gmoldenburg
this is my year, i can feel it.
gina, 22, she/her, multi-fandom, mostly nsfw
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up and down - jason todd x reader (nsfw warning)
Jason is... sweet. To say the least.
He goes down on you with a fervor far too gentle for you to handle at times, oftentimes leaving your head buzzing with warmth and tears by the time you finally get to release, blinking slowly as he kisses the tears away and brings you back, letting you rest up, despite the lack of intensity physically.
So, you find that it wouldn't hurt to help him back, straddled over his hips as you run your fingers up his abdomen, sighing slowly as you scrape gently at his skin, nipping at his jaw.
"Sweetheart, really, it's—"
You shut him up with a pinch of his collar, squeezing his waist as he squirms, cheeks flushed and skin warm with each move of your hands. You know best that Jason could flip you over at any point in time, but you have your fun, running your fingers up and down with his dick nestled in you, stuck and still inside of you as Jason groans with each slight movement from you.
"Sweetheart, please."
You pretend to think, pressing your chest to his to get a good look at his eyes as he groans from your movement around his cock.
"What'd ya say, baby?"
"Please, sweetheart."
Again.
"You want it?" You run your fingers along his sides again, seemingly his tipping point as his eyes darken and his hands move to your sides, holding you still as he sighs, running a hand through his hair as you squirm to move.
"Had your fill of the fun, baby?" He hums, forcing you on your back with a hand on your stomach. "My turn."
You wonder if he realized you had been aiming for it this whole time.
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Bruce gets knocked over the head with a lead pipe and without even looking at eachother dick and Tim start circling around him making tweeting noises
Meanwhile bruce wishes the hit actually knocked him out so he didn’t have to witness his kids acting like this
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18+ minors dni
the parasites in my brain…they wanted this. enjoy.
★・・・★・・・★・・・★
hockey player!jason todd who has so much energy on and off the ice, and nowhere to put it. you’d think body-slamming grown men into the boards with all his weight would wear him out, but it’s not enough; you can almost feel the electricity radiating off him hours later, and it hardly matters if his team wins or loses. lucky for him, you’ve found an…arrangement that suits you both—and tonight, he’s coming off his best game of the season so far.
“jay,” you whine, your voice muffled by the pillow against your cheek. your body is still twitching from your first orgasm, but his fingers sink into your hips as he rocks against your ass rhythmically, filling you inch by inch while you moan. his green eyes are glued to the numbered jersey you’re wearing while he fucks you—his number—and he can’t help the cocky grin that settles on his face at the sight. he brings one of his hands underneath you to rub small circles on your clit, chuckling as you gasp his name again.
“y’know,” he says through laboured breaths, “this was the first game you’ve worn this to.” he tugs at the jersey harshly with his free hand, while his other teases your clit faster, eliciting a desperate moan from you that makes him shudder. “gonna—fuck—have to wear it to every match now.” you want to laugh—after all, you know how superstitious hockey players are—but jason leans down to trail hot kisses along the side of your neck, and suddenly your mind is cloudy again as heat rushes through your abdomen.
“you gonna cum for me? hm?” he breathes against your ear, smiling when you merely whimper. “yeah, you are. I can feel you shakin’, ma.” he fucks into you deeper, his deft fingers keeping their pace against your sensitive clit. you clutch at the sheets as your belly tightens and your eyes screw shut; you want to regret the promise you made him—an orgasm for each goal he scored—but your second climax cuts you short.
you cry out as your release tears through you, arching your belly into the bed before letting your body go slack against the mattress with a shaky breath. you feel jason’s huge frame against you as he shifts closer to your ear, his tone teasing as he speaks. “don’t give up on me now, princess,” he coos, grinning as your dripping cunt clenches helplessly around his cock. “y’still owe me one more.”
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this was so sweet 🥹
mermay 2024
cw: 3k, mer!johnny, mer!ghost, gn!reader no pronouns, graphic depictions of fishing
The smell of briny sea air was always comforting for you. Salty notes of nostalgia lingering thickly in your mind, of summers spent traveling to the coast.
Fishing rods strapped securely to your family’s all-terrain vehicle. Tackle box tucked securely under your father's arm as he held your hand over unsteady sand dunes leading to the peer.
The victory that flooded your veins in dopamine-filled surges with every wriggling fish you caught from the glimmering water.
The same feelings warmed your heart now. Pride swelled in your chest as you glanced back at your seaside home. Your dream of living near the gulf was everything you’d hoped it would be. You spent most afternoons logging out of your computer and remote work and driving to the local tackle shop.
Small bucket in tow, you appreciated your friendly chats with the owner as he filled your bucket with the live shrimp he’d caught early that morning. You tacked on a hearty red snapper which brought your total up more than you’d like, but you knew you’d need it for later.
A quick, “Thanks, Gaz!” was thrown over your shoulder as you loaded your bait into the car and made quick work getting back to your property.
~
The water was tranquil, gentle splashes of water licked up the wooden posts of your private peer. You enjoyed the silence the ocean brought, beachgoers weren’t allowed on private property lest you call the authorities, but you lived too far out to really be bothered by wandering tourists who’d strayed from the public beaches.
Your personal heaven, blissfully alone for most of the year. Your neighbors only made an appearance during the summer months, when they’d come down for vacations.
Sunscreen and sea salt made for a harmonious combination just like humming and tide winds you thought as you settled down on the peer for another afternoon of leisure.
You plucked a fat shrimp from your bucket, quickly snapping off its head and avoiding its tail before it tried to pinch you. Sinking the plump flesh onto the hook you cast the line far into the shining water, the sunlight reflecting on its surface like dozens of twinkling mirrors.
Sinking your rod into its holding mount, you dipped your hands into the cool water, washing any remnants of shrimp from your fingers.
You wet your lips before pursing them into a shrill whistle. Loud, and slightly uncontrolled, you held the high pitch for as long as your breath allowed. Your eyes scanned the water's surface diligently for any ripples. Nothing.
You clicked your tongue against the roof of your mouth in rapid succession, head on a swivel for any sign of movement. Nothing.
Disappointed, you whistled again, giving the water's surface a few slaps for good measure. Something!
Your head snapped to the rod, the line furiously unspooling as something on the other end tried to make off with your bait.
Quickly you unmounted the rod, reeling the line back in steadily, hoping your hook sunk in deep enough to not lose your catch. You huffed as you fought with the stubborn fish, settling in, one of you had to tire out first and it wouldn’t be you.
You were steadily drawing in the line when an incredibly forceful tug nearly jerked the rod from out of your hands. You gasped in surprise, one of your hands reaching out to steady yourself against the peer's post.
You looked up in time to find a familiar face peeking back at you. Brilliant blue eyes watched you curiously from a few feet away, a cheeky grin visible just beneath the water where half of his face was still submerged.
“Soap!” You called sternly. “It was you on the line!”
A clawed hand held up a well-sized sea bass then, waving it around triumphantly, blood trailing down his wrist from where his claws had punctured the fish.
You couldn’t hold back your smile at his antics. The silly Mer you’d met a couple of months into living here. He’d scared you all those months ago, only ever hearing stories about their existence, Merfolk were rarely caught on camera. Elusive and incredibly shy with good reason. (Humankind was known for not being very kind at all.)
Many people doubted the validity of the word-of-mouth tales, despite their growing frequency over the years.
~
You'd found him floating near the peer one day, called to the water upon hearing unfamiliar groaning. Gloomy, sad trills, unlike anything you’d ever heard. Drawn to the splashing you saw from out of your kitchen window.
You recall your first time laying eyes on him, Your lungs frozen around a gasp of shock. Sharp breath drawing the attention of the source of the disturbance. You stood motionless, entranced by the ethereal creature. Handsome and humanoid above the waist, his powerful tail flicking this way and that, a frustrated scowl marring his beautiful features.
You’d thought he was a man drowning had it not been for the reflective sepia scales that adorned most of his body. The fanned fins where his ears should be made him look more imposing; more threatening.
You snapped out of your disbelief when he seemed to call for you. Panicked and shrill chittering driving your body forward. The translucent fins of his tail thrashed as his body writhed in distress.
Upon closer inspection, you could see the stark white of Commercial netting knotted in clusters around his delicate fins, one of his arms completely immobile from how tangled he was.
Without a second thought, you raced back to your house, sprinting through sand, and falling every couple of feet from the uneven terrain. Grabbing your tackle box and the red fish you’d caught earlier that morning you took off back towards the peer.
You remember how he’d snarled at you, a terrifying growl uttered so deep from within his chest you’d almost lost your grip on your hunting knife. With shaking hands you shushed him, gently grabbing onto the netting near his caudal fins, and sliced the knots away.
You struggled to get a good grip, the Mer’s natural mucoid layer coating the ropes in a slick mess.
As slippery as a bar of soap. You thought to yourself.
He quieted down tremendously after the first few rungs of knots were sliced away. You imagined he could feel the blood rushing back into his tail after however long he was trapped within the ropes. It was over an hour before you’d cut most of the netting, exhausted from hauling the rope onto the deck so as not to get lost at sea again.
His tail swished serenely in the water, bobbing under the surface to refresh the sensitive gills on the sides of his neck before returning to you, angling his body to best help you get the wretched things off him.
You hesitated when you neared his arm, so close to his razor-sharp teeth you prayed that he wouldn’t bite you, or swipe at you with the wicked, curving claws that adorned the tips of his fingers.
You never stopped cooing at him, your voice soft and high, placating as you sympathized with his chirps of discomfort.
“I know, I know, Soap.” you soothed, digging in your tackle box for your trusty pliers. He gave a petulant hiss at the object but they aided greatly in lifting the line from where it dug into his skin. (And put a couple of inches in between you and his teeth)
With a final grunt, you snapped off the last of the tangled knot nearly nose-diving into the water to retrieve the weighty bundle before it sank into the depths again.
You expected the creature to swim off, to turn tail and dart into the sea with its newfound freedom but… it didn’t. He shook off the remaining netting and flared his copper fins in a fantastical display of beauty. He reminded you of a betta fish, with frilly and ornate fins that swayed with the gentle waves of seawater.
He appeared tired, sluggish from fighting with the netting, brilliant blue eyes half-lidded and drowsy as he floated with a clawed hand around the wooden post. Anchored to the peer, he rested, his tail refracting the sunlight into golden fractals all around him. The tan skin of his torso marred by angry red welts from having been restrained for so long.
