrum of the outside world has been snuffed out so that you can hear each sound he makes. The low, barely audible groans that escape him at the taste of your cunt, the friction of his hips against the sheet because sometimes, John just can't help but fuck the mattress when you've got your pussy in his face and the slow, messy click when he pulls back, parting rosy folds to spit.

He gives you one of those lopsided grins, eyes locked on you.

"You're fuckin’ messy, aren't you?" He teases. "Dirty, dirty." His palm collides with your pussy, messy little slaps that make your hips twitch upwards, tummy dipping inward just a bit more at the contact.

John's slipping his digits lower, his middle and ring finger circling your clit messily, watching the way your throat bobs, sensitive skin still covered with hickeys and bites from earlier, the pretty necklace on your neck catching the light.

It's the most romantic thing he's ever bought.

A heart shaped locket, the metal of it complimenting your skin tone, and he watches the way it slips towards your throat when your back arches, plush lips parting in a silent moan.

And John's head dips back down, his tongue out and your thighs trembles on his shoulder, your toes curling in your socks when you feel the metallic ball in his mouth glide along your slick folds, and the mewl you let out when he's sucking your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking expertly until you're digging your nails into his scalp.

Both hands finding purchase in his hair, fisting the strands and your hips arch.

And he lets you.

John's letting you buck against his face, tongue meeting you with each sloppy lap, your clit grinding against that piercing, his free hand slipping up the dip of your waist, hand sliding upwards until he's palming one of your tits greedily through the fabric of your shirt. His shirt, actually.

Worn thin and frayed at the edges, slipping in all the right places, and he thumbs at your nipple through the fabric, callouses on the pudgy digit from practicing without a pick, and your hips twitch.

"Come on my face, love." He hums, vibrations sending tingles up your arched spine. "Give it to me, give— that's it..."

He feels your thighs do that painfully familiar tremble before you're letting out a breathless whine of his name and you're coming, his tongue curling against your clit, lapping and dragging sloppily, slick trickling down your perineum, but he catches the droplets before they drip lower.

He's pursing those pretty lips around your clit with a sloppy kiss before he pulls back, that hand leaving your cunt with a slow stroke along your thigh, the other leaving your chest.

John's lips are rosy in the way of being kiss swollen, and he's hooking his thumb into the waistband of his boxers, tugging them low, just enough to free his cock.

Thick, flushed and leaking at the tip, pearly precum dripping down the ridge of him, and traveling between those pretty, silver balls at the underside of him. And his hand wraps around his base, before he's tapping that pretty crown against your sodden folds, just to watch you twitch.

And John's tongue clicks.

"You know, love," Dimples deepen in his cheeks, "I don't reckon you can take me."

He keeps giving you those agonizing taps, watching the way your breaths stutter each time, your nipples pebbled beneath the fabric, your thighs tossed over his sculpted quads, and your cunt fluttering around nothing.

And you exhale. "Johnny..."

You're so pretty when you're beneath him. It's a sight he can't ever get tired of. Your body melted and pliant, lashes fluttering and eyes half-lidded, your face warm and your bottom lip raw from the way your teeth sunk into the flesh.

He's dying to fuck you.

He's been dying to fuck to fuck you since he woke up with his face tucked into the curve of your neck, with your thigh hooked protectively around him and your arms wrapped around him.

"Say my name again, sweetheart." John exhales, before he's shifting closer, cock sliding between your pretty nymphae, silver studs dragging across where you're most sensitive, his hands moving to rest on the curve of your waist.

"Say ‘Johnny, please’." He coos. "Beg me to fuck you."

His hips keep shifting. Grinding slowly against you, feeling the way your pussy twitches, veins and piercings sliding between your puffy lips, and he's leaning forward, lips ghosting over yours, his forehead resting against yours.

"Ask me nicely."

John's reaching into the breast pocket of his coat, pulling out his flask, and he's unscrewing the top, raising it to his lips and he takes a swig, feeling the burn of whiskey as it goes down. His throat bobbing as he swallows and he takes another drag of his cigarette.

His eyes still lowered.

You did ask.

You begged so pretty that when he slipped his cock into you, feeling the way your walls sucked him in so greedily, he came like a fucking virgin.

He remembers the way the embarrassment burnt the tips of his ears, the way he couldn't meet your eyes because you'd laugh and he'd laugh and John couldn't have it on his conscience that someone loved him enough to make an ego-crushing moment insignificant.

