Dean Di Laurentis has his boyfriend naked and tied to the bed in his bedroom during a big party, with his semen-stained underwear (Dean's) in his mouth to keep him quiet. Dean fucks him hard, then goes out to the party, returns to the bedroom to fuck him, and goes out once more. The cycle repeats all night long.
Party Animal
Dean Di Laurentis x male reader
Warning: Gay sex. Bondage. Dirty talk. Cream pie.
The bass from the party downstairs vibrated through the floorboards, a relentless, thumping pulse that matched the frantic rhythm of your heart. You were naked, spread-eagled on Dean's bed, his ties—expensive silk ones—binding your wrists to the headboard and your ankles to the footboard. The fabric was tight but not cutting, a testament to Dean's practiced hand. He wanted you immobile, not in pain. Not yet, anyway.
The most humiliating part, the part that made your face burn with a flush of arousal and shame, was the gag. It wasn't a ball gag or anything clean from a sex shop. It was a pair of his boxer briefs, the dark grey Calvin Kleins he'd been wearing all day. They were stiff in places, crusty with his dried semen, and the sharp, musky scent of him filled your mouth, coated your tongue. Every breath you took was filtered through the taste of his cock and his cum. It was disgusting, and it was the hottest thing that had ever happened to you.
The door creaked open, and Dean's silhouette filled the frame, backlit by the flashing lights from the hallway. He was shirtless, his hockey-player body a wall of muscle in the dim room, the low-slung jeans doing nothing to hide the thick bulge straining against the zipper. He sauntered over, a predator checking on his trapped prey. He ran a rough hand down your chest, thumb brushing over a nipple, making you arch into the touch.
"Still quiet?" He murmured, his voice a low rumble that you felt more than heard. He reached down, hooking a finger under the fabric in your mouth and pulling it slightly, just enough to make you gag before letting it snap back. "Good. We wouldn't want to interrupt the party, would we?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He unzipped his jeans, letting them fall to his ankles. His cock sprang free, thick and already leaking. He stroked it once, twice, his eyes never leaving yours. Then he was on the bed, his weight settling between your spread legs. He didn't prep you. He didn't use lube. He just notched the head of his dick against your hole and pushed.
The burn was immediate, a sharp, exquisite pain that stole your breath. He was big, and he was taking you dry. A muffled cry tried to escape your throat, but it was swallowed by the gag, coming out as a pathetic whimper. He groaned, sinking deeper, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.
"Fuck, you're tight." He grunted, seating himself to the hilt. He paused, letting you adjust, letting the pain melt into a deep, throbbing pleasure. "Feel that? Feel me inside you? While all our friends are downstairs getting drunk? They have no idea my boyfriend is up here, tied to my bed, stuffed with my cum-stained underwear, waiting for me to fuck him raw."
His words were filth, and they made your dick twitch against your stomach. He started to move, a brutal, pounding rhythm that had the bedframe slamming against the wall. Each thrust was deep, hard, designed to mark you, to claim you. The sounds were obscene—the slap of skin on skin, his grunts of exertion, your choked-off moans. He angled his hips, hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes. You were so close, your body a live wire of sensation.
Just as you were about to tip over the edge, he pulled out, leaving you empty and aching. You whined around the gag, your hips bucking in protest. He just laughed, a low, cruel sound.
"Not yet." He said, smacking your ass hard enough to leave a red handprint. He stood up, pulled on his jeans, and gave his cock a final, casual tug. "I'm gonna go grab a beer. Play some beer pong. Be back in a bit."
And just like that, he was gone. The door clicked shut, and you were alone again, left in the deafening silence of the room, the thumping bass from below a constant reminder of your situation. You could hear the distant roar of a crowd, a cheer, and you knew Dean was down there, smiling and laughing with his friends, a beer in his hand, while you were tied to his bed, your ass dripping with his pre-cum, your mouth full of his dirty underwear, desperate for him to return and finish what he started.
Time blurred. It could have been ten minutes or an hour. The party sounds ebbed and flowed. Then, the door opened again. This time, he smelled like cheap beer and weed. He didn't say a word, just shucked his jeans and was on you again, his cock finding your hole with unerring accuracy. This time, he was faster, more brutal. He fucked you like he was trying to climb inside you, his mouth crashing against yours, the fabric of the gag pressing between your lips. He came with a guttural shout, his hot cum flooding your insides, a liquid claim. He stayed inside you for a moment, his forehead pressed against yours, his breathing ragged. Then he pulled out, wiped his dick on the sheets, and left again.
This was the pattern. He would return, fuck you senseless, bring you to the very brink of orgasm only to deny you, and then leave. Each time he came back, he was a little drunker, a little rougher. Once, he came back with Logan, who leaned in the doorway, a smirk on his face as he watched Dean piston into you. "Told you he was a good boy." Logan had said, and Dean had just grunted in agreement, never breaking his stride. Another time, he brought his phone, recording a short video of your tear-streaked face, your muffled pleas, his cock disappearing into your body. "Just for me." He'd whispered, tucking his phone away before he left.
By the fourth or fifth time, you were delirious. Your body was a canvas of aches and pleasures. Your hole was swollen and tender, constantly leaking his cum. Your jaw ached from the gag. Your dick was so hard it hurt, pre-cum pooling on your stomach. You wanted to come so badly you thought you might die from it. You wanted him to stay. You wanted him to leave you alone. You wanted everything and nothing at all.
The last time, the sky outside the window was turning a pale, pre-dawn grey. The party had dwindled to a few stragglers. Dean stumbled in, clearly wasted. He fumbled with his jeans, nearly falling over. He was sloppy this time, his aim off. He missed your hole on the first try, smearing his cock against your perineum before finding his target. He fucked you with a drunken, single-minded intensity, his face buried in your neck, his breath hot and sour against your skin.
"Mine." He slurred, his thrusts erratic. "All fucking mine."
This time, when you felt the familiar coil of pleasure tightening in your gut, he didn't pull away. He reached between your bodies, his calloused hand wrapping around your neglected cock. He stroked you once, twice, in time with his faltering thrusts.
"Come for me." Dean commanded, his voice thick with alcohol and lust. "Now."
That was all it took. Your orgasm ripped through you with the force of a tidal wave, a blinding, all-consuming pleasure that made your back bow off the bed. You screamed against the gag, your vision whiting out as you shot rope after rope of cum across your chest and stomach. Your clenching ass milked his own orgasm from him, and he collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome, heavy anchor.
You lay there for a long time, both of you breathing heavily, the only sounds in the quiet room. Finally, he pushed himself up, his movements slow and stiff. He looked down at you, at the mess on your chest, at the ties still binding you, at the gag still in your mouth. A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face.
He reached up and gently pulled the underwear from your mouth. You worked your jaw, your throat dry, the taste of him still overwhelming.
"Dean." You rasped, your voice hoarse.
"Shhh." He said, leaning down to kiss you softly, a stark contrast to the brutality of the night. He untied your wrists first, then your ankles, his touch surprisingly gentle. "I got you."
He disappeared into the bathroom and came back with a warm, wet washcloth. He cleaned you up with a tenderness that brought tears to your eyes, wiping away the cum and the sweat and the tears. He pulled the covers over both of you, gathering you into his arms, your back to his chest. He was already half-asleep, his breathing evening out.
"Next party." Dean murmured against your hair, his voice thick with sleep, "We're trying the vibrating butt plug."
You just laughed, a weak, breathy sound, and snuggled deeper into his embrace, utterly and completely spent.
FAIRYTALE ROMANCE | yandere! general x male! reader | oneshot
CONTAINS: domestic violence, extreme yandere, stockholm syndrome, non consensual acts
PAIRING: yandere general x male reader | arranged marriage
requested by anon
please read what it contains!
SUMMARY: a seemingly picture perfect marriage between husband and husband despite being arranged turns away. While Dorian, your husband, has a respectable job, taking care of every aspect of your life — it seems that his control over you has extended to unhealthy, ineffable measures. And now you will try to run, but you won’t get very far.
Arranged marriages are never popular — true love has been romanticised of late; and there’s the horrific scenario of marrying someone whom you hate.
It helps that there’s a war plaguing your nation, and everyone is eager for a distraction — the libraries are now packed with people engrossed in romance novels; who desire to plunge their head in some sort of whirlwind, fairytale romance that inevitably finishes off with peace and riches and perhaps a tender kiss.
But you can’t say that you mind it terribly — arranged marriage, that is — as even though your parents have married you off to a respectable general officer, who works at the frontlines of the war, and who is fairly well off. The first meeting you shared — his name is Dorian, you learn, aristocratic on your tongue, the two syllables weighted and heavy — had been cordial, unassuming. Both of you had been polite, and he had opened the door for you, had cut your steak into tiny pieces for you to eat easier — had overall been a dream.
I’ll treat you like royalty, he had promised, his tone silky, unhurried, filled with reverence, like a prince, Y/n.
It was a heavy promise — one that belonged to those romance books that condemned arranged marriages and left it all up to fate; to the mingling of souls — but you had taken it anyway, full of mirth and delight that you had gotten so lucky. Newlywed couples struggled to obtain new houses, but perhaps because Dorian had high social standing now due to the war — but he had swept you gaily along to a mansion sequestered within his land — land that sprawled along the expanse of a forest. Inaccessible to many places, but he had kissed you on the forehead, reassuring you that this place had everything you ever wanted, and you suspected that the everything he referred to was him.
It was a normal marriage at first; a surprisingly amiable, beautiful one given the fact that it had been arranged. Dorian returned home with blooming flowers that tickled your nose, he kissed you on the forehead with great tenderness and affection — and similarly you returned this love readily, grateful to your parents for obtaining such a wondrous match. You’ve heard horror stories of violence; of bloodshed within the walls of people’s homes; and you’ve shuddered, thanking the gods that you’re so lucky.
Lucky, lucky, lucky.
That is, until the day he hit you.
**
Your first thought is that it is going to leave a scar; Dorian is powerful, first of all; owing to his military training, owing to how well built he is. And so when the blow connects to your face; when you feel the innocuous tendrils of pain bloom on your cheek, burning and searing through the veins of your body, you choke.
Blood drips from your mouth; you must have bitten too harshly on your tongue. All you can think is: it might leave a scar; it’s so painful and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts terribly.
You think of the events that transpired before that, of Dorian’s sallow expression, his anger slowly rising, irritation spilling over the boiling point; the nascent of his emotions that led to this. His inordinate anger.
“What’s this talk about you going to the library?” Dorian had said, when he had kissed your forehead and had set the groceries down. You hadn’t noticed then, the cracks in his demeanour already; the perforations that littered his attitude as his eyes glittered and watched you. Observed you. You had been blissfully none the wiser: unaware of how Dorian held you askance.
“It’s been a while since I went there.” You had answered casually, studying the groceries he had brought home. Always of the highest quality, which reminded you how privileged you were, cooped up within his embrace with nothing but the finest. Dorian had made good of his promises. “I miss everyone; Joy, Malcolm — I haven’t stepped out of here in a while.”
“We have a library here,” Dorian had said, spitting the words out with surprising vitriol, and you had jumped: “I built one for you, did I not, darling? Because you said you loved reading.”
“Well, yes, but I do miss the social aspect of it.” You blinked your eyes, surprised at his tone, redolent of anger and not the gentleness you were always so accustomed to. “Meeting my friends.”
“You have me,” Dorian said quietly. The calm before the storm; equanimity before violence. If only you knew sooner, you could have ducked. You could have avoided his brutal, malicious blow.
“I do,” you said softly, “but I miss them, too —"
And then that’s when he had hit you; a swift, decisive blow — one that sent you crumpling to the floor, wheezing and holding your battered cheek, eyes tearing up. Your breaths came out ragged, your voice came out hoarse as you managed to stutter a what, and Dorian looked down at you, posture imposing, eyes sharp.
“You have me,” he repeated, and then smiling, seemingly taking pleasure in your perilous, pernicious state, “you have me, Y/n. Why miss other people?”
You stared at him, unable to believe just what you were seeing. A monster, a monster, a monster.
“Now, don’t overreact.” Dorian reached out towards you, clicking his tongue irascibly when you flinched away. His gloves caught your side of the face, and pain shot through your spine, lumbering, slow, as he brushed away your tears. “I married you. We are husband and husband, tied together. Your time is unalienable; it cannot be transferred to others, and I wish not for it to be. You are mine,” he said consolingly.
You had choked. A pained, grievous sound had escaped your lips. Perhaps the slap had been extra painful because the wedding ring he had on his finger, glittering, expensive, and proud had been the one to hit your cheek. Dorian always had his idiosyncratic moments; moments where his voice was too soft, insidious, dangerous — moments where you saw the promise of violence but it never came true. Moments that were lurid, shocking — but there would be a swift kiss in your cheek, a devoted sigh, an enamoured expression.
But now it did, you thought in despair, and the first bite of acrimony hit you then; the pure fear and rage and anger — and now it did.
Four months into a blissful, happy marriage, and everything had crumbled down.
**
You can’t remember how long it has been; this insidious, insipid cycle — or when it’s started. But everyone is a slave to something, and in this case you’re a slave to this very marriage, which has been tossed to the ground, upended on the streets. There is only bitterness that fills you. The nasty, unholy feeling you must purge.
Dorian never apologised. No; he truly saw it as part and parcel of your marriage. He was a paranoid man, steeped in fear that one day you would leave him for another, terrified that you would one day be desecrated by someone else. But ironically, it was this paranoia that made you want to run; to fill your incredibly lonely self with human connection, because you missed your family and friends so dearly.
But each of your attempts to run had been stymied by him. Each time your cold, clammy hands reached for the extra key in his jacket that hung loosely by the side — he would appear, imperious, chuckling, amused at your temerity, at your sheer courage. He would say, in a sonorous tone, you just never learn, do you, Y/n, and then the cycle would repeat again: the violence, your shudders, the comfort that followed afterward that made you feel debauched. His personality was a rupture of the otherwise sublime, angelic beauty he had.
You are foolish, Y/n, he tells you when you two are in bed, and he is holding you, and there is a brief moment of respite that betrays your mind — you are foolish. I am in control.
**
The thing about humans is that they are tenacious beings. You do not give up, because general or not, violence or not: you must stop this. You must end this now, before you douse a bottle of gasoline on yourself and self immolate. At least then you will die of your own terms, not by nursing your forever open wounds and groaning and not by his hands.
It’s the advent of the war party — this marriage has lasted through the whole war, and now Dorian is receiving a prize for contributing as one of the heroes — that makes you plan. It’s custom that a spouse would follow the other to the party, but Dorian, of course, would rather leave you here than bring you outside, to the wandering eyes that would look at you, to the gazes that would tear you down. He calls this an altruistic act for you, but you beg to differ. But you nod your head. Look adoringly at him, despite the pernicious ache that tears you apart inside.
But this is your chance. You have been waiting for this day forever, have been counting down the days, looking at the calendar — because you’ve made a copy of the key out of clay; and you plan to use it. Clay made from the soil of potted plants; water taken from the taps — all melded and left outside to harden and to become a perfect replica. All done in the areas that cannot be caught by the cameras that litter every expanse and inch of the room. You’ve memorised where they are by now; some hidden slyly between couch cushions, some in plants.
Your heart is beating fast. This is it; this is it; this is it. The words are a mantra, dancing in your head. You feel sick, beyond anxious, but you hide all of those feelings when you kiss Dorian goodbye, congratulating him and even coyly patting the front of his uniform — an act he so dearly loves. You can see what he’s thinking; that you’ve finally become docile. That you’ve finally become good.
Be good, he says before he leaves, like it is a reminder.
You nod your head again.
**
Your plan nearly works; oh god, it does. You’re already out of the house by then — fleeing, running, not allowing to get your hopes up but shit, it’s so close; the exit — and you’re running fast and your heart is burning and your lungs are choking — and —
So close
So close
So close
“Now I am the foolish one,” this utterly furious, ravaged voice is what tears you from your thoughts, throws you into the deepest despair and solidifies your descent into this perennial cycle of violence once more — “to leave you alone. You’ve gotten smart, have you? If I was a second later, you would have left.”
It’s raining, cold and bitter, and you’re shivering, hair damp, clothes drenched. Your thoughts are turning delirious, bereft of reason, bereft of hope.
Doom awaits you.
Dorian
Dorian
Dorian
“You will regret,” Dorian says, and his voice is so soft, so quiet. But in it lies terrible, terrible anger that you will not be able to coax out of him, that you will not be able to negate. The anger he had at the past escape attempts cannot be compared to this; it is disparate — because for this one he had trusted you. “Oh, Y/n, you will regret.”
So far
So far
So far
**
This time round he makes sure the punishments stick to you.
This time round the agony is so painful that you feel yourself shrink, turn timorous, turn into a coward.
This time round the anger is so sharp, like it’s been sharpened to a needlepoint — that you accept it, let it corrupt you.
This time round you give in to him. To his veneration, appetence. To his hunger, that scoops you hollow, that makes you anew. To his control.
This time round you become fully his.
**
“Do you wish to go out?” Dorian hums, “it’s a sunny day, isn’t it, Y/n? Don’t you want to go to the library?”
Your thoughts are a soft murky spot in your head, swimming between broken fragments and torn memories. The bruises lay on your skin; scars littered across every orifice. Dorian holds you sweetly, kissing your forehead.
“I have you,” you tell him, “why would I ever need that for? And we have a library.”
He laughs; and oh god, you love that sound. So melodic, so assuring, so comforting. (Surely the shiver down your spine is because it makes you giddy with happiness. There are some things the body cannot unlearn.)
“I was prepared to get you the wheelchair.” Dorian says gently, “but we can stay here, if you’d like.”
Of course you’ll love to stay here. Your legs don’t really work the same anymore — all broken, battered, crushed to bits — and it’s Dorian who attends so well to you, despite the fact that you can’t move around the same anymore. You don’t remember what caused that, but it doesn’t matter: you are still loved by your husband. The vows are still there; til death do us part.
This, in the end, is still a fairytale romance.
—
enjoy!!!! do like and reblog and comment if you liked if, for it will motivate me :)
CW/TW: Typical Off Campus warnings, brief sexual content (just heavy petting)
second gif is purely for aesthetic purposes
~~~
Usually, whenever there was a party raging on with a million drinks available, pretty sorority girls all dolled up, and no early morning classes to attend the following day, Dean Di Laurentis would typically be found with his tongue down someone's throat or trying to win a drinking competition.
Sometimes, he even managed to juggle the two at the same time.
He was the life of the party, the first one to accept or give out an invitation, and the first to connect his phone to the speakers.
Dean Di Laurentis could be trusted to propose a dozen drinking games, start hollering encouraging chants from deep within his chest, all while trying to french-kiss some girl whose name he wouldn't remember within the next six hours.
Except that, instead of being out in the crowd, dancing along to "Come Get Her" or purring some sugary compliments into the ear of whichever girl locked eyes with him first, Dean Di Laurentis found himself in his bedroom with the door (shockingly) shut and (even more shockingly) locked because he'd successfully convinced (Y/N) (L/N) to attend one of Sig Tau's parties.
While he'd originally intended to show (Y/N) the beauties of a good rager, he'd ended up dragging the guy upstairs the second he noticed someone attempting to flirt with him.
It was stupid, he knew, to feel jealous over someone who thought college relationships were just brief stepping stones in life.
Dean's face had tucked itself into the nape of (Y/N)'s neck as soon as he'd pinned him down against the mattress, with his mouth latching onto his neck in various spots and his palm planting itself firmly over (Y/N)'s clothed crotch.
The heel of his palm dug against (Y/N)'s briefs that peeked out from his unzipped jeans, his fingers tracing the faint outline of (Y/N)'s bulge.
Dean had a vague idea of what it felt like to be a puck bunny every time he entered (Y/N)'s vicinity.
It was a magnetic pull. (Y/N) was his sun, and he was the earth, following him wherever he went without much thought. He was his favorite intoxicant, one he refused to quit, even when it stung to be brushed aside as just another jock.
"Dean," (Y/N) breathed out, his hand curled tight into a fist that grabbed and tugged blindly on the back of Dean's shirt.