He blinked slowly at you, his gills rhythmically flaring open and closed as he drew sea water into his body. You panted in turn, sweat beading along your brow with the heat of the unforgiving sun.
Your hands cramped from your own struggle with the netting but you managed to pry open the parchment paper that held your catch from that morning. You grabbed the plump fish by the tail and waved it tantalizingly in front of the Mer. His sleepy eyes honed in on the fish immediately, eyes sharp as he sized you up, gills flaring in an aggressive posture before snatching the fish from your grasp in the blink of an eye.
You barked a laugh in disbelief, couldn’t take your eyes off him as he chomped on the fish’s belly, slurping out the entrails like a delicacy before finishing the rest in 3 impressive bites. (The fish was big to you, probably not to him- you thought meekly)
You both stared at each other, equally fascinated by the other's appearance. You wondered if this was his first time coming into contact with a human.
You were taken with him. Couldn’t help the small smile that tugged on the edge of your lips as he allowed you to study him. He looked at you expectantly. Eyes flitting from you to your hands, to the deck again. A hopeful expression softening his once hostile features.
“Still hungry?” You asked him softly. He gave no indication that he understood you, but the bony protrusions of his ribs gave you more than enough answer.
With one last lingering glance you tore your eyes away from the creature and made the trudge back to your property. You didn’t have any fresh fish for the Mer, and the tackle shop would most likely be closed this late into the afternoon. You grabbed a baggie of leftover bait squid you happened to keep in the fridge, your rod, and made your way back to the peer.
You could see his head bobbing in the water, right where you left him. Sighing in relief you were happy to see he hadn’t gone just yet. You knew it was selfish to want to spend just a little bit more time with the fascinating Mer, but you couldn’t help it.
He looked at you curiously, searching your body just as he’d done before. A wary expression on his face as he side-eyed your fishing rod.
“Gonna see if I can catch you something,” you murmured determinedly, wriggling a ring of squid onto your hook and casting the line far onto the other side of the peer, not wanting to accidentally hurt soap if the current brought the hook back in his direction. He merely followed you under the peer, appearing on the other side of the deck as his eyes flicked between you and the bobber at the end of the line.
It wasn’t long before you could feel gentle tugging on the rod, the bobber pulled beneath the surface momentarily before you started reeling in your catch. Steadily you spooled the line, resting a little to tire out the fish before swiftly reeling it in towards you. The fish was smaller than you’d like, a speckled trout, but Soap chirped excitedly all the same. Eyes wide as the fish flew above his head for a second, and eagerly watching as you unhooked the trout.
A triumphant smile adorned your face as you carefully set down your pliers and handed the fish to the Mer, careful to make sure he had a good grip on it before letting go.
He mimicked your own smile, though it looked more like a bearing of teeth, his face unused to contorting his muscles in such a way. Incredibly charming nonetheless.
Little did you know your life would continue much the same after that fateful day. Soap hung out around the peer for about a week, resting and healing his torn fins.
You made sure to feed and check on him in the early mornings and had no choice but to see him on your lunch breaks lest his insistent whistling disrupt yet another one of your Zoom calls.
He was incredibly vocal as the days went on, chittering to you excitedly from the water. Slapping his bronze tail against the surface to get your attention. (As if you could possibly look anywhere but him)
You tried your best to communicate with him, a few days into teaching him sign language (some proper and some you created) led to mini breakthroughs with the Mer.
He was incredibly intelligent, by all means, a quick learner, and very food-motivated. He grasped the concept of hand signals fairly quickly and his favorites to sign were fish, hungry, you, and shrimp. His repertoire steadily increased with each day he spent with you.
Until one day, he was gone without a trace; it was like he was never there to begin with. The wadded-up bundle of netting in your garage the only indication that the past week was in fact not a dream.
You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t cried. Mourning the loss of a friend you had just begun to know.
You played your part. You told yourself over and over again. You’d helped nurse him back to health and now he was probably reuniting with his family somewhere in the depths of the vast ocean.
So when you’d heard the familiar trill of friendly whistling, you flung your book onto the nearest surface, and made a mad dash for the peer, only stopping to slip on a pair of shoes.
“Soap!” You called disbelievingly. Tears streamed down your cheeks as you were met with familiar dark hair. Wooden planks dug uncomfortably into your knees as you knelt before the Mer. He looked healthy, a subtle luminescence to his skin that wasn’t there before. The welts all but gone from his body.
His brows drew together in concern, watching diligently as water flowed from your lashes. You gave him a wobbly smile that seemed to quell his unease. One that he returned.
Unsure of what to do with your hands you swished at the water between you absentmindedly, smiling dopily at the blue-eyed creature.
You froze as he ducked his head under your palm, his hair slick beneath your fingers as he nudged your hand into action. Purring into your touch as you gently pet his hair, scratching beneath his chin and behind his fanned ears when prompted.
He chirped suddenly, as if remembering something, and dove under the water.
You heard various trills and clicks, slightly muffled from your perch on the peer when soap suddenly surfaced again.
He settled in close to your legs that hung over the peer, looking between you and a point in the distance, a pleased smile on his face.
Your jaw dropped in astonishment as another Mer surfaced several feet away. Even from your distance you could tell that he was massive, easily out measuring soap by a couple of feet. Corded muscle that wound taughtly all over his body had you turning your shocked gaze to Soap, bewilderment evident on your face as he gave you a toothy grin.
He chirped at the other Mer, beckoning him closer with rhythmic clicks and high-pitched whistles.
You felt like crying all over again. The Mer had returned, and he felt safe enough to come back with a friend in tow. The honor of getting to witness not one but two Mers in your lifetime… you were overcome with emotion.
Where Soap’s fins were frilly and flowy, the Mer’s were spiny and ostentatious. His tail and fins were darker than midnight, iridescent scales illuminated by the sun giving them a brilliant green hue. He was hauntingly beautiful, with a scowl to rival Soap's own.
His skin was unlike Soap’s, a milky white so fair he was nearly translucent. You could picture Soap sunning himself on a rock, happy as a clam while this ghostly Mer stayed beneath the protection of the ocean, UV rays unable to alter the pigment of his skin.
You were at a complete loss for words, rendered speechless by these otherworldly beings.
~
They stayed close by after that. A heartwarming routine fostered by the growing relationship you culminated with Soap and the second Mer you affectionately named Ghost.
Two Mers with two wildly different personalities. You treasured your time in getting to know them both.
Soap was outgoing and curious. A mischievous Mer that held no qualms about jumping onto the peer to steal your bait shrimp by the handful. Tactile and incredibly affectionate he was very demanding of your pets and touch. A cuddler through and through that wailed vehemently if you didn’t smother him in kisses every once in a while.
Ghost was reserved and cautious. You were no stranger to his burliness, accustomed now to the snarling and guttural growls that emanated from his vocal cords. You couldn’t blame him for his mistrust in you, the heinous scars that marked his body were proof of a life full of hardships.
You’d never attempted to touch Ghost without his permission, not wanting to lose a finger to the Mer’s fearsome bite. You’d seen the way he devoured his food, how he eagerly crunched through bone and sinew.
Even now, several months into making his acquaintance, he never came more than a few feet in proximity to you. No matter how much you tried to entice him.
“Ghost, look what I got for you,” you called to him, wiggling the large red snapper in your hands. You weren’t above bribery, and by the looks of Ghost’s pupils contracting and dilating, he wasn’t either. He clicked at you curiously, his deep, resonant trilling suddenly much sweeter.
You scoffed at his change in mood, snapper was one of Ghost’s favorites and he wasted no time in disappearing beneath the water. Surfacing a couple of feet from the peer he held out his clawed hand politely waiting for you to place it in his grasp.
Thank you.
He signed briefly (and a little begrudgingly) before making off with the fish, putting a good bit of distance between the two of you. He devoured the thing head first, his double row of teeth aiding him in tearing through the flesh.
Soap let out an indignant squawk at not being fed first, insistently waving the seabass at you.
Sorry. Sorry.
You signed placatingly, reaching for the fish and unhooking it from the line before tossing it back to the Mer.
You watched them adoringly, as they finished their meals, Soap inevitably finishing his first before going to shamelessly beg Ghost for a bite of his. Purring up a storm as the other Mer relented and gave him the tail end of his snapper, rubbing their cheeks together in gratitude.
As if on cue, the two Mers turned their gazes back to you expectantly, fanned ears wiggling eagerly.
You sighed fondly, sea salt on the tip of your tongue and sunshine kissing your skin before casting your line far into the gleaming water.
Fin
a/n: thank you so much for reading everyone! Yall really thought i wasn’t going to post for MerMay?? Hehe so I know it’s not very good and certainly not original! I got a lot of inspiration from the ‘Ghoap MerMay’ tag on Ao3. I am always open to feedback/ critique. I am tempted to write a NSFW continuation because I’m fucking nasty so keep an eye out for that! <3
a/n: I was very inspired by betta fish anatomy while writing this, especially crown tail male bettas they really give me Ghost vibes with how imposing their caudal fins are. they are very gorgeous fish and great pets! (I know male bettas are very aggressive towards each other but ghost and soap are Mers not necessarily betta hybrids, they just have the tail hehe)
ghost / soap tail visuals
dividers by: @chilumitos
my other works
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roommate!ghost who isn't good with words, who expresses himself by grabbing your jaw, fingers pressing into your soft skin as his thumb comes up to pull on your bottom lip. The only thing you can manage in response is to curl your tongue around it, wetting his rough skin. It's as obscene as the sound of his fingers fucking in and out of you, curling at that perfect spot until your eyes start to flutter closed. Suddenly he pulls your head forward, that piercing stare now level with you. Just a look, the slightest tremor of his brow, tells you what he wants. eyes open for me.
Always, you comply, studying the ring of breathtaking color around his widened pupils as you feel your orgasm building within you. He can feel it too, you can tell by the way his jaw locks in concentration. give it to me, the huffs of his quickening breath say as he pushes you further and further to the edge. The labored rise and fall of your chest gives way to a punched out whine of his name as you come, hips riding his hand as his forehead finds yours. His nose brushes yours every time your hips cant forward, a desperate kiss finally finding your lips that feels like I fucking love you.
He's no good with words, but in his lips lie a thousand more I love you's waiting to be kissed.
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Bruce Wayne who has a habit for entering the room you're in and sweeping you off of your feet. Doesn't say anything, no hello or how are you, just effortlessly lifts you up and gets you to wrap your legs around his body. His lips meet yours in a passionate and hungry kiss, almost like he's drowning and your lips are oxygen.