He thinks back to the way you pushed yourself up just enough, your fingers moving to the nape of his neck and you pulled him down onto a kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue while your hand fisted his scalp.

And he just knew that everything would be perfect.

And John swallows hard. The lump in his throat makes it hard to breathe.

"Why the fuck d'you make me do your tarot, you stupid shit."

John's fingers shuffle the deck, the edges of the cards worn from handling, rings glint and the piercings in his ear catch the warming sunlight of the progressing morning. The sound of traffic brings you both back to reality but not enough to leave the warmth of your bed.

"Can you do card tricks?" You question, your voice low, your elbow dimpling the mattress with the way you're propping yourself up, the curve of your waist dipping in that sexy way that makes him wanna put the deck down.

"I look like fuckin' Houdini to you?" He grunts.

"I'll punch you in the stomach like Houdini." You threaten. "Quickshot."

"Fuck you." The first card tumbles to the surface of the covers, cardstock paper fluttering like dread in the form of a feather and those brilliant blue eyes flicker.

Death.

John swallows.

"Which card is that?" You lean forward to pick but ultimately, John's covering your eyes.

"S'bad luck to look at the reader's deck." He lies, and he's shuffling the deck again, clearing his throat as he does, inhaling sharply through his nose.

Another tumble.

Ten of Swords.

His brows crease. The arch of them deepening when he lifts the card to view, inspecting it like there's something wrong with it before his eyes flicker towards you.

Those doe eyes soft when you're waiting for your reading, plush lips still kiss swollen and glossy, that pendant taunting him.

"What does it say?" You question.

"Nah," John shakes his head, "it's a shit deck, saying you'll catch Hep C."

John tosses the cards aside, before he's pulling you closer, lips pressing against the curve of your jaw, soft and lingering when he sucks a mark into your skin, "I love you."

You let out a breathy hum of laughter before you're pulling back, hands moving to cradle his face, thumbs swiping across the skin beneath his eyes. "That's a little sudden? I love you too."

"I never tell you enough."

A lifetime of it, wouldn't have been enough.

John's flicking his cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath the sole of his boot and he's feeling that familiar twinge in his chest. That persistent ache that just refuses to be drowned out, and he's chewing on the inside of his cheek, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

He walked away from you two months after that perfect morning. Thinking it'd save you from the inevitable curse that is, John Constantine.

That's the last memory he has of you. Everything after coming prematurely has been erased from his mind, because when John thinks of you, he'd prefer that perfect moment in time being untouched by everything he is.

He wishes things felt that way forever.

You're peeking into the bag, catching a glimpse of a toasted sandwich, the scent of it warming your senses before you exhale heavily, slumping back in your seat, plush lips pressed into a thin line and you're looking between the two of them.

Barry, attentive with those big blue eyes focused on you, a dimpled smile on his face, and canines peeking when the grin widens the longer you look at him. Hal still eating your sandwich, sauce on the corners of his mouth, entirely unattractive and you can imagine that dead eyed, leafy stare locked on you from behind his mask.

"It gets gay when it turns into gay sex, instead of threesome sex." You hum. "Like... When the girl becomes a cuck, it's gay."

This isn't a question you wanna answer on a Monday. When the Sun's warming your skin in a way that feels personal, the sky's a pretty shade of blue outside the floor to ceiling windows of the Hall of Justice canteen, and the smell of Summer's in the air.

"So," Hal sets down your sandwich, and he clicks his tongue like he's trying to wedge something that's mostly chewed out from behind his teeth, "I saved you a piece. You wanna have a threesome?"

Your eyes flicker towards the piece.

It's a corner. A dry ass corner with nothing but the ambiance of flavour.

The sound of Hal sucking his teeth, his jowls working and the sound of his open-mouthed chewing.... It's... Repulsive. It's something that makes your nipples invert and your vagina take a hiatus.

"Finding a girl to participate, so that the two of you can have sex, is gay." You respond. "It's actually way more gay than if you were to straight up have sex with each other. Because now you're looking for a token girl."

The silence is thick in the air. Birds chirping outside the windows, a breeze rustling the flag outside the building and you can watch the way the cogs turn as they mull over your words.