He rolled his head back to take a peek at the clock on Dean's nightstand, and Dean took swift advantage of the newly exposed skin.
"I have class tomorrow."
"Skip," Dean replied simply, trailing wet kisses up to his jawline, where he lightly dug his teeth in to nip. "You're passing all your classes, (Y/N). Skipping one-"
His hand lifted off (Y/N)'s crotch temporarily to shove his shirt up just above his chest before he resumed his lazy over-the-clothes fondling.
"-won't kill you."
Warmth radiated off (Y/N)'s face like a furnace, his chest rising and falling in quick, short breaths as he struggled to keep his delicious little noises to himself.
Dean lowered his head to focus on (Y/N)'s chest instead, dragging his tongue over every inch he could reach. (Y/N) clamped his mouth shut to muffle the following whine when Dean brushed his teeth over one hardened bud, and Dean jutted his lips out at him.
"Let me hear you." The blond huffed, his palm pressing harder against (Y/N)'s bulge.
(Y/N) shot him a squinted-eye look, and Dean grinned against his chest, his lips pressed right over (Y/N)'s heart to feel its thumps. "It's a full house! What if someone else hears?"
His adams apple bobbed with his nervous swallow, his eyes flickering toward the door as if someone were going to burst in at any minute.
Dean shrugged. Half of the campus already knew what his nude body looked like, anyway. He'd never been particularly shy about it, and he hardly gave a damn what anyone thought of him.
What was the point in shame when he knew he looked good?
"Who cares? Let them."
"Dean!"
Laughing at the half-mortified, half-scolding tone in (Y/N)'s voice, Dean pulled his hand away from (Y/N)'s briefs and pressed it flat over his stomach instead, his head lolling to the side with a little smile on his lips.
"Do you want to do this?" He asked gently, his voice softening, searching (Y/N)'s face for the slightest hint of genuine discomfort. "I'm happy just kissing you, (Y/N)."
Predictably, (Y/N)'s head rolled to the side to avoid Dean's eyes, his lips pursing. Dean inhaled slowly, his teeth grinding against each other at the subtle sting that always pricked his chest when (Y/N) shrank away from anything vaguely sappy.
What hurt more was that it wasn't simply in private that it happened. (Y/N) always kept him at arm's length, whether by making actual distance between them or leaning away from his touch in public.
Dean never understood it. Everyone knew (Y/N) (L/N) and Dean Di Laurentis were fairly good friends, had been since sophomore year when they'd been paired up for a project in their Intermediate Microeconomics class.
They'd spent half a month getting to know each other; (Y/N) learned there was more to Dean than his pretty face and sexual escapades, and Dean learned there was more to (Y/N) than grumpy frowns and studying.
Their friendship had been a shock to most; they were complete opposites in every way, shape, and form.
Where Dean thrived in the spotlight and loved boozing and fucking, (Y/N) preferred the solace of a library and being left alone. Dean laughed everything off, and (Y/N) scoffed and puffed at anything vaguely rude directed his way. Dean soaked up any touch, and (Y/N) retreated from it.
Regardless of their differences, (Y/N) had been stuck with Dean ever since the first kiss they exchanged after celebrating the A-plus they'd received on their project, and Dean refused to be shaken off or swatted away.
The memory of (Y/N)'s soft lips on his, the feeling of his warm cheeks against his palms when Dean cradled his face, the sheepish look on (Y/N)'s face when they pulled apart...
"We've never.. done this with other people around," (Y/N) muttered, a tad meekly.
"You never want to have sex when others are around." Dean pointed out with a soft chuckle, fluttering his fingers over (Y/N)'s stomach and sides, digging them in lightly just to feel him squirm. (Y/N) swatted at his hand with a faint scowl, and Dean giggled, brushing his lips over (Y/N)'s. "Okay, then, let them hear me."
(Y/N) blinked up at him, the wide-eyed look warming Dean's chest. "You want to try.. that again?"
"Yeah."
Dean's lips stretched out into a lazy smirk, his hips pressing against (Y/N)'s thigh and grinding slightly.
It'd been a while since they'd first tried switching things up, but Dean had been thinking about it on and off, tried creating the sensation with his fingers a few times.
"I liked it. You defintely have to learn coordination-"
"Shut up."
"-but I had a lot of fun."
Dean sighed quietly against (Y/N)'s cheek, tingly warmth spreading across his back and up his spine. He dipped his head toward (Y/N)'s ear, catching his earlobe with his teeth.
"I want to go to practice with the phantom feeling of you inside me again. That was hot."
(Y/N) shivered, his face somehow growing warmer. Dean swallowed a low groan. He wanted to eat him whole.
"If someone hears you, they'll wonder who Dean's hooking up with, and it'll become a whole thing. Someone's bound to find out."
Dean dragged himself completely over (Y/N) and pushed himself up, sitting back on (Y/N)'s thighs with his throat tight. The whole sneaking around thing had been exciting the first year.
Dean enjoyed the cat-and-mouse game, loved the electrifying feeling of exchanging knowing looks across rooms, and mentioning things only the other person understood while subtly brushing against each other.
The idea of being found out no longer phased him. He liked guys, so what?
Well, he liked a guy, one who constantly had his nose buried in a textbook or in a sci-fi novel.
One who wore reading glasses that'd fog up at the edges whenever he grew embarrassed, and who stared blankly when he heard hockey terms.
One who posted on social media once in a blue moon and barely knew about the latest trends because he was an old man at heart.
The concept of a relationship still made his stomach churn, made him shift uncomfortably and dry-swallow, but he wanted to try it again.
He wanted to curl around someone (a very specific someone) and cuddle throughout the night; he wanted to look across a room and realize his partner was wearing his clothes; he wanted to look at the stands during a game and spot someone cheering for him and him only.
"Would that be so bad?" Dean asked, forcing out a laugh, praying it masked the tightness underneath.
(Y/N) looked utterly enticing beneath him, but the swell in his pants had begun to soften with his jumbled thoughts.
"It's not going to make headline news, (Y/N), and none of the girls I've been with will pester you about it. They'll probably add you to a group chat to compare notes."
And then, once everyone knew, he'd ask him out on a lunch date at Malone's.
He'd take sweet candid photos of (Y/N) whilst he was distracted and post them so everyone would know Dean Di Laurentis had been domesticated and locked down. He'd opt out of parties to stay in with (Y/N) some days, and then throw ragers that he'd spend with his arm around his boyfriend.
(Y/N) stared up at him with his mouth drawn in a line. Dean deflated.
"Any girl who sleeps with you is immediately known as 'one of the chicks that hooked up with Dean Di Laurentis,' and it might not make headline news, but Jules-fucking-Logan will post about it on their dumb gossip page. I'll be known as the first guy you've hooked up with. It'll be my reputation until graduation!"
"You're being dramatic."
Dean swung his leg off (Y/N)'s thighs, his body bouncing slightly when he plopped down on the mattress. He took shallow breaths, an attempt at keeping the restless feeling in his body from growing, and he focused on the posters plastered to his wall.
"What's the big deal?"
"You've only ever been with girls, Dean! Everyone thinks you're the straightest guy on campus! Everyone knows you'll sleep with any girl who shows the faintest interest in you."
The mattress squeaked with (Y/N)'s movements as he sat up, his legs crossing and elbows propping over his knees. He bent his head to try to catch Dean's eye.
"It'll be a massive deal to everyone we know, and I don't..."
Dean turned his head to look at him, his brows tightening. "What, (Y/N)? You don't want to be associated with me?"
(Y/N) parted his lips, but no words followed, his eyes flickering rapidly between Dean's blue ones. His mouth closed, his tongue darting out briefly to lick his lips as his gaze fell onto the navy blue bedsheets beneath them.
Dean exhaled the air in his lungs, his shoulders lowering into a low slump with his slow nod.
"You're embarrassed by me," Dean stated simply, his head snapping forward again, his chest rising with his following deep inhale to steady himself. "You never want to hang out where anyone else can see. You act like I'm- I'm made of fucking acid whenever I try to hug you in public. You act.. so fucking high and mighty and better than me."
(Y/N) frowned, his jaw visibly clenching and unclenching, and he leaned back with a scoff.
"No, I don't, and even if I did, it's not my fault, Dean. All you're known for is sex, parties, and hockey. You're not exactly the kind of guy anyone wants to introduce to their friends as the guy they occasionally sleep with when you're known for screwing around."
Miranda's face flashed in Dean's head. He squeezed his eyes shut, his hands grasping and fisting the bed sheets.
"Ouch, (Y/N). Tell me how you really feel, huh?" His laugh trembled, his teeth nipping at the inside of his cheek. "I thought we were pretty good friends."
(Y/N)'s sigh reached his ears. "Dean.. we shared two classes in freshman and sophomore year, and it took a project halfway into the semester for you to even realize I existed."
That was... true. Dean had spent most of his freshman and sophomore years soaking up the attention that came with being a Briar Hawk and a member of Sig Tau.
His social circle consisted of other hockey players, frat brothers, and the prettiest girls on campus who were willing to spare him the time of day. Everyone else faded into background noise.
When the teacher announced who'd be paired up with whom for the project, Dean had gone up to the teacher after class to beg to be paired up with Beau Maxwell instead, but when he'd arrived at the table, (Y/N) had been there, asking to work alone instead.
That'd sparked Dean's interest, and the little grin that stretched across his face while he watched (Y/N) nudge his glasses further up his nose had been unconscious.
First time he laid proper eyes on (Y/N) (L/N), and from then on, he looked for him in every room.
(Y/N) continued, his frown softer. "The second you heard that I'd had a boyfriend back in high school, you wanted to experiment with me. I had to get Garrett to tell you to focus on the project. This has always been a game to you, Dean. An experiment."
Dean released a shaky exhale and propped his elbows on his thighs, burying his face into his hands and groaning quietly into them. He'd been a clown back then, that he easily admitted.
He thought it'd be something fun, something new. Plus, part of him thought that fooling around with (Y/N) would knock him down a peg or two.
"I- Fuck..."
Dean rolled his lips into his mouth, frustrated by his past self. He'd do anything to travel back in time and smack his younger self over the head.
"I was an idiot when we met, I know, but this isn't a game to me, okay? Maybe it was in the beginning, but it's not anymore. I... I haven't slept with anyone this entire year, (Y/N). You're the only one I've been seeing."
Peeling his hands from his face, Dean twisted around on the bed to face him and scooted closer until their thighs pressed together.
Dean leaned in, peppering the side of his face with soft pecks and curling his hand around (Y/N)'s calf in a gentle squeeze. The prickle of pain lingered, (Y/N)'s words echoing between his ears.
"I want to be with you," Dean admitted quietly, his eyes averted, his heart squeezing. He hoped the ground opened up and swallowed him whole if (Y/N) shot him down.
(Y/N)'s back straightened, his face unreadable in a way that left Dean breathless with growing panic. "What do you mean? We... We are together. We're together right now. We're- We're... friends-with-benefits."
Dean took in a long breath and kissed the corner of (Y/N)'s mouth again, his hand lifting from his calf to the nape of his neck. He smiled at him, though he knew it hardly reached his eyes.
"Not physically together, (Y/N), I... I don't want to be friends-with-benefits anymore. I want to... I want to be- to be boyfriends."
Synopsis: You were chosen to be one of Darkseid’s Elite Soldiers to wreak havoc on Earth and cause trouble for The Justice League, you didn’t expect to be romanced by a certain Big Blue Boy Scout along the way
Tags: action, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers, smitten Clark, slight obsessive Clark, flirty reader, Clark down bad
Reader is Zatanna’s brother. Backwards sentences used as spellcasting. No use of Y/N.
Villain Reader AU. Inspired by Absolute Zatanna.
Author’s note at the end :)
————————————————————————
“Mother maternal death, father murdered, sister abandoned you when you lost everything. Do you not want retribution?”
You eyed the lady in front of you with caution.
Granny Goodness smiled from the other side of the glass prison you were held in, her eyes studying you with interest as you were strapped in a straight jacket and muzzled for everyone else’s protection even though you lost your voice after the incident.
Granny walked up to the glass that separates you from the outside world and taps on it a few times. “This world has taken everything from you, child. Do you not want your freedom back? Your voice?”
The mention of your voice causes you to widen your eyes, suddenly intrigued. It causes Granny to smile wickedly as she knew that she immediately had you in the palm of her hand.
“Join Darkseid and your one true desire will be returned to you. Will you be his soldier?”
Your heart beats fast at the knowledge that your voice will come back and that you’ll be able to do magic again after being locked away for so long.
The only sacrifice you will be making is the world, the same world that’s no longer tethered to you when it took everything away.
You turned your attention back to Granny Goodness, noticing that she had a satisfied smirk on her face before nodding in reply.
“Excellent.” Granny muttered before lifting a fist up and shattering the glass that separated the both of you.
You were then freed from your restraints, your body falling to the floor as you took a moment to yourself before ripping off the stupid muzzle from your face.
You stood up, your eyes immediately making contact with Granny’s before she gently put a hand on your shoulder and smiled proudly.
“Come, you need not be afraid of the pathetic humans outside this prison. My furies have taken care of them. It is time to for you to be free, my child.”
You watched as Granny walked out the door, the outside now silent as opposed to the hundreds of voices that once mockingly tittered through the door every day since you were put in your glass box prison.
You feel the familiar feeling of magical energy pool behind your eyes, settling itself in your mind.
You grinned.
~~~~~
Zatanna felt a wave of nausea hit her, forcing her to grab on to one of the panels where Batman and Mr Terrific were working as they were using the Watch Tower’s computer to monitor any strange happenings on Earth.
Clark notices her demeanour change and got a little worried. “You okay, Zatanna?”
Batman and Mr Terrific look up from the computer and to Zatanna’s direction, noticing her face cringing in pain.
“A low level magical surge just hit me, it feels familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. I feel it coming from below us.” Zatanna muttered, causing Batman and Mr Terrific to stand up from their seats in high alert.
Mr. Terrific immediately pulls up the surveillance footage, quickly scanning through the multiple cameras before landing on one.
“Found our little problem in the engine room, there’s someone that definitely shouldn’t be in there.” Mr. Terrific tells everyone.
Batman gives Clark a look and the man immediately flies off to the engine room while Batman stayed with an incapacitated Zatanna and Mr Terrific, who was watching the newcomer on the screen like a hawk.
Clark got to the engine room in less than a minute with his super speed to find a stranger with their back facing him as they looked around the room in awe.
“Who are you?” Clark asked the intruder, not getting an immediate response.
The stranger hummed, their back still facing Clark. “It’s crazy that the Justice League has a satellite in the middle of space orbiting around the Earth and the scumbags on the pathetic planet have absolutely no clue.”
Zatanna gasped, hearing the familiar voice that she hasn’t in years speak. Her eyes immediately watering. “That’s impossible.”
“What is? Do you know this person?” Batman asked Zatanna, who turned to him with tears streaming down her face.
Zatanna wiped the tears away from her eyes before forcing herself to walk up to where Mr Terrific was to see the screen for herself.
Her mind stalls for a second seeing you standing in the engine room. She turns to Batman with a fearful expression. “That’s my brother.”
Meanwhile in the engine room, Clark was getting a little tired of the man that had his back turned to the Kryptonian. “It’s a little rude to talk to someone while you’re not facing them.”
“Oops, my bad.” You turned to face Clark with a small smile that makes Clark’s heart skip a beat.
Clark didn’t know who you were but he knew one thing, he thought you were really attractive in your blue biker jacket and slightly torn up jeans with fingerless gloves on your hands.
You gave him an appreciative once-over, your leering causing a heat to swirl in Clark’s gut that makes him feel slightly embarrassed.
“Wow, Granny didn’t mention how handsome you were when she sent me here. Gotta thank her for the eye candy after being imprisoned for so many years, only having random security guards and decrepit government officials watching me.”
Clark blinked dumbly at the words coming out of your mouth as you ranted. Not used to the level of adorableness coming from someone who he assumes is an enemy.
“You were imprisoned?” Clark asked, now curious about his new foe when Batman’s voice frizzled in his ear, distracting him.
You noticed Clark’s reaction and squinted suspiciously at him with an amused smile. “Wait, do you guys have those ear comms that they use in movies? That’s actually pretty cool.”
Clark was once again caught off guard by your slightly childlike wonder as if everything was new to you.
“Superman! We need you to keep him talking while we figure out a plan to subdue him. He’s a magic user so watch yourself.” Batman warned Clark before the comms went silent.
You tilted your head, staring curiously at Clark before turning your attention to the top corner of the room where the security camera was located at.
“Do you think my sister’s watching us? You should know her, Zatanna?” You asked Clark, whose eyes widened at the new information he was given.
Clark knew he’d have no chance if you were Zatanna’s level of power considering he was weak to magic, so he activated the investigative reporter part of his brain to stall for more time.
“Why were you imprisoned?” Clark asked you, getting a shrug in response.
You pursed your lips, tilting your head slightly to the side. “You can ask Zatanna.”
Well, Clark didn’t expect that much of a response regarding a topic so sensitive but still he powered through.
“Who’s Granny and why did she sent you here?” Clark asked next, getting an amused smirk from you.
“Granny Goodness, one of the new gods and second in command to our Lord Darkseid, who wants to dominate the universe and all that jazz.” You told Clark, waving your hand around carelessly as if the conversation was boring you while Clark tenses up at the mention of Darkseid.
You gave Clark a pitiful glance. “Granny tasked me with blowing this place up, which would be unfortunate since it ends our time together but alas, I have to do what she says.”
“Wait! There’s innocent people on board!” Clark shouted, wondering if Batman and the others had heard what you had said.
You sighed dramatically. “Fine, I’ll give you guys like a minute to evacuate.”
Clark’s face hardens at that and you rolled your eyes at him. “Five minutes and this place blows.”
Batman’s voice enters Clark’s ears again through the comms. “We’re evacuating everyone right now, we just need to make sure he keeps to his word.”
“You’re not flying off with everyone else?” You asked Clark, intrigued by how stupidly brave the other man was.
Clark shrugged. “I can take an explosion, it’ll hurt but I’ll survive.”
“How mighty of you,” You nodded at Clark, impressed. “Or are you scared that I’m lying and you’re here to stop me if I blow this joint up before the timer runs out?”
You looked down at your empty wrist as if there was an actual watch on it. “Four minutes, by the way.”
Clark’s lips twitched at that, finding you even more adorable.
“Why are you working for Darkseid?” Clark asked you.
You hummed. “Granny told me I had to work for him if I wanted my freedom back and boy, did I want it.”
“How is there freedom if you’re working under a dictator?” Clark replied, getting a slight chuckle out of you.
You rolled your eyes at him. “I prefer this over getting muzzled and being strapped in a straight jacket, any day. Now that’s a great story for my dear sister to tell, you should ask her.”
The familiar buzz of Clark’s comms comes in and Batman’s voice comes through. “Everyone’s safely evacuated, we’re all back on Earth.”
Clark must’ve shown some relief on his face because you clapped excitedly, which causes him to jump in surprise.
“With a minute to spare, not bad!” You laughed and then pouted, which makes Clark’s eyes focus on your lips.
You sighed. “I guess this means I have to destroy this big old thing now.”
“Tlobrednuht dna gninthgil!” You chanted out loud, throwing your hands up dramatically.
Clark sees electricity surge out of your fingertips, hitting the nearby generators, causing sparks to fly and Clark knew he only had a minute before the Watch Tower was going to explode.
“See you around, handsome.” You winked at Clark before a bright shining light consumes you and you disappear.
Clark sighed, hearing a high pitched squeal come from one of the machines and then he was engulfed in flames.
The next thing he knew, when he opened his eyes, he was in the middle of space with the Watch Tower’s debris just floating around him.
As Clark flew back to Earth to join the rest of the League, he couldn’t get you out of his head. A part of him has hope that he’ll be able to reach you once he gets the full idea of what’s truly going on.
For now, he needs to find your sister.
~~~~~
“You saved them.”
You looked up at Big Barda in confusion, the other woman had you pinned to the ground with her foot on your chest from sparring.