You rarely ever make it to the master bedroom. Bruce preferring to find any suitable surface nearby and laying you on it (or occasionally bending you over it) and then ripping your clothes off. He doesn't care if someone walks in on the two of you. This is his house, after all, and he will fuck you where he pleases to. And any thoughts you have on it flee your mind when he's finally filling you up with his cock, both of you moaning loudly enough that it surely echoes around the manor, as your cunt squeezes around his cock.
He wastes no time drilling into you. The feet of the table scraping against the hardwood floor with each hard thrust that steals the very air from your lungs. The kisses pressed to your body are wet and messy and everywhere, Bruce unable to focus his attention on just one part of you, his mind completely overcome by the feeling of the heat of your cunt wrapped around him.
Your body grips him like a vice, eyes rolling into the back of your head as you cum. The feeling of your orgasm is too much for him, his fingertips digging into the flesh of your waist, bruising you, as he moans against your skin, head coming to rest in the valley of your breasts as his hips stutter. You can feel his cock twitching inside of you as he spills his release deep inside of your pussy.
He stays still for a moment, panting hard, before lifting himself off of you and slowly pulling out. Once neatly styled hair falls in front of his eyes as he takes in the sight of where the mixture of yours and his fluids drip from your puffy pussy, making a mess on the table beneath you. Before you can become self-conscious from the way he's staring, his eyes meet yours, pupils blown wide, and he smiles.
"Are you up for round two?"
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simon riley loves taking pov videos of you in the dirty moments you share.
he loves holding the camera while you’re on your knees ass up in front of him so that he has the perfect view of your puffy wet pussy, his hard cock throbbing in the frame while his callused fingers grip the meat of your ass. he spanks it leaving a pretty red handprint on your skin, leaving you whimpering “please, i need it simon…”
him groaning as he pans the camera closer to your holes. you hear him let out a gruff “fuck, love…” his thick digits taking the slick from your entrance to rub against your tight little ass, sending shivers down your spine with more pleading moans escaping your lips.
he loves keeping the flashlight on while he records. letting his pink tip glisten in the light, just before he pushes it against your pussy, camera picking up how he twitches as it slides inside you. your walls grip every vein causing you to squelch around him once your ass hits the base of his dick. it’s followed quickly by his throaty groans. his fingers spread your cheeks apart for a better view for the camera. “tha’s it, take it all f’me love…”
it turns you on to perform for him. you give him more of a show as your dripping cunt slides up and down his shaft, moaning all the pretty little things he wants to hear. “jus’ like that baby… god, you’re so big…” his fingers dig into your hips, the frame of focus occasionally drifting upward to better see all of you as you bounce on him.
you spend hours in bed together just to build his personal collection, just so that when he’s gone on mission, he’ll always have every view of you he needs to tug his cock to.
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I’m just imagining Simon who happens to stumble upon your roommate ad. And of course he thinks he’d be a perfect candidate. He’s clean, minimal and of course, gone most of the time. He’d still pay, he’s good mannered, quiet- he would absolutely be good for this pretty girl whose profile picture on his phone he can’t stop looking at.
He just wants you to be comfortable with someone like him, with someone who looks like him- but when he meets you, all those fears go out the window. You’re kind, so warm and open to him. You’re receptive and he’s so unnerved by it. You’re not what he was expecting at all, but he’s so in love with you right from the get go.
It makes leaving for missions so much harder. Especially on nights like tonight when you’ve made dinner for two, you’re looking absolutely gorgeous in your pajamas, you’re smiling sweetly at him. Bloody hell, the things he would do to you if had the chance-
It doesn’t really click with him until this moment that he actually can do something about it. In his head, he’s conjured you up to be so out of reach and untouchable. But that’s not true at all, it’s just a fear that he’ll overstep. However at this point, the night before he goes, it feels now or never. He supposes he can always move out if it doesn’t work, he’s just got to know.
“Simon? You okay?” You ask gently, taking your apron off and hanging it back up on the pantry door.
He gets up from the table and heads straight for you. You stand there in shock as he removes his mask, he takes your hips into his grasp and pins you against the door.
His forehead meets yours and he closes his eyes, inhaling your scent and enjoying this moment being so close to you. Your hands automatically latch onto this shirt, toying with the fabric, eyes moving to admire his face, his lips.
“…want you.” Simon murmurs out, his mind is reeling and he wants needs to feel you on him, to have you at least for tonight. At least to try. He just needs you to reciprocate, show him some kind of sign you want this too.
“Please”. You beg and just like that he springs into action. His lips latching onto yours, he’s shoving his leg between your own and you’re writhing against him and the door. Your hands in his blonde hair, exploring his chest, you go until you run out of air. He’s digging his thumbs into your hips, cherishing this moment and heavens above - you feel so good on his body, better than he could have fathomed.
Simon ends up making quick work, bringing you to your bedroom where he lays you down, his body on top of yours. Grinding into you, his mouth never leaving yours, your neck, your breasts. He then moves to take off your clothes, making his way down your body. Gently removing your panties and kissing your inner thighs, the scruff of his slight beard making your skin tingle.
He laps at your folds, his tongue circling your bud, his fingers deep within you. You cum around him and he’s in awe at the sight, your back arching in pleasure. You glance down at him and he’s smirking, it makes him feel good to know he made you come undone like this, that you’re all his.
“You’ve got me all night, love. There will be plenty more of this when I get back.”
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Reader auction offs her virginity because she has to pay off her student loans. Lonely Price see her on the web and decides that he doesn’t just want her virginity but all of her so he asks her to be his sugar baby. He doesn’t need her for sex but needs her for the company
yummy yummy
c/w: sugardaddy!price, talks of virginity, mutual masturbation, nude photos, nsfw content
he thinks you’re just the sweetest and he just can’t let one of these creepy old men take your virginity <3 save it for someone special. doesn’t necessarily have to be him, he’d be happy if you just sat in his lap and played with his hair
just wants a pretty thing to get him a scotch and light his cigar for him. sat comfortably in his lap at his monthly poker game with some of his old comrades. a cocky smirk on his face when they all ogle at you for the whole night <3
he’s so mean about taking your virginity, even when you beg and basically throw yourself at him he still says no. says you’re too lovely to be ruined by a bitter, old man like him :(
instead he gets you to lay in the middle of his plush bed, watching you plunge your fingers in and out of your cunt whilst he sits in the corner of the room with a cigar in one hand and his cock in the other
instructs you on how to play with yourself with the deep, baritone voice of his. tells you what a good girl you are, how sweet and kind you are to spend your time with a bad man like him :(
gives you his bank card with no shame. the type of sugar daddy who has a scheduled delivery of bouquets every week with a lovely note. always enjoys the way you thank him, sending over a picture and a note to open it when he’s alone
the camera aimed between your legs, your fingers holding one of the flowers and a clear view of your damp panties in the background :( enough to make him excuse himself to the bathroom to rub one out
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Price doesn't care about hair down there, which is great, but if you ever do decide to change things up and shave or wax the man turns into a monster. He will pry your legs apart to inspect your pretty pussy at the first hint that you've done something different. If you walk in the door with a bag from the water he's already up and tugging your bottoms down. He is absolutely insatiable normally but now? Now he's spending his every free moment between your legs, positively devouring you. He scratches his beard against the soft skin and chuckles when you squirm at the feeling, he kisses your folds and spreads them apart with his thick calloused fingers, whistles at what a good job you did.
You probably don't make it from the front door to the bedroom, he'll fuck you on the floor by the shoe rack and love every second of it. Really it's your own fault, look how cute you are! How could he ever resist you?
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old, grizzled retired alpha!Price who gets stuck in his cabin with omega!Reader when the winter roads, the only way in and out of his domain, melt with the encroaching spring. and really. what's an alpha like him supposed to do when an untouched, unclaimed omega like you—so sweet, so desperate—is thrown headfirst into a vicious, blistering heat without any suppressants. it's not like either of you really have a choice, after all.
dub con; age difference; power imbalance; rough sex; size difference, size kink; abo dynamics: knotting; breeding kink (astronomical); mean!Price, Dom!Price; unsafe sex; oral (f!receiving); slight innocence kink; implied kidnapping; coercion; slight baby trapping; possessive, greedy Price pulling strings from behind the scenes, as per usual. this is basically Alpha John Price knotting Omega Reader in mating press, bullying you into submission
It's an accident, of course.
An unfortunate combination of poor timing and human error.
But this accident culminates in Price folding his body over you—mating press, you note a touch hysterically; you'd have expected him to be all tradition: presenting to an alpha on your hands and knees, cunt bare for the taking, waiting to be claimed. And while it might not be traditional, Price will claim you tonight. Bully his cock into your drenched cunt, split you wide on the thick of him, on his knot (fuck, fuck, fuck—), and keep you plugged up around him until the unexpected heat passes.
And really. What's an old, grizzled alpha like him supposed to do when an untouched, unclaimed omega like you—so sweet, so desperate—is thrown headfirst into a vicious, blistering heat. It's not like either of you really have a choice, after all. It's agony. It's want. Primal, instinctual. You need him. Ache with it. The urge, the desperation, to be filled. Claimed. Conquered. Owned.
As he presses bluntly against your drenching slit, notching heavy and insistent into your fluttering, aching hole, spilling slick in thick rivulets down your thighs, over the engorged head of his cock, you can't help but wonder how could you be so stupid?
“Spread your legs for me.”
The command rolls off of his tongue, slips—liquid, molten—down his chin, where it dangles for a moment. Pebbled hest. A globbing demand. You want to roll away when it starts to fall, unspooling slowly until it drips down to your chest, but you can't. You're stuck. Trapped. All you can do is watch helplessly as this barking order, matchstick casuistry, touches your kerosene-slick skin, igniting in a bloom of fire that spreads, rapidly, through your veins. Your body.
An Alpha's whim must be met. Even this one. This one—
Your former chief, boss. Now retired in the mountains, chiselling out a little place for himself in a corrie, pitching this log bivouac beside a marbled blue tarn. Cut off from the rest of civilisation every spring when the only way in—and out—melted into a raging, uncrossable stretch of river. The ravine frothing too furiously for boats to dock safely on either side. Trapped here with him until next winter—
(oh god oh god—)
You don't know how it got to this point. Scorched. Soaked. With him leaning over you, in all his tartarean glory, making demands of your body as easily as pulling on loose thread between his thick fingers.
You could blame Gaz for this.
