M An Old Man, Sweetheart. You Sure A Sweet Thing Like You Wants This?

“‘m an old man, sweetheart. You sure a sweet thing like you wants this?”

It’s rasped out against your lips. Funny that he asks it now - that white dress shirt already half-unbuttoned. The echo of his hands lingering on your hips, the brush of his mouth against yours. If only he knew how you dreamed of this, of him, since the first night you met.

logan promptober -> old

holy shit??

“I want to take you out.” He rasps, eyes still locked on the way he shines with you, with his own spend, “Make you breakfast, after I’ve fucked you in my bed.

Eyes finally meeting yours, his fingers tracing where you’re stretched wide around him. His voice dropping low, “After I’ve made all your pretty little holes mine.”

this passage had me giggling and kicking my feet feet but also at the same time had me gnawing at the bars of my enclosure. i fear someone will have to come restrain me because this has made me feral actually

— In Bloom

Alfred Pennyworth x F!Reader

Rated E - 7.3k

Tags: sex pollen, dub-con because of sex pollen, pure pwp, mutual longing/pining/crushes, manipulation, touching, aphrodisiacs, spitting, mild oral fixation, fingering, oral sex, multiple orgasms, begging, PiV, cum eating, cum play

A/N: had a thought about polite and proper Alfred losing his filter, and wanted to see where it could go

When Alfred finds himself under the effect of a strange pollen at the hands of Poison Ivy, Bruce realizes your thinly-veiled crush might just be the balm that is needed.

A knock on your door in the middle of the night is never a good thing.

Especially when the one who is doing the knocking is none other than your employer - Bruce Wayne.

Bruce Wayne, who likes to sneak down to Applied Sciences steal your prototypes.

Bruce Wayne, who you’ve found like to dress up like a vigilante - using said prototypes.

Bruce Wayne, who has a butler that you have a massive, massive crush on.

You’re scrubbing a palm across your eyes as you stumble towards the door, where he’s still knocking. It has to be him - no one else would stop by unannounced so late like this.

“I’m coming,” You call through the door, as you work open the deadbolt - cracking the door open. “What are you doing here?”

“Speeding up a timeline.” Bruce says cryptically - pushing his way inside as soon as it’s wide enough.

A mark carved between his eyebrows, as he paces. Shadows under his eyes, the remnants of grease enhancing them.

“What do you mean?” Your back presses against the door, worry starting to flood through you.

A sigh, then. A hand, raking through his hair - pushing the dark strands back from his forehead.

“It’s… Alfred.”

You’re wide awake now, on high alert.

“What wrong with him?”

“There’s…” There’s the huff of a strained laugh, disbelieving, “Been a situation. I think you’re the only one that can help him.”

Your stomach feels like it’s dropped down your ankles. Confused by his appearance, his words, his laugh.

Feeling so out of place in your own home, struggling to understand in a way that feels so different than when he’s three steps ahead on a project.

“He needs someone to take care of him.” He says it delicately, with a matching grimace, “We don’t have much time.”

You’d do anything to help. But still unsure of what he means, exactly.

“Why me?”

Bruce sighs - frustrated, that you haven’t caught up. The brief eye contact breaking as his hands shove into his heavy, black jacket.

“I know he’s been seeing you.” He states, “Will you come, or not?”

It had your heart freezing in its place. A soft ringing in your ears as you stare at him.

Because he’s not exactly wrong.

You been spending time together. Tinkering on fixes for Bruce - his extra set of hands and extensive knowledge more than useful.

And you think… that there is something.

Something there in the quiet way that time passes during the night. Brushing fingers and shared music and quiet murmuring.

The low timber of Alfred’s voice - murmuring praise when you work through an issue together.

That’s good. Smart girl.

A look that passes between you, when you see him off from the lab. The way he lingers, the way you can’t help but lean in.

The way you’re almost certain he’d been thinking about kissing you, just the day before.

But you never dreamed that anyone else would know.

Your words sound muted, as you ignore his question to ask your own, “How do you know that?”

“When I send him out to see you, he comes home whistling.”

Your cheeks feel like they’re burning, “So?”

“It means he’s happy. He hasn’t been in a long time.” Bruce sighs, his foot tapping, “And I’d like to keep him that way and not dead, or worse. So I’ll ask you again - will you come?”

“Wait.” You squeak, “Dead?”

A shoulder lifts, and then drops.

He tells you what happened.

The signal in the sky, his rush to the lab downtown only to find Poison Ivy already clearing it out. Dealing with her - only for Alfred to find a single, ruby-red petal in the car, when he had arrived back at the Tower. Unsticking from a cape where it had been carefully placed, a trap meant for Bruce.

One that had dissolved into a fine powder the second he picked it up. Coating his fingers and inhaled as he had coughed.

Flooding through his system, as he has swayed - Bruce guiding him up to his room to rest. To plan.