She lifts her foot off and you sat up with a huff, brushing off the dirt from your shirt.
“Saved who?” You asked Barda before standing up.
Barda gives you a withering look. “The humans and heroes that were onboard that satellite.”
You rolled your eyes at her, shrugging as you looked away. “I was told to blow it up, Granny never said to kill anyone.”
“What if one day you were told to kill? Would you hesitate?” Barda asked you, forcing you to look back at her.
You gulped. “I guess we’ll see when it comes to that, magic is tricky. Once I’ve taken a life, it will corrupt my soul.”
“You are one of Darkseid’s soldiers, as am I. Are we not already corrupted?” Barda replied, her tall and strong stature almost tiny and vulnerable as she spoke those words.
You looked to the floor, feeling a slight heaviness in your heart. “Maybe there’s a way for us to be free, to escape this darkness but we can’t do that alone.”
“You suggest you and I try to leave? Darkseid would have our heads.” Barda replied.
You laughed, making Barda frown before you rolled your eyes at her disdain. “Relax, I’m not saying anything but I have definitely noticed how close you and Scot are.”
Barda freezes for a second before she collected her composure. “I fail to see the need to mention him.”
“Adopted son of Darkseid and the Doyenne of the Female Furies? That sounds like a fun duo, just don’t get caught.” You teased Barda, getting a scoff from the other woman.
Barda moved to leave but you called out to her for the last time before giving her a wink. “Rooting for the two of you.”
Barda rolled her eyes at you before she left you alone.
The smirk on your face slowly slipped away as your mind wandered about two beings like Scot and Barda finding love with each other in a such a horrible world and yet here you were serving a dictator.
A mental image of the kryptonian flashes in your mind and it makes your heart skip a beat when you remembered his handsome face.
You chuckled to yourself for the delusional fantasy.
~~~~~
“There’s a reason why I used a cloaking spell, you’re disrespecting my boundaries.” You sighed, turning away from your parents’ grave stones to see your sister with a familiar face next to her.
It was late at night, the perfect time for you to sneak off to earth without Granny asking too many questions about your whereabouts.
You quirked an eyebrow at Superman. “Hi handsome, glad to see you made it out of that explosion.”
“Told you I could take a hit.” Superman replies, making your lip twitch in response at his quip.
You frown when you tore your eyes away from Superman and back to Zatanna. “Did you come here to take me away and put me in another cell?”
“No, of course not. I wouldn’t even think of it, you’re my baby brother.” Zatanna takes a step forward but stops when you put an index finger up and waved it at her.
You tutted. “I’d believe you if it wasn’t for the fact that I was contained in some government run prison for half my life.”
“You have to believe me when I say this, I didn’t know where you were this whole time. You went missing after dad died and I couldn’t find you even with magic.” Zatanna tried explaining, only receiving a massive eye roll from you in response.
“She’s telling the truth.” Superman added, his eyes meeting yours in earnest.
You stayed silent for a minute before shrugging. “Okay.”
“What? You’d believe him over me, your own sister?” Zatanna exclaimed in surprise, making you smirk in amusement at her outrage.
You made non-committal noise. “Well I’d rather makeout with him than my own sister, so you can see why I’m hesitant.”
Zatanna’s face was blanched with shock before she turned to Superman and saw a goofy grin on his face, causing her to slap his shoulder with a disapproving shake of the head.
Superman cleared his throat, smiling sheepishly but his eyes never left yours. His attention causing you to slightly blush, now realising that there was a mutual attraction between the two of you.
You looked away for a second, trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach before you waved your arm around and a portal appears behind you.
“Love to stay and swap stories about our dead parents but I gotta go before Granny figures out where I ran off to. The next time we see each other, it won’t be this friendly.” You smirked, taking a step back into the portal.
You ignored Zatanna crying out for you as you walked through the portal and into the pocket dimension that you created whenever you needed to be alone and away from the others that were on Apokolips.
“Golly, it’s bright.”
You gasped, turning around in surprise to see Superman standing behind you. You glared at him, the other man not paying you any mind as he looks around the dimension in awe.
“Superman, how did you get in here?” You questioned the Kryptonian, who was still looking around before his eyes fell on you.
Superman smiled, his dimples flashing and you suddenly had the urge to poke the indents on his face. “Super speed and it’s Clark Kent, since we’re getting to know each other. Neat getaway place from everything, I like that it’s blue.”
You had full control over the pocket dimension and how it looked, you had left it in its raw state which was just a sky blue space.
You waved your hand and everything shifted and morphed, you and Clark were now standing in what seemed to be a cozy apartment.
“Wow.” Clark breathed out, walking around the apartment and touching everything that he could.
You were amused, to say the least. “Why did you follow me?”
Clark stopped tinkering with one of the lamps and walked back to where you were standing, his blue suit and red cape even more obvious in the apartment setting you conjured up.
Clark shrugged, his smile still soft. “I just wanted to get to know you better.”
“You make it a habit to flirt with your enemies?” You teased Clark, seeing a glint of mischief in his eyes as he took a step closer to you.
Clark smirked. “No, just the one that said he would like to makeout with me.”
You huffed out a laugh, shaking your head before stepping around Clark. The other man turning as he followed the way your body manoeuvred around his.
“You’re ridiculous.” You turned back to Clark with a small smile, the other man’s face mirroring yours.
You’ve been out of your prison for a while now, besides Barda, Clark was the only one person that wasn’t hostile towards you.
Even though your sister had tried to reconcile with you earlier, you had seen the fear and hesitation in her eyes.
Your heart ached at the expression on her face.
“So, what did Zatanna tell you?” You asked Clark, cutting straight to the point.
Clark sighed, his face morphing to one of sympathy. “She told me that you disappeared without a trace after the news of your father’s death was brought to her by the police. Zatanna tried everything she could to find you but after years of searching and finding nothing, she had to presume you were dead.”
You flexed your jaw, feeling multiple emotions go through you all at once. “So she was telling the truth.”
Clark nodded, taking a step towards you. You gulped, just now realising that he was taller and bigger than you.
It creates a pool of heat in your stomach.
You cleared your throat, your eyes transfixed on the symbol on his chest. “I’d imagine the S on your chest means something else than just Superman.”
“On the planet where I was from, Krypton, it stands for hope. It’s what drives me every day, the hope that what I’m doing on Earth is worth it.” Clark tells you, his eyes lingering on your face while you were still staring at the symbol on his chest.
Your eyes flickered to Clark’s face, your face heating up at his intense gaze before you shyly look down. “So, in a way, you’re a symbol of hope.”
“I mean, I do my best.” Clark shrugged, making you snort before a sullen thought comes to mind.
You didn’t know why you wanted to be more open with Clark, maybe because he was a symbol of hope and maybe deep down inside you needed it.
“The night my father died, we were attacked by some unnamed government forces.”
Clark’s eyes widened but you continued to power through the traumatic memories of your father’s final moments with you.
“Zatanna wasn’t around, she had some school event and I was at home with Dad. Next thing I knew, these men in armour came bursting through the door with all these weapons aimed at us.” You closed your eyes, your voice slightly shaky as you felt like you were in the shoes of your younger self again.
You opened your eyes in surprise when Clark intertwined your fingers together, gently squeezing your hand. You looked up at him and saw worry behind his eyes and it makes your heart lurch towards him.
Clark shook his head. “If it’s too much for you, it’s okay. You don’t have to tell me anything.”
You gave Clark a small smile, the man’s empathy somewhat made you fonder of him even though he had every right not to be kind to you.
“Dad used a spell on me that stopped me from using my voice so I wouldn’t cast spells and put myself in the line of fire. He tried to hide me but it costed him his life and they got me anyway.” Your eyes watered up but you blinked them away.
Clark then surprised you by suddenly pulling you into a hug, your arms clung to his back while you hid your face against his shoulder.
You haven’t had physical contact like this in a long time, it made you sigh with relief as you relaxed body against Clark’s.
“You need to go, Zatanna’s probably freaking the hell out.” You murmured against his shoulder, Clark not making a move to let you go.
You eventually forced yourself to let go of the other man, stepping out of his grip on you. You smirked when you see Clark pout in response.
“I’ll find a way to free you from Darkseid, I promise.” Clark tells you, his eyes now filled with passion and determination.
You gave him a soft smile before stepping into his space and getting on your tip toes to peck him on the cheek.
“Thank you for making me believe in hope again.”
You try to take a step back when Clark’s arm wrapped itself around your waist before his lips met yours in a warm and gentle kiss.
It causes you to melt into his embrace as he deepened the kiss, your hands on his jawline as you and Clark exchanged heated kisses.
“Clark.” You pulled away to speak but the other man chases after your lips, causing you to laugh as he continues to smack his lips against yours.
You eventually had to put a hand between your faces, Clark’s lips resting on your fingers as his hungry eyes met yours. “You’re so greedy.”
“Could you blame me? A beautiful man wants me and I’ll do anything for him.” Clark tells you, making you blush before you took a proper step back from his grip on your waist.
You cleared your throat and waved your arm, a portal opening up behind Clark. The man looks between the portal and you, his face showing sadness and hesitance.
Clark quickly pecks you on the lips before stepping through the portal and disappearing from your pocket dimension.
The portal closes and you were left alone again, but this time you weren’t as sad or angry. You actually had something to look forward to in your life, smiling at the lingering feeling of Clark’s lips on yours.
You sighed before opening another portal to go back to Apokolips. You were sick of staying in such a dystopian planet, you already missed having Clark around.
~~~~~
The news of Big Barda and Mister Miracle’s betrayal of Darkseid was not hidden on Apokolips.
It made you feel sad that you were now left alone but you were also happy for Barda, she chose love over Darkseid’s fear and violence.
“Now my young magician, I will need you to cause trouble on earth. You did a wonderful job destroying their base in space but I know the heroes are now gathered at The Hall Of Justice.”
You eyed Granny as she spoke, her voice as venomous as the look on her rage filled face. Big Barda leaving pissed her off and you gulped wondering what she wanted you to do next in retaliation.
Granny turned to you, her eyes studying your face as you kept a stoic expression as to not reveal any weaknesses.
She grinned. “Destroy The Hall Of Justice until it is nothing but dust and this time, leave no survivors behind.”
Granny then walked off, her cape flowing with her before she walked out of your sight.
You felt chills down your spine and your stomach filled with dread. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, remembering Clark’s face in your mind.
You opened your eyes, holding back tears as you wondered what you got yourself into but you knew that you had to follow Granny’s orders or else she’ll kill you with no remorse.
You opened a portal, frowning as you stepped through and into your pocket dimension.
You needed to be alone and you needed time to think of a plan to possibly escape but you knew it was futile.
You knew what you had to do to survive, you prayed silently for the heroes of earth to put up a good fight for what you were about to descend on them.
It was time for Armageddon.
*****
Author’s note:
This was a very fun AU that I’m thinking of expanding but it will definitely take some time to write another part
Hope y’all enjoyed this one, thank you for reading :)
Synopsis: Staying a week at the Kent Farm creates a very sexually frustrated Clark
Tags: cute, fluff, smút with plot, smitten Clark, obsessive Clark, clingy Clark, horny Clark, Top Clark, Bottom Reader, semi-public sex, car sex
Reader is Zatanna’s brother. Backwards sentences used as spellcasting. No use of Y/N.
Continuation of this fic
Author’s note at the end :)
————————————————————————
“You’re teasing me.”
Clark whispered to you as you walked past him to put the dirty plates in the sink after dinner with his parents at the Kent Farm.
You cocked an eyebrow at him as you turned on the water, Clark stood beside you with a washcloth to wipe the wet plates that you handed him. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh you know,” Clark’s voice went a little higher as if your obliviousness to his words was just an act. “Strutting around being the perfect partner in front of my parents as if that doesn’t drive me nuts.”
“Are you saying that you’re turned on because I’m being a good guest in your parents’ home?” You couldn’t help but let out a laugh at Clark, who blushed at you as he continued to wipe down the plates.
Clark shrugged. “Everything about you turns me on, honey.”
“Ah, now I get it. Me putting the no sex rule under your parents’ roof is making you malfunction since you could do whatever you wanted in the safety of our apartment in Metropolis.” You whispered to Clark, your tone teasing.
Clark huffed. “You won’t even let me touch you down there when we’re in bed. The blankets cover us just fine.”
You handed Clark the last plate, moving away from the sink to dry your hands with one of the towels hanging on the side before you patted Clark on the cheek and winked at him. “We’re here for a week and it’s only been three days so far baby. You wanted me to meet your parents so you’re going to have to deal with it.”
You walked out of the kitchen leaving a pouting Clark behind to finish up his task as he heard you converse with his mother in the living room.
“Trouble in paradise?”
Clark jumped slightly at the voice of his father right behind him, making him shake his head sheepishly at the older man. “No Pa, of course not. We were just riffing.”
Jonathan laughed. “Look I get it. When your Ma told me that you were coming back with your boyfriend to visit for a week, I was elated and then I remembered I can’t do anything in the bedroom with your mother considering that super hearing of yours.”
“Pa that’s gross! I didn’t need to know that.” Clark chastised his father, his face turning red before getting a belly laugh out from the older man as Jonathan left the kitchen.
Clark covered his blushing face with his hands, at least now he didn’t have to worry about feeling frisky with you after that piece of information about his parents.
~~~~~
On the fourth day, you offered to go to the store in town, which was a short drive away, to get some fresh produce for dinner.
It was still pretty early in the afternoon so you weren’t rushing and Clark already said that he’d drive.
“Oh you don’t have to do all that, you’re our guest.” Martha sweetly told you.
You shook your head. “No, it’s fine. It’d be good to stretch outside for a little bit and I can already tell Clark’s getting antsy from constantly staying indoors.”
You and Martha turned your heads to the window, the sight of Clark using his powers to help out in the field with Jonathan makes you smile.
“You know after Lois, I wasn’t sure if Clark was going to be this open and happy again. That breakup made him hide his pain behind the Superman mantle and I thought the boy I raised was gone.” Martha wistfully told you, making you turn your head back to her to only see a sad smile on her face.
You reached out, curling your fingers over her wrist and smiling comfortingly at her when she met your eyes. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that anymore. I promise to bring him back here more often despite our busy schedules.”
“You know, the first time Clark came home a year or so after the breakup, he couldn’t stop talking about the gorgeous man he met in the Justice League.” Martha whispered at you as if it was a kept secret between her and Clark, making you chuckle.
“I’m sure Clark was just exaggerating,” You told Martha, remembering your first meeting with Clark in the Watch Tower’s break room. “I wasn’t that much of a name when my sister asked me to join the League with her.”
“Oh dear, Clark was raving about you all night. The man that surpassed him in talent and wittiness without even trying and I saw the light come back into his eyes. You’re amazing for him.” Martha told you, making you gulp at the sudden onslaught of information that you weren’t privy to before.
You wondered if Clark was eavesdropping on the conversation and your question was answered when the back door to the kitchen suddenly slammed open.
“Ma! You can’t just share that stuff with him!” Clark exasperatedly said to Martha, his face turning crimson with embarrassment.
Martha laughed, waving him off. “I didn’t say anything too embarrassing, I was just telling him the truth.”
You took pity on Clark, standing up from the table to kiss him on the cheek. “Go and change, we still have to get groceries from town.”
“You sure, hun? It looks like it’s about to rain.” Clark replied.
You glanced outside, just noticing the grey clouds in the sky and a thought came into your mind. “Well even if we’re caught in the rain, we’d still be in the car so it’s fine.”
Clark merely shrugged at that before disappearing to the bathroom for a quick shower and to change out of his sweaty clothes.
You spent most of the time chatting with Martha and Jonathan before Clark walked out into the living room in just a white shirt and jeans, his glasses sitting perfectly on his face to keep his secret identity while in town.
“Shall we, honey?”
You nodded, making your way out of the door before turning back to the older Kents. “We’ll be out for a bit and might even be a little longer if it rains, so don’t worry about us.”
Martha and Jonathan nodded before seeing the both of you off at the front door. Clark waved at them before opening the passenger door for you like the gentleman that he was before getting to the other side so he could start the drive.
The both of you drove off in a jeep that Clark rented for the trip back to Smallville from Metropolis, the inside of the car spacious for all the stuff you brought over the week long stay.
“How far’s the market again?” You asked Clark, your eyes paying attention to the sky darkening as Clark drove.
Clark glanced at you. “About a half hour or so, hopefully the rain won’t be too bad.”
You nodded, a small smile on your face as the plan in your head began to unravel perfectly.
~~~~~
Just as you predicted, the rain started to pour halfway through the ride.
“Baby, let’s just park on the side so we don’t get into any accidents.” You told Clark, the other man glancing at you in confusion before doing so.
Clark parked the jeep a little off the road, just far enough so no other vehicles would accidentally cause a collision due to the heavy downpour.
Clark hummed, looking out the window. “We can barely see the road. Well, technically I can but better to be safe than sorry.”
“Cigam edih su morf gnirednaw seye.” You murmured under your breath, making Clark turn to you in confusion at you randomly conjuring up a spell.
Clark gave you a small smile, his hand squeezing your thigh in reassurance. “You don’t have to protect us with magic hun, I’m sure the rain will subside soon and then we can make our way to the market and back to the farm in no time.”
“Actually, I’m betting on the rain lasting a little while longer so we could have some privacy of our own.” You replied, getting an alarmed look from Clark as he glanced outside in case there were any other vehicles passing by.
Clark laughed nervously. “I thought you said no sex while we’re here.”
“I said no sex under your parents’ roof,” You corrected him as you began unbuttoning your shirt, Clark’s eyes immediately entranced by the exposed skin of your chest. “Right now? We’re free to do whatever we want.”
Clark opened and closed his mouth, still processing what was happening in front of him as you continued to strip. “What if people drive by and see us.”
You paused, your hands on the button of your pants as you gave Clark an amused smile. “Baby, I put a cloaking spell on the jeep. No one’s going to see us, all they’re gonna see is a giant tree log on the side of the road.”
“Oh.” Clark replied, his face turning red at realising the truth before he cleared his throat as he left his glasses on the dashboard and took his shirt off when you raised your eyebrows at him to join you.
“We should probably do this in the back, more leg room for the both of us.” Clark murmured, his eyes already glazed over with lust as he watched you crawl into the backseat.
You smiled as Clark crawled in behind you, the man hovering over you with a hungry look on his face. “What do you want to do?”
“I want to kiss you, I want to mark you, I want to open you up and then I want to make love to you. Is that okay hun?” Clark asked, leaning his body down so both your chests were touching.
You let out a happy sigh, feeling Clark’s weight comfortably on top of you before you nodded and grabbed Clark’s face to pull him into a kiss.
Clark let out a deep groan as deepened the kiss, claiming your lips with his before slipping his tongue to tangle it with yours.
You threw your arms over Clark’s shoulders, your fingers playing with the curls on the back of his head as he began rutting his massive bulge against yours.
Clark broke the kiss, only to redirect his mouth to your exposed shoulder and neck. You whimpered as he nibbled on the skin before licking the spot with his tongue to soothe the pain.
“You taste so good.” Clark said to you before sinking his dull teeth into your neck, making you cry out as he began to suck a hickey that was big enough for everyone to see.
Clark’s breath hot and damp with his tongue lapping up the mark on your neck before he descends so he was at face level with your chest.
Clark’s hands were now on your waist, holding you down. You squirmed in his grip as Clark’s mouth sucked on one of your nipples, the man letting out groan when you whimpered in response.
Clark released your nipple from his mouth with an audible pop, looking up at your blissed out expression with a feral grin on his own face. “You love that, hun?”
“God, yes.” You moaned out, shivering slightly when Clark blew against the nipple that he practically chewed on.
Clark’s hands then slipped into the waistband of your pants, pulling them down your legs as you lifted your hips to help him take them off.
“Take yours off too.” You whispered before moving to the side to make room for Clark so he could get his jeans off along with his boxers, leaving him completely nude.
You licked your lips at the erotic sight, moving to touch yourself when Clark intercepted your movement by grabbing your hand and tutting disapprovingly at you.
