City girl x farm girl reader
Warning;Oral(fem receiving)Big cock,P in v.Semi slow burn.
Grit and Gloss
You hated dirt. You hated bugs. You hated sweat that wasn’t earned from a luxury spin class. But most of all, you hated that your Uber had dropped you off in the middle of nowhere with nothing but your suitcase wheels dragging helplessly across gravel like a crime scene.
And apparently, this was supposed to be “transformational.”
You were contemplating how many brain cells you’d lost signing up for a rural internship when a voice, low and gritty as a truck engine, cut through the cicada-filled air.
“You’re either lost… or in for a rough few weeks.”
Broad. Dirty. Smug. Arms crossed in that annoying way guys do when they know they look good. He had a little grease on his jaw like it belonged there, and hair that curled around his ears like a farmboy romance cover with a felony charge.
You gave him a slow once-over and lifted your chin.
“I’m the intern,” you said crisply, adjusting your sunglasses. “From the urban exchange program.”
He didn’t even try to hide the way his eyes dragged down the length of your figure, pausing at your polished boots and designer luggage.
He smirked. “You’re gonna cry before breakfast.”
You smiled sweetly. “And you’re going to mansplain what a shovel is, aren’t you?”
“Only if you promise to hold it right.”
Day One: Chicken Sh*t and Sexual Tension
You weren’t afraid of hard work. But you were afraid of chickens. And Jason Todd seemed to know it.
He watched you with an infuriating glint in his eye as you tried — unsuccessfully — to lure a hen into her coop without getting pecked.
“You look like you’re trying to seduce her,” he said lazily from the fence.
You shot him a glare. “She’s just jealous of my outfit.”
Jason stepped closer, rolling up his sleeves. His forearms were tanned, veiny, and unfairly distracting. “Betsy likes dominance. Gotta show her who’s boss.”
You folded your arms. “Are we still talking about the chicken?”
“Depends,” he said, voice dipping lower. “You like being in charge?”
“I— I manage teams back home.”
“I’ll bet you do,” he murmured, eyes full of mischief.
You didn’t blush….But you may have tripped over your own dignity trying to escape the coop.
Day Two: Hoe and Tell
Jason handed you a hoe. A real, actual hoe. You blinked at it like it owed you money.
“And what exactly do I do with this?” you asked.
He stepped behind you, arms bracketing your shoulders, and wrapped his hands around yours. “You dig,” he said in that gravel-and-honey tone, guiding your motions. “Not too deep. Not too shallow. You’ll feel when it’s right.”
“Mm,” you hummed. “Is this a hoe lesson or a metaphor?”
His breath ghosted over your ear. “You tell me.”
You stepped forward to escape the heat — of the sun, obviously — and stabbed the hoe into the ground like it was Jason’s smug face.
You threw him a saccharine smile. “You should see me in management meetings.”
He whistled. “Bet you make grown men cry in heels.”
“And I bet you scare the livestock with your bad attitude.”
Maybe.
Day Four: Watermelon Sugar and Dirty Hands
“God, it’s hot,” you groaned, fanning yourself with your straw hat. Your tank top was sticking to your back, and you were one second away from calling an Uber and demanding air conditioning, a cocktail, and a refund.
Jason glanced at you from the watermelon patch, sweat glistening along his collarbone. “Should’ve worn less.”
You scoffed. “I already pushed the rural-chic dress code as far as it goes.”
He sliced a watermelon open with a casual flick of his pocketknife. The blade looked like it had seen war. The juice glistened on his hands, dripping to his wrists.
You took it slowly, never breaking eye contact, and bit in.
Juice ran down your fingers.
Jason watched. Too closely.
“You gonna lick that off or waste it?” he asked
You raised a brow. “You offering?”
His gaze darkened.Neither of you blinked.
The moment snapped when a bee buzzed past your ear and you shrieked — throwing the melon at him.
You hated that it was hot.You hated that he was hot.
Day 5:Truck of truth:
You were not supposed to be in Jason Todd’s truck.
It was loud, rusted, and smelled like tobacco and pine.
You were also not supposed to enjoy how his thigh brushed yours every time he shifted gears.
“You ever drive stick?” he asked, eyes on the road.
He smirked. “Manual. City girl.”“Of course,” you said. “I drive a vintage Porsche.”Jason let out a low whistle. “Spoiled and smug. You’re a treat.”
You turned in your seat, folding one leg beneath you. “And you’re allergic to compliments.”
“Wrong,” he said, throwing you a side glance. “I just haven’t heard one I believed yet.”
“Fine. You have great hands.”He raised a brow.You shrugged. “You do.”