“I’m still figuring it out. I was able to save some of the powder to process.” He tells you, “So far, it’s been identified as an aphrodisiac.“

An aphrodisiac. The word rattles around in your brain, nudging at memories of a biology class - a heat rising to your cheeks.

“When I left, his heart rate was high. A rising fever, and he mentioned pain.” He rattles them off, pulling up an app on his phone, showing the readouts, “I don’t want to sedate him unless I have to.”

You can see it on the screen - the too-high heartbeat. The body temperature that ticks up a fraction of a degree, right in front of you.

There’s an uncomfortable pause, before he adds, “If it’s a biological effect, then I thought it could be eased. Naturally.”

So that is what he had meant, when he said taking care of. How it has to be you.

Bruce’s grimace tells you that you’re in the right track, as he watches you process.

“Okay.” Worry and something else - something warm and syrupy - swirl together in your chest.

“I’ll… I’ll help him.”

Your knuckles rap against the tall, heavy door. A thin silver disk shoved into the pocket of your sleep shorts - as you try not to think about it.

A fail safe, just in case. Press it if something goes wrong, and Bruce will come.

No answer comes, and your fingers curl around the handle. Unlocked, as they slowly twist, as you nudge open the door.

You’re not expecting Alfred to look furious, when you slip through the doorway. Shutting the door behind you firmly, resisting the urge to lock it.

There’s a strained look about him, clenched teeth and a pinched brow. Still a picture of elegance, even now. His hair still damp from a cleansing shower, neatly combed back.

Still slipping into dark trousers and a crisp white shirt afterwards - the buttons loosened at his throat, exposing skin.

A low curse hissed though his teeth - one that you’ve only hear him use the time you’d sliced your finger open while working together.

“It’s okay,” You’re telling him, placatingly. Moving towards him, where he’s sprung up from the bed.

A better idea of what you might need to do - the thought like a flame in your chest, creeping up to your ears. Too late to turn back, now that you know how dire the situation was.

Not that you wanted to.

Not that you would.

“I want you to turn around, and go back through that door.” Alfred all but growls - stepping further away from you.

Back against the side table, then over to the desk, tucked against the wall. A rattle of metal and wood, as he grasps at the edge.

“I’m here to help you.” You frown, still moving closer.

He’s started to eye the open doorway to the left - leading to the en-suite. Wordlessly you shift in front of it to block him, as something flickers across his flushed face.

Before his eyes close - his jaw ticks.

“You’re here because Bruce asked you to be.” He manages, “I’m not going to let you make a mistake.”

That has you halting, your hands moving to brace against your hips.

“He wants to help you.”

Alfred’s head shakes minutely.

“He’s trying to solve a problem. He’s pragmatic, and he’s compromised by emotion,” The words are labored, and from the closer distance you can see the shine of those bright, blue eyes. Can smell him, even - clean linen and cologne barely masking the scent of him.

“He doesn’t care about using you.” He insists, “But I won’t let that happen. Not even if…”

Alfred trembles, his hand tightening against the chair that he’s backed himself against, “Even if I wish for it. Desperately.”

The words linger like his scent, wrapping around you. Bruce’s comment making more sense, as something seems to bloom in your own chest at his admission.

Speeding up a timeline.

That maybe, you were right. About that something that sparks between the two of you.

The way he leaned last time - how your face had tipped up. Wishing and hoping, before the shrill rhythm of the ringtone had him stepping back.

Retreating.

“Is it the pollen, that has you saying that?”

You need to know.

The frown softens, as he sighs.

“It weaponizes desire. It pushes those feelings up to the surface, and renders you incapable of any other thought.” He tells you.

“But, they are mine.”

The tension in the room is palpable. The heave of his chest as he find himself unable to push himself further away.

As you step closer, and then closer. Your own heart in your throat and desire sparking to life and curling in your belly.

Trying desperately not to look down, to there the fabric pulls tight on his trousers. The hand that unconsciously cups himself, to ease some of that ache.

“Let me help you.” You beg.

He makes a low sound in his throat. The smallest shake of his head.

Still resisting, still so put-together. Utterly convinced that he’s cornered you into something you will regret.

Your tongue wets your lips and his eyes drop greedily. Longingly.

“Bruce said…” You begin, trying to explain, “He said it would hurt, if you couldn’t. That you might…”

You skip the words. Swallowing them down with a shake of your head, “I won’t let that happen.”

His chin juts forward, “If that’s what I must do to protect you-”

That has your teeth clenching as you move closer. Stopping just in front of him, as his fingers grasp at the chair, knuckles going white. All those years of self-control still clinging to him, even as his eyes widen.

“I thought I was your smart girl?” You ask him, watching how he shudders at that. Panic starting to flutter at his words, what he seems to be willing to do.

How his eyes seem to darken then, lips parting as he inhales.

“You are.” He rasps.

Slowly, you reach out towards him. How he stiffens, as your hands hover - just for a second, before cupping his jaw. The bristles of his beard tickling against your palm as he leans into your touch, his eyes closing.