Sat pretty at his desk, idling a jar of gun oil in his hands. Your gun is spread out on the desk, taken apart. Worrying his lip between his teeth, he said, “someone should check in on Price. Haven't heard from him in a while.”
Through a quick game of hierarchy, that someone ended up being you. Forced to trek halfway up a mountain just to make sure your mercurial boss didn't die over the winter. Bitten off more than he could chew and too much of a proud Alpha to admit defeat, and call for help.
You had enough suppressants to last you there and back. Three days. One in the morning, one in the afternoon. Price, despite his surly disposition, is an intense Alpha to be around—
Even for Betas.
Some, unintentionally, succumb to his whims without even a forethought spared on rationality. It's innate. He says something, and people listen—
Like now. Hours after you discovered your suppressants were gone, and his heavy, cloying scent thickened in the air, suffocating you. When he leaned against the thick log doorframe on the porch of his cabin, thick arms folded across his broad chest, murmured, “come all this way just to see me?” and all at once, the world fell out from under you—
Plunging you into his arms, his embrace. His growl in your ear, “you’re in heat,” he grunted, fists balled against your sides. “fuckin’ Christ—” and the death sentence he imparted on you: “either I take care of this, or your heat becomes too much for me, and I tear you to pieces. But it doesn't matter does it, mm? You can't make it back down in this state,” more snarling anger, dry heat. Scorching. His chin jerked to the river at the foot of the mountain. “In a few hours, It’ll be melted through. Uncrossable.”
Per usual, John Price leaves you very little room for choice, doesn't he?
Slowly, shakily, your pitched knees part, unveiling your bare cunt to the man towering over you with a condescending coo on his lips, red-hot desire in his smouldering Tartarean eyes.
“Tha’s it,” he murmurs, voice full of sarky delight. “Such a good omega for me, aren't you?”
It’s not meant to be answered—the jeer chock full of hyperbole. Despite this, your body responds instantly. Back arching, legs spreading out wider around the bulk of his frame, nearly flush against the warmed fur covering the floor of the cabin—wolf, he muttered proudly before he pushed you down against the soft pelt, mouthing teasing at your jaw. Chest heaving. Fingers curling, knotting into the pelt.
The urge to present for him is intense. An unanswerable call when he pins you down on your back, body a cage keeping you trapped where you lay. Open, inviting. All for him.
This surly, awful man—
His hands are rough, padded with calluses and hard, jagged scars that jut up from his flesh. It feels abrasive, sandpaper grit, when he leans down, hand pressed against your knee. The drag, then, when he lets it drop down the skin of your inner thigh, makes you keen in the back of your throat. Gnarled palms bleed heat into your soft skin. The contrast is dizzying—size, scale, texture; it all leaves you breathless. Victim to your own instincts, ones that scream at you to roll over. To run. To make this massive, virile alpha yours—
He cups your pussy in the palm of his hand, heel pressed against your clit, fingers sliding between your slit, touching your entrance with the tip of his middle finger. The way the length of it swallows you whole, long, thick fingers reaching beneath you, grazing the cheeks of your ass, sets you on fire in a way you've never felt before.
Price sees it. He must. He leans back on his haunches, broad chest heaving as he stares, transfixed, at his hand folding over you, wrist propped against your mons.
He groans low in his chest. When he speaks, desire scorches his words to cinders.
“Ever had an Alpha's cock here?”
His question is scorching.
In a small town, choice is slim. The ratio of alpha to omega, and beta to both, is skewed highly in the latter's favour. You think, Price included, there are maybe five eligible alphas in the whole township. Two omegas, yourself included. Everyone else—
Unbothered, unburdened by this horrific anomaly of genetics, of lingering animal instinct. A relic of when people were more beast than man.
But even with that, the suitors lining up ready to claim you since you arrived three years ago is negligible. Nearly nonexistent.
The shame of it is absurd. You know without any shadow of a doubt that your worth is not measured by the number of Alpha's wanting to claim you, but that prickling unease in the back of your head won't be quelled by common sense. Who cares, you want to scream. Who fucking cares—
“No,” you bluster; choking on your anger, your shame. Despite being an omega—rare as they are—everyone in town seemed soured by your scent. Adverse to the pungent pheromones you released innately.
“No?” He echoes, and the stab of worthlessness needling into your pericardium makes you want to howl, want to cry.
He doesn't let you. He leans down, hand resting on the floor beside your head, the other still anchored to your cunt, and presses his lips to the shell of your ear. His breath is a humid kiss that tickles across your flesh.
“Good.”
The praise bubbles in your marrow. You melt under the heat, whimpering. Head lulling to the side, exposing your neck. Offered up for him to take.
He huffs, chest expanding. The coarse bed of hair tangled on his sternum in a smattering of black catches on your nipples, the rough graze making you gasp, soundless, into the humid space between your bodies. Aching already and he barely touched you.
Price follows the twist of your chin, lips pressed flush to your ear. With him crowding so close, you can feel the rumble, the low vibration, through his chest before he even speaks. A soft purr, sultry and rich. Pulling you deeper into the throes of your submission with a startling ease.
“I don't share, and I'd hate to have to tear another alpha apart for touching you,” his beard scrapes against your cheek, words soaked in possessive fury at the thought alone. “You're mine.”
You want to fight against it. Against him. No one owns you. Has claimed you.
You have only ever belonged to yourself.
“M’not—”
Price shushes you with a nip, blunt teeth dragging down the plush flesh of your earlobe. “Don't fight it, love. Just—give in.”
You won't. Can't—
Despite the heat—heavy, oppressive, and wet, like the balmy swelter of a tropical jungle; bubbling dross on molten metal—you fight. Rage. Push back against the heady scent he exudes, ones meant to soothe, melt. Until you're malleable. Tensile. Mouldable to fit his needs, his desires, his cock. Putty in his scorching hands.
It bleeds through, though—noxious and potent. The acrid miasma of a wild, untameable man: leather, hide, and animal rot; bleached bones; felled timbre. A wet forest after a wildfire; charred wood, argillaceous soil. Damp. Cloying. Choking.
Reeking of authoritative power, he leans over you, breathes in the heaving exhales you let out. Lets the taste of you sit on his tongue, curl between his crooked teeth.
He's close like this. All fire, all heat. And underneath the scent of a pursuing alpha, you pick up hints of him. Of what he smelled like before, when you were his subordinate and he spent most of his days making yours miserable. Stale smoke, wet tobacco, old leather, dry whiskey.
You hate how much it calls to you.
Maybe sensing your defiance, or growing tired of this push-pull game, he huffs out a breath that sounds less aggrieved than you'd want it to, full of playful amusement. Like he expected this. Like he knew you'd fight back with brittle fists and wicked teeth.
Price pulls back, leaning against his haunches. Content now to devour you at a distance. His eyes leave a scorching trail from your heaving breast, your quivering stomach before fixing once again on the way your pussy is swallowed by his hand. His middle finger circles your sopping hole. The tease is a burst of pleasure, of sensation. A tickle, a taunt. The drag of it makes a loud, sticky noise; the unmistakable slosh, the squelch of just how wet you are for him.
And it is for him. All for him.
Your heat is an incipient bloom on the horizon—a slow, crawling sunrise. You shouldn't be this slick yet. This drenched.
The embarrassment blisters through you when he makes a choked sound in the back of his throat. A loan bitten, swallowed before it can fully form.
Price coos, voice scorched. Full of char. “All’fer me, mm? Such a good little omega.”
You hate it. Hate it, hate it, hate it—
—but nearly choke yourself on a moan.
He chuckles, dark and rich. The sound entirely too similar to crushing a fistful of charcoal, and you're reminded suddenly why he's unmated at the age he is.
Surly bastard. As approachable as a fucking grizzly bear in a rut.
Your lips twist, jerking downward. “Fuck you—”
He circles your rim once more, chuffing low as he does so, letting the slick noise of your soaked cunt speak on his behalf.
You bite back a snarl, letting it fizzle out in the back of your throat. However reckless you might be, however much you might dislike him, he's still an alpha. Snarling in his face would only get you bent over his knee (at best).
And at worst, well. Maybe they'll find whatever is left of you next spring.
Next spring.
Thinking about just how long you're trapped here with him—no phone, no service—makes you want to cry. To break down, to—
No. You can't. Won't. Not in front of him.
Not Price. The awful man who spent three years picking away at everything you've ever done. Writing you up for every little misstep. You wondered then, and you still wonder now, if he hated you because you were an omega who dared to work with him, as his equal, or if his brand of distaste was just for you.
(The latter, it must be—he’s always been so kind to Alex, an older omega.
You're just the exception.)
This sprawling train of thought is clipped when he sinks his finger into you, to the second knuckle, and you choke.
“Ah, fuck, don't—”
He curls his finger. “Protest as much as you'd like, but if you didn't want this, your pussy wouldn't be this fuckin’ wet would it, love?”
He's right. You hate him for it.
But he doesn't give you a chance to complain. He slips his finger out, the wet drag of your flesh pulling on him, unwilling to let go, is loud. Awful. You burn hot—hotter still when he groans at the noise.
“Such a good girl for me, ain't you?”
Price circles your entrance as he says it, pressing two fingers against your rim, rubbing. Gathering slick. You wish it didn't feel as good as it did—electric shocks of pleasure sparking at his touch, but the feel of it is a tease. You want more. Much more—
He presses those long, thick fingers inside again. Two this time. All you can do is mewl around the sudden stretch, the sting.
Your discomfort is a palpable thing. Unease, distress—the acid scent plumes around you, leaking from your pores. Price stops suddenly, fingers still crooked in a half knot inside you.
“You're tight,” he drawls, jowls working. Tensing. His eyes flash, heat lightning. “You—”
He cuts himself off abruptly, eyes narrowing into slits. They drop down to where he disappears inside of you, flesh stretched tight around him. Drilling into the way the slick runs down his fingers, over his knuckles, drenching the back of his hand, and he hums.
“Has anyone ever touched you here before?”
More shame. It bubbles in your chest, this awful, insidious thing.
It hasn't been for a lack of suitors, really. But rather, other things have always taken precedence over heats, over ruts. School, then your career. And well—
Betas around here don't seem very interested, either.
Maybe you have peculiar wants. Urges, needs, that you've always been hesitant to fill. A wellspool of desire that runs deep, vicious. You want to mate. For keeps.
Maybe they can scent that on you. A loud cry that says, stay away.
You take a shuddering breath before nodding shallowly, twisting your head away so you don't have to look at the patronising gleam swirling in frothing Tryhennian.