"So... Is that a no?" Barry questions, reaching up one hand to tug his cowl back, messy blonde hair falling across his forehead, just a bit damp from sweat, peering down at you from beneath long, dark blonde eyelashes.

Sunlight forms a halo on those golden strands, hair framing his face in that way that makes him look younger than he is, boyish features so stupidly attentive.

You suck air through your teeth in a wince. "I really don't wanna have sex with Hal."

Hal's expression falls. Jaw going slack, and he's peeling off his domino mask in a way that's so... Messy and hastily done that it actually makes you sweat a little behind your knees.

He'd be good looking if he wasn't such a shitstain.

"Wow." His brows raise. Full, dark, with a prominent arch and an appearance that they're always freshly done, long lashes flutter when he blinks, casting shadows on his sunwarmed skin. "Because I'm Jewish?"

"No, because your name's Harold." You deadpan. "It's unmoanable. Bartholomew," you motion towards Barry, "is sexy. It's like... A priest that you've driven to temptation. Harold," you click your tongue, "Harold bitches about things. Which, you do."

Hal's arms cross over his broad chest, snow coloured gloves tap against biceps that bulge and curve beneath the obsidian of his skin tight suit, broad shoulders remain squared and he's nodding slowly.

Like he's thinking something when you know he's just buying time and stalling so that he can come up with a good enough comeback.

"So what?" He scoffs. "You two are gonna cut me out of my own idea?"

"If I have to." Barry confesses, and Hal nearly gets whiplash from the way his head snaps, betrayal in those emerald coloured eyes, lips parted and plump bottom lip curled with shock.

Before the speedster defends, "It'd be gay if I didn't wanna have sex with her, because you couldn't be there. It's a straight man's job to look out for numero uno. You said so yourself."

"I'm numero uno." Hal deadpans. "I meant you should always look out for me, otherwise you're gay."

"It's kinda gay to want another man to look out for you." You're reaching into the sandwich bag, manicured fingers wrapping around the bread and you take a bite, shoulders going slack as you chew, lashes fluttering shut.

"Oh my God, this is amazing. Where'd you get this?"

Barry grins, his smile bright like he just opened a new toothpaste tube. "I know a place. Real... ‘Farm to table’ vibe."

"So, what's it gonna be?" Hal chimes in.

You chew slow.

Your eyes flickering between the two of them. Barry with that boyishly crooked grin, awkward in that way that you've always liked, blonde hair in messy, wind-swept tufts like he's never really gotten the hang of handling his hair because his mind's always going a million miles a minute.

Hal, with that... God, you can't even think of a nice thing to say about him. He votes? You guess?

"I'll think about it."

"Is that my lunch?" Clark's voice has your head snapping towards him, his cape fluttering, the brilliant blue of his suit standing out against the opulent walls and your brows raise.

"Huh, no— Barry—"

Barry's gone. Hal's gone. Barry's chair's still spinning and Hal's left a comical green puff of dust in his trail and you swallow hard, guilt gnawing at your heartstrings because now you're noticing that cute little 'S' on the paper. Your lips purse.

"I'm sorry." Your nose scrunches apologetically and Clark's expression softens.

"Ma said it's always good to feed the needy." He exhales. "This is my good deed for the morning."

"I'm not 'the needy'!" You defend. "I didn't know it was your lunch when I took the first bite."

"The dyslexic, then." He shrugs those broad shoulders, golden 'S' on his chest shifting beneath the fabric and you're a little distracted because Clark Kent has more muscles than you can count and well... You'd love to be in the middle of whatever him and Bruce have going on.

Their tension is palpable and you know it's giving puppy top and black cat bottom and—

"Do I need to report you to HR again?" J'onn's voice tears you away from the fantasy and you're shaking your head, eyes lowered and lips pursed. Fuck, you can't think dirty thoughts about your bosses when there's a mind-reader on the team.

"You shouldn't think inappropriate thoughts in the workplace at all." J'onn adds, eyes narrowed with disappointment.

"Yes sir." You exhale, defeated. "I'll control my thoughts."

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"See how glad you are that I'm here?" Hal's voice is soft, low against the sound of raindrops pattering against your windowpane, his lips soft against the softness of your inner thigh.

One of your legs are rested on one of his broad shoulders, the other's tossed over Barry's lap, kept in place by one of those calloused hands, fingertips tracing patterns along the flesh, his mouth moving against the curve of your neck, tongue gliding along the thin skin of your pulse.