“Then trust me.” You coax. His look is sharp when they open, “I wanted you to kiss me. I want you. I always have. I know this isn’t what I imagined, but you can’t leave me-”

He can’t. Not Alfred.

Alfred, who comes by just to check on you. Who makes sure you remember to eat. Who smiles, when he sees you. That soft voice humming along to the music you pick, as those hours pass. Exchanging quiet confessions at night, that no one else knows.

Who you look forward to seeing, more than anyone else.

Who you are so certain you were in love with, if the prospect wasn’t so goddamn terrifying.

You’re still pleading, as he lets go.

Leaning into the desire like he leant into your touch. Halting your words as his head tilts, his nose skimming against your cheek before his mouth is pressing hungrily against yours.

Your hand drops from his jaw to press against his neck. His heart thudding against your palm as it wraps around, fingers brushing the shorn-short hair.

The kiss soft for only a second, before it turns searing. An arm curling around your side, the hand pressed between your shoulder blades. He groans into your mouth before he’s tracing the seam of your lips, as his other hand grasps at your hip.

Drawing you in, as your own moan buzzes in your throat. Parting eagerly for him, as his tongue strokes yours, then licks into your mouth. It’s easy then, to spin you around.

Your shoulders knocking against that high-backed chair, as he steps into you. His body melding to yours, as he helplessly grinds himself against you. Rocking the hard curve where he strains - rutting himself against your hip, the kiss breaking so he can inhale a sharp breath.

“My smart girl.” He groans, his voice like gravel. Fingers pinching, as his cheek presses against yours, “Figuring out how to fix me.”

“I will,” You promise. Breathless, as your heart hammers in your chest, thudding between your thighs, “I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

His grip tightens, hips jerking forward and grinding into the curve where your hip meets thigh, “I know, darling. Know you will-”

“Let me take you to bed,” You coax, shoved between him and the back of the chair. “Come on, baby.”

You don’t know where that soft name comes from. Pushed out from your heart, affection melding with worry and desire. But he shivers when you say it - needing the tenderness, the gentle direction.

Not used to either. Helpless, against it.

Reluctantly stepping back as your reach for his hand. Large and warm in yours as you cross that short distance. A nudge to his shoulders has his back pressing against the mattress - scooting up to headboard as you follow.

Stern eyes softened and fixed on yours, pupils blown wide with the pollen. Half-pushed up on elbows, the unbuttoned shirt pulling open at his chest, watching as you kneel next to him. Shrugging off your jacket - draping it over the divan at the foot of the bed.

As his hands find you, like before. Catching you before you’re settled - gasping with surprise as they slide under a knee and around your waist and hoisting you onto his lap.

The part of your thighs framing where he’s aching, a rumbling groan as your weight settles on him. As your hands splay across his chest, knees pressing into the mattress.

His eyes dragging over you then, as if you were something precious. A priceless piece of art.

As if you were dressed in something other than your pajamas- an oversized Wayne Enterprises t-shirt, patterned sleep shorts.

Not wasting time to change, as you followed Bruce down to his car. Grabbing your jacket, and not much else.

His fingers reach out, skimming from knee to thigh. A finger toying with the hem of your shorts, tracing against your skin.

“You look beautiful,” He tells you, voice strained as his other palm presses flat against his abdomen. Teeth gritting as he suppressed a groan - a red-hot cramp in his guts.

He’d endure it, if he had to. It would be nothing, compared to what he’s had to before.

But that was before you had arrived, before things had turned so complicated and so crystal clear, all at once.

Your face twists with worry, a hand covering his and squeezing. The other hovering where his splay wide to press against his shirt.

“H-Have you tried?” You venture, feeling embarrassed at having to voice your question. Shy, in spite of everything.

His hand is hot in yours. A sign of his body working overtime to fight off the effects. Something that Bruce said will lead to his ruin.

“In the shower.” Alfred managed, an intake of air hissed through his teeth. An upward flex of his hips, into the air as he remembers.

Working his fist over, again and again. Thinking about you even then, shame burning as bright as the fever.

“It didn’t work. I couldn’t-”

The words die off. Teeth grit as his muscles string tight, sweat dotting across his brow.

You swallow, trying not to picture it. Trying to resist the urge to shift forward - trying to stay focused on him, to fix this like you said you would.

“Do you want to try again?” It comes out as a waver, and you have to clear your throat, “I could kiss you. Or…”

The burn in your cheeks rival his - your eyes dropping to the neat line of buttons.

He huffs a laugh, despite it all. Humor twisting into the pain, “Or you’ll give me a hand, darling?”

You want to tell him you would. That you’d do anything, for him. Bruce could have called you for any reason - you would have come.

Instead, you lean down to kiss him. How he relaxes when there’s something to take the edge off the pain. Catching the hands that roam across your hips, dragging one down to where he strains.

You’ll keep you eyes shut. You’ll be good.

His gasp is swallowed by the press of your mouth. Shifting in his lap as he works the button open on his trousers. Shoving down the elastic waistband to free himself.