“I’m not done yet, honey.” Clark told you before readjusting so he was lying back on the seats, his legs hanging slightly over at the front.
You blinked in surprise when Clark tapped his chin with an expectant look on his face, it made you blush.
“Come on hun, take a seat.” Clark told you, patiently waiting for you to move.
You carefully adjusted yourself, kneeling right over Clark’s face before lowering yourself down and whimpering when Clark’s tongue immediately licked up into your hole.
The slick sounds of Clark’s tongue eating you out accompanied by your own whimpers turned you on, your cock now rock hard.
You glanced behind you and smiled seeing Clark’s incredible member bouncing along as you started to ride his face.
You let out a cry when Clark’s hands grabbed your hips and pulled you down until you were fully seated on his face, the feeling of his warm tongue filling you up as it wriggled inside you.
Clark lets out a deep moan, the vibration from his voice reverberated inside you causing you to gasp as your body shuddered in delight.
“Clark, that’s enough.” You panted out before dislodging yourself from Clark’s face, his face covered in slick and sweat as he sat up to catch his breath.
Clark grinned, as he got off the floor to sit in the middle of the seats. “That was amazing.”
“Now sit back and relax, baby.” You pushed against his chest before leaning down so the top half of your body was draped over his lap.
Clark’s hand traveling down your back as he let out a sigh when you took his cock into your mouth and began bobbing your head on his impressive length.
Clark’s breath hitched when you took him deeper into your throat, trying his best to not raise his hips up so he didn’t accidentally choke you.
You moaned around his cock when Clark’s finger tapped on your hole, circling the rim before dipping his finger in.
You bobbed your head in the same rhythm as Clark’s fingering, letting out a muffled whimper with your mouth full when Clark added another finger into you.
“You did so good, honey.” Clark told you when he pulled your mouth off his cock before he sweetly kissed you on the lips. “Get on my lap.”
You nodded before getting up and straddling Clark’s hips, letting Clark manhandle you so he could line his cock up with your hole.
You let out a satisfied chuckle when you sank down on Clark’s cock, the familiar feeling of him stretching you out was comforting after not having sex for almost a week.
Clark must’ve agreed with you with how his arms immediately wrapped themselves around your middle before he burrowed his face into your neck as he thrusted his hips up into you while your arms were cradling the back of his head and his broad shoulders.
You slowly gyrated your hips on Clark’s lap, carefully riding the man and enjoying your time together since the both of you were on a time limit.
“Oh…yeah…” Clark moaned out, his eyes rolling to back of his head at the sensually delicious pace you were going at as you continued to ride him.
You let out a sigh, leaning back with your arms over the headrests of the front seat in act of display for Clark as his eyes hungrily rake over your body while his hands gripped your waist.
You smirked, looking at the ravenous expression on Clark’s face. “Let loose.”
That was enough for Clark to thrust up into you with renewed vigour, his hands controlling your body’s movements by your waist by moving you up and down on his cock.
You loved when Clark gets like this, his usual responsible and demeanour changing into one of lust and desperation.
You loved that only you were able to make Clark this way, the other man’s face contorting to one of pure animalistic bliss.
“Fuck!” You exclaimed after a particular thrust that hit your prostate. “Clark, I love you.”
Those three simple words were more powerful and magical than any other spell you’ve ever used when it sent Clark into a frenzy state as he immediately gathered your body into his arms and sunk his teeth into your shoulder while thrusting into you.
You felt a familiar heat tug in your gut and you couldn’t even stop it before you cried out as you came in between your and Clark’s sweaty bodies.
Clark let out a deep guttural groan, spilling his seed into you when your hole squeezed his cock so tightly after your own ejaculation.
Clark cried out, feeling you milk him with every squeeze of your hole. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, panting heavily. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
“I know baby, it’s okay. You did well, you can rest now.” You smiled rubbing the back of Clark’s head soothingly as you cooed at him, helping him calm down after such an intense high.
You glanced outside the back window and huffed out a laugh. “Looks like we fucked till the rain clouds left the skies.”
“Honey, don’t swear.” Clark grumbled against your neck, hugging your body closer to his.
You sighed, remembering that your boyfriend was never beating the boy scout allegations. You kissed the side of his head apologetically. “Okay, baby.”
~~~~~
“Teg aremac ydaer.”
You and Clark were back in the front seats of the jeep, all cleaned up and clothes were practically brand new due to your magic.
Clark chuckled, looking down at his body as he adjusted his glasses. “Do I want to know why you have a spell to clean us up after we made love?”
“You know you can say sex, baby.” You teased Clark, poking the dimple on his cheek when you saw him blush.
Clark puffed out his cheeks, feeling slightly embarrassed. “Well, I’d like to think it’s more than sex for us.”
“That’s cute, I love you too Clark.” You replied, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek when Clark turned at the last second so your lips collided with his lips instead.
Clark gives you a cheeky grin before starting the jeep and reversing back on the road before sighing. “Ma’s gonna kill me when she realises that we took way too long.”
“I’ll protect you, Superman.” You told Clark, picking his hand that wasn’t on the wheel and kissed the back of it.
Clark gave you a look of adoration. “My hero, I love you.”
“I love you more.” You challenged Clark, cocking an eyebrow at him.
Clark shook his head with a grin. “Not possible.”
*****
Author’s note:
Fun fact, there was a completely different draft of this same synopsis but I hated it so much that I deleted it and then started afresh 5 months after!
Anyways, I just realised I’ve been writing a lot of smut for Clark. Should I stop? NAH, where’s the fun in that?
𝔗𝔢𝔯𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔦𝔞𝔩 𝔦𝔫𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔱
Leon Kennedy (RE2,RE4,RE9) x male reader
Summary: inside the ruined R.P.D. together with your long crush best friend, time fractures and Leon keeps finding you. Younger, older, hardened by years you haven’t lived yet, every version of him seeming to have a deep and intimate connection. Soon, once all three counterparts come into contact, protectiveness from each one of them sharpens into possession and than in a heated, unspoken competition, each of them determined to prove they know you better, can make you unravel faster.
Tags: No use of Y/N. Male reader. Older men. Age gap. Top and dominant Leon Kennedy. Resident evil 2 Leon. Resident evil 4 remake Leon. Resident evil Requiem Leon. Implied established relationship. Implied marriage. Protective behavior. Possessive behavior. Jealousy. Anal sex. Blowjob. Riding. Hand job. Overstimulation. Cum inflation. Multiple penetration. Overstimulation. Triple penetration.
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ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
Words count: 8000
The R.P.D. lobby felt cavernous but not from its size but rather for the lack of survivors or police force, leaving behind a hollow silence that pressed faintly against your ears.
Dust hung everywhere, faintly visible in the dim, fractured light filtering through high windows and the marble floors were now streaked with grime and darker stains you refused to examine too closely.
Leaning back against one of the wooden desks, edge digging faintly into your lower spine through the layers of your gear, arms wrapped tightly across your chest. The tactical vest felt heavier with its straps that snug across your shoulders.
Your fingers tucked under your arms, gripping your sleeves, more for something to hold than warmth.
Leon stood a few steps away, hands raised slightly as he adjusted his own vest, tugging at the straps and outlining the firm lines beneath in a way that was hard not to notice even in a situation like this and his brows furrowed as he glanced around, blue eyes wide with disbelief and tension.
“This place is completely empty,” he muttered, voice echoing.
Tilting your head back slightly, eyes half-lidded as they stared toward the ceiling for a moment before answering.
“Considering what’s happening outside,” you muttered, shifting your weight and glancing toward the shuttered entrance, “I’m not surprised.”
Your gaze drifted back to him, watching the way his jaw tightened just a fraction as he processed that.
“We should check if anyone’s still here,” you added after a beat, pushing yourself off the desk just slightly. “This is where we were supposed to start, right? First day.”
There was something faintly bitter about the way the words landed.
Leon nodded quickly, almost reflexively. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”
His attention shifted toward the gate leading to the est side of the station, shoulders squaring just a bit in instinctive readiness.
He stepped closer, eyes scanning the mechanism and you followed more slowly, arms dropping from your chest as you approached.
His fingers hovering near the big red button there and, when he pressed it, the mechanism groaned to life with a grinding sound that echoed down the hallway beyond.
The gate began to lift, slow and uneven, metal scraping faintly as it rose just enough to create a narrow gap before it abruptly stopped.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Irritation in your tone flaring sharper than you expected.
Leon lowered himself down onto the floor without hesitation despite the dark smears that streaked across the tiles, metallic and stale smell hitting faintly.
He didn’t seem to care, or maybe he was just better at pushing it aside.
Lying flat, he angled his body toward the gap, one arm stretching forward as he clicked on his flashlight, the beam cutting into the darkness beyond.
You should have been focused on that but, instead, your gaze betrayed you as it dropped and lingered.
The vest hugged his back and stretched over defined lines of broad but not bulky shoulders.
Leon shifted, then quickly pulled himself back from the gap, pushing up onto one knee.
“I’m gonna check it out,” he said, lowering the flashlight slightly as he looked up at you. “There might be people down there.”
“What?” The response came out sharper than intended as you dropped down to one knee yourself, instinct kicking in. “No—no, I’m coming with you.”
Angling yourself toward the opening, ready to follow him through the narrow space despite the mess and smell. “I’m not letting you go alone.”
For a split second, surprise flickered across his face along something softer underneath it that made his eyes warm.
He reached out before you could move further, his hand settling on your shoulder.
It wasn’t rough or forceful, warm even through the layers of fabric.
“Hey,” he said, voice dropping just a little, gentler, like he was trying to ease you rather than argue. His thumb shifted slightly where it rested, the corners of his mouth lifted to form a small.
“I’ll be back in no time,” he continued, his tone carrying that quiet confidence that made it hard to argue, even when you wanted to. “You stay here, alright? If anyone comes in, they’re gonna need someone to help them.”
His hand squeezed your shoulder lightly before he pulled back.
And you hated how easily that look in his eyes unraveled your resolve.
So you nodded and watched him disappear through the narrow opening.
Time stretched as you tried to convince yourself that he’d be back any second.
It felt like hours had passed of barely shifting your weight, pacing a short line near the table to somehow make time move faster.
“Idiot,” you muttered under your breath, though whether it was directed at him or yourself wasn’t entirely clear.
Probably both.
Scrubbing a hand over your face, exhaling sharply as frustration coiled tighter in your chest.
All because, when he looked at you in that soft and earnest look, it felt… too good.
He wanted to protect you because you mattered to him.
That was the closest thing you were ever going to get, wasn’t it?
A hand on your shoulder, a promise he might not even be able to keep.
You bit the inside of your cheek, the sharp sting grounding just enough to break the spiral.
Enough.
Waiting wasn’t doing anything.
If he wasn’t coming back, you needed to find out why.
Turning on your heel and moving toward the lobby’s computer system, fingers moving quickly over the controls as you pulled up the camera feeds. The screens flickered to life one by one, each showing a different part of the station as you cycled through them, faster and faster, scanning for any sign of him.
Faint gunshots echoed through the speakers from one of the west side cameras.
You had trained for this, graduated alongside him and gone through the same drills and expectations.
That bright and determined smile will not be the last thing you’ll see of him.
Turning toward the taped gate, your eyes caught a knife half-hidden near the base.
Crouching and picking it up carefully before using the blade to slide under the tape with a satisfying rip, sound loud in the quiet lobby as you worked through the layers, peeling them away one by one until the controls were finally exposed.
A large red button sat at the center and, once pressed, the mechanism groaned, gate lifting steadily and fully without stopping.
Standing there for a second as the opening widened before stepping forward.
The room you forced your way into was smaller than you expected, more of a cramped connector than a proper office.
Gun forward and flashlight aligned just beneath it as you advanced, beam cutting clean lines through the dimness, illuminating overturned chairs and a smear of something dark dragged across the floor, breathing staying controlled even as your pulse pressed harder against your throat.
At the far end, a door that you already knew where it led with the map you’d studied moments ago burned into your mind, that long hallway stretching across the west side.
Your hand reached for the handle slowly, fingers tightening just slightly before you turned it.
Rather than rapidly invading the room, you shifted to the side, pressing your back lightly against the wall as you pushed the door open to create a narrow angle, your head tilting so you could peek through first, minimizing your profile the way you’d been taught.
Two figures at the far end of the hallway, slumped awkwardly against the wall, head tilted at an unnatural angle, skin pale in the weak wash of moonlight spilling through a distant window.
Your breath caught at closer look on the other one.
Even in partial shadow and the distortion of low light, your heart recognized Leon immediately.
Pushing the door open wider and stepping in, feet quiet against the floor as you approached, closing the distance carefully until you were no more than ten feet away.
He was kneeling near the body of a cop, from the look of the uniform, sprawled across the tiles and as your boot made the faintest sound against the ground Leon moved insanely quick, surging up from his kneeling position in one fluid, coiled motion, pivoting sharply as his arm snapped up, handgun already aligned with your center mass while his flashlight flared directly into your face, blinding in its intensity.
“Don’t—!” The word cut sharp and rough, far more hardened than the voice you had heard in the lobby.
Everything about him was different, stance much tighter and efficient, the way he held the gun was fluid and practiced under pressure.
The jacket he had on hit you first.
A thick B-3 bomber, shearling lining spilling out at the collar in pale, dense curls that brushed against his neck.
Scuffs marked the surface, subtle creases worn into the leather.
Beneath it, his frame was… bigger.
Not just lean like you had always seen him, but built. Arms filling the sleeves, faint strain across his chest when he shifted his aim.
His hair was slightly longer, falling just enough to frame his face differently.
But his eyes were still blue and unmistakably his, cold at first.
Recognition morphed his features as tension in his shoulders faltered and his gaze locked onto your face.
His gun lowered, flashlight dipping with it, no longer blinding you but instead casting a softer glow that revealed his expression fully now.
Not just recognition swarmed his face, something warmer as well came in that settled low in your chest.
“You’re here too, Babe?” He said, voice rougher than anything you’d ever heard from him before.
Heat flooded your face instantly, sudden and overwhelming, brain stumbling over itself trying to process that along with everything else.
“What?” Your eyes narrowed despite the warmth creeping up your neck. “Leon, what are you talking about? We came in here together.”
That only made his confusion deepen, brows pulling together, gaze flicking around the hallway as his jaw tightened, like every inch of this place held memories you couldn’t see but he could feel pressing in on him.
Your gaze broke from his haunted one, dragging instead toward the cop with his jaw completely torn on the side and hanging awkwardly, his head lolled back against the wall.
“Did you see who—” You swallowed hard, forcing the bile back down but stopped talking after seeing Leon’s attention fixed upward, body tense again in focused attention.
There were a jagged hole in the ceiling before something too large and wrong, tipped with elongated claw-like fingers, erupted from it.
An inhuman shriek split the air, vibrating through your bones as the thing pulled itself into view.
Its body was flayed, muscle exposed in slick, glistening strands that stretched and contracted as it moved, skin entirely absent as if peeled away to reveal the anatomy beneath. Its head was made of an exposed brain that pulsed faintly, vulnerable and yet somehow more horrifying for it.
A long tongue snaked outside of his mouth as it crawled forward with unnatural speed.
Leon’s large and gloved hand found yours.
“Yeah,” he muttered, already pulling you with him, pace immediate and urgent as he dragged you down the hallway. “Because one nightmare wasn’t enough.”
His tone was dry, edged with a sharp sarcastic bite that felt completely out of place.
You stumbled slightly trying to keep up, grip tightening on your gun as your feet scrambled to match his speed, the world blurring at the edges as adrenaline surged and from behind that tongue lashed out.
A violent tug came at your back as it latched onto your uniform, fabric stretching and tearing as the force yanked hard, ripping away fully your gears and layers beneath, the sudden exposure sending a sharp chill across your skin as the creature lost its grip just as quickly.
Leon didn’t let you go until he hit hard two doors, bursting through with brute force as they slammed open and dragging you inside with him in one continuous motion.
Soon after he pulled you in his arms, back colliding with his chest in a solid impact.
The thickness of his chest pressed against you through the layers acting like a pillow, pecs firm and broad, rising and falling with controlled breaths that you could feel against your back. Beneath that, even through the tight shirt, there was no mistaking the defined strength of his torso.
This was not the same Leon you’ve known for many years, not even close.
His arm wrapped around your chest, bicep thick and swelling as they locked you in place against him as his other hand raised the gun again, aiming past you toward the doorway just as the creature dropped down.
One shot and the bullet precisely struck its exposed brain with a wet impact, the shriek it let out was high-pitched and furious before it skittered back, retreating with unnatural speed.
Leon moved fast, pulling away just long enough to slam the doors shut, grabbing a chair and jamming it under the handle as guttural groans from zombies echoed from the other side.
Heavy banging followed relentlessly.
Adrenaline faded away and your legs crashed all at once, dropping you to the ground as the reality of everything hit in a dizzying wave.
Before you could fully process it he was there, kneeling in front of you.
“Hey…hey,” his hand came up to cradle your cheek, large and warm, thumb brushing lightly against your skin in a way that felt impossibly gentle and intimate. “Babe, look at me.”
“What year is it?” he asked.
The question, like everything else happening, hit wrong.
“1998,” you answered, confusion twisting tighter as the pounding on the door grew louder. “Why are you asking me that?”
Something shifted in his eyes in understanding.
Without another word, he shrugged off his jacket quickly and draped it around your shoulders, pulling it snug around you with careful hands, fingers brushing against your arms as he adjusted it.
It was warm and soft on the inside, shearling lining cushioning against your skin, scent of leather and his wrapped all around your frame.
“There we go,” his lips quivered slightly as he muttered, almost to himself. “You always like to take it from me. Still cute.”
The chair behind him shifted as it toppled over once the doors burst open, two figures stumbling in, decayed and groaning.
Leon moved instantly up on his feet, gun raised and the first shot snapped clean through one of their skulls, impact jerking its head back as it staggered.
He didn’t wait, closing the distance in a flash, knife in hand, so similar to yours it made your breath hitch, and drove it into the creature’s neck with brutal precision before pivoting sharply.
His leg came up in a powerful roundhouse kick that connected solidly with the second zombie’s head, force snapping it sideways as it collapsed.
“Go,” he said, voice sharp and commanding without even looking back at you when he spoke. “I’ll catch up.”
Reluctantly you followed his command and the door on the other side gave way under your hand with a reluctant creak, hinges whining low and the moment the gap widened enough for your body to slip through, the air changed.
Another hallway narrower than the last. Two doors sat on either side, one to your right the other on the left, both shut tight, undead police officers lurked further down the corridor.
Three or maybe four of them. One brushed against the wall with a dull thud, leaving behind a smear that caught the weak light while another let out a wet groan that echoed enough to make the space feel smaller.
Your heart hammered so hard it felt like it might give you away on its own, each pulse loud in your ears, drowning out everything else for a second as your mind raced.
Fingers tightening around your handgun, familiar weight grounding you enough to push past the spike of panic clawing up your spine.
You lifted the weapon slowly, arms steady despite the tremor trying to creep in, lining up your shot on the nearest one.
One trigger and the muzzle flashed in a brief burst of red-orange light for a split second before the bullet hit clean, tearing through rotted flesh and bone.
Zombie’s head burst open as the body collapsed instantly, crumpling to the ground in a lifeless heap that twitched once before going still.
A high and piercing screech followed down the hallway, claws scraping fast on concrete until the Licker came into view above like some grotesque parody of a spider.
Its brain pulsed, fully exposed, shifting slightly with each tilt of its head to listen and figure out where the noise came from.
Engaging that thing with the amount of ammo you had left was suicide.
So you moved slowly with agonizing care, boots barely whispering against the floor as you edged along the hallway, gun still raised but your finger easing off the trigger.
A low, clicking sound left its throat, tongue twitching faintly between rows of jagged teeth, tasting the air and searching.
Almost there at the other side of the hallway, a sudden bang on the window shattered everything.
Your head snapped toward the source instinctively, eyes widening as you caught glass exploding inward as a zombie forced its way through, collapsing into the hallway in a mess of limbs and broken shards, a guttural groan tearing from its throat as it dragged itself forward.