“Look at me.”
The command bludgeons your resolve. Your chin jerks back immediately. Desperate to obey. To listen. Frantic with the urge to quell the alpha, to soothe his plight—
But where you expect anger, you're met with the most peculiar sort of expression etching itself into his brow, his rugged face.
His lips parted, lax. The picture of surprise.
Your eyes widen. A gasp is ripped from your throat at the raw, fractured look in his eyes. It's new, this. Unexpected. Where you anticipated scorn is instead a slow, unwinding look of want, of greed, so thick, it glues to the air.
Patchwork hunger, predatory and damning, hews into your skin. Fine needles piercing, pricking, along your flesh.
Branded ownership. You feel it settle against your chest. Dig in when his chest expands with his, hissing inhale.
There's a dark tremble to his shoulders that makes your toes curl.
“I should take this slow, then, mm? Prep you. Get you nice and ready for my cock,” his words have you keening, arching for him. Achingly empty. His hand lifts, settles against your quivering stomach. The slightest pressure makes you shake, quieten; submitting to the touch. “But. I don't have the patience for that.”
He slots his thighs between your legs, pressing it tight against your cunt. The pressure—blissful pleasure; frantic at the touch—is almost your undoing, but there's a plexiglass between full submission and the urge to flee. Still. The heat is rapacious. The desire, the yearning, doesn't abate.
The haze is thick. So thick. It would be easy to slip under the veil, to let yourself go. To give in—
"Easy, omega," it comes out as a guttural rasp; the charcoaled command uttered in a mockingly placating tone. The sort one might use to soothe a wild animal or a startled mare. Fitting, of course, when you're rutting against the thick spread of his thigh, leaking slick all over him.
down girl, he doesn't say, but he might as well have because you're clenched tight around nothing, aching hollowly in a way that rings through your bones. You can't help it, you want to whine when he huffs, lips pulling downward in a frown. Disappointed in you, perhaps. But how do you fight instinct when you're hardwired to want to spread your legs at the pungent, lour stench of a virile alpha's incipient rut, the briny tang of his pre-cum saturating the air. A heady elixir that sends shockwaves of agonising need through your body.
It's too much. The burn of your heat is a vicious, deadly combatant. Knife to your jugular, hand around your throat, it demands compliance.
And when he reaches down to his stained slacks, drawing your eye to the tent in the front, to the dark pool at the front where he leaks his spend into the fabric, you keen. Jealousy scorching through you instantly at the sight; animal instinct that makes you want to bare your teeth at it because his cum is just for you, all for you—
Amusement pierces the air. Punctuates it with the heavy, noxious weight of his satisfaction.
He hums, reaches into his slacks. Curls his fist around the thick of himself.
“Want this, don't you?”
You gnash your teeth against your desperation, legs popping open further. Inviting. Eager.
“Of course you do. Want this—” he frees his cock, pulling it over the band of his trousers, and you choke.
It's wet with his spend, and angry looking. The mushroomed head engorged, swollen. Flushed a deep vermillion. Veins run the length of it. Pulsing with his need. His want.
Price groans, strokes his hand down his shaft. Pearlescent beads of pre-cum bubble up from the tip.
You ache. Suddenly, viciously. Hollow. Empty. You want him. Need him—
“Yeah? Want this fat cock inside of you, mm?”
And you, finally, give in—
"Please, please, Price—"
"No." He taps the head of his cock against your clit once, twice. A warning. A reprimand. You keen at the whitehot agony, the unfathomable burn of pleasure ripping through your body. He coos into it. Echoing your whimper with a derisive snort. Mocking. Cruel. You hate him. Hate him. Need him so badly you think you might go insane if he doesn't pry you apart right this instant—
"I'll give you my knot when I'm good and ready. Now, be good for me, mm?” His eyes are dark in the harsh flicker of the wood stove. Burning liquid black. Molten puddles of crushed sapphire. You hate the way he looks at you. Hate how it makes you want to roll over on your belly, soft and submissive, giving all of yourself over to this terrible man. “That's it. Good omegas get what they want. Bad ones get punished. And I don't think you'll like being taken over my knee, would you?"
His words send a fresh wave of heat through your veins. Hellfire. Scorching. You want to blame the fever on the stove burning away in the corner of the room, on a sickness you can't scrape off of your bones no matter how many times you chisel into your skin. An infection eating away at you from the inside out.
But it's futile. He doesn't care about your excuses. He never has—
“Spread yourself. Go on and show me that pretty cunt you want me to ruin so badly.”
Unspooled, liquid under his bulk, you don't even hesitate before your fingers unfurl from their fight knot in the fur, making a slow, timorous crawl down the supine length of your sun-scorched body.
Your flesh feels foreign, like it belongs to a stranger. To someone else. Each touch is a phantom whisper gliding along sweat-slicked skin; new and different, and not yours.
Not yours at all because your skin would never prickle with goosebumps over the sight of your chief kneeling between your legs, the hair on his thigh matted, slick with your wetness. The unruly black thatch darkening into a patch where you shamelessly rutted against him, eagerly seeking friction over the place you ache the most.
For him. All for him.
It's impossible. Impossible. And yet—
As your fingers curl over the tops of your thighs, notching into the soft, heated flesh at the bend of your hip and groin, you feel just how soaked you are for him. How wet. How eager. It stains your skin, reaches almost down your bent knees. Beneath you is a puddle drenching the fur.
Your fingers slip, sliding in the mess you made. You flush when he huffs, humoured by it all, and dip your chin away from the scorching, piercing look in his cerulean eyes, drilling holes in the apex of your thighs. Greedily taking in his fill as your fingers glide over your sopping folds, gingerly parting them. Presenting to him on your back. Ripe for the taking.
“One hand,” he rasps, words clicking in his throat. He holds his hand up, curling his fingers down and leaving his index and middle finger up in a pointed V. “And the other—” he swallows thickly, Adam's apple bobbing. “I want you to touch your clit for me.”
You follow his instructions, slipping your fingers between your folds, opening yourself up for him. Your other hand sits on your mons, fingertips brushing your swollen clit as heat floods you. Electric. Each touch is a shock of pleasure roiling down your spine, and more slick dribbles out of you, dripping down your aching, empty hole, down your ass, until it soaks into the furs below.
The scent of a needy omega fills the air. Your scent.
Where most are sweet, supple, yours has always had a bite. A tartness to it, an earthy tang. Boysenberry. Loam. Lemongrass. Beeswax. You bluster. Flushing. Embarrassment plumes up, mushrooming in the air—smoked orange peels, coral berry sour—and you wonder if he's repelled by it, this strange smell of yours—
Price’s head rolls back, nose pitched in the air. Breathing in deep, groaning with his exhale. Eyes fluttering, flashing. He eats it clean from the air. Mouth dropping open, panting.
It's then when the unmistakable musk of a pleased Alpha—smoked tobacco and sage—clots beside your scent do you feel the prickle of free will hewing into your periphery.
None of what he demanded of you carried the unignorable weight of a command. Before you can even think of the ramifications of that, he's moving. Heavy body falling, sliding down the furs. His hands come to rest, hot and firm, on your knees, spreading you wider, wider, to fit the boxy heft of his broad body between them.
He hovers over you, head bending to fit in the brackets of your thighs. Leading with nose, nostrils flaring, fluttering, as he pulls in deep lungfuls of your scent. Over and over, and—
His head bows. Humid air ghosting over your sopping cunt when he exhales. It's then when he dips his chin further, further, until the bottom of his face is flush with your pussy, mouth parting around a groan that reverberates through the floorboards, rattles your bones.
“You smell s’fuckin’ good, love,” he rasps, choked. His eyes are gyres. They might just swallow you whole. You fight back a shiver, resolve threadbare. Stitches coming apart. “Bet you'd taste even better.”
It's all the warning you get before he pushes his face into you, mouth dropping open to let his tongue lull out. Licking a scorching stripe from hole to clit. And, oh—
Oh.
Your head drops, eyes slipping closed at the liquid feeling between your thighs. The whitehot sensation of his tongue laving across your slit.
So this—this—is what you've been missing out on. Pure feeling. Molten. It blooms in your loins, knots tight like a spooled bow.
Your fingertips are in the way from him pressing his tongue flat against your clit, where you throb the most, and you move to pull your hand away. To give him access to everything, all of it. Every part of you he wants. It's all his, his, so long as he keeps doing what he's doing with his mouth, his tongue—
But his hand slashes through the air, snatching your wrist in a vice grip. Stopping your retreat. You whimper, hips flexing up, wanting his mouth. Needing more of what he's doing between your thighs.
“Look at me,” he demands. You obey. Instantly. His eyes are black holes. Everdark. Eclipsed, totally, by the bleed of his black pupils spreading out. You moan, thighs parting wider, wider. “Good girl. Such a good omega for me, aren't you?”
He doesn't let you answer. Draws your wet fingers to his mouth, pressing the pads against his lower lip, nails scratching his teeth. He breathes in, shoulders bunching up. Eyes fluttering again, rolling back in his head. And it's divine—
To have such a surly, contemptuous Alpha on his knees for you, fat, heavy cock drooping between his thighs, spitting a steady stream of spend onto the floor. Wasteful. You keen again, back arching. Needy. Wanting—
Price sucks in your fingers, tongue laving between your knuckles. The pressure, the feeling, is good. You like this. Like his mouth.
But your fingers are not where you want him.
“Please, Price. Please—”
He pulls off with a pop. Leans his cheek on your inner thigh.
“What do you want? Use your words, omega.”
Heat blooms in your chest, but you're long past the point of embarrassment anymore. Shame. It's all awash under the torrent of need. Desire. Swept in the rage of your heat. Nearly rendered delirious by it.
“Want your mouth.”
“Where?”
“M–my—” you swallow, fingers spreading your folds wider. Opening yourself up to him. He glances down, nostrils flaring once again. But he doesn't move. Won't. You groan, head rolling back. “My pussy. Please. Want your mouth on my pussy, Price—”
He groans, low. Dark. But then he's moving. Head bowing. His tongue is scorching. Whitehot. He drags it through your folds, teasing at your rim. Presses it inside, just a touch, a shallow thrust. And—
Ah.
You make a noise in the back of your throat. Awful, wet. Choking. The feeling of his tongue inside of you is good. Beyond words.
It slips in more. The full length. Stuffed. You keen, arching. Aching. Hips flexing, jerking against his mouth. He lets you ride his face like this, fucking your hole with his fat tongue, nose glued tight to your clit.