Your tongue traces his lower lip. His free hand coming up to cup the back of your neck, to hold you there - hovering over him. Feeling the jerk of a fist between your thighs, how his body moves as he flexes into the touch.

Trying to quell the fire that burns in his veins. That’s only seemed to become hotter since you’ve arrived. Desire twisting into his guts like a knife, making his own touch feel slow and muted.

Not nearly enough.

Frustration tinges his low groan, as his hips jerk angrily into his fist.

“I can’t. I need you, please-” He pants in your mouth, and in desperation - your hand covers his.

The kiss breaking as his moan turns sharp, as you glance down between you. To where he curves, thick and leaking above coarse, grey-flecked curls. The tip flushed red and glossy.

His hand loosens to make room for yours. Achingly hard and hot in your grip, as you mimic his strokes.

Letting go for just a second as he whines, saliva swirling on your tongue before you’re lifting off him. Settling next to him on the bed as your head dips, catching the spit on your palm before you’re slicking up further. Each jerk of your fist loud and filthy in the quiet room.

Concentrating on the pressure and your rhythm as you stroke him, risking a sideways glance up to see him watching - a flex of his hips into your fist when your eyes meet.

You’re sure yours look worried, “Does this feel good?”

The hand on his stomach drops to the bed, twisting in the sheet.

“Darling.” He rasps - his eyes drifting shut then, as your other hand comes to cup him. “I can’t tell you how many nights I’ve wished it was your hand instead of my own.”

His words make you throb, his cock jerking with this admission. Unsure if you can keep up the pace he needs, as your head dips again to give him more.

The pink point of your tongue tracing the seam of his sack. Swollen and heavy as he snarls, his hand coming to cup the back of your head.

“Oh god, please-”

Guiding you to his cock, as he begs for you to take him into your mouth. Tasting like salt and skin as he inches inside, thigh muscles jerking under your hands as he resists the urge to bury himself in your throat.

Sucking on the tip before you take him further. Rising up on yours knees for better leverage, leaning over him with a hand braced against a thick thigh.

Bobbing your head as your take him deep, and then deeper. Swallowing him down until your eyes are pricking with tears from the effort. Leaving his cock slick and messy with spit, as the muscles in his abdomen flex.

“You feel so goddamn good, sweetheart.” He moans, unable to help his words or the shallow thrusts now. Pumping himself into your mouth as your hand slips across what won’t fit. “B-Better than I ever imagined.”

His breathing now short, labored. Fixed on watching your lips stretch around - struggling to take him. Catching the press of your thighs as you squeeze them together, your panties close to soaked through already.

His fingers drift. Up your knee again, the soft skin of your inner thigh.

Your hand pumps and pumps as your eyes flutter shut. Buzzing groans that travel down the flushed shaft to where his sack pulls tight - so close to the release he’s been aching for.

The groan pitching low and long when his fingers pet against the seam of your sleep shorts. A little buck of your hips into his hand as his fingers press the fabric against your clit.

Pulling back to slip beneath - meeting soaked, hot flesh.

You pull off him long enough to croak his name, as his fingers circle the tight bud. The jerk of your fist tight as his ministrations start to waver, his attention splintering.

“Darling, fuck-” He grits out, with the rise and fall of his chest. “Keep going, just like that. You have me so close-”

Unable to help watching his face as you stroke him. Slick pumps as his hand clutches at the sheets, the soft “oh-” of his breath coming shorter and louder.

Your head ducks, then. Taking him into your mouth as he shatters. Growling out your name as he floods your tongue with each heady pulse of his cock, almost choking as you swallow him down.

Coming hard, with his fingers still pressed against your pussy. With only thoughts of you in his mind, some of that haziness worked out of his system.

Alfred doesn’t pull away, as that tightness loosens - as he relaxes back onto the mattress. Instead, his fingers trace down.

One teasing as your opening. Waiting until your soft “yes, please” before it’s sinking inside. Fucking you with it, never leaving you wanting for anything.

A steady pump of his finger - before a second dips along your entrance, fitting in with the first. A messy swipe of his thumb against the bead of your clit, as both press deep into you.

Groaning, as you find yourself relaxing against him. A hand still wrapped around his half-swollen cock. The pollen still flooding his system, the sharp edge just barely tempered.

“I-I’m supposed to be making you feel good.”

The protest is weak. Your words not nearly as effective when you’re rocking back to meet the wet press of his fingers as you moan - cheek pressed into the whorls of salt-and-pepper hair blanketing his chest.

He hums, low and rumbling. The hand not buried in you slipping against your cheek, tilting your face up to his.

“You are, darling. God, you are.” He encourages - rough and low and earnest, “The only thing better would be if you were sitting on my face.”

A second, as he amends it, “Or, my cock.”

His fingers press deep, and you keen. Mimicking how he’d do it, curling the tips until he’s stroking a spot that as you seeing stars.

You’ve thought about his hands before.

Ever-steady and strong - scars littering his knuckles that made you wish you knew the stories behind. Tapping fingers against the table as he thinks.