Silence stretched.Then, softly: “You have a good laugh.”
You weren’t sure either of you was breathing.Then his hand dropped to your thigh — just long enough to squeeze — before he turned up the radio and muttered, “Don’t read into it.”
Day Ten: The Loft, The Storm, The Kiss
You weren’t sure how it started.
Maybe it was the thunder. Maybe it was the wine you “borrowed” from the farmhouse. Or maybe it was the fact that Jason Todd was standing way too close in the barn loft, with rain pouring outside and heat simmering between you like a lit match waiting to drop.
“You ever stop looking at me like that?” you asked, voice low.
Jason raised a brow. “Like what?”
“Like you’re deciding whether to kiss me or kill me.”
His smirk was slow. Dangerous. “Not mutually exclusive, sweetheart.”
Your back hit the wooden beam before you realized you’d taken a step back. Jason followed, boots heavy on the planks, stopping just close enough that you could smell the heat on his skin, the faint scent of hay and motor oil clinging to him like sin.
“You keep running that mouth,” he said, voice like gravel and thunder, “but you haven’t said one thing you actually mean.”
You scoffed. “Like what?”
“Like the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching.” His hand came up — calloused fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek, lingering just long enough to make your skin burn. “Like you’re starving.”
Your heart thudded. “Maybe I’m just trying to figure you out.”
“There’s nothing to figure,” he murmured, his voice softer now, but no less intense. “You want me. I want you. The rest is noise.”
You laughed once, sharp. “You’re cocky.”
Jason leaned in, lips inches from yours. His breath was warm, laced with the promise of things you hadn’t dared admit you wanted.
You grabbed his flannel in both fists and yanked him into you like gravity had been holding you apart and finally gave up.
The kiss was everything it shouldn’t have been.
Teeth clashed. Lips slid. His hands cupped your face, then slid down to your waist, pulling you flush against him like he’d wanted this for days — because he had. Because you both had.
You moaned into his mouth, and he swallowed it like a man starved.
His tongue slid against yours, slow and deep, coaxing, commanding. One of your hands fisted in his hair while the other clawed at his back, dragging him impossibly closer.
“You taste like trouble,” you whispered against his lips.
Jason chuckled darkly, kissing down your jaw. “You are trouble.”
His lips found the sweet spot just beneath your ear, biting down just hard enough to make your knees tremble.
“I’d wreck the whole damn farm for you.”
You’d never been kissed like that.
Like you were wanted. Claimed. Cursed.
When he pulled back, barely an inch between your mouths, his voice was ragged.
“Say the word,” he whispered. “And I’ll ruin you properly.”
You looked into his eyes — storm-gray, burning — and licked your lips.
Jason didn’t give you time to second-guess. The moment the words left your mouth — Then ruin me, Todd — something dark flickered in his eyes.
He crashed into you again, hungrier this time. His mouth claimed yours with bruising need, all heat and teeth and tongue. He kissed like he worked — rough, thorough, no hesitation. And you let him. God, you welcomed it.
Hands tangled. Clothes yanked. Your jacket hit the barn floor first, then your tank top — pulled over your head with one sharp tug. Jason groaned when he saw you in just your bra, his calloused hands skating over your skin like he didn’t know where to start.
“You’re killing me,” he rasped, biting down on your collarbone as he slid the strap off your shoulder. “Walking around all damn week like temptation in a tight tank and smart mouth.”
You gasped when his tongue soothed the sting. “And you walked around like you knew I wanted it.”
You hated how right he was.
But you loved how his hand slid behind you to undo your bra like it was second nature. He dropped it without a glance, eyes locked on yours instead of your body — like he wanted the reaction, not just the skin.
“Gorgeous,” he muttered, cupping your breast with reverence and heat, thumb flicking lazily over your nipple until it peaked under his touch. “Bet you’ve never had a real man get his hands on you, huh?”
“Cocky,” you whispered, back arching into his palm.
His other hand slid down your side, gripping your hip. “No, confident.”
And then he was kneeling — kneeling — in front of you like worship came naturally to men like him. He undid your jeans slowly, like every button was a tease. You bit your lip, watching him through your lashes.
The moment he tugged them down your legs, his mouth followed, lips dragging along your thighs. Then his teeth grazed your inner thigh and you gasped, one hand flying to his hair.
He looked up at you with dark, hungry eyes.
“Say it,” he growled. “Say what you want.”
You swallowed, heat pooling deep in your core.
“You,” you said. “I want you.”
He yanked your panties down and kissed your inner thigh again, slow and possessive.
Then his mouth was on you — hot, wet, sinful.