All you can do is sob his name, fingers curling, knotting, into his damp hair, holding him close.
His tongue leaves you, sliding up your seam until it cups your clit. Laves over it. He lifts his chin, and seals his mouth over you. Sucks—
The spool unravels. Pressure released. You flood around him, on him. Pussy gushing slick over his chin, drenching him. Drowning him.
Lips sealed over your throbbing clit, he moans low. Deep. Eyes rolling back in his head. Gyre blue.
“Tha’s it,” he coos, pushing two thick fingers inside your throbbing cunt. “Think you're about ready for my cock, ain't you?”
He doesn't let you answer. And—
You don't think you can form a coherent thought. Running on sensation. On instinct. You make to roll over on your belly, ass pushed into the air, ready for his knot, but he stops you. Hands squeezing your hips. Firm.
“No. I'll take you like this.”
And it's hard to reconcile the urge to present with his demands. His wants. You whimper. He answers it with a grunt.
“Stay still.”
You flatten to the fur, body melting. Lax.
“Good girl.”
The praise is a serrated knife to your jugular, cutting a jagged line across your skin. Spilling blood. You quieten under his bulk, now. Desperate. Docile. Collared in blood.
His hands push behind your knees, lifting your legs. Pushing, pushing. Until they rest under your ears. Spread open for him. Ready to be claimed, owned. Bred.
“Price, Price, please—”
He shushes you with a coo, pitching your heels over his shoulders. Shuffling closer until his heavy cock, hanging thick and fat between his legs, bumps against your ass. Your cunt. You whimper, back arching. Needing him to fill you up. Split you apart.
Ruin you—
“Gonna fuck you now. Knot you.”
It's a warning. A threat. You feel it trail over your skin, branding. A collar. You lift your chin, letting it settle there. So long as he makes you feel this good, he can do whatever he wants to you. Anything—
And so, he does.
His cock is a heavy weight against you, pressing. Pushing. He doesn't wait for you to adjust, for your body to acclimate to the burning stretch of him splitting you apart.
Your slick aids in the brutal onslaught of his cock prying your untouched flesh apart, chiselling open a space just for him to fit.
It should hurt more. And maybe it would if you weren't drowning in the throes of a vicious heat, numbed to everything but the way his cock feels as it slides, inch after inch, inside of you. Thick, fat. Pulsing. You pant shallowly, head turning. Chin pressing into your shoulder.
It's good. This burn, this ache. This madness—
“Christ—” he spits, sounding almost angry. Furious. You peer up at him, eyes wet with unshed tears. Through the murky haze, you catch the clench of his jaw, the prominent divot between his brows. Face tightening with pleasure. Rapturous. “This cunt was made for me, wasn't it, love?”
“Yes—” it's breathless. An airless whisper. “All yours, all yours, John—”
You repeat this as he reaches halfway inside of you. As he bends down, mouth feverish he slots it greedily over your lips in a bruising, sloppy kiss. You mutter it against his teeth, his tongue. He swallows your acquiescence, your submission, down with a moan. Drinks you in as he takes, takes, until you're full of him. Stuffed.
John bottoms out with a moan that trembles down your throat, balls pressed flush against your ass. Split apart on him. Claimed.
He settles, letting you adjust to the sensation. Content to simply mouth sloppy kisses over your face, your cheek, jaw. Nipping your skin. Basking in this, in finally having you stretched around him. His pleasure is ripe in the air. Heavy and acrid. Smoked leather. Fresh, and heady.
It's novice, this feeling. This pressure. This fullness. Your hand drops, falls, palm sliding between his heavy, hairy belly, resting over yours. Feeling the unmistakable bump of him rearranging your anatomy to fit—barely—in you.
He lifts up, elbow dropping to the floor beside your head so he, too, can feel for himself the way he fits within you. His hand comes to lay beside yours, flattening over the bulge of him protruding from your flesh. His cock jerks inside of you, twitching. The feeling makes your toes curl, your cunt throb.
“Like that, huh?”
Your nod is slowly, languorous. Everything feels unreal. Like you're staring at the world from underwater. Inky. Fractured. Raw.
The burn of the stretch is there, throbbing like a bruise. A contusion. He scents the sting, the ache, and slides his hand down, cupped over your swollen, stuffed pussy. Fingers tangling into the thick bed of curls grazing your mons. Price quells the burn with a swipe of his thumb rolling over your clit.
It has you clenching, tightening even further around him. Feeling the thick stretch thrumming inside of you. Plugging you up. And fuck—
If that doesn't just light you up from the inside out. Supernova. Blistering heat.
Pieces of yourself chip off, fluttering to the soft, downy fur below you with each heavy breath he takes. Your heat swells to a crescendo, breaking over the edge of your lingering cognisance. It's all sensation now. Pure, unfettered feeling.
And Price takes no time at all to exploit it. To batter your melting, liquid body into submission even further.
It starts with shallow grinds against the plug of your womb. Carving more space inside of you for him to fit, to ruin.
He fucks you like this. Cock heavy and fat inside of you. Giving you the full length until your rim catches on the burgeoning swell of his knot. Over and over again. Pulling deep, delirious moans from your throat. Breaking you to pieces on the spread of him seated deep. Tugging more and more compliance from your body, wringing pleasure out of every nerve ending.
The sounds are horrific, and had you any sense of self left to mull over them, your shame, embarrassment, would have burned you alive. The wet squelch of your cunt swallowing him down, over and over and over again—
“Needy little pussy,” he bites out, blunt teeth skirting over your pulse point. A tease.
The press of them heightens everything, elevating it to a tipping point.
This is what you were made for. What every atom in your body screams out to. Wanting. Needing to be spread out under him, this dark, awful man.
“I'm not going to claim you,” he's saying, words wet against your temple, tongue snaking out to catch the droplets of sweat beading on your hairline.
It makes you whine in dismay, desperate for his teeth buried in your skin.
“No, no, please—! I need it, John, I need it—”
“Then beg me. Beg for it—”
You do. It babbles out of you. Broken, fractured. Pleas, orisons, screamed to heavens; aching for his teeth on you, in you. Claiming you for his own. You want it more than you think you've ever wanted anything in your whole thing. Half of you, empty and vacant, hollow, begging to be filled. To be completed.
And really—
You've felt it from the beginning. This stirring, agonising want. Desire. A bone-deep yearning for the man who looked at you, up and down, and dismissed you with a charred scoff and shallow shake of his head.
“What's a little omega like you doin’ runnin’ around the woods, love? Ought to be at home—”
Where you belong.
It didn't make sense at the time. He's so different with everyone else—Alex, Farah—but reserves his scorn, his discrimination, just for you. Special little thing, aren't you?
But even still. Still. You tried. Struggled against the crushing weight of his derision, burying your fingers into the rubble, clinging on for three, devastating years until your nails broke, bled. Left stains on the pavement. Until he, stiff-lipped and clipped, told you he was retiring. Escaping the loose binds of a non-existent town on the fringes of civilisation for the sanctum of the wild, untamed forest. The mountains.
You wanted him to say, come with me, even if you might have gouged his eyes out for even asking. Tore his still-beating heart out with your bare hands.
But instead, he nodded at you. A quiet goodbye. Left you bewildered, furious, and unclaimed, unwanted, and now—
Those blood-stained fingers dig into the softness of his nape, biting flesh until it gives, breaks, under the jagged stumps of your nails, and you wrench him forward, into you, snarling mad. Apoplectic with fury at being denied so long.
“Fuck you,” you bite out, brittle with ire. Disobedient even through the noxious curdle of heat subduing your senses. Your rationale. “Fuck you, John—!”
His skin breaks first. The bitter scent of hot, wet pavement, pennies in the summer sun, sickly sweet iron, fills the balmy cabin. He groans, choked, throat bobbing, jaw clenching. You don't let him get anything out.
You pull him by the scruff of his neck into you, face buried in your collarbones. Heels dig in, sliding along the slick sweat of his broad back. Finding purchase against the knob of his spine, and pressing. Pushing. Kicking at him until he slots his hips into yours, pressed as deep as he could possibly go. Throbbing inside of you. Spitting molten spend as he wrenches you open.
The first person to ever do so.
He must know this, feel it simmering in the air, because he groans low, deep. It bubbles out of his chest, a half-bitten snarl saturated in the smoke of his desire. Feverish, possessive.
“Mate me,” you demand, head tilting back into the awaiting plinth of his palm, cushioning your crown. “Claim me.”
He—John, you think, delirious; gone—John places a tender kiss to your pulse point, soft despite the uneven, desperate way he fucks into you now. All that careful finesse falling to pieces under your foot, growing choppier as he sinks in deep. Pistoning shallowly into your sloppy cunt, taking. Taking.
“Please, John,” you breathe, clenching tight around him. Needing that last push to drop over this vertiginous precipice that yawns out, a growling, hungry chasm, before you. Heat spears into your marrow, drowning out all the fight inside of you. Dousing those flames until they're a smouldering heap; clumps of hot, wet ash in your hands. “Please take me—”
The growl he makes is inhuman. Lingering in the shadow of it is a mocking burst of laughter. Dark, hellish. He leans in close, mouth tight against your skin, and whispers, “already have, love.”
Those words lose any meaning when he opens his mouth wider, licking a stripe over your neck. A soothing rinse. And then he buries his teeth into your pulse, tearing through your skin. Claiming. Owning. It rips through you—all heat, sensation: blistering, inferno. You burn alive beneath him, smouldered under his possessive, heavy bulk.
Price leans back with a vicious, terrible growl. Blood dripping down his chin, mixing with the tacky slick of you still covering his face. Pinkish under the waning light of the dying sun.
The sight of it, the horrible throb in your throat, breaks over you.
His tongue flicks out, chasing the drops. With a swipe of his finger over your clit, you fall to pieces around him, clenching. Throbbing. Screaming with your release. Gushing around him as he grips you tight, working you through it, muscles fluttering, flexing. The deluge of pleasure is molten, spreading liquid through your body. Inescapable bliss.
He grunts, pace slowing to a sloppy grind. Letting you leech pleasure from the overfull feeling of being speared open on him. Knot swelling. Bumping into your rim. John gives you respite for a moment, content to hump against your messy cunt until you melt into the furs, panting with exertion. With pleasure.
He keeps his thumb pressed against your clit, stroking. Shoving you into the side of too much, of pleasure-pain. Overstimulated. You mewl, whimpering.