Above you the Licker froze, its entire body snapped toward the noise with terrifying speed, attention locking instantly onto the new arrival and moved fast.
It dropped from the ceiling and landed directly onto the zombie with a crushing impact, claws sinking deep as it let out a shriek, claws ripping through decayed flesh.
It was right in front of you blocking your path completely.
Behind a groan came and you turned sharply just in time to see another zombie lunge forward, arms outstretched as, in turn, it grabbed the Licker’s attention.
This was it, your grip tightened on your gun, breath catching as you braced for impact.
Something moved fast from behind the zombie, soon followed by a wet, slicing noise from an hatchet that pierced the back of the zombie’s skull, bursting through bone and rotten flesh in a spray of viscous blood as the creature’s body jerked violently, head tilting upward in a final motion.
For a second all you saw was the hand wrapped tight around the metal handle, veins faintly visible beneath the skin, grip steady and controlled.
Then he stepped forward fully into view and twisted in a brutal 180-degree turn of the wrist along the blade that followed, head coming off clean and body dropping in a useless heap as the hatchet came free.
Behind you, the Licker snarled, dragging your attention back and instincts screaming as your gun came up again, finger tightening on the trigger but he moved first.
Stepping in front of you and for a moment all you could see was a broad and solid back that filled your vision, a tight black shirt clinging to him and stretched across wide shoulders.
They rolled slightly as he adjusted his stance, the motion slow and controlled that made the muscles beneath that shirt ripple.
The Licker’s tongue attacked fast as a whip but he reacted faster, hatchet intercepting the strike mid-air and not only pairing it, but fully slicing the tongue.
It hit the ground writhing, twitching violently like a snake and the creature let out a shriek of pure agony, stumbling back as both of its clawed hands came up toward its ruined mouth, movements almost human in their panic.
“Follow me.” His voice, just like the last figure you met, felt familiar in a way that hit somewhere deep in your chest, even if your mind couldn’t place it yet with how much rougher it was.
He moved forward, closing the distance in two quick strides before driving his boot up straight into the exposed brain.
The impact was brutal, forcing the creature on the ground for him to bury the hatchet deep, infected blood spilling out around it in heavy, dark rivulets before he ripped it free in one clean motion.
“Move.”
Up the stairs, your legs barely keeping pace with him as he led the way without hesitation like he knew every inch of this place.
The upper floor opened into another corridor, steam already hissing somewhere ahead, thick clouds spilling out and blocking the path entirely except, he didn’t stop, swinging the hatchet against metal that gave way under repeated strikes, damaged pipe bursting further as the pressure shifted, steam redirecting, clearing just enough space for him to push through.
You hesitated just for a second before a gurgle from a zombie cut through the air that gave reasons to your legs to move past the showers and around the corner just in time to see him drive a punch into a zombie’s spine, forcing it down before that hatchet came down again, ending it with the same efficiency.
He checked behind him again rapidly still not seeing your face with how dark the hallway was.
The door at the end opened into a small room with bright light and the statue of a gazelle right at the center.
His gaze lingered on it, something unreadable passing through his expression before he turned to the creaking of the door.
“You the only survivor in h—” The question came out low and rough before he stopped, pupils tightening before widening again.
“…No,” he exhales under his breath, barely audible. His grip tightens slightly around the hatchet.
The same reaction erupted on your face as well at seeing Leon again, though much older. His face carried lines that hadn’t been there before, jaw stronger and scruffy with the stubble that decorated it. Same hairstyle but slightly longer, falling just enough to frame eyes that were duller now.
And his body was bigger by the look of that dark shirt stretched across his chest, arms thicker, veins faintly visible beneath skin.
Aged like fine wine didn’t even begin to cover it.
“…Alright,” he breathed, more composed now, though the roughness hasn’t left his voice. “Either I finally lost it or something’s seriously wrong.”
His eyes flick briefly around the room before turning and walking outside straight into the library, waiting for this nightmare to end immediately.
What else could you do beside following him?
The vast space had shelves towering high the more you got closer to them, filled with books and an atmosphere that seemed almost normal despite the hell outside.
Of which you got immediately reminded of when something cold and rotten grabbed your leg.
A corpse on the floor jerked to life, fingers tightening that didn’t get far as Leon’s (?) foot came down hard, crushing the skull as his weight pressed into it fully, thick muscles of his thigh flexing with the motion, muscle tightening under the fabric as he applied more pressure, grinding the remains into the floor before pulling back, wiping his shoe clean in one smooth motion.
“You really haven’t changed,” he said, a hint of dry amusement threading through his voice now. “Still walking into trouble, sweetheart.”
Heat flared up your neck instantly.
“What do you—”
From behind him there was movement done stealthily so well you’ve only now registered it, knife already raised and angled for a clean slice across the throat.
The older Leon in front of you didn’t needed a warning, arm suddenly wrapping and tightening around your waist as that large bicep locked in and dragged you alongside him, body pulled flush against his side as he pivoted sharply out of the attack’s path.
The knife cut through empty air where his neck had been a fraction of a second earlier before charging again and his hatchet came up, both hands bracing it for control.
Metal met metal with a biting clang fore his leg snapped forward to send a brutal kick to the attacker’s chest, forceful enough to send the man flying back into a stack of old books that collapsed under him in a cascade of dust and paper, sound loud in the enclosed space followed by a grunt.
Your eyes snapped to the Leon who gave you his jacket as he recovered with frightening speed, already pushing himself up and reaching for his weapon, bicep viewable from the short sleeved compression shirt he had on bulging in the process.
“Back off,” he said, voice tight and restrained. “Leave him alone. Now.”
A protective tone that hit harder than the gun pointed forward.
Another sound of a safety disengaging followed and all three heads in the room turned towards it.
Your Leon, one you had walked into this nightmare with, with his Matilda raised in both hands, stance just a little too stiff and textbook compared to the others, but his aim didn’t waver as he pointed it at both of them.
“D-don’t move!” he ordered in a firm voice, blue eyes not scanning tactically but locked specifically on the hand at your waist, gaze lingering there a second too long, jaw tightening just slightly, fingers adjusting on the grip of his gun like he needed something to ground himself before his eyes flicked back up.
“Let him go,” he added, quieter but more pointed.
The arm around you tightened as he pulled you back against him by a fraction, spine brushing his solid chest.
“M’not keeping him hostage,” he said dryly, tone edged with something almost amused, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “‘Sides… M’not the one waving a gun around.”
Your Leon’s grip flexed as a flicker of hesitation crossed his eyes and you shouted his name the moment you saw the movement near him from the one now jacketless who closed the distance in a blur, his hand snapping up to knock the gun off its aim.
A shot rang out loud, slamming somewhere into the shelves above as the weapon was forced upward and, in the same motion, he disarmed him completely, twisting the gun free before shoving him hard to the ground.
“Shit—!” You broke free without thinking to rush forward and drop to your knees beside him.
“Leon are you okay?!” Up close he looked worse than when you left him, dirt smeared across his uniform, streaks of grime and something darker along his sleeves, hair slightly disheveled and breathing heavier.
“Are you okay?” he asked instead, voice tight with concern, scanning you quickly. “Did they—did they hurt you?”
“Why would I hurt my boyfriend?” A low, almost amused voice cut in, dry in disbelief while the figure extracted the magazine of the Matilda.
“What?” The man right next to you snapped, pushing himself up quickly, anger bleeding into his tone as he turned toward the speaker.
“What the hell are you talking about—” Arm moving before he seemed to think about it and wrapping around your waist to pull you back toward him, firm enough that you felt the way his bicep tightened against your side, holding you close.
The other Leon juggling a knife in hand tilted his head slightly, watching him with an expression that bordered on entertained while the hatchet-wielder leaned casually against a desk, dragging a sharpening stone along its edge in strokes that sent small sparks of orange flickering in the dim light.
“Relax,” he muttered, voice carrying that same rough, worn edge, though there was something almost nostalgic in it now. “You’ll get there.”
The younger one’s grip on you tightened slightly.
“Get where?” he shot back.
The man with the hatchet didn’t look up immediately, continuing the motion, metal against stone, the rhythm steady.
“Still before the train, huh,” the other Leon in a tight compression shirt and knife in hand said, almost to himself, though it was loud enough for all of you to hear. “Our first time together.”
Words loaded with meaning as he looked at you almost dreamily and it made heat spike through your chest.
The older one just huffed quietly, finally glancing up with something knowing in his expression.
“Yeah,” he added, almost fondly, as another spark jumped from the blade. “I remember that.”
Heat, heavy and dizzying, crawled under your skin under those six blue eyes, each a different shade but all carrying hunger locked onto you.
The much older one had pushed you on top of the first desk available with a quiet grunt, hatchet set aside without a second thought as his attention settled fully on you.
“Still got that same look… every time.” He murmured, voice a gruff baritone while his gaze dragged and took in every detail
Everything happened too fast.
The one near your age had his grip on your waist now, tightening like he was grounding himself before he let instinct take over. His fingers slid under the edge of that jacket still draped over your frame currently displayed on the desk for the three men around, brushing your now bare skin in a way that was almost shy and hesitant compared to the others.
A gloved hand caught your chin, tilting and forcing your gaze to meet his forward. His thumb dragged slowly across your bottom lip, pressing enough to part it as his eyes darkened with amused.
“Didn’t think you’d look this good in my jacket even now,” he murmured, voice dipping lower, teasing, that familiar edge of cocky charm sharpened into something far more dangerous.
The same culprit who took pleasure at slicing away the remaining of your clothes with his precise experience with that knife.
Your stomach flipped at the sensation of blunt and wide fingers pressing in with a knowing confidence that made your breath stutter, his chest brushing your back as he leaned in enough for his stubble to graze your neck.
“Easy,” he muttered against your skin, lips ghosting over the spot right below your ear before his teeth caught lightly in a teasing bite. “We’ve got time… gonna make sure you can take it.”
Slowly, one thick finger invaded your hole and the stretch came immediate, his other hand coming around your front to wrap around your now exposed cock at the same time.
Body jolting as his grip tightened, thumb brushing over the tip, spreading the first slick hint of precome just his finger curled inside you, realizing how he knew exactly where to press.
“Still this tight,” he hummed, voice coarse with approval, breath hot against your neck as his pace stayed slow but purposeful.
Your head fell forward as all your muscles relaxed to get through this and that was all the invitation the other two needed.
Knife-welding-Leon took the moment your mouth gasped in need of more oxygen and claimed it hard, lips crashing into yours with confidence that stole the remaining supplies of oxygen right out of your lungs, tongue pushing past instantly, claiming space and exploring deep with a low groan that vibrated straight inside your mouth.
Hand staying on your face and holding you in place as his tongue fought against yours, going deeper and more insistent to savor everything.
Behind that another thick intrusion came together the already existing one, thick fingers scissoring slowly, stretching you with patience and devoted work.
His thumb pressed harder against your cock now, stroking in a steady rhythm that matched the curl of his fingers inside.
Your body didn’t know where to focus as pleasure sparked everywhere, overlapped and built from each touch feeding into the next until it felt like your nerves were short-circuiting.
“Christ…” the Leon assaulting your mouth muttered against your mouth, pulling back just enough for his lips to drag down your jaw, teeth grazing your skin.
Your Leon was observing you like you were something fragile and fascinating all at once, hands moving slower than the others at first, careful and exploring on unknown territory unlike his other two counterparts.
They slid up your sides, fingertips brushing over your abdomen, lips following his hands, pressing hesitant kisses along your stomach, each one lingering just a second longer than the last.
Your hips twitched, body leaning into him without thinking and it that was all it took as a shift in his expression came in focus and determination.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered before his mouth moved lower, kissing down your abdomen when a hiss passed through clenched teeth the moment a third finger pushed in.
The sound got swallowed instantly as RE4 Leon pulled you back into another kiss, deeper and rougher, tongue shaking against yours as his hand slid down to your waist, gripping tighter.
Older Leon groaned low at the sound you made.
“Yeah… That’s what I wanted to hear.” He muttered, pace picking up just slightly, fingers driving deeper, curling harder and hitting your prostate again and again until your legs trembled from the assault on that bundle of nerves.
“Gonna take all of us like this?” he added, stubble scratching along your neck as he spoke, lips brushing over the marks already forming there. “Lookin’ this pretty…all worked up already…”
Their presence surrounding you completely, every direction you moved there was one of them as hard things brushed against you, insistingly reminding you constantly of what was coming next.
Leon forward you ground against your hip subtly, breath hitching into your mouth as he deepened the kiss again, tongue sliding slower now, thick tent in his pants stabbing you with more effects than a knife ever could.
Behind you, older Leon’s arousal pressed heavy against your lower back every time his fingers pushed deeper, control slipping enough to let you feel how much he wanted this.
And your Leon shifted closer, his bulge pressing against your side as his lips finally dipped lower, right below your navel.
Warmth spreads through you instantly.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured softly, even as his hands slid up to your chest, fingers brushing over your nipples experimentally before pressing, rolling them between his fingers.
You gasped again and he froze for just a second before his expression shifted into something quietly thrilled.
“Okay… you like that.” He whispered almost breathless before doing it again, more confidently this time.
“‘Course he does,” older Leon behind muttered, a smirk in his voice as his fingers pumped deeper, faster now, thumb still stroking your cock in sync. “Been paying attention, rookie?”
The loss of those fingers working you open made you whine.
“Yeah… you’re ready,” hatchet-wielding-Leon muttered, his hand coming down to pat your ass.
The loud sound of zippers followed and you shivered in anticipation, immense pressure from a clothed bulge pressing against your gaping hole.
“Don’t tense up,” he added, voice softer now—but no less intense. “Or I’ll have to take my time breakin’ you in myself.”
The one in front of you leaned in, hand sliding over your shoulder, squeezing once.
“Nah, he doesn’t want your old ass,” he murmured close to your lips, voice confident and teasing as his hand moved to your face again, softer now, thumb brushing your lip as he held your gaze.
“C’mon,” he whispered, voice taking a husky edge to it. “Tell ’em you want me first.”
Body moving with importance to the heart as you shifted and presented yourself fully to your Leon before drifting back to the surprise but aroused slightly older version.
A satisfied smile spread across his lips as his hand cradled your face and guided you down until your lips hovered just in front of that big bulge.
“Keep me busy while I wait my turn,” he added, voice low, amused, thumb pressing gently against your lip again. “Yeah?”
One moment you were trembling, stretched open and aching, every nerve lit up from the way older Leon had worked you apart, the next a different pressure followed.
He didn’t push in all at once, especially now, there was carefulness in him always present when it came to you. His hands found your hips first, fingers spreading wide, gripping just enough to steady you as he lined himself up behind.
“Tell me if it’s too much, okay?” He murmured, voice lower than you’d ever heard it, roughened by want but still threaded with that unmistakable sincerity.
He started to push in and God, the first inch alone stole the air from your lungs.
A gasp tore out of you, sharp and helpless, your body instinctively tightening around him as the blunt head of his cock pressed inside, stretching in a way that felt entirely different from the fingers that had prepared you.
He eased forward inch by inch, length sliding deeper into you with a steady, controlled pressure that made your entire body tremble around him as that solid weight filled and warned you up gradually.
“God…” he breathed, the word barely there, head dipping forward slightly, forehead almost brushing your shoulder as he focused on the feeling. “You feel really good..”
Another inch and your back arched as a broken sound left your throat.
It was overwhelming in the best possible way, body struggling to adjust as he sank deeper until he bottomed out.
A small pull back followed by a push forward again.
And that was worse, body reacting instantly, a sharp gasp tearing from your mouth as the movement dragged along every sensitive nerve inside.
The Leon in front of you was watching but waiting as well and, once you did remembered the other presence who you were now entirely sure was the same man currently balls deep inside, your trembling hands moved, reaching for the front of his jacket, then lower, finding the last barrier between you and what you’d been staring at this entire time.
“Go on,” he murmured, voice low and amused as his hand came up to cradle your cheek. “Been thinkin’ about it this whole time, haven’t you?”
Your fingers fumbled slightly with the fabric before finding purchase and pulled.
Fuck, he was hung.
Thick and heavy cock springing free, already flushed and leaking, head glistening under the light.
“Like what you see?” he asked, smirk tugging at his lips.
A question your mouth answered, leaning forward, closing the distance, lips parting as you took him in, tongue dragging along the underside as you guided him deeper, lips stretching around him until you sank down fully, nose brushing his skin as your throat adjusted around his length.
He sucked in a sharp breath.
“Fuck…” he groaned, his hand instantly coming to the back of your head. “There it is…”
You swallowed around him and that broke him in a way. “Yeah…yeah, just like that,” he muttered, voice rough and strained, his hips twitching forward instinctively before he caught himself. “You’re—shit—you’re still perfect at this.”
Behind your Leon groaned at the sight of your throat bulging around his older counterpart’s member, hands tightening on your hips again as his thrusts deepened.
Each push drove him fully into you, length dragging along your walls in a steady rhythm that made your body jolt forward and take more of the cock in your mouth without meaning to.
The connection clicked.
Every thrust from behind pushed you forward onto Leon, mouth forced to take him deeper, throat tightening reflexively around him as his grip in your hair tightened slightly in response.
“Fuck—” he groaned, watching you closely now, his breathing uneven. “Taking both of us like that… you trying to kill me?”
His hands slid up your body, one of them coming to your chest, fingers brushing over your skin in a soft, grounding motion as he watched you carefully.
“Is this okay?” The one behind you asked, voice strained but still so gentle, even now. “You’re— you’re not—”
You moaned around the cock in your mouth.
That was your answer.
“…okay,” he breathed, confidence shifting in his tone, maybe, or just the realization that you wanted this as much as he did.
His thrusts picked up, each one rolling his hips forward just right, dragging against your prostate repeatedly until your legs trembled harder, grip on the table tightening.
In front of you, Leon lost the last bit of restraint.
“Yeah… Take it just like that!” His hips started to move too, meeting your mouth halfway, cock sliding in and out between your lips in sync with the way you were being fucked from behind.
Your Leon leaned closer, chest pressing against your back as his hot breath came against your shoulder.
“You feel so good,” he whispered, almost like he couldn’t believe it, his voice breaking slightly as his pace faltered—then surged again. “I can’t—I can’t stop…”
In front—
“Don’t,” RE4 Leon shot back instantly, a breathless laugh mixing into his voice. “Trust me, he doesn’t want you to.”
Your body proved it as every thrust pulled another sound from you, cock twitching in overstimulation, but not forgotten as a hand wrapped around it suddenly.
“Don’t think I’m sittin’ this out,” he muttered against your ear, voice low and dangerous as his grip tightened just enough to make your hips jerk. “Go on… let go.”
Everything hit at once as a broken sound vibrated around the cock in your throat as you came hard, cock pulsing in his hand as release spilled over your stomach in hot bursts.
The sensation of your throat tightening pushing the one clogging your throat over the edge right after, grip tightening in your hair as he thrust deep one last time, spilling his load into your mouth with a low, strained sound.
Behind your Leon followed, a choked gasp leaving him as he buried himself fully inside you, hips pressing flush against yours as he came, warmth flooding deep inside.
Your body felt like it had been wrung out and put back together wrong, every nerve still buzzing, muscle weak, breath only just beginning to steady as the world slowly stopped spinning around you.
Yet, you were still painfully hard as a quiet, shaky breath left you, hand lifting to find its way to broad, familiar shoulders next to you, firm enough to communicate what your body couldn’t say out loud right away.
A low, knowing huff left him.
“Yeah… figured,” he muttered under his breath, voice rough but edged with that dry humor that never quite left him.
He shifted easily under your touch, turning and sitting back against the table in one smooth motion as you climbed into his lap, body sinking down onto his thick thighs, the heat of him immediately seeping into your skin.
Solid muscle beneath really told you how big he was, legs falling to either side of his hips and his huge tent nudged against your ass, heavy and insistent, blunt heat of it dragging slightly against your oversensitive skin.
A deep groan rumbled out of him instantly and you leaned closer once recovering, voice almost vulnerable.
“Did we… stay together for all those years?”