Knocking against yours when you both rushed to grab a component, during the triumph of a breakthrough.

Skillful, in the way that has you jealous. Manipulating parts with dexterous fingers. Never thinking about how they could ruin you but now - you don’t know how you could have missed it.

How you’ll never be able to think of anything else, now.

The hand at your cheek twists until his thumb can press against your lower lip. You part them for him, letting it press against teeth and tongue. Lips closing around him - sucking, as your eyes roll shut, as that sweet pressure begins to bloom and swell.

“Christ I want to fuck you.”

The messy pump of his hand grows louder, slapping now against your skin. The thrust of his fingers turning fast and unrelenting, pounding and pounding against that spot.

The knot in your stomach winding tighter, tighter, tighter. Teeth grazing and pinching his thumb as you groan, but his fingers just curl around your chin to keep your head steady.

“I could make you feel so good, love.”

You’re nodding - too far gone to protest. Rocking back to meet him, your lips releasing him so you can beg.

“Please,” You whine, “Want you to.”

His fingers stroke your cheek, then - hearing the rumble of his words under your ear as it presses to his chest, washing over you.

Fully hard in your hand now. Slick and flushed like before, as your fingers stretch to encircle him. A shallow buck of his hips to ease the friction, as he warns you.

“If I fuck you, I won’t want to stop. I’ll want you like this, every day. Do you understand?”

Your answer is no more than a ragged groan. Panting and open-mouthed, as he drags you closer and closer to a blinding release.

There’s pressure on your jaw, as he tilts your face up to his. His expression wanting and lips-parted as he waits desperately for your answer.

“Tell me you that you want this.” His voice goes low - each word pointed, “That you need it.”

A little bit of clarity, coming back with the release you swallowed down so willingly. Feeling more himself in his own head, even as that pressure begins to swell in his belly. As that sharp wave of desire crashes against him, again.

Needing to hear it. Almost as much as the need to follow through with his words - burying himself deep in you.

Your voice trembles on your answer, “Yes. Please-”

He groans through gritted teeth, his words labored. Thick in your hand, a small thrust as he holds himself back.

“And what do you need, darling?”

It’s so close you can taste it. The tightness building in your guts, turning your brain to a buzzing haze. Each slick pump of his fingers sending a skittering jolt down your spine.

“I need your cock.” You whine, “I need to come, Alfred. I need you-”

His hum is pleased, each thrust of his fingers sends his thumb across your clit. The rhythm steady and almost overwhelming as he pounds against the spongey spot within your tight, clenching walls.

“And I need you to come so I can fuck you properly.” He husks, as the swipe of his thumb sends you toppling over the edge, “Come for me, sweetheart.”

It feels like your heart stops, for a second. A shaky gasp of breath, before the pleasure floods through you in bright, pulsing beats.

Moaning something that feels like words - “oh god, oh my god-” into the crook of his neck as his arm wraps around you, pulling you close. But it could just be warbled sounds, to your muted ears.

His fingers slow, but they’re still pressing in you. Drawing it out, as they become wetter with your release - louder.

“Look at you, soaking my fingers.” He murmured with approval, feeling how you drip down them, damping his palm, “Christ, I wish you making a mess on my cock instead.”

A chaste kiss pressed to the side of your head, as you come back to yourself. Feeling flushed and dizzy with pleasure as your lips brush his.

His hand eases from you, to wrap around his length. Smearing yourself on him, making him throb - that ache fully back.

“Turn around for me, darling.” He demands, his eyes heavy-lidded and wanting, “Hands and knees, now.

You peek up at him as you nod. Pulling back, tugging the layers of your top off. Leaving you bare, his eyes dragging over the soft weight of your breasts, the tight peaks that he fully intends to touch later, to taste.

“Leave those on.” He growls - as your fingers hook in the waistband of your shorts. As his own work at his shirt and trousers, “I want to take them off you myself.”

His words make you shiver, a slow dance as the mattress dips. As you shift around each other - you stretching out like a cat in front of him, a sway of your ass in the air as you push up onto your knees.

The way his spread, strong and sturdy as his hips fit against your soft curves. The brush of his length against your thigh, hanging heavy.

Fingers that move faster, rougher, than he wants to. A sharp tug as they curl around the waistband and pull - pushing them down your thighs, leaving the layers to pool around your knees.

Pressing into soft flesh, then. Cupping the curves of your ass as his fingers sink in, as he tugs you open for him to see.

“Mm. Look at how wet you are.” He groans, the touch of a his thumb against your slit. Pressing against your entrance, seeing how you swallow the tip - clenching around it, “Such a pretty little pussy.”

That path between his mind and his mouth - his filter, that enduring and ever-lasting politeness - was severed, some time ago.

Replacing propriety and inhibition with baser needs. Urges that he would deny he had, on another night. Swallowing down those words that slide from a silver tongue that doesn’t quite feel like his.

Even if the thoughts are, deep down.