“Greedy girl,” he chides, cruel, and pulls back. The wet drag of his cock against your sore, sensitive walls is overwhelming. You keen, shaking under him. “Couldn't wait to cum around my knot, mm?”
He doesn't wait for your excuses. He never does. He just thrusts into you again, a slow climb until his knot bludgeons into you. Fatten up at the base of his cock. He holds it there, grinding it against your pussy as you arch, mewling at the sting of your hole being stretched further around the curve of his knot.
“You can take it,” he coos. The muscles in his shoulders flex. You reach out, petting along his chest. feeling him. All powerful, corded muscles hiding under a thick layer of pelt. Soft flesh.
His knot catches. Slips. He bullies it against your sore, stuffed rim, throwing the full heft of his weight behind his shallow grinds until finally, finally, your body yields. Giving in. Opening for him.
He sinks in with a broken groan, mouth dropping open. Lax. His shoulders slump under your hands as he pumps you full of cum. Plugged up tight on his fat, pulsing knot. It's too much. Too much. All you do is cling to him, nails biting into his flesh. Marking him like the bloody ring around your neck marks you as his.
Locked together, damned, he leans down. Huffs in your ear.
“Gonna fuck you full all spring until it takes, love. Until you're swollen, fat, with our kid.” His voice is a thunderclap. A promise. A threat. “Won't keep them lonely for long, though, will you? We'll give him a sister or brother. Gonna breed this pussy as much as I want, mm. Give us a big family. I've already started on the nursery for you. After your heat, I'll let you pick the colours, yeah?”
Satiated Alpha permeates the air. It's thick in the back of your throat, clogging your senses. Drowning you. Pulling you under.
The last thought before you sink below the waterline is a broken, fragmented sense of dread, confusion. It comes in a daze. Flickering embers. Quickly snuffed out by his palm gliding across your eyes, closing them.
“Sleep now,” he rasps, hips stuttering as he fills you with more cum. Uncomfortably full, it floods your cunt, locked tight against your womb. “Gonna need it when my rut starts later.”
And, docile, collared, you obey, drifting. Dazed. But wondering, in the back of your head, in the part of you not yet consumed by the ink-black darkness that eats away at you, why did he build a nursery for you if he didn't know you were coming today—
—swallowed, eaten. his teeth are buried in your neck once more, and all thoughts dissolve in an instant. Dissipate into the gnawing aether where he splits them between his molars, gulps them down.
nothing matters anymore. you belong to him—
The cabin reeks of satiated omega—sweet, pungent. Rotten apple peels, and burnt orange. It's this heavy scent—sex, loam, and you—that draws him out of his doze, tired eyes blinking against the flickering light of the wood stove pushed into the corner.
Price groans when he shifts, body aching. Muscles stiff, sore, from disuse.
It’s been a long, long time since he knotted an omega, and he underestimated the sharpness of your claws, your needle-like teeth. But he wears the marks, the scars, of your aggressive coupling on his shoulders, his back. Clawed up, torn. He grimaces when a clotting scab breaks, peels back from the wound. Blood drips down his spine in a steady, ticklish trickle.
It took a lot more than he expected to make you submit. Had to force you to take his knot twice more before you finally, fully, relented, slurring his name into the sheets as he rutted into you from behind, begging for your Alpha to fill you up.
Had you again after that—so soft and sweet for him now. Pulled you down on his lap, let you take what you wanted from him, sluggish and lazy, until he gripped your hips tight, fucking up into you as he thickened with his release. Plugged you up nicely as you drooled on his shoulder, lulled to sleep from three brutal rounds of fucking.
But the battle was worth the victory in the end. To have you tucked into his chest, purring with contentment and too blissed out from heat exhaustion to worry about anything else, was enough. More than, really.
Especially now, with you curled on him, snoring lightly, breath tickling his chest hair, he feels more sated than he ever had, breathing in the heaviness of your smell. Your thick miasma. New, now. Different.
His scent, his mere essence within you, changes your smell already. Chemicals admixing. Body moulding, morphing, to adapt to him. His presence. You smell like the sea, salt water. Algae blooms. He leans down, breathes you in. Tastes his own headiness in the back of his throat—charred timber, smoke; leather. It clings to you. A second skin.
No matter where you go, everyone will know you belong to him.
This thought, this truism, makes him purr. A deep rumble from the pit of his gut. Satisfaction rolls off of him in towering waves, hewing the air where it congeals into plumes of conquest. Hard earned, too—
Three years. It only took three years to get to this point. To chisel under your skin, to break you down in his paws. Fine powder.
He lifts his hand from your back, and scours it down his salt-slickened face. He feels heat blooming under his skin. A telltale flush of his approaching rut. Perfectly timed, too. And that reminds him—
He pushes away from you slightly, spent cock slipping free from your warm, drenched cunt. His cum drips out of you, a deluge that leaks steadily onto your thigh, the ruined fur below. It puddles there and stains the air with his unmistakable musk. The conquering of an omega in heat; claimed. Owned.
He doesn't go far. Can't. There's a possessive, needy thrill under his veins. A snarling growl in the back of his head, snapping rabid jowls at him. Demanding he stay close to his mate. His omega. Don't leave the nest, it warns, or another could crawl in, fill the empty space—
Price cuts that thought off with an aborted snarl. There are no others. He made sure of it. Bloodied his knuckles against every alpha within a one-hundred-square-mile radius of his territory. Growled in their faces, hand against their throat, and told them to stay away from, you, this pretty little omega.
Message received, of course. But you were a prickly little thing. Bitter. As much as he wanted to roll you on your belly, make you present your cunt to him, he knew he had to tread carefully. Baby steps until you were close enough to his jaws to snap up, all his. Always. Ever since you stepped foot into his domain, your tart scent coalescing perfectly with the pine, oakmoss, tang of him. You've been his before you even knew who he was—
Wily omega with your shaking fists and bared teeth. Skittish little thing. Needed to play his hand slowly, to box you into a corner before you were even aware of the walls closing in around you. Snapped up tight his maw. Bear Trap quick. Had to be smart about it, bide his time. Push and push until all you thought about was him.
(checkmate)
John reaches for the loose floorboard, prying it open, and pulls his cell phone out—one he knows he’ll have to bury in the yard before you wake. There are very few contacts on his list, and he idly scrolls through the messages (steaming Jesus, the smell o’er—ye sure ye don’ share, cap?; better take her, Price, before I do) before he finds Gaz’s.
The last message sent was hours ago from Kyle. on her way. but fuck, didn't realise how fast fake suppressants worked, chief. gonna have to find her quick. might not make it up the mountain smellin as good as she does—
Good boy, he types with one hand, the other petting possessively down your spine. Curled there, a weighty pressure. You found him in the end, right on the cusp of your burgeoning heat. Pawing desperately for the suppressants Kyle made sure wouldn't be there.
(His parting gift brought on by a conversation ages ago—
“why haven't you mated, cap? not gettin’ any younger.”
“haven't found the right one. ain't gonna settle.”
“more like, your shitty attitude scares all the pretty omegas away, huh?”
“that, too,” he bit down into his cigar. suddenly angry, viciously so. “‘cept one.”
Kyle followed his gaze, and—
“so, take her. she wants you. reeks like she does. you can smell it, too, can't you?” his eyes flashed. playful. “maybe that'll be my retirement gift to you.”
“not funny, Garrick.”
“m’not tryin’ t’be, cap.”)
Three dots appear almost instantly. It takes a moment. Then: fuckin’ prick. Another message from Kyle pops up seconds after. told you, didn't i? i wasn't bein funny. congrats, cap ;)
As if sensing the sudden whiplash of his mood—deep, proprietorial—you stir in his arms, mewling in confusion. John drops the phone, hiding it from view, and pulls you tighter in his arms. In his embrace. Mouth pressed tight to your hairline, he rumbles, “shush, shush. I got you.”
His words make you quieten slightly. Quelled under the susurrus lull of his bellowing purr. But there's still a deep ravine between your brows. Unease lashes the air, acidic. Bubbling up from deep within you.
None of this must make any sense to you. Mercurial boss to mate, but he knows you'll come around to the idea of him soon enough. After all,
he has you all to himself until winter.
all to himself.
His hand falls, cups your lower belly possessively. Covetous. You grimace in your sleep, shifting away from the heavy, oppressive brunt of his smell. Obsessive. Potent like a wildfire. Dangerous.
But there's nowhere for you to run. Nowhere to go except deeper into his arms, his hold. Gyves around your throat; a bloody ring of his teeth.
Price hums. “Best gift I've ever gotten.”
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pornstar!price who does a competition where he’ll fuck one of his fans and the winner is some inexperienced, awkward loser girl :( when he asks what she wants him to do on camera she asks him to nice and gentle with her, to make her cum loads of time and tell her how pretty she is and what a good girl she is the whole time
and she asks with such a polite smile, how can he say no? makes her cum nicely on his tongue and fingers before letting her lower herself onto his cock at her own pace. she doesn’t pose for the camera she just focuses all her attention on him as he presses kisses to her neck and shoulders as per her request
stops and gives her a cuddle halfway through the session when the multiple orgasms make her all dizzy. presses kisses to her forehead and strokes her back like they’re lovers :( makes her head all fuzzy by whispering praise in her ear the whole time
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imagine jason todd eating you out, and he's just moaning and whining, maybe a tad bit louder than you are because you just taste like fucking heaven to him.
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mine or yours (18+, jason todd x fem reader) wc 1.1k
⭓ this post contains sexual content and is not suitable for minors.
This is wrong. You’re being unsafe. You know this. You barely know this man, and yet, you accepted his offer to help you move. It wasn’t even into a new building, you were just switching units with the old man you’ve befriended since living here, since you had an apartment on the first floor. The crappy apartment building you live in always has issues with the elevator, and Mr. Espinosa recently started using a walker. You were just doing the right thing, letting the senior citizen switch with you so he could have the more accessible unit. And so was Jason- just doing the right thing, helping his new neighbor move when he saw you struggling with carrying heavy boxes up and down several flights of stairs.
Touched behind the reason for your move, he cleared his whole Saturday to not only help you move in, but help the old man settle in as well. Seeing your new neighbor lift such heavy boxes and bulky pieces of furniture with ease was something you didn’t expect to affect you so much. But watching him work had your heart beating fast, and the giant of a man caught you staring at his strong arms more times than you’re comfortable admitting.
“Let me buy you some pizza, it’s the least I can do.” You had offered at the end of the day, both of you tired from the hard word you put in.