His grip on your hips loosened slightly, one hand lifting, fingers flexing like he was debating something before deciding and pulling his glove off, holding his hand up just enough for you to see a ring.
“…yeah,” he muttered, glancing at it briefly before his gaze flicked back up to you, a small, crooked smirk pulling at his lips. “Guess I was dumb enough to put up with you every day of my life.”
Sarcasm dry and familiar buy those duller blue eyes softened completely when he saw the happiness on your face that bloomed there before you could even try to hide it.
That was all you needed, leaning in to kiss him, stubble scratching against your jaw rough.
Then his hands tightened on your hips again and he moved you up enough to line himself.
“C’mon,” he muttered against your lips, breath warm, voice dipping lower. “You know the drill.”
He guided you down slowly, body tensing instinctively as the head of his cock pressed against your already slick and stretched opening.
The remnants of the others still coating you, making the slide smoother and easier.
Your mouth fell open as you sank down inch by inch, your hands tightening on his shoulders as your body adjusted again to his size.
“Fuck…” he grunted low, head dropping forward slightly, grip firm but controlled as he guided you.
He bottomed out and felt him pressed deep inside, so far in it almost felt like he was in your stomach, his heartbeat faint but real where your bodies connected.
Whimpering softly and he exhaled sharply at the sound.
“Always take me so good like you were made for it,” he muttered, voice roughening further, hands sliding slightly along your hips, thumbs pressing into your skin as you started to ride him.
Slow and weak at first, legs trembling as you lifted yourself just barely before dropping back down, motion dragging his cock along your walls.
But you didn’t have the strength.
“Easy,” he murmured, large biceps wrapping around your frame to pull you closer, chest pressed against his as he took over.
His thighs tensed beneath you, hands guiding your hips as he started moving you himself, lifting you up, then pulling you back down.
Each movement angled just right, hips tilting slightly to meet you every time, cock brushing against your prostate over and over until your head fell into the crook of his neck, your breath breaking into soft, helpless moans.
His pace didn’t falter, only getting stronger, breathing growing heavier against your skin as he kept you exactly where he wanted, pace picking up.
All until another presence came between your legs.
The other Leon older than you stepped in close, sliding between your spread thighs as you sat in his older counterpart’s lap, cock already hard again as it nudged against your entrance.
Older Leon stilled you instantly, holding you down firmly on his cock as his other hand came up to steady your hip.
“Hold on,” he muttered, glancing down briefly before looking back up at him.
“Relax,” the one about to join shot back. “I know what I’m doing.”
He pushed in, slow and careful, body of yours stretching again, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat as the second intrusion pressed inside alongside the first, walls straining and adjusting on both of them at once.
“Fuck—” you choked, your face pressing into older Leon’s jaw as your body trembled violently.
“Yeah… breathe,” older Leon murmured, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, holding you close. “You can take it.”
In front Leon groaned low.
“God, you’re tight,” he muttered, his hands gripping your hips as he slowly worked himself deeper, inch by inch until he was fully seated as well. “Missed this…”
Your body felt impossibly full and overstimulated, every nerve screaming as they both started to move.
Behind them, your Leon stood still, watching in absolute horny surprise.
Your head turned slightly, voice breathy and wrecked as you called out.
“…Leon…”
He blinked like he’d been pulled out of a trance.
“…yeah,” he answered quietly, almost dazed as the other Leon reached back, grabbing his shoulder and pulling him closer.
“Don’t just stand there,” he muttered, amusement laced through his tone. “Make him pleased.”
Just like that he was pulled in closer.
A hand of RE4 Leon’s gripped your ass, spreading you slightly as a thick drip of cum slid down.
Then your body git stretched again by a third presence pressing in.
You cried out, body shaking violently as all three of them filled every inch of you.
They moved together than, hips snapping forward, pulling back, thrusting again as your body was used between them, lifted, held, moved exactly how they wanted.
Kisses pressed against your mouth and neck… teeth grazed your skin along with hands everywhere.
Your mind went blank completely, moans breaking apart into nothing but sound, body giving in completely as they took over, driving you higher and higher again despite how sensitive you already were.
Your body tensed violently as you came again, cock spilling across older Leon’s abs, entire body shaking uncontrollably as the sensation ripped through.
They followed one by one, groans and grunts echoing along bodies tensing, followed by an uncontainable amount of heat filling you.
So much your body struggled to contain it as they emptied themselves inside you, movements slowing but not stopping until every last bit was spent.
How about some super hot, wet, steamy sex with SVT Mingyu at the sauna's or something 😩 He's just so big
hot & bothered — k.my drabble
♡ kim mingyu x male reader // nsfw
kim mingyu was seemingly everywhere,, and the fact that he’s your cocky ex is what made it insufferable for you.
it was unbearable — every bar, club, party, or social gathering you went to, he was there… down to even having the same gym membership as you.
you’d been trying to get back in shape over the summer with the new semester starting soon, and you had done a good job of avoiding the 6 foot adonis for weeks now — that is until you decided to take a celebratory trip to your gym’s sauna.
your first mistake was stepping inside without checking through the fogged glass beforehand, and your second mistake was not leaving as soon as your eyes landed on the huge mass of a man sitting directly across from the entrance, long arms stretched out among the bench backs and tan skin practically illuminating the room.
mingyu eyed you with a silent smirk as you stood there gawking at him, nearly naked with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist.
he was manspread to his heart’s content, drops of sweat rolling down his broad exposed chest, just begging to be licked up.
he had clearly been working hard, and must’ve just finished a demanding day in the weight room since his muscles were visibly much more bulked than you remembered seeing him a month prior. his bulging biceps made you shift uncomfortably, feeling yourself already growing hard at the sight.
mingyu’s fangy grin only grew when he watched you nervously swallow, eyes drinking in even more of his large form. the sweat on his chiseled abs reflected off the dim light and ignited you with memories of your tongue running up and down them in the past. you could still feel his perked nipples on that buff chest of his beneath your palms.
the sauna smelt like musk — his musk. the kind that turned you on during the days when he would come back into the house exhausted after mowing the lawn, letting you suck him off as a form of gratitude.
speaking of, one look at the humongous mountain of a dick print beneath his towel had you stifling a whimper, the bulge serving as a daunting reminder of how fat his cock really is.
every ounce of your instincts pleaded for you to leave, but you could only draw closer to him while he eyed your half-naked body as well, as if you were under a spell. back when you were dating, mingyu always knew how to smooth talk you into his sheets. he simply understood what you responded to and how to get you hot and bothered.
the time gap of when you last saw him was evident in your inability to resist him, since only a few sly remarks and the singular action of running his large hand through his damp hair was all it took for you to lock the sauna door and pounce on him.
you grinded atop of his lap like a needy animal, moaning as he smashed your lips together and wasted no time in tasting you. your desperate hands roamed the vass expanse of his moist, smooth skin and muscular back, groaning into his mouth as you rolled your hips over his towel-covered erection.
you knew you couldn’t take much more when his wet kisses lowered to your neck, mingyu hungrily sucking marks into your skin. oh how you missed that thick tongue laving all over your collarbones while his huge hands gripped you by the waist.
you threw your head back, tangling your fingers in his wet curls. you hated his man, yet he had you in a pool of euphoria without even moving from his spot on the bench.
without ceasing your grinding for a second, you pushed him back before smoothing your palms down his sweaty, melanated chest. the haze took over your mind while you leaned down to latch your lips onto his taut nipples. he threw his head back when you started sucking harshly, the deep moans he released causing your cock to twitch as it leaked precum.
soon you were shamelessly begging him to take the towel off, desperate for just one last good fuck. and he wasn’t even thinking about denying you of it.
you were both stripped down in seconds, both towels long forgotten on the steamy floor as your sweaty bodies collided. he devoured your mouth one more while lifting you up easily, before sinking you down on that monster cock you had never gotten use to. you began bouncing on his lap, weakly gripping his strong rounded shoulders when he pulled you tighter - feeling your leaky cock start to rub against his sculpted abs.
the heat of the room had your body more slick and mind more dizzy than ever. once he took the perfect opportunity to then suck on your nipples (which he remembered to always have been sensitive), you were climaxing in seconds - whining as you shot ropes of white all over his buff chest. seconds later he emptied his load into you.
you were panting, legs worn and trembling like you had just ran a marathon; but granted, how couldn’t you feel that way after having steamy public sex with the tall, dark hunk that was kim mingyu.
before you left, you told him that would never happen again — you both knew you were lying.
I lost my touch with writing smut, hope this was good enough, not proofread.
Warning: smut
Requests are open for anything
"Such a good boy, Y/n."
His hand grips my hair.
"Keep going."
He says as I stutter, my jaw hurts and my neck aches. He took off his glasses and put them on the table.
"You can do better, Y/n."
I looked up at him teary eyed as he moved my head.
"All in, Y/n, all in."
He pushed my head down all the way, I coughed and tried to gasp for air but only to be met by his hard cock.
"You can do it, honey, just a bit longer."
I started to become light headed, my hands pushed against his thighs, and he finally let go.
"Are you okay?"
He leaned down with soft eyes and whispered words. I nodded, his hand going up to my chin, wiping off some spit with his thumb.
"Do you remember the safe word?"
He asked, still with the softest demeanor. I nodded and he put his thumb in my mouth. And I sucked as if on instinct, licking, and biting.
"You like biting, huh?"
He smiled at me, and I stared up at him.
"Sit."
He patted his lap and removed his thumb. I stood up and sat on his lap.
"These clothes are getting hot, would you like to help me take them off?"
Smiled at me while holding my neck to force me to look at him. To which I nodded.
"I miss your voice, Y/n, can you speak?"
His hand slowly went up to my cheek.
"I- I'll help."
I said meekly.
"That's a good boy."
He said still with that smile, I began to unbutton his shirt and untucking it, revealing his perfect body. His muscles were big but not unproportional, his every move was reflected by his muscles.
"Come on, Y/n."
He said as moved his thigh.
"You should remove my pants now, it's getting a little too hot."
He looked up at the ceiling, I slowly unbuckled his belt, trying to have at least a bit of control, but alas it was useless. His gaze fell on mine and hastened my moves, as if his eyes alone cast a spell one me, I unbutton his pants, the zipper was already open and covered in my spit.
"Hurry up, Y/n, I'm losing my cool here, honey."
He lifted up his hips so I could removed his pants and boxers faster.
"Finally."
He pulled me back into a kiss, fierce and rough, his teeth bit my lip, drawing blood. He smiled, clearly enjoying the taste of metal on my lips.
"Do you want me to help you remove your clothes, Y/n?"
He smiled, that still so innocent smile.
"Yes."
And just like that he gently but quickly removed my clothes.
"You still remember the safe word, right?"
He looked me in the eyes with seriousness and I nodded.
"Say it."
" (pick your safe word)."
"Good boy."
He carried me and gently replaced our positions, I was now laying down on my back on the couch.
"Will my good boy, obey what I say?"
I nodded.
"Use your words."
He got on top of me I could feel him on my back, hot breath on my neck, and his dick just grazing my ass cheeks.
"Y-yeah hmm."
"Will my good boy let me pleasure him?"
"Yes."
He sucked on my neck, leaving his marks. But he suddenly pulled back, his warmth replaced by the cold air of the night. He pulled up my hips effortlessly like at any moment he just throw me.
"On your knees."
I obeyed, and felt him spread me open, his tongue licking my hole. He buried his face, sucking and licking. Soon his tongue is replaced by his finger, I let whimpers and moans.
"Keep singing, honey."
Another finger entered, exploring me slowly, and soon a third finger followed. His fingers move looking for that spot. And suddenly I let out a moan and my thighs shook.
"Found it, honey."
He pulled out his fingers and my thigh fell, the pleasure just starting.
"What does my good boy want?"
His hand reached for my hair.
"You hmm."
"Come here."
He said as he sat on the other end of the couch. I looked back at him and began crawling to him.
"So pretty."
He grabbed my chin.
"Do you want to suck my cock, Y/n?"
I nodded.
"Words."
"Yes."
He let go of my chin.
"All yours."
He leaned back, I wrapped my hand at the base and the other rested on his thigh. I swallowed his cock with practised ease.
"hmmm, that's good Y/n."
He bit his lip as we stared at each other. I continued sucking, moving my head up and down, my hand covering the part that can't fit in my mouth. My eyes landed on his body, admiring the muscles he kept hidden beneath all those clothes and that oversized blazer.
"Look at me honey."
His hand pulled up my head slightly, just enough for our eyes to meet.
"I want to stare at those beautiful eyes, don't look away."
His hand ruffled up my hair. My tongue worked it's wonders, licking the underside of his cock, memorizing everything vein that ran down from his tip to the base.
"That's it, take your prize, savour it, swallow it all down your throat."
He said still in the calm gentle tone as he pumped his seed into my mouth, and I obeyed him. Swallowing his load, and still sucking him as I did so.
"Oh fuck."
His usual composure started breaking. His hand gripped my hair tightly, still having a sliver of control.
"I don't like swearing, but, golly, you're just too good, Y/n."
He smiled at me. I pulled off him, heaving as seed still dripped from the corners of my mouth.
"Come here."
He placed his hands on my cheeks, his thumbs wiping the stains. He pulled me into a kiss, this time more rough, his teeth biting my lip too hard. Making me gasp in pain as blood spilled into our mouth, but he took the opportunity to slide his tongue inside, licking my teeth, exploring every crevice like he's mapping out an unknown cave, spit ran down the corners of his mouth and mine. I tried to push him away, my lungs starting to burn due to the lack of oxygen, and with one last bite of my lip he decided to let me go. I gasped for air, taking deep breaths as I looked at him in a daze.
"That's what they mean by kiss you stupid."
He smiled as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His other hand came up to my lip, wiping some blood before putting his thumb in my mouth.
"We're not done yet, honey."
He pushed me off him, holding my tight as my back hit the couch and him on top of me. He raised my legs and rested them of his shoulders.
"You know what's gonna happen, hmm?"
He buried his face in my neck, sucking and kissing leaving more of his marks. I felt him enter me, I gasp and whimper, begging him to stop, pushing his shoulder, way too overstimulated.
"Say the word Hon, and I'll stop."
He didn't even let me adjust, he started fucking me like there's no tomorrow, damn this superman guy.
"Sing for me, hon, let me hear those whimpers, let me hear you say my name."
He said in between breaths, his hands tightened on my hips, I can feel my bones almost shatter in his grip. My hands scratched at his back, barely leaving any marks, he hissed in pleasure as his thrusts got faster.
"You're so tight, Y/n, gosh."
I felt him release inside me, his warm seed coating my walls white, I thought he would stop, but no, he didn't he kept pumping and thrusting. Skin slapping on skin was now followed by a squelching sound.
"Clark."
I managed to get out.
"Yea, say my name, Y/n."
"Clark."
"Whose boy are you, Y/n?"
"You."
I can barely answer him, each thrust kept taking my breath away.
"Say my name, Y/n, say my full name."
"Clark huh hmm uuhh, Clark, Cla- Clark K-Kent."
"I louder."
He said, quite loud.
"Clark- Clark Kent."
His finger found its way into my mouth.
"Suck on them."
And I obeyed.
"That's my good boy."
I felt some liquid fall on my neck. I looked at him, and saw his sweaty face, the sweat pooling up on his chin until it fell on me.
"I do sweat, Y/n."
He laughed, his relentless thrusting started to get sloppy.
"ahh, fuck, Y/n."
He dove into me, kissing my lips, rough and unfocused. My hands tried scratching his back but kept slipping. He pulled back and looked up, giving me a beautiful view of his neck, I pulled him down, attaching my lips on his neck, kissing and licking the sweat on his neck.
"Y/n, Y- Y/n."
He moaned out as I bit his neck. He roughly pulled my head back by pulling my hair, this time he's the one ravaging my neck. All I could do was whimper and moan. His thrusts got significantly slower, and I felt him pumping his seed in me again, most were spilling out. And his actions completely ceased, heavy breathing and slight whimpers were the only thing heard in the room.
"You, okay, hon?"
He sat up, the sweat glistening his body, making him look more ethereal.
"I'm gonna get something to clean you up."
He was about to stand up but I wrapped my legs around his hips, keep him inside me.
"Y/n, your legs are shaking."
"More."
"Y/n, you might not survive."
"I don't care."
He smiled.
"But I do."
He flipped our positions, I laid on top of him, still breathing heavily, my head rests on his chest, his heart beat soothing me.
pairing: possessive biker!rafe cameron x shy!male reader
genre: fluff, angst
summary: rafe takes you for a ride after "winning" you at a race, confronting you about where he truly stands
rafe cameron always won. it didn't matter if it were something he was good at or not- the universe always placed him on top. you chose to believe it was the universe and not divine intervention moving mountains because if that were the case then something's messed up above.
but then again, maybe he was just good at racing. you wouldn't admit it but your stomach jumped when he flew across two hills.
"get on," the motorbike's heavy engine continued to rumble in front of you, drumming against your chest. you fondled with the threads sticking out of the sleeve of your worn sweater, looking down as you were unable to meet rafe's eyes. you hear the visor of his helmet lift up. "hey."
rafe sat on the bike that drove him to victory which brought him to you. the black leather racing suit hugged his toned figure perfectly, his large hands were covered by a set of matching gloves, and his black matte helmet made him seem sharper than he already was. he was attractive and hot, a man who could have you on your knees after dinner.
"look at me," his deep voice was muffled by the helmet. you nervously met his eyes, and you've never seen such blue eyes that glimmered the way that his do. "it's part of the deal. you've got no choice."
"yeah, you have to go out with him." topper cheered from behind. he was with kelce, already drinking into oblivion. "that was the bet. he loses, he stops trying to make you his. he wins, he takes you out."
"come on, i'm not that bad." rafe took off his helmet and placed it over your head, adjusting to a snug fit. "unless you want me to be bad."
your body refused to agree to your head, slipping into the seat. your heart began skipping beats as you slowly wrapped your arms around rafe's waist, the heat radiating from his large body. rafe let out a deep sigh, and yanked you closer to him. he wrapped your arms around his waist tight, your head pressed on his back. "can't have you flying off." he mumbled. he always had that disinterested tone, even if the flowers and messages he overwhelmed you with stated otherwise.
the uphill ride was probably the closest you'd be to ever reaching heaven. the helmet blocked most of the strong wind, but you could still feel it through the gap and through your limbs. the setting sunlight shattered through the tall narrow trees and you caught a glimpse of rafe's side profile caught in the illumination. it was like the sun set for him and him alone.
rafe eventually slowed down as you neared a cliff. from where you sat, the view was already breathtaking. the sky truly looked endless, like if you could reach out just enough you might touch the purple magic. he killed the engine, putting the both of you in nature's silence. "get off." he ordered.
you jumped off and as you began working the helmet, rafe suddenly caged you against the motorbike. his two arms were planted to your sides and his eyes were filled with anger, but not the kind that scared you. you were both frozen in this position for a good moment before he asked: "why don't you want me?"
"w-what?" you looked at him eyes wide, unsure how to answer the question.
"i-i put effort into trying to get you. i don't put effort into the people i dated before. i send you flowers, chocolates, fucking care packages. i send you messages but you rarely respond. are you getting some sick thrill from seeing me like this?" rafe's chest rises as he inhales, making you swallow. "or what? you just don't like me?"
"i-i just don't understand either rafe," you breathed. the waves crashed like thunder at the rocks below. "why me? we have nothing in common. you're this kook who parties and does drugs and has all the confidence in the world. i'm none of those things. my friday nights consists of tv and a quick read before i doze off. i hate public stuff-"
"does it look like i care about those things?" he cut you off. "ever since i saw you at the beach, i couldn't get you out of my head. you're handsome and cute at the same time and i don't know how you managed to do that at the same time. i want you all to myself. that's all i know. you drive me crazy. and i know i drive you crazy too."
rafe's hands steadily traveled from your hips to your sides. his touch was electrifying, foreign, and addictive. your breath hitched as he pulled your body against his, his tough exterior melting your heart inside. it was impossible not to fall in love with rafe- he was the angel and the devil all at once.