"Shhhhh," you shush Hal, "if you don't talk, I can pretend you're someone I like."

Barry smiles against the curve of your throat, a huff of laughter escaping him as his hand starts snaking up the warmth of your femur, all the way up to the curve between your thighs, and you shift your hips more comfortably. Your heart pounds against your ribs when his fingers are tracing over the swell of your folds through the soaked fabric of your panties.

"You're so wet, baby..." His voice is soft, almost chiding when he's hooking his digits into the side of your gusset, tugging it aside and you hear the way Hal lets out the filthiest hum and okay, maybe you're starting to see the appeal.

When he's bringing up one of those perfect hands, dextrous fingers carding and pushing his silky hair back, veins raised on the backs of his hands, and he's hiking your thigh higher up onto Barry's lap. The limb being pinned by the latter's hand once again and your soul fucking leaves your body when his nose brushes against your folds, the sound of his inhale sends a thrill up your spine and you're inhaling sharply.

A bracing breath that serves no purpose when his tongue drags between your sloppy folds, from your dripping hole all the way up to your clit, and your hand shoots down, tangling in the hair at his crown.

"Wow..." Your voice is breathless, eyes half-lidded by the sensations that seem to be making you forget that Hal chewed your sandwich open-mouthed, and that his very existence is a fucking ick.

"Oh, how the tables have—" His face collides with your cunt in a huff of a breath, and your eyes widen, the pressure and warmth on the back of your palm is undeniable, Barry's hand resting atop yours and you're peering up at him through long lashes, his expression so painfully warm.

Blue eyes half-lidded, cheeks warm with a flush and his lips just a bit kiss-swollen.

"He was talking too much."

And you nod your head, just a little bit slow to thinking because holy fuck, this is like.... Some shit grabbed off X.

Barry's lips press against yours and he's so... Gentle. Methodical in the way his lips move against yours, the way his head tilts to deepen the kiss, his hand leaving yours to rest on the side of your neck, thumb tracing along the curve of your jaw. Absentminded and slow.

Your nails scrape against Hal's scalp when he's laving his tongue over your cunt, sloppy in the right way, saliva and slickness dripping down onto your sofa and you'll steamclean it later because holy fuck.

Are you attracted to Hal?

Breaking the kiss to watch the way his lashes flutter, eyes shut when he's making out with your pussy, that wet muscle dragging over your clit in those curvy patterns that seem to come to him a little too easy.

Your fingers card through his hair, your lashes fluttering when Barry's tongue moves along the cartilage of your ear, warm and lazy.

"Do you taste good everywhere?" His voice is breathy, lips parted to let out those warm breaths that make your cunt throb because the way he's looking at you right now?

Ouhhh, timeskip to the sex.

"She does." Hal hums, and the vibration has your thigh trembling on his shoulder, your hand fists in those chestnut strands. Emerald eyes flicker towards yours, half-lidded and intense, and he pulls back, hands moving to cradle the fat of your ass before he's jerking you towards the edge of the sofa.

Your head's tipping back, a broken moan slipping from your mouth when he's sucking slippery nymphae between his plush lips, tongue flicking against your clit, tracing gentle circling around the sensitive bundle of nerves, fingertips sinking into the fleshy mounds of your rear.

"Pussy's perfect." He groans, pressing sloppy kisses against your puffy pussy. "I could eat it for hours."

Barry's grasping the curve of your chin, guiding your face back to his and he's deepening the kiss, your lips parting against his and you feel the way your body melts when his tongue slides against yours. Saliva being swapped between the two of you, and your hand's clumsy fumbling with his zipper, the sound of the teeth separating is drowned out by the sloppy sounds of Hal eating your pussy like it's his last meal.

And Barry groans when your fingers trace over him through his boxers, precum soaking through the stretched fabric and he's shifting his hips, hooking a thumb into the front of his waistband before tugging them down.

And shit, he's exactly as pretty as you thought he'd be.

Flushed a pretty pink at the tip, precum beading and trailing down, soaking that dark, golden tuft at his pelvis.

"Oh, God..." Barry's cheeks burn even rosier when your hand's wrapping around his base, thighs parting even further, denim tightening around the muscle and he gasps shakily.