Jason Todd knew how to use his mouth. He groaned like he enjoyed it, like having you trembling above him was his reward for all the bickering and teasing and tension. His tongue moved with devastating precision, licking you open like a man starving — slow licks, soft sucks, then that perfect pressure against your clit that made your head fall back with a cry.
He looked up, lips wet. “Come on, baby. Let me hear you.”
You came with his name on your lips, hips grinding against his mouth, fingers pulling at his hair like you’d never let him go.
And Jason didn’t stop. He kissed your inner thigh as you came down, murmuring low, filthy praise into your skin — about how good you tasted, how pretty you sounded, how much he’d been dying to wreck you like this.
When you finally pulled him up, your lips crashed together again, messy and desperate. You tasted yourself on his tongue and moaned into it.
“Your turn,” you whispered against his mouth, fingers working at his belt.
“Already there,” he growled.
His jeans hit the floor, and when he kicked them off, you took one look and gasped.
He smirked. “He’s not the one about to make you scream.”
You grabbed him — hard, firm, perfect in your hand — and Jason hissed, forehead pressed to yours.
“Condom?” you asked, breath ragged.
He pulled one from his back pocket, like a cocky bastard with hope. “Always be prepared, right?”
You didn’t even have time to snark before he rolled it on and lined himself up — one hand on your thigh, the other bracing beside Jason’s breath was hot against your throat, body flush against yours as the storm outside raged. His jeans were down, yours discarded. He was between your thighs now, thick and heavy against your core — so close — and you swore the only thing holding him back was the split second he took to look you dead in the eyes.
“Last chance, city girl,” he murmured, voice low and strained. “You want it rough, you’ll get it. But I need to know.”
You curled your fingers into the back of his neck, lips brushing his.
“I want all of it, Jason.”
He rolled the condom on in practiced motion, and gripped your thigh, hitching it higher around his waist.
When he pressed the head against your entrance, your breath caught — he was thick. Thicker than you’d expected, the kind of thick that made your body tense before your brain could catch up.
“Relax,” he rasped, eyes glued to the way he was barely breaching you. “Let me in, baby.”
You tried — God, you did — but he was stretching you already, just from the tip. He moved slow, careful, and even that made you moan. His hand slid between your legs, fingers finding your clit and rubbing soft, slow circles to coax you open.
“Jesus,” you gasped, hips twitching. “You’re— too big—”
“Nah,” he growled, voice rough and desperate. “You can take it. Let me in, sweetheart. I got you.”
He pushed forward a little more — thick, burning stretch. Your walls clenched instinctively, fighting the intrusion, and he cursed under his breath.
“Fuck—tight—” His jaw clenched, muscles rigid like he was holding himself back by a thread. “You’re squeezing me like you don’t wanna let me in.”
“I’m—trying—” you panted, nails dragging across his shoulders. “Just— slower—”
Jason adjusted your leg higher on his hip and leaned in to kiss your jaw, your cheek, your parted lips.
“Look at me,” he whispered. “Let me see you.”
You did — and he slid deeper.
It was a drag, every inch earned. Delicious and impossible all at once. You felt everything — every vein, every twitch, the heat of him pressing impossibly deeper.
“There you go,” he growled, kissing your neck. “Just like that. So fuckin’ good for me.”
He bottomed out with a groan that shook you both. You were panting, overwhelmed, wrecked already and he hadn’t even moved.
You whimpered, thighs trembling. “You feel so— big— Jason…”
He kissed you hard, swallowing your sounds, and whispered against your lips, “You feel better than anythin’ I’ve ever had.”
Not fast — deep. Measured, dragging strokes that had you clawing at his back and gasping his name. You could feel him everywhere, and the stretch didn’t go away — it lingered, like your body was still trying to accommodate him.
Jason kept his hand on your clit, slow and firm, pushing you toward that edge while his cock worked you open all over again, stroke after stroke.
You tightened around him like a vice, and Jason snapped — driving harder, faster, the loft echoing with the sound of skin on skin and your broken cries.
“You wanted this,” he growled into your neck. “Wanted me to ruin you. You fuckin’ asked for it.”
You came with a scream, the pressure breaking like a dam. Your entire body clenched, shaking, and Jason roared against your skin, thrusting once, twice — then spilling into the condom with a shudder that wracked his entire frame.
When he collapsed over you, both of you shaking, drenched in sweat, you could barely catch your breath.
He kissed the edge of your mouth and muttered, “Worth the stretch?”
You smiled, voice wrecked.
“Still feel you,” you whispered.
Jason grinned, teeth grazing your throat.
“Good,” he said. “Because I’m not done.”