"i don't think i'll be good enough for you." you mumbled. rafe's gaze were fixed on yours. "do you really want someone who gets scared with merely talking to other people?"
"we could work on that. we could always work on that." rafe pressed his forehead against yours, his sweat dripping onto your skin. you inhaled his scent: pure masculine wood tinged by the salt in the north carolina air. "but you don't have to. because i'll take you for who you are and not who you could be. i haven't even spent one whole day with you and you already have me obsessed, pretty boy."
your legs wobbled with his words and rafe was quick to catch you with a hand on the small of your back. it was warm and he looked at you with so much fire he could probably set the whole forest ablaze for you. it felt right.
rafe lifted off your helmet as you pushed against him with a slight gasp, already feeling his enormous erection through the strain of his pants. he smirked to himself before engulfing your lips into his. you could completely lose yourself in the feeling of rafe's movements, pressing you against the motorcycle. he devoured like a starved man, tasting like bliss and bitter desire all at once.
you held onto his leather suit, trying to match his rhythm that completely dominated you. "so delicious," he murmured before taking you in a kiss again. the feeling completely enslaved your mind, all you wanted was more of him and you didn't want it to end.
you were about to see stars when rafe pulled away, breath ragged against your kiss-swolen lips. "do you want to get out of here?"
"i-" you reached for his jaw, razor-sharp and with a bit of roughness that felt on brand with him. "i kind of wanna stay here first. for the view."
for a moment, rafe looked confused. as if deciphering if you were serious or not. then he took your hand in his and kissed the back. "you're lucky i bought you to my favorite place. one hour, then i'm taking you home."
rafe cameron always won, and this time, it wasn't such a bad thing.
(;¬_¬) Alpha Tendencies - Clark Kent x Omega male reader
Word Count: 2.2k
Plot: Childhood best friends turn into something more when red kryponite forces out Clark's perverted thoughts
Featuring: Alpha (Smallville) Clark Kent x Omega male reader
Note: Presenting as A/B/O happens around 18 in this AU, not around regular puberty at 14!!!!!!
ALSO! Never watched this series(?) and I know nothing abt DC other than what I've read from fanfiction so pls excuse any continuity issues and such!
Warnings: amab m!reader / FDNI ~ Minors DNI!
Alpha!Clark who's been protective over you since childhood. The two of you had been best friends and 'neighbours' since you two learnt to walk 'n talk! You were the closest house to Clark's farm; still pretty much in the middle of nowhere, but close enough that the brunette would knock on your door every day to get you outside to play together. And even though you two hadn't even presented yet, it was like you both naturally knew to settle into that Alpha-Omega rhythm. Clark would always watch out for you, his blood pressure spiking and his little fangs baring whenever you hurt yourself whilst playing or a stranger approached.
Alpha!Clark who presented as an Alpha and literally couldn't stop thinkin' about you. During his entire first rut, his brain was consumed with thoughts of you. Thoughts of you being such a good omega and helping him with school work, thoughts of him scaring off your bullies who thought you were too flamboyant, thoughts of you beneath him, thoughts of you purring Clark's name into his ear...
It really affected Clark. He felt so full of shame once he'd come to after his rut had ended; he literally couldn't look you in the eye for a week!
Alpha!Clark who had discovered a new side of himself, a side he tried so hard to shove down and keep hidden. A side which would keep Clark up at night unless he jerked off to the thought of you, his innocent, perfect, sexy childhood best friend, in compromising positions and situations with the Alpha. A side to himself which made it so difficult for Clark to concentrate on what you were saying when you're eyes looked so pretty looking up at him, when your scent was making his brain feel fuzzy and his dick ache, oh and especially when your voice saying his name to get his attention sounded so sweet. But the superhuman kept this perverted side of himself bottled up. That was until he received a gift.
Alpha!Clark who couldn't turn down a gift from the Omega he'd been desperate to court since childhood. So, when you presented him with a silver band-like ring, how could he resist putting it on? Though both of you were unaware that the minuscule red gem encrusted into the ring, the one you thought was a plastic rhinestone, was actually one of the last tiny pieces of red kryptonite left on earth (excuse the lack of series knowledge). And you wouldn't find out for a while. After all, it was such a tiny piece that it affected Clark very minutely. Though it slowly but surely picked up speed.
Alpha!Clark who thought he just felt a bit braver recently. Maybe his brain had fully developed. Or perhaps he just stopped thinking about consequences or morals as much, but he was definitely acting differently...
Again, it started off slow and small. An out-of-pocket kinda sexual comment about you that you'd laugh off: "Your lips look good around that popsicle". Then it turned into more open courting; yeah, you and Clark had kind of been courting each other since childhood, but now the Alpha was carrying your bag around all day and giving you gifts every morning. Then came the jealousy; an alpha couldn't get a word in if Clark was around, whether the said alpha be a friend of yours or even sometimes a teacher, Clark would be on them like white on rice; holding back snarls as his arm snakes around your waist, baring his teeth, and making passive-aggressive comments.
Alpha!Clark who was still managing to put up a 'good Alpha' front despite the influence of the kryptonite. But behind closed doors, it was a very different story. The laundry basket in your room had tempted Clark many times, to the point it became routine for him to sneak a pair of your underwear and take it home with him, replacing it with a pair he'd stolen a couple of weeks past, which had lost your scent. Oh, and not to mention the way that any time you would sleep over at his house, share a bed with him, Clark would make sure you were asleep and jerk off until his dick felt like it would fall off. You just looked so fucking perfect and blissful next to (below) him, how could he resist? How could he stop?
Alpha!Clark who had reached his boiling point. It was a hot summer day, and Clark was being made to help out on his parents' farm while school was out. Of course you offered to help him out, and how could he say no? It was getting to a point that Clark could barely go a whole day without seeing you. But you were really doing the opposite of helping him. Sure, you were getting the jobs around the farm done, no complaints there. But you were rendering the young alpha practically inept with the way your skimpy summer clothes were showing off your skin, the way your body was shiny and sweaty from the hot summer air, and holy shit, the way your face was flushed along with your cute pants of exhaustion? Clark could feel the boner in his pants almost tear the seams of his briefs.
Alpha!Clark who finally submitted to the influence of the red kryptonite in his ring, meaning he finally gave into his desires, his basic Alphan needs. You don't even know how it happened, but one second you were moving around some haybales in the Kent's barn, and the next you were sitting atop said haybales with Clark standing between your legs, kissing you feverishly. His scent of mineral musk and small notes of grapefruit was all you could smell, making your head feel fuzzy as you reciprocated the kiss, the kiss from your childhood best friend. Clark, on the other hand, was greedily inhaling the sweet smell of vanilla bean and sandalwood that was leaking from your scent gland; the alpha literally huffing through his nose whilst moulding his lips against yours, you'd think Clark was addicted to your scent.
Alpha!Clark who had his (temporary) fix of your lips and started kissing down your neck, stopping to give your scent gland some attention, and all the way down to the waistline of your shorts. Before it even registered to you, mainly due to the Alpha pheremones weakening your frontal cortex to increase the chance of reproduction, Clark was on his knees below you; his strong, muscular arms holding your thighs up and his chiselled face between your asscheeks. Loud moans and desperate whines echoed throughout the barn and only worked to egg Clark on as he worked his warm, wet tongue into your hole; your gushing slick and his own spit literally flowing down his chin and perfect jawline like some lewd waterfall. Your fingers gripped the Alpha's brown locks with a force that to you felt like a lot, but to the absolute hunk of an Alpha beneath you felt like an adorable attempt. Your toes curled in the air above Clark's head as your thighs shook from the intense pleasure of an Alpha eating you out like he was starved, because after pinning for you for so many years, Clark may as well have been.
Alpha!Clark who felt his heart skip a beat and his inner alpha scream in pleasure when you came on his tongue as you moaned out Clark's name. But the Alpha fell in love with you even more (though that would be literally impossible) when, after basking in the afterglow of your earthshattering orgasm, you offered Clark the same treatment, explaining with an embarrassed blush that you didn't want him to feel left out. That's how you both ended up lying hayloft of Clark's barn; you on top of the muscular alpha in a sixty-nine position, his dick in your mouth and vice versa. To say that Clark had never felt so much pleasure before would be an understatement, 'cause the way you started to gently lap at the Alpha's musky, inhumanely large dick and then transitioned into head sloppier than Clark had seen in porno's? That shit made Clark wanna cum then and there. But don't think that just 'cause the brunnette was almost drunk on pleasure that he wasn't focusing on your pleasure too! No, no, Clark was having to wrap his muscular arms around your hips to keep them still; the top he was giving you was making you leak slick and pre like a tap left runnin'! Seriously though, Clark could fit your entire omegan prick inside his mouth with ease, and the way his tongue would rub your tip whilst his cheeks would hollow was making you see stars.
Alpha!Clark who held off his orgasm, perks of being Kryptonian, unlike you, who shot another load down the Alpha's throat and leaked so much slick that Clark could have drowned. Though Clark was more than happy to hold off his orgasm if it meant he could knot his Omega; yes, his Omega, 'cause at this point, marking and knotting you were formalities to claiming you.
By the time the aftershocks of your second orgasm had quietened down, Clark already had you in another position; kneeling behind you as your chest lay flat on the hayloft, your hips on the other hand, propped up and presenting for your Alpha. Clark gave you the grace of entering you slowly and giving you time to adjust to his ten-inch monster; though from the mewls and moans of pain and pleasure you were letting out, his soft approach barely helped.
Alpha!Clark who rocked your world the moment you gave him the green light. We're talking backshots that could be heard all the way in England; Clark's huge, masculine hands gripping your hips tight enough to move you on and off his cock but gently enough to let you know he cares. Your breathy moans loudly reverberated throughout the barn as Clark knocked the wind out of you with every thrust, and the Alpha's own groans and moans harmonised with yours so nicely. Your scents mixed in the air along with the smell of slick, spit, and sweat; the hot, humid summer air making even the open-plan barn stink of raw sex. The scene looked like it belonged in a VHR porno, and both of you couldn't get enough of it; your Omega keening and purring at the physical and emotional feeling of having an Alpha like Clark want you in this way, and Clark's alpha roaring in pleasure and pride from having his Omega beneath him and drunk on pleasure from his doing.
Alpha!Clark who checked in on you one last time before letting himself go, leaning down, his muscular chest to your arching back, and whispering in your ear 'you doin' good? Mind if I knot you, darling?'. Ugh and when you give the man a forced nod and moan out a 'yes please'? How could Clark help himself? He'd wrapping and arm around your waist and another around head, letting your head rest against his huge bicep as his hips start moving at a speed your body could barely register or handle. All you could remember other than your own lewd sounds and moans was Clark's groaned-out string of perverted, raw, Alphan comments as he knotted you.
"Fuck you're so tight" "So fuckin' good for me- the- NGH- perfect fucking Omega" "AH- Shit-! so wet and warm just for your- your alpha" "Fuck 'm gonna knot you 'n fill you with my pups, darlin' You want that, don't ya?"
That dirty talk, along with the feeling of Clark's thick knot pushing against your rim, was what sent you over the edge for a third time. You saw white, then black, then stars of white again as your vision came back in small spots. Your dick soaked the wood and hay below you with infertile Omegan cum, your breathy moans and whiny pants mixed with Clark's moans and croons as his knot kept him locked inside of you; his thick, warm, scarily fertile cum filling you to the brim. Every unconscious pulse of your walls coaxed and forced another shot of seed out of Clark; a natural push and pull from your inner Omega and Alpha. At the end of the day, no matter how much pleasure you get out of this, the end goal, whether you want it or not, is pups.
Alpha!Clark who would gently rub your hips and the side of your thighs as the intense aftershocks stop. The silence, accompanied by soft panting from both of you, was calming, and the feeling of Clark's hands rubbing your body and the marks left on it did wonders in relaxing you. Clark gently moved the two of you into a spooning position, mindful of his knot still keeping him rock hard and locked inside of you, and played with your hair as you both talked sweet nothings.
"Y'know... I think I fell for you the moment I laid eyes on you"
"Really? That quickly hmhm...? I think I fell for you when you carried me home when I scraped my knee"
"That happened quite often, you'll have to be more specific haha"
"Shut up... So... what did this mean?"
"If it were fully up to me... I'd of marked you and paraded you around the town as my Omega by now... But the deciding vote will always be yours, [name]"
"Hmhm~ I think we can take it a little slower than that... I think boyfriends is a good place to start~"
➤ 𝙎𝙐𝙈𝙈𝘼𝙍𝙔, with you and jason on pause, dick sees this as an opportunity to show you just how much you belong with him—that you were his, he was yours and there was nothing that jason could do about it.
➤ 𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂 — 18+MDNI. Sexual Themes. Violence.
➤ 𝙒𝙊𝙍𝘿𝙎 — 30.3k
➤ 𝘼𝙐𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙍’𝙎 𝙉𝙊𝙏𝙀𝙎 — here it is the conclusion—the end of era. i hope you all enjoy this one, it took me a minute to get there and i know it’s going to leave you all with more…anyway don’t forget to read this one and this my announcement!
DICK doesn't go grocery shopping like a normal person; he approaches it with the calculated precision of a reconnaissance mission, every step deliberate and every sense attuned to the environment around him, as if the fluorescent-lit aisles of the corner supermarket could hide threats as insidious as those in Gotham's shadowed backstreets.
He dresses for it in a way that's understated yet strategic—a plain dark jacket zipped halfway up over a simple gray t-shirt that blends into the crowd, loose enough for unrestricted movement but fitted to avoid snags, paired with dark jeans and nondescript sneakers that make no sound on the scuffed linoleum floors. His hands stay free, unencumbered by bags or distractions, ready for anything from a quick pivot to a defensive grab.
In his pocket is the list you scribbled on a yellow sticky note earlier that morning—eggs (free-range, the kind with the bright orange yolks you insist taste better), rice (jasmine, not basmati, because you like the subtle floral aroma that fills the kitchen when it cooks), vegetables (a mix of bell peppers in vibrant reds and yellows, crisp broccoli florets, and a bundle of spinach that wilts just right in stir-fries), coffee (medium roast grounds from that local roastery you discovered last month, with notes of caramel and nuts that make your mornings bearable), and that one brand of cereal you pretend you don't like—the honey-nut clusters with the cartoon bee on the box—but which mysteriously empties faster than any other item in the pantry, leaving behind a trail of crumbs on the counter.
He reads it once, his sharp gray eyes scanning the hurried handwriting in a single pass, committing every item to memory with the same mental discipline he once used for patrol routes or suspect profiles, then folds it away without a second glance, relying on his recall to navigate the store.
It's late afternoon on a weekday, the time when the supermarket hovers in that liminal space—not quite the chaotic rush of after-work shoppers flooding in with their hurried carts, but not empty either, with a scattering of people milling about: a harried mother pushing a stroller laden with diapers and formula, an elderly couple debating the ripeness of avocados in hushed tones, a group of teenagers giggling over energy drinks in the beverage section. The fluorescent lights hum overhead with a persistent, low buzz that grates on the nerves after too long, casting a harsh, artificial pallor over everything—the stacked shelves of canned goods gleaming under the glare, the produce misted with automated sprays that leave droplets sparkling on leaves of lettuce, the end-cap displays promoting seasonal deals on holiday cookies even though it's still weeks away.
Somewhere near the dairy section, a young kid is throwing a tantrum, their high-pitched cries echoing off the high ceilings like a siren, punctuated by the exasperated sighs of their parent trying to soothe them with promises of ice cream. At the front, a tired cashier with faded blue hair and a name tag reading "Mandy" is locked in a futile argument with a malfunctioning self-checkout machine, jabbing at the touchscreen as it beeps error codes at her, her voice rising in frustration—"Come on, you stupid thing, scan the damn barcode!"—as a line of impatient customers shifts their weight behind her. It's Gotham in miniature: a microcosm of everyday grit and minor annoyances, where even mundane errands carry an undercurrent of tension.
Dick is halfway down the snack aisle, his cart rolling smoothly with a faint rattle over the uneven floor tiles, when he spots your favorites tucked on a middle shelf amid the colorful array of chips, pretzels, and popcorn bags—the spicy cheese curls dusted with that addictive orange powder that stains your fingers and leaves you licking them clean, the ones you always reach for after a grueling day at work, denying any craving with a casual shrug until the bag is crinkled open and half-devoured in under ten minutes while you binge-watch reruns on the couch.
He reaches for them without hesitation, his arm extending in a fluid motion, fingers curling around the crinkly plastic packaging, at the exact same time someone else does from the opposite side of the shelf.
A hand enters the frame of his vision—tan skin marked by faint scars that speak of rough living, a familiar silver ring glinting under the lights on the index finger, fingers that move with a cocky confidence, as if they've never once asked for permission in their life, just taken what they wanted.
Dick's hand stills mid-reach, hovering inches from the bag, his muscles tensing instinctively like a coiled spring.
So does the other man's, their fingertips nearly brushing in the suspended moment.
The air shifts palpably, sharp and immediate, like the sudden drop in temperature before a storm hits, a chill that has nothing to do with the store's overzealous air conditioning and everything to do with the electric charge of recognition and rivalry igniting between them.
Jason looks up first, his green eyes—sharp and stormy, framed by dark lashes—locking onto Dick's with a flicker of surprise that quickly hardens into something more guarded.
He's dressed casually, in that effortlessly rugged way that suits him: a faded black hoodie peeking out from under a worn leather jacket that's scuffed at the elbows from too many close calls, paired with dark jeans that hug his muscular frame and heavy boots laced up tight, the kind built for stomping through Gotham's rain-slicked alleys. His hair is slightly messy, tousled as if he's run his hands through it in frustration earlier, with that distinctive white streak at the front catching the harsh aisle lighting like a stark warning sign, a remnant of his resurrection that he wears like a badge of defiance.
In his left hand, he grips a wire basket with a few items already nestled inside—a bottle of hard liquor, the amber liquid sloshing slightly as he shifts, probably whiskey given his tastes, and something that looks suspiciously like ingredients for a real meal: fresh ground beef, onions, garlic, and pasta sauce, the kind of thoughtful assembly that suggests you've gotten under his skin in the best possible way, coaxing him into domestic efforts he might otherwise scoff at.
His mouth curls at the corner, but it isn't a friendly grin—it's laced with sarcasm, a predatory amusement that glints in his eyes like the edge of a knife catching light.
"Well," Jason says, his voice low and gravelly, carrying that amused undertone that's more threat than tease, the words drawling out as he sizes Dick up. "Look at you. Playing house husband now?"
Dick doesn't smile back, doesn't even blink as if he's surprised—though a part of him registers the coincidence with a tactical note, filing it away. He just lets his gaze settle on Jason with that calm, heavy stillness he's mastered over years, the kind that once made entire prison mess hall tables fall silent, conversations dying mid-sentence under the weight of his unyielding stare.
"Jason," Dick replies, his tone flat and controlled, devoid of warmth or antagonism, just a neutral acknowledgment that hangs in the air like a loaded chamber.
Jason's eyes flick downward for a split second—to Dick's hand still hovering near the snacks—then to the brand itself, your brand, the exact flavor of those cheese curls you hoard like a guilty pleasure. Recognition flashes across his face, tightening his expression, the smug curl sharpening into something more pointed, a jab waiting to be thrown.
"Of course," he murmurs, his voice dropping even lower, laced with a bitter edge as he straightens his posture, broadening his shoulders subtly. "You're buying his snacks now. How domestic."
Dick finally takes the bag off the shelf, his movements unhurried and deliberate, as if Jason's presence is nothing more than inconsequential background noise, a minor distraction in an otherwise routine task. He drops it into his cart with a quiet finality, the plastic crinkling softly as it lands atop the neatly arranged produce.
Jason grabs his own bag at the same time—mirroring the action with a deliberate symmetry—and tosses it into his basket with a little too much force, the impact sending a faint thud echoing down the aisle, the items inside jostling against each other.