"Fuck—"

Your palm slides along his length, veins pulsing against your skin and you get to watch his head tip back, eyes going hazy, pupils dilating and those vibrant, crystalline blue irises stretched thin. His teeth sink into that plump, kiss swollen bottom lip when you get that twist in your wrist, thumb swiping along the ridge at his tip and beads of precum trace over your knuckles.

The flickering embers behind your navel's burning like hellfire. Strong, your cunt tingling and you can't sit still because Hal's sucking your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking at those leisurely strokes that have your toes curling.

"Fuck, just like that..." Your voice cracks, fingers tightening in his hair while your other hand's preoccupied with Barry, feeling the warmth of him beneath your skin, his face tucked into the curve of your neck.

Pressing sloppy kisses against your skin.

And it's too much.

Your pussy clenches around nothing when you come, sparks flying behind your eyelids, your back arching and your hips bucking against Hal's mouth, that slurping sound filling your ears alongside the sound of your blood rushing.

It's overstimulating.

Your mewl being muffled when Barry kisses you, swallowing down each of your sounds and he coos against your mouth.

"Just like that..." He sighs. "You look so pretty when you come."

And your body twitches with the last few flutters of your walls, Hal's pulling back with glossy lips and your slick on his chin before he's wiping at his chin.

Hair tousled, falling effortlessly over those full eyebrows, his cheeks warmed and his chest still heaving.

And he's drinking in the sight of you, cock twitching in his jeans, undeniably soaking through his boxers, watching the way your thighs tremble with the aftermath, your chest heaving, nipples perked and pressing against the worn fabric of your sleep shirt.

Strong hands move towards his belt, leather snapping and the buckle clicking.

"You gonna return the favour, princess?"

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Hal's back rests against your puffed up pillows, one arm stretched along the length of your headboard, eyes half-lidded when he watches your pillowy, kiss-swollen lips swallow him.

"That's it," He exhales heavily, "that's it... Go slow, baby."

Barry's knees dimple the mattress on either side of yours, cock buried in your cunt, warm palms stretched across the curves of your hips, and his head's tipped forward, jaw slack and face overtaken by a blush that starts at the tips of his ears and goes all the way down his neck.

That vibrant green plug in your ass stands out like a sore thumb, saliva glossy between your cheeks, and you're clenching rhythmically because it feels so good.

"Fuck, she's so tight..." His voice cracks, "Oh my god, push back."

Barry's lashes flutter when your ass pushes back against his hips, like you're trying to take him even deeper when he's already grazing the plug of your cervix with those gentle thrusts. Fingertips sink into the fat of your hips and his eyes flicker towards Hal's face.

"How does it feel?" Barry's voice is soft, eyes barely open and his heart's hammering like he did a few lines off a public bathroom sink.

"Perfect." Hal murmurs, dimple deepening when he lets out a lopsided grin, emerald hues flickering to meet Barry's gaze. "I like her more when she's got her mouth full."

Barry soaks in the sight of his best friend. The warmth that overtakes his features when you suck him into your mouth, your tongue tracing patterns over his tip that has Hal's lips falling in a soft groan. The shadows his lashes cast over his high cheekbones, forest-y irises stretched thin, his Adam's apple bobbing beneath the skin of his throat.

And the speedster leans in.

Anticipation thick, the scent of sex and the quiet slaps of his hips against your ass filling the air and his lips ghost over Hal's.

But the kiss deepens.

Instantly.

Hal's forced into your throat, moaning into Barry's mouth, their tongues sliding against one another's, full lips locking and your eyes widen, before you're pulling back.

Hal's cock leaves your mouth with a wet 'pop!', your face shocked and cheeks still warm, lips tingling from suction and the way Barry's hips begin to thrust sharper, rotund tip colliding with your cervix, precum smearing across the plug of your womb and you're letting out those panted moans.

Eyes threatening to flutter shut but you don't wanna miss the way they pull apart, saliva stringing between the two of them and catching the light.

And their eyes fall find you immediately.

Barry's pulling you up, Hal's moving closer and his lips press against yours. A messy, hard kiss that steals the breath from your lungs, his tongue pushes into your mouth with less tact than usual, one hand sliding between your thighs.

And his fingers find your clit, sliding along the sensitive nub, middle digit sliding between your folds and your breaths turn shakier, your lashes fluttering, and your cunt sucking Barry in deeper. And his groans grow messy against the curve of your shoulder, hands sliding up your front, pawing messily at your tits. Calloused thumbs swiping over your pebbled nipples.