You’re pushing back into him, breaking this brief moment of reverie. Desperate and needy in a way that has you half-wondering if you’ve been affected yourself, in some way.

Absorbing some of the pollen, with your joining.

Or is it just the weeks of desire - crashing over you like a wave against the shore? Utterly pulling you under and surrounding your every thought, until you’re drowning in them?

He angles himself against you. Sliding against your core, then up, with the curve of his cock. Against tight and sensitive skin that has you peeking over your shoulder, still trusting.

Taking him in, then. Strong shoulders, a smattering of hair you had pressed your face against. Marks against his skin of scars long healed - across his ribs, curling around a shoulder.

A tapered waist. Flicking back up to those blue eyes. A furrowed brow as he concentrates, a face you know well. One that sends your heart tripping over itself as it threatens to beat out of your chest.

“Are you-?” He asks, unsure of how to word it. Lips parted in a pant, that pressure against his chest coming back.

“Yes,” You arch against him - knowing what he’s asking, the way he’s holding himself back, “I’m protected. Baby, please-”

“Fuck.” Alfred grits through clenched teeth.

He’s imagined you begging before. Late at night, when he’s alone - with desperate jerks his fist. Never imagining he’d hear it, sighed so prettily through your lips.

Angling himself down, as your eyes close. A sharp intake of breath as the fat head of his cock sinks into you. Stretching you out even with your orgasm - your breath caught in your throat as his hands grasp at your waist, tugging you back.

Seating him fully into you, with a low groan. Already inching back so he can rock into you, starting shallow - each one pulling back a little more, pressing deeper.

“So tight,” He moans - a hand sliding down your back, “So perfect, oh-”

Losing himself in the relief. In the heat of your pussy, unable to help grinding himself as a hand curls against the juncture of your thigh. Gripping on as he starts to fuck himself harder into you - your fingers twisting into the sheets, gasping at how much he fills you.

The hand against your back presses down. You arch more, as your cheek rests against the mattress. The discarded shirt nudging against the stiff peaks of your nipples with each of his rough thrusts, sparking pleasure down your spine.

“Feel so good,” You manage, all but drooling. Groaning into the sheets as you rock back to meet him, the best you can.

The slap of skin is louder, wetter than his fingers. Your breath growing short as his cock ghosts against the spot his fingers pounded against. Twin groans as your arm twists around, so your fingers can slip between your thighs.

“I want to fuck you all day. Four, five times.” He breathes. Eyes dropping to watch the way he disappears into you, how you take him so perfectly, “Keep you right here beneath me. Leave you covered in me each night.”

Unrealistic as it is, the rasp of his voice - his words - do something to you. Your fingers pressing intently against your clit. A soft, groaning gasp with each sharp punch, breaking your pleasure out of the plateau, sending it higher.

Clenching down around him, fueled by the groans and sweet praise that he gives so freely. It has you wondering if he’s always this generous. A twisted hope that just maybe, on another night, you might get the chance to find out.

Wishing that the root of his desire won’t slip away at the end, with the rest. That he’ll still want you.

It’s almost pathetic how close you are already easy, your fingers circling just a little harder, a little faster.

“Christ, I can feel you,” He sighs, each word drawn out, released with the stroke of his cock, “I’m not going to last, love.”

You almost miss it, with the way your heart thuds in your ears. But the little word is the beginning of your undoing - your own tiny warble as your muscles string tight.

“Don’t stop,” You whine, as he shifts - pressing more of his weight against your back as he archs over you.

The angle changing just a bit, until he’s nudging that spongy spot that has tears springing to your eyes with how good it feels.

“Fuck, baby. Please don’t stop, please-”

His lips press against your shoulder, your neck - the hand at your hip planting near your shoulder for leverage. Teeth grazing skin as he keeps going, just like you begged.

Giving it to you, until you’re reaching for him. Your fingers wrapping around his as you come, the rock of his hips slowing so he can feel how you pulse around him. How you sob his name into the sheets with little bucks of your hips, riding it out until you’re loose-limbed and content - hazy, in your afterglow.

Never fully stopping the way he presses into you. Rolling and rutting as your tight grip loosens, though your hand stays trapped in his. His mouth pressing against your neck, then higher.

“Please tell me I can come in you,” His groan is filthy in your ear, “Tell me you’ll take it.”

The rough timber of his voice, the thought, as your own thoughts flowing freely.

“Please. I’ll take it,” You beg, “I need you to come in me.”

The hand on your back shifts, sliding beneath and flattening against your belly. Keeping you pressed flush against him as your begging tips him over.

You hadn’t watched, earlier. Eyes fluttering closed, concentrating on swallowing him down. Your head tilts to look, now.

Catching a clenched jaw, the scrape of his beard against your cheek. A breath pulled through those teeth before he groans your name, sounding so pretty to your ears.

Feeling the throb of his cock as he comes - the rock of his hips with each pulse. Warmth flooding inside you as he nudges it deeper.