“I like pizza.” He said cooly, leaning against your doorframe and grinning at you. The way he casually wiped the sweat from his brow made your throat feel tight.
A nervous smile spread across your face, as you reach in your pocket for your phone. “Great! I’ll order some for delivery. You like pepperoni?”
That was several hours ago. Now, it’s almost midnight, and your new neighbor has you bent over your couch, large hands gripping your hips, clothes discarded in a pile on the floor, him rearranging your guts as an old sitcom rerun plays on your TV, which is stacked precariously atop several unpacked boxes.
“That’s it… you like that, don’t you? I can feel you clenching, baby, you gunna cum?” He asks, breathless and smiling, a bead of sweat running down his forehead.
You try desperately to conceal the lewd noises coming from your mouth. His pace is unwavering, tantilizing, making your toes curl and your fists clench at how delicious the friction feels against your inner walls. You don’t trust yourself to try and speak, so you just nod, looking back at him with a completely fucked-out look on your face.
Jason chuckles, and reaches forward to grasp the back of your neck with his hand. The feeling of his calloused skin gripping you there feels so dominating, it elicits a low whimper from your parted lips, unable to hold it together while your pleasure builds to an intolerable level. “Good girl. Good fucking girl.” He hisses through gritted teeth.
His praise is the final push you need. Your pleasure peaks as his hips thrust into yours, spilling over and flooding your body with warm tingles that radiate down your legs. You’re sore from all the work you’ve done today, trekking up and down 4 flights of stairs more times than you can count. Your exhaustion seems to intensify your orgasm, making you shake and shudder, more of your slick leaking out around Jason’s cock when he finally slows his pace.
“Yes… fuck yes. You’re something else, baby.” His possessive grip on your neck releases, letting both hands wander down to caress your ass gently, watching you twitch and spasm around him from the intensity of what he just did to you. His eyes wander to where your bodies meet, and his cock throbs painfully when he sees the abundance of wetness dripping from your swollen cunt.
You struggle to keep yourself from going limp. It feels like someone filled your brain with warm honey, all coherent thoughts have disappeared, replaced with feelings of euphoria, given to you by a stranger.
Jason pulls out of you, but keeps his hands firmly on your waist to guide you so you’re laying down on your back, head resting against the arm of your old grey couch he helped you carry in just hours earlier.
“I… that… you…” You stammer out a few words, unsure of what you’re even trying to say anymore.
“Ha, yeah, me too, ma.” Jason kneels on the couch, leaning over you and lowering his head so he can place a few warm kisses over your chest. “But I’m not done.”
Reflexively, your hands go to his head, running your fingers through his hair as you revel in the feeling of his lips against your skin. His warm mouth dances over your breasts, kissing and licking at your nipple languidly, taking his time and savoring this moment.
“M’tired, Jason, so tired.” You finally mutter when your brain fog starts to clear.
“Don’t worry. All you gotta do is lay there and look pretty. I’ll handle the rest.” His voice rumbles deep in his chest, giving you a fluttering feeling in the pit of your stomach.
“But-“
“Oh, and you can call me Jay, if you like.”
“Jay,” you let out a sigh, “You gotta be tired too, why don’t we- mmmphhh!”
Your eyes were fluttering shut, which is how you missed when he shifted lower to position his face between your legs. His eager tongue laps at your aching cunt, soothing the soreness there, savoring the taste of your arousal before focusing his attention on your clit. His hands snake up under your thighs and around your hips, hiking you up effortlessly to give himself better access, holding you mostly still but not too firm. He’s being gentle. Far more gentle than you would expect from someone like him.
“J-jay…” You look down at him, his dark hair disheveled, cheeks flushed, piercing green eyes staring back up at you.
“Hmm?” He doesn’t pull his mouth away to answer you. His greedy lips are planted around your sensitive nub, licking at it as he creates just a little bit of suction. You want to squeeze your legs shut when the vibration of his hum tickles you. He’s already coaxed two orgasms from you, making you even more sensitive to his attention.
“You should… it’s getting… shit…” How the fuck are you supposed to concentrate when he’s looking at you like that? “W-we should go to bed.” Your fingernails graze his scalp gently.
“Mmm.” He moans in agreement, finally pulling his lips away from your core. “I guess we could continue this in bed.”
That isn’t exactly what you meant. But for some reason, you don’t have it in your heart to correct him.
“So…” He untangles himself from your legs, sitting down on the couch and rubbing his hand up and down your bare calf. His demeanor is so casual, as if he didn’t just completely rock your world. An excited grin appears on his rugged features as he asks, “Mine or yours?”
⭓ masterlist ⭓
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thinking about soap cumming in your panties :(( like he’d literally pull you into a dark corner and back you against the wall, fuck his fist in front of you despite your hushed exclamations of surprise, before flipping your skirt up, and tugging your panties just enough to shoot his cum in them. you hit him softly, whining how you two are still very much in public and that you still have places to go, but he just laughs like you’re not soaked with his cum—
“i mean,” he says, “you can jus’ go commando.”
you purse your lips at him. “is this your way of askin’ to keep my panties?”
“well, if y’r offerin’.”
“you’re insufferable,” you grumble before shucking them off anyway.
he smacks your bare ass when you walk past him.
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this has actually driven me insane, thank you so much @abcdbleh 🫶🏼
as difficult as it was to believe, your older bf!simon was only human after all.
he was only a man.
and he wasn’t a young man- well, as young as he used to be. he moved a little slower and his back ached if he sat too long and half the music on the radio pissed him off.
he could keep up with the youngest of ‘em, he could probably still run rings around them. somehow, he managed to keep up with you- his pretty young thing.
it was you that was begging “no more!” when you’d already cum five times and he’s gearing you up for the next.
it was you that was complaining your thighs were sore cause you’d been riding him the better part of an hour, he’d cum twice and was expecting another before calling mercy.
it was you that was falling asleep whilst he was hip deep in you and mumbling a quiet “keep going, si” because he could go all night.
but there were just some things that’d never change.
when he was laid back on the couch, you were straddling his lap and your chest pressed to his as his tongue drove straight into your mouth.
your hands were running through his cropped hair as your hips rolled firmly against his with a pathetic little whine. simon’s hands moving from your waist to grip your ass and pull you harder into him.
making out like you were back in school, like an adult might catch you, like this was all you were going to get. he could feel the heat rising all over his body and he hadn’t even got your trousers off.
“so fuckin’ good for me, m’sweet”
you moaned into his mouth as his words got muffled on your tongue. your hands coming to cup his jaw as you felt the strong lines of it under your hand.
hips rolling messily, grinding yourself down on his hard cock that was barely confined in his trackies. you could feel his hands moving up your back, spreading across your shoulders and keeping you close.
you whimpered for him as your hips bucked into him.
“yours, simon- always yours”
there goes the floodgates.
simon tensed rock solid beneath you, his head tipping back against the arm of the couch as his jaw hung open. you could feel his hips spasming beneath you as you watched the look on his face.
fuck, you could watch this all day.
feeling a warmth spreading beneath you, hips still stuttering as your hands dropped to feel his abs clench beneath his hoodie.
“thats it, si- y’look so good”
against all odds, simon let out a desperate moan as his back arched and you felt another shot of warmth beneath you. your eyes felt hazy and your blood was rushing in your ears as you watched him come back down.
as if he hadn’t just cum in his pants like a fucking schoolboy, he lifted you back until you were pressed to the other end of the couch. pushing between your thighs, you could feel his breath through your clothes.
“si, please”
he chuckled, dark and right back in control- however, it wasn’t lost on you how he shuddered when his crotch brushed against the couch cushions.
“don’t think you’ve any idea just what you do t’me”
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One bed trope but its Dick Grayson, and it's basically just pwp.
≈550 words, CWs: F!Reader, v fingering, dirty talk, pet-names: pretty girl, baby.
Rating: 18+ MINOR DNI
Dick Grayson who graciously offers to take the floor, but not before joking; “Does this mean we’re sleeping together?” first, and enjoying the sheepish way you bite your lip and look away. Man, you’re cute when you’re flustered.
Dick Grayson who pretends to put up a fight when you say, “Don’t be silly, there’s plenty of space for both of us.” Knowing damn well, he wants nothing more than to be in that bed with you, close enough for your skin to brush together, for him to smell your sweet scent all night, to watch your restful face, even if it means he’ll spend most of the night uncomfortably trying to hide a semi.
Dick Grayson who notices the way your eyes linger just a little too long on his exposed chest when you come back from changing in the bathroom, the way you leave just a little too much space empty on your side of the bed in favour of lying closer to him, the way your body trembles when he breaths against the back of your neck.
Dick Grayson who sees the way you’re tossing and turning and seizes the opportunity to test the waters by placing his hand on your hip, his strong, calloused fingers splaying across your soft skin, massaging in circles until you’re purring under his touch. “Want some help relaxing?”
Dick Grayson who knows you’re putty in his hand but asks anyway “This okay?” as his fingers dip below your waistband, relishing in the fact that you’re already soaked for him. Who greedily swallows every pant and whimper as he slips his fingers into you, scissoring them to stretch out your tight little pussy. “Fuuuck- just sank right in there, you really wanted this, huh, pretty girl?”
Dick Grayson who can’t keep his eyes off of you, can’t get enough of the way your body shudders and reels as he finds that sweet spot inside of you, the way your mouth hangs open, jaw slaw, unable to keep quiet, the way your eyes can’t make up their mind between watching intensely as he pumps his fingers in and out of you, or rolling back every time he strokes your swollen clit.
Dick Grayson whose body sheens under the sliver of moonlight seeping through the curtains as he holds himself above you just high enough that you can feel his body heat radiating against you. "Does that feel good baby, tell me how that feels?”
Dick Grayson who coos and praises you like it’s his full-time job. “You look so good, all spread out for me.” Whose chest grows taut, who can’t stop grinning when he feels your walls twitching as your orgasm approaches. “Are you gonna cum for me baby, you gonna cum on my fingers?”
Dick Grayson whose cock is twitching, begging for action as he guides you through your climax, holding you by the hip to stop you from bucking away as he relentlessly attacks your clit, making sure you see stars as you hit your peak.
Dick Grayson who thinks you look hotter now than when he started, all hazy eyes, hair messy, chest rapidly rising and falling, body glowing.
Dick Grayson who represses the urge to suck on his fingers like a man possessed after making you cum, because he’s not done yet, because he promised to help you relax, because “I’m not stopping until you’re too fucked-out to do anything but sleep, that okay with you pretty girl?”
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