"You're so perfect, baby." Barry whines. "So pretty."

His hips buck up into yours, blunt tip leaking precum when he's dragging the ridge of his cock against that rough patch of nerves, while you moan into Hal's mouth, his tongue dragging against yours when he sucks your wet muscle into his mouth.

And Hal breaks the kiss.

"Now I mean it when I say I can smell the dick on your breath." He murmurs, nose brushing against yours when his hands curve around your waist, pulling you closer and you mourn the loss of warmth when Barry's cock slips out of you.

"Never thought it'd be my dick." He adds.

Hal's shifting just enough, his hands guiding you until your knees are pressing into the mattress on either side of him, and he's notching his tip at your hole, sloppy with your saliva when he guides you to sink down onto him. Your thighs tremble because he's just a bit thicker than Barry, veins dragging against oversensitive walls and Hal's head dips, plush lips wrapping around one of your nipples when he begins to fuck up into you.

Your hand grabs at your headboard, nails digging into it and your free hand moves to cradle the nape of his neck, fingers tangling into the hair.

But it all becomes too much when Barry's pulling the plug out of your ass, and he's spitting down the cleft of your ass before he's pressing his flushed, leaking tip against the furled ring of your asshole. Slowly guiding himself into you.

"You can take it..." He croons, lips pressing sloppy kisses against the hollow beneath your ear. "...you can take anything we give you."

And it's... Overwhelming.

The stretch is more than the butt plug that's disintegrated to a vibrant, emerald glitter, and Barry's pushing into you, so fucking slowly, pushing the breath out of your parted lips and his hand snakes around your waist. Disappearing between your thighs.

Fingers vibrating against your clit with a speed that would give you a burn if he was anywhere else, and your body buckles when you're thrown into an orgasm no one saw coming. Legs shaking, your body held up by their joint efforts and Hal pulls away with a wet pop.

"Ooh, you're so slutty, getting fucked like this." He taunts, lips pressing sloppily against yours before he's kissing your throat, sucking marks into the skin when his lips trace lower and he's taking another nipple into his mouth.

"Oh my god," you whine, "shut up. You're lucky to be involved in this at all."

Hal's ring glimmers with light, a vibrant cloud floating above his head, reading the words 'fuck you' in flashing letters. His tongue curls around the bud, overstimulating you even further when Barry's pushing into your ass, his carved hips flush against the pillowy softness of your cheeks.

"You..—ah—... feel too good..." Barry whimpers, his face pressed into the nape of your neck for a moment of reprieve before he pulls back just a bit. "I'm g'na come soon..."

His hips are soft. Cock sliding against your supple insides, one hand cradling one of your soft cheeks and pulling it further apart, just so he can watch the way he disappears into that tight, unexplored ring, spitting down the crease and watching the way bubbly spit spreads around where he has you split.

Hal fucks into you from beneath, his abs flexing with each movement of his hips, dogtags warm against his chest between swollen pecs and he groans against your chest.

Pulling back just enough to watch the way Barry's hand curls around your jaw, pulling your face towards his to kiss you messily, his tongue sliding against yours, his golden strands falling across his forehead. Brows knitting at the tightness of your ass and Hal leans up.

Barely giving you a break before he's kissing you, swiping his tongue across your bottom lip, before breaking the contact, and his lips meet Barry's instead. Wet muscles tangling, taste buds becoming far too familiar with the flavour of the other and your eyes are hazy.

You can feel them twitch against one another.

You can feel the way the thrusts turn rapid, your ass burning with the speed of Barry's thrusts and you're watching, cunt fluttering as their brows knit, expression screwing up and they groan when they're tossed, head first into their orgasm.

Creamy ribbons being fucked into you, cum painting your insides and the warmth is flooding your senses, your ears ringing and your legs shaking, and you're watching the way they break the kiss, both angling their faces towards yours. But Hal's bringing up his hand, pushing at Barry's face before pulling you down, his mouth meeting yours.

Barry's tucking his face into the curve of your neck, his lungs shaky and burning, his stuttering before they still and you're so... Warm.

The silence is deafening when you break the kiss with Hal, your tongue swiping across your bottom lip and your eyes flicker between the two of them. The tension still strong in the room, the air stinking of sex and depravity and fuck, your cunt's still throbbing.

"That was hella gay."

"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.

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."