Notching himself deep, as he relaxes. A soft sigh as his nose ghost the curve of your neck, his weight pressing you prone. Welcome, as you stretch out beneath him.

Your head tilts, smiling. His own matching, as lips start to brush. Starting soft and slowly growing needier as the minutes pass by, his cock still hard where it sits in you.

Gently easing himself out, hands coming to your waist, flipping you over. Peeling the shorts and panties from your ankles, dropping them off the edge of the bed.

Kneeling between spread thighs as his eyes drag down. Fingers tracing after - against your collarbones, your tits. Cupping and pinching as his tongue follows.

A little shift of your hips. More than satisfied, but unable to help the little flame that sparkle to life as he kisses the curves of your breasts. Then, going lower.

Shifting back on the bed, a thumb slipping over your folds. Smearing his cum against your skin, where it’s dripped down the curve of your thigh.

“May I taste you?” He’s asking, as you push yourself up on your elbows.

Wide-eyed with want, as you go to move - to clean up. His hands pressing into your hips, holding you there.

“L-like this?” You squeak, and his nod is slow, severe.

“Like this.” He tells you, simply.

You nod, leaning back against the pillows. A gasp when his tongue swirls against your skin, as he groans. Tasting his spend mixing with the salty tang of your cunt, the tip tracing from your entrance to the tight bud of your clit.

Alfred wishes that his veins weren’t still so pumped full of pollen. That his mind wasn’t fractured between want and need.

On another night, he’d take his time. Enjoy the way his fingers sunk into you - seeing how many you could take. Slowly drawing it out as his tongue teases, until your thighs are closing around him.

Until you’re begging.

Tonight, he can barely concentrate. Eyes closed as he tries to focus on your taste and not the unrelenting fire that scorches his insides. More than aware of the heat that beads at his forehead. The rapid thudding of his heart.

It’s eased, some. But it’s not enough.

You buck against his mouth. The soft, wet brush of his tongue, the way he looks - arms hooked around your thighs, strands of slicked-back hair breaking free and curling - has you insatiable.

The soft “please” is all it takes to sever his attention, blown-wide eyes lifting - finding yours. A hand passing over his jaw, smearing your slick across his beard, as he rises again.

Pulling your thighs up over his. Spreading them with strong hands, as he works himself inside you again.

Your back arching as he does, lifting off the mattress.

It’s an easier fit, this time. Still slick, as he pushes himself deep. Legs twitching in his grasp, trying to latch around his waist.

A gentle nudge, a stern look.

“Keep your legs open for me, darling.”

They fall open, for him.

You’ve never had it like this. So full as he starts fucking you again, pushing his cum out with each thrust. Coating his cock and starting to drip down your thighs.

He groans at the sight - the way he looks as you take him, again and again. The sentiments softer this time, as your soft moans fill the air.

“I want to take you out.” He rasps, eyes still locked on the way he shines with you, with his own spend, “Make you breakfast, after I’ve fucked you in my bed.”

Eyes finally meeting yours, his fingers tracing where you’re stretched wide around him. His voice dropping low, “After I’ve made all your pretty little holes mine.”

You whimper at the thought. How easily you agree, with a little nod of you head, “Yours.”

Eyes trapped in a loop from the pretty twist of his snarl - all furrowed eyebrows and concentration- down to his chest, trailing further.

Hips tilted just enough so you can see. The peek of his cock before the impact of his thrust, how it bounces you against the mattress. Making that need return, the build of something hot and twisting, low in your belly.

This time, he does it himself.

Gently batting your fingers away when they drift down. Sliding his own across your thighs, sticky and slick when they com back to press against your clit.

Building you up, and up, and up.

That ache quelled, like this. Enough where he can slow down, when he’s buried it you.

Your breathy gasps making his other hand clench against the fat of your hip, trying to keep his movements steady.

Cooing soft encouragement, as he feels the way you clench around him again.

“Make a mess for me, darling. It’s okay.”

That edge, creeping back as you moan his name, “Fuck, I want you to. Come on-”

You shatter. Stomach clenching at that pleasure ripples through you. Softer this time, coaxed from you instead of wrenched. The relief washing over sweat-dewed skin and wrapping around you.

He follows, soon after. With hands that tug you against him, meeting the lazy rock of your hips. Finding his own pleasure in yours - head tilted back as he stifles a sharp groan, pressing himself deep as he comes.

A silence settling, then.

Your arms rests over your face - teeth pressing into your lip as you grin. Chest heaving with your breath, his hands planted on either side of your hips.

That heavy fog of want almost gone now, the pollen leeched from his system. Still lingering on the edges of his mind - as his hand comes to cup himself.

Wanting it over with. Wanting to end this night with you with just himself in his head.

A twinge of overstimulation, fighting through it as his fingers wrap around his shaft. Slick and streaked with cum as he finishes himself, one more time.

His thumb smoothing across your thigh, as your arm drops. Feeling vouyeristic as you peek at him, now - the flex of his arm, of his chest.

“I know you’re tired darling.” He soothes, when his eyes pull from the place where he’s fucked you open and dripping, “Stay like that, just once more.”

Sleepy and slated, you nod - his fingers dipping down to collect more of the mess, before spreading it on his cock.

Your hand finds his and drags it up to your chest, letting him cup your skin. Ghosting over your hips and curves, his touch reverent.

Watching greedily this time, as his brows pull together. More in his head than ever, the night replaying in his mind. Your soft words and touch and how you came here, just for him.

How he hopes he can make it to you. That you’ll won’t run as soon as the night is over.

Affection swells, and then bursts. A throaty groan as he spills across his knuckles, dripping down to where he holds himself against your pussy.

Covering puffy folds with white streaks of his release, marking you in a way that burns into his chest, sears into his memory.

Coming back to himself, fully - then.

Relief brimming as he watches how you smile. Looking at home in his bed, your arms opening for him as he slowly bends, relaxes.

Needing you, thought not like before.

Needing your touch, as your arms curl around him. A tenderness, breathed out against your neck. One he doesn’t have to give, though he feels like he must.

“Thank you, darling.”

The heat of the water eases the pleasurable ache in your thighs, the space between them. A gentle swipe of a cloth as he wipes you clean, as your back presses into his chest.

Content to let your head lull against his shoulder, your hands wandering to massage his thighs, where the muscles pull tight from overuse.

Taking just another moment alone, before you fetch that little silver button in your shorts. Knowing that Bruce is waiting - worried - despite what Alfred said.

“So,” You’re the first to break the silence, “Were you serious about breakfast?”

Thinking back to what he said, in the heat of the moment. The late night hours spilling into a soft grey sky that promises a clear, beautiful morning.

A second of silence, before the words rumble in his chest, “If you’ll have me.”

His hand curling around you, possessive and comforting.

“Maybe Bruce was right. That this just sped things up.” Your fingers leave his thigh to float on the water, sending ripples across the surface.

Your confession quiet in the large room, “I meant it, when I said I wanted you.”

The grip on you tightens, his filter fully back in place. Stealing his words and his tongue, after all that has happened.

“Alright, breakfast.” He manages, “I’m yours.”

A small grin, as you tilt your head to peek at him. Seeing only affection in his eyes, and you think you understand.

Your voice pitches low, “And, what about the rest?”

The rest of what he had said. He groans at the reminder, cheeks flushed a pretty pink.

“That too.” A huff of a laugh, his thumb brushing against skin, “Though we might need to wait, at least a little bit.”

Then, growing serious, “I know we skipped some steps darling. But I meant it, as well.”

His hand find yours - fingers entwining. Squeezing.

“I want you. I want to do this properly. Dates, flowers, everything.” A moment, as he considers, amends, “Though perhaps… no roses. At least, not for a little while.”

“Alright,” You smile, settling back down against him. The water sloshing over the edge, but at the moment - you’re both too tired to care.

“No roses.”

(0 pressure tagging some friends that commented on the sneak peek! 💕 @the-dazzling-urbanite, @the-eyes-of-andyserkis, @celestianstars, @vellichormybeloved, @ohheyitsokay, @princessxkenobi, @avarkriss, @arthurmorganstinkydick, @proud-to-know-you, @weirdsociology, @cat-shapedgoo, @themilesgmorales, @ghotifishreads, @communism-bitches )

She is SO much more than just a cat!!!

I was giggling while making this.

POOLVERINE + Text Posts 

~ OBLIVIOUS PINING ~ PROMPTS about denial of feelings

requested by: anonymous request: how can i resolve very heavy denial of feelings? it doesn’t feel organic to just have a “oh crap, i like them” moment for this specific character

Feel free to use and reblog!

changing their behaviour towards the other person before they realise their own feelings

doing something nice for the other impulsively

growing softer in their attitude towards the other

finding themselves daydreaming about the other

being annoyed by how much the other occupies their thoughts/their daily life

realising certain single traits of the other they like/adore

being in the other's debt, so they can't hate them so much anymore, they 'have to' like them at least a little

getting flustered when the other is nice to them

realising they're feeling much better when they know that the other is happy

enjoying making the other smile

^ and being worried afterwards about these new strange sensations towards the other's happiness

*eye-rolling* "Well, I guess I can do that for you."

feeling bad when they're treating the other shitty

feeling bad when they're ignoring the other

telling themselves that they can be nice without that having to mean they like the other (that's totally normal, right? to give someone a gift and it doesn't mean anything)

A talking to C about B: "Yes, we're getting along better now. But I mean, it's normal, right? To do nice things, even though you weren't on good terms just a week ago. People change. Relationships change. But that doesn't mean we like each other, alright?"

spending hours wondering who the other actually is and what they mean to them

"Nothing has changed." *when in fact, everything has changed*

"It has always been like this." *when in fact, they're losing their mind about not seeing sooner how it has actually been*

"Come on, it can't come as a big surprise to you." *when in fact, it's the biggest surprise to themselves*