They stand there for a beat in the middle of the snack aisle, the fluorescent lights washing their faces in a pale, unforgiving glow that accentuates the shadows under Jason's eyes—from lack of sleep or endless patrols, Dick isn't sure—and the faint scar along Dick's jawline from a long-ago skirmish. The tension between them crackles like static electricity, strong enough that even the guy browsing chips two feet away—a lanky twenty-something in a band t-shirt—suddenly decides he doesn't need those barbecue-flavored crisps after all, hastily shoving the bag back and wheeling his cart away with averted eyes, sensing the invisible barrier of conflict.
Jason breaks the silence first, his voice cutting through the hum of the store like a blade.
"I'm gonna say it plain," he says, stepping just a fraction closer—not invading Dick's personal space outright, but close enough to make the point, his boots scraping faintly on the floor, the leather jacket creaking with the movement. "You need to move out."
Dick tilts his head a millimeter, his expression remaining unreadable, a mask of composure that gives nothing away—eyes steady, mouth a neutral line, body language relaxed yet alert. "No."
Jason lets out a short, humorless laugh that echoes hollowly in the aisle, more of a bark than genuine amusement, his breath fogging slightly in the cooler air near the refrigerated snacks. "See? That right there. That's the problem."
His eyes flash with a mix of frustration and challenge, the green depths darkening as he leans forward ever so slightly. "You're interfering. You're not just crashing on his couch like some temporary houseguest. You're in his space—fixing his cabinets, watching his movies, memorizing his damn grocery list. You're in his head, twisting things around. In his routine, making everything into a 'him and you' thing, like some cozy little reunion." His jaw flexes visibly, the muscle jumping under his stubbled skin. "And I'm not stupid, Dick. I know exactly what you're doing."
Dick's gaze doesn't waver, holding Jason's with that unflinching intensity, but he asks calmly, his voice even and measured, "And what am I doing?"
Jason's smile goes thin, lips pressing into a line that's more snarl than grin, his free hand clenching at his side. "You're waiting for him to get tired of the new guy. Waiting for him to mess up with me, slip back into old habits. Waiting for me to lose my patience and blow up." His voice drops lower, sharp and certain, carrying the weight of accusation. "You're trying to slide back into the spot you think you own, like you never left."
Dick's eyes harden slightly at the word "own," a subtle shift that Jason catches, but Dick's voice remains calm, unruffled, like he's discussing the weather. "He doesn't belong to me."
Jason scoffs, the sound rough and dismissive, rolling his eyes skyward for a dramatic beat before locking back on Dick. "No?" He leans in a touch more, his breath warm and edged with the faint scent of mint gum, eyes bright and biting with intensity. "Then why are you still there, huh? Why not pack up your reformed-prisoner act and find your own place?"
Dick's hand tightens on the cart handle, his knuckles whitening slightly against the cold metal, the pressure grounding him as he meets Jason's gaze head-on. "Because he asked," Dick says simply, the words straightforward and unembellished. "Because he trusts me. Because he's safe with me—safer than he's been in years."
Jason's nostrils flare, his breathing quickening just a fraction, a sign of the anger simmering beneath his surface calm. "He was safe before you showed up, Golden Boy. He had me watching his back."
Dick's mouth twitches—not quite a smile, more like a grim acknowledgment of the irony, the corner of his lip quirking in a way that's almost pitying. "Was he?" Dick asks quietly, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that forces Jason to lean in to hear. "Or did you just get there first, filling a void you didn't even know existed?"
Jason's stare sharpens, his eyes narrowing into slits like he wants to throw a punch—or something heavier—and doesn't know what to do with the restless energy coiling in his fists, his fingers flexing around the basket handle.
"This isn't prison," Jason snaps, his voice rising just enough to draw a curious glance from a passing shopper, who quickly averts their eyes and hurries on. "Out here, in the real world, he gets to choose. And he chose me—dates, laughs, nights where it's just us, no ghosts from the past haunting the room."
Dick nods once, slowly, like he's considering a point made in a courtroom debate, his head dipping in measured acknowledgment before he responds, almost gently, his tone softening without losing its edge: "Then stop acting like you're losing."
Jason's eyes narrow further, confusion flickering across his features before hardening again. "What?"
Dick finally steps closer—still not crowding him, maintaining that calculated distance, but close enough that Jason can feel the solid presence of him, the subtle heat radiating from his body, the faint scent of clean soap and faint motor oil from the shop clinging to his jacket. Dick's voice stays low, controlled, devastatingly steady, each word chosen with surgical precision.
"If you're so worried about your relationship breaking under the strain," Dick says, his gaze piercing and unyielding, "let him go. Let him decide without the pressure of your jealousy breathing down his neck."
Jason's expression twists, brows furrowing in disbelief and rising anger. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," Dick replies evenly, not backing down an inch, his stance rooted like an anchor. "If you think I can interfere just by existing in the same apartment—by being the friend he needs right now—then what you have with him isn't stable. It's built on sand, and you're fighting the wrong person here, blaming me for cracks that were already there."
Jason's lips part like he's about to fire back a retort, his chest rising with a sharp inhale, but Dick isn't done, pressing the advantage with quiet relentlessness.
Because Dick doesn't fight with volume or theatrics; he fights with precision, dissecting arguments like a scalpel through tissue.
He leans in slightly more, his voice quiet enough that it's almost private, meant only for Jason amid the aisle's ambient noise—the distant beep of scanners, the rustle of bags, the soft Muzak playing overhead.
"You're competing with history you don't understand," Dick says, his words measured and weighted. "With trauma you weren't there for—the nights in that cell where hope was a luxury, the beatings that left scars you can't see. With the fact that when he was in hell, trapped and broken, I was the one who kept him breathing, who shared the air and the pain and the will to survive."
Jason's jaw clenches so hard the muscle jumps visibly, his teeth grinding audibly, a vein pulsing at his temple as he fights to keep his composure.
"And you think that makes him yours?" Jason spits, the words venomous, laced with raw hurt and defiance.
Dick's gaze darkens—not with anger, but with an impossibly sure conviction that cuts deeper than rage ever could.
"No," he says firmly. "I think it makes me his—in a way that time and dates can't erase."
Jason's breath catches, just for a second, a hitch in his rhythm like he wasn't expecting that kind of unapologetic confidence blurted out in the middle of a grocery store aisle, surrounded by mundane shelves of junk food.
Dick continues, his voice steady as unyielding stone, not raising in volume but intensifying in impact.
"You can have his time," he says, his eyes flicking briefly to the snacks in Jason's basket—your snacks, the same brand—and back to Jason's face, locking in. "His dates, with the fancy dinners or whatever you plan. His nights, tangled up in sheets and whispers." A pause, letting the words sink in. "But don't confuse access with being his home—with being the place he returns to when the world gets too heavy."
Jason's hands tighten around his basket handle, the wire digging into his palms, turning his knuckles white as he grapples with the urge to lash out.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he demands, his voice rough, edged with a growl that draws another wary glance from a nearby employee stocking shelves.
Dick's expression stays calm, impenetrable, but his words land like a locked door slamming shut, final and resolute.
"It means," Dick says quietly, his tone almost conversational yet laced with finality, "I'm his heart—the part that's been there through the worst, the anchor that doesn't shift."
The silence after that is loud, oppressive, drowning out the store's background symphony—no more echoing cries from the kid in dairy, no humming lights flickering overhead, no squeaky cart wheels rolling by—just that statement hanging between them like a dual-edged blade, both a threat and a promise woven into one.
Jason's eyes burn with a fierce intensity, green depths stormy and unyielding.
Then his mouth curls into something sharp and dangerous—more defensive than smug now, a shield against the vulnerability Dick's words have exposed.
"You're delusional," he says, his voice low and cutting, though there's a faint tremor beneath it. "He doesn't belong to you. Not his heart. Not his body. Not anything—he's not some prize from your shared nightmare."
Dick doesn't argue, doesn't raise his voice to match; he just grips the cart handle steady, his posture unchanged.
"You keep telling yourself that," Dick replies evenly, his eyes never leaving Jason's. "If it helps you sleep at night, clinging to that denial."
Jason steps back abruptly, his breathing a little heavier now, chest rising and falling visibly, and for a second it looks like he might say something worse—something explosive that would shatter the fragile civility and turn this into a real scene, drawing security or worse in this public space.
Then he checks himself, reining in the impulse with visible effort—because Jason isn't careless, not anymore; he's intense, volcanic even, but he's learned to channel it, to walk away when the alternative is destruction.
He lifts his basket slightly, as if weighing it in his hand, his eyes never leaving Dick's, the stare a promise of unfinished business.
"This isn't over," Jason says, his voice a low rumble, laced with determination.
Dick's response is immediate and quiet, delivered with that same unshakeable calm.
"It never was," he counters, the words hanging like a gauntlet thrown.
Jason turns on his heel and walks down the aisle, his shoulders tense and squared, moving fast enough that a couple of oncoming shoppers—a middle-aged woman with a toddler in tow and a man juggling coffee cups—have to shift hastily out of his way, muttering apologies he doesn't acknowledge.
Dick watches him go for two long beats, his eyes narrowed slightly, assessing the retreat like a tactician noting an enemy's movements, the stillness returning to him like well-worn armor sliding back into place.
Then he exhales, slow and controlled, the breath releasing the coiled tension in his muscles as he glances down at the cart—at your favorite snacks sitting right on top, innocent amid the confrontation's aftermath.
He pushes the cart forward again, the wheels rolling smoothly once more.
Calm. Unhurried. Methodical as ever.
But inside his head, the strategy is already shifting, pieces moving on an invisible board.
Because now Dick knows something crucial, a vulnerability exposed in Jason's heated words and defensive stance:
Jason isn't just worried about the situation.
Jason feels genuinely threatened, his confidence rattled by Dick's enduring presence.
And Dick has never been the kind of man to ignore an opening like that—he's the one who exploits them, turns them into advantages, all while maintaining that facade of quiet steadiness.
DICK COMES home with the grocery bags digging into his palms like insistent reminders, the thin plastic handles cutting shallow red lines into his skin from the weight of the contents—milk cartons sloshing gently, vegetable bags rustling with each step, the faint crinkle of snack packaging echoing his measured stride. The weight of that unexpected run-in with Jason still sits heavy in his chest, like a swallowed coin lodged just below his sternum, cold and unyielding, a pressure that doesn't fade but instead sharpens his focus, turning every mundane action into a calculated move.
The hallway leading to your apartment carries its usual faint scent of industrial bleach mingled with the musty undertone of old, threadbare carpet that's seen too many winters in Gotham, the fibers matted down from countless footsteps of neighbors coming and going at odd hours. He moves quietly out of ingrained habit, his boots making only the softest whisper against the floor as he shifts the bags to one hand, fishing the key from his pocket with the other—its jagged edges familiar under his fingers, sliding into the lock with barely a metallic click, the tumblers turning smoothly under minimal pressure. The door opens just enough for him to slip inside, a narrow gap that he navigates with the precision of someone used to entering spaces without announcement, closing it behind him with a gentle push that avoids any telltale creak.
The apartment greets him immediately with a welcoming warmth that contrasts the chill of the outside world, the air inside carrying the subtle hum of everyday life—the soft, golden glow spilling from the kitchen light you always forget to turn off after rinsing dishes, casting long shadows across the hallway floor; the faint, clean scent of your lavender soap drifting from the bathroom, mingling with the lingering aroma of this morning's coffee; the low, rhythmic rush of running water from down the hall, a steady patter against tile that tells him everything he needs to know without a glance.
You're in the shower, he deduces instantly, without needing to peer down the dimly lit corridor toward the closed bathroom door. The water's flow is consistent and strong, the old pipes groaning faintly in that specific, familiar rhythm they always adopt when the hot water line is engaged, a subtle vibration humming through the walls like the building's own pulse. Wisps of steam escape from under the doorframe, curling lazily into the cooler air of the hallway, carrying with them the humid scent of your shampoo—something citrusy and fresh that you've been using lately, a small change he's noted without comment.
There's no accompanying soundtrack to your routine tonight—no tinny music blaring from a waterproof speaker propped on the sink, no muffled podcast or phone call on speaker mode filtering through the door, no absentminded humming of that pop song you've had stuck in your head all week—just the pure, unadorned sound of water cascading, of you rinsing away the accumulated grime and stress of the day, suds swirling down the drain in private solitude.
Dick exhales slowly and controlled, the breath releasing some of the coiled tension from his shoulders as he heads into the kitchen, the grocery bags swinging lightly at his sides. He sets them down on the cluttered countertop with a soft thud—the Formica surface cool under his touch, scattered with a few stray crumbs from your morning toast and a half-folded dish towel—then begins the unpacking with the same methodical calm he applies to everything in his life, from disarming traps to reassembling a life post-prison: first, sorting the bags by category, lining up the items in neat clusters; a quick mental inventory to ensure nothing was forgotten or damaged in transit; then grouping them by storage needs—perishables that require refrigeration first to preserve freshness, followed by dry goods that can sit ambient, and finally the odds and ends that don't fit neatly into either, like the small jar of specialty honey you mentioned in passing last week.
He starts with the cold items: the carton of milk—whole, as you prefer for your coffee—sliding into the fridge with a satisfying clunk against the glass shelf, condensation already beading on its surface from the brief exposure to room temperature; the carton of eggs nestled beside it, the fragile shells protected in their foam cradle, labels facing out for easy checking later; the vegetables—a crisp head of romaine lettuce with dew-kissed leaves, vibrant red bell peppers smooth and unblemished, a bundle of carrots still dusted with faint soil—tucked into the crisper drawer, which he adjusts slightly to ensure proper humidity. The loaf of sourdough bread goes on the counter instead of the fridge, because he's learned your quirks—you hate how refrigeration makes the crust go stale and chewy, preferring it room-temperature for that perfect toast crunch.
The coffee grounds—dark roast, ground fine for your French press—get stowed in the upper cabinet you always reach for instinctively, without even glancing up, the one just above the sink where the mugs are kept.
And finally, your favorite snacks—those addictive spicy cheese curls that leave orange residue on everything they touch, the ones you deny craving until the bag is half-empty—get placed last, set aside on the counter like a quiet trophy of his attentiveness, a small victory in the ongoing game of rebuilding normalcy.
His mouth twitches at that thought, the corner lifting in a ghost of an expression that doesn't quite blossom into a full smile, more a private acknowledgment of the irony as he straightens a stray bag.
The grocery store encounter is still looping in his head, not with the heat of anger but with the cool detachment of analysis—he replays it the way he replays any situation worth dissecting: noting the minute details like Jason's squared shoulders under his leather jacket, the way his eyes sharpened from casual to predatory in a blink, the words exchanged like finely honed blades wrapped in the veneer of casual conversation, each phrase probing for weaknesses without overt aggression.
Dick doesn't dwell on it with resentment; instead, he catalogs it—Jason had sauntered into that aisle with the swagger of someone holding all the cards, his posture loose but alert, basket swinging confidently. But he hadn't looked nearly as assured when he stormed out, his strides clipped and tense, shoulders hunched like he'd swallowed a defeat he couldn't spit out.
Dick's hands are still in motion—closing the fridge door with a soft suction seal, wiping a stray droplet of condensation off the counter with the edge of his sleeve, the fabric absorbing the moisture—when his eyes land on something that wasn't there when he left earlier that afternoon.
Your phone.
It's lying face up on the kitchen counter, right beside the small ceramic bowl where you always toss your keys upon entry, the jangly ring peeking out from under a folded receipt. The screen is dark, dormant in sleep mode, but the device itself is positioned with evident purpose—angled just so, as if you set it down deliberately before heading to the shower, perhaps to shield it from the bathroom's steamy humidity or because you didn't trust yourself not to glance at notifications mid-rinse, letting work emails or social pings intrude on your unwind time.
Dick stares at it for a lingering moment, his gray eyes narrowing slightly in assessment.
Not with the impulsive curiosity of a teenager tempted by forbidden privacy, but like a man methodically weighing the implications of a half-open door: how effortlessly it could swing wider, what revelations might lurk on the other side, and whether the knowledge gained would alter his next steps, shift the balance in this delicate dance of shared space and unspoken tensions.
He's utterly quiet as he reaches for it, his fingers extending with practiced stealth, no rustle of clothing or shift in weight to betray the action.
The phone lifts into his palm like it belongs there—light and compact, the smooth glass back warm from resting on the counter, too easy to handle, as if the universe conspired for this moment. He turns it slightly in his grip, his thumb brushing the power button on the side with the barest pressure. The screen wakes instantly, illuminating with a soft glow that casts blue-tinted highlights across his features.
Unlocked.
No passcode prompt, no biometric scan—just open access, vulnerable and inviting. Maybe you left it that way on purpose, a subconscious signal of trust; maybe you've grown too comfortable in his presence over these weeks, the boundaries softening like worn fabric; maybe you simply didn't anticipate that he might ever cross this invisible line, assuming his reformed restraint extended to every corner of your shared life.
Dick's gaze flicks toward the bathroom door at the end of the hall, the steam still seeping faintly from beneath it, the water's steady rush unchanged—no sudden pause in the flow, no creak of the faucet turning off, no padding footsteps on the tile signaling your emergence. You're still enveloped in that private ritual, oblivious.
He looks back at the phone and taps once on the home screen, then again with smooth, precise efficiency—his movements economical, born from years of handling devices under duress.
The messages app opens with a silent bloom of icons and threads.
Jason's name sits prominently near the top, bolded with a recent timestamp, like a spark hovering over dry tinder, waiting for the slightest breath to ignite.
Dick's expression doesn't shift dramatically—no furrowed brow or clenched jaw—but something colder settles behind his eyes, a glacial calm that sharpens his focus as he opens the thread with a single tap.
He doesn't scroll through your entire conversation history, delving into months of banter and intimacy. He doesn't need to; his curiosity isn't messy or voyeuristic—he's surgical, precise, seeking only the pertinent data. He zeroes in on the most recent exchange immediately, the screen scrolling to the bottom with a flick of his thumb.
Jason's text is right there, simple and deliberate, timestamped from just hours ago.
Saturday. Followed by details about the date—the exact time (7 PM sharp, because Jason likes punctuality as a point of control), the place (that cozy Italian spot downtown with the dim lighting and house-made pasta you raved about last month, the one with outdoor seating overlooking the river if the weather holds), and some small line meant to sound casual but laced with possessive intent—"Wear that dress I like. Can't wait to see you."—claiming the night without overt demand.
Dick reads it once, his eyes scanning the words methodically, absorbing every nuance—the emojis Jason added for levity (a winking face, a heart), the underlying tone of reconciliation after your recent tension.
Then he reads it again, slower, dissecting the subtext like a codebreaker.
His thumb hovers over the screen, motionless for a suspended moment, and the apartment feels unnaturally quiet except for the persistent shower running down the hall—warm water cascading over your skin, steam clouding the mirror, your bare feet planted on the non-slip mat, shampoo suds rinsing away as you tilt your head back, completely unaware of the quiet intrusion unfolding in the kitchen.
Dick's mouth finally curves, slow and faint, the edges lifting into what could almost pass for a smirk—not triumphant, but knowing, a subtle acknowledgment of the game's evolving board.
Not because Jason texted you, rekindling plans after your makeup exchange. Not because of the Saturday date itself, with its promise of normalcy and intimacy.
Because Jason didn't mention the grocery store encounter at all.
Not a single line hinting at it—no casual "Saw him today at the store, what a coincidence," no veiled warning like "Watch out for your roommate," no accusation laced with jealousy, not even a petty joke to probe your reaction and gauge loyalty, something like "Ran into your ex-con buddy—still shopping like he's on a mission?"
Jason wrote as if nothing had transpired in that tense aisle standoff, as if the charged words and unspoken threats hadn't hung between them like storm clouds.
Which tells Dick two things at once, revelations clicking into place like puzzle pieces:
First, Jason is watching his footing meticulously, treading carefully to avoid escalating the situation into your awareness, perhaps fearing it would force you to choose sides or complicate the fragile peace you've rebuilt with him.
Second, Jason is deliberately choosing what story you hear—or don't hear—curating the narrative to maintain control, keeping the confrontation buried to prevent any ripples that might unsettle your budding reconciliation.
Dick's smirk lingers as he stares at the screen a beat longer, his thumb tapping lightly once against the edge of the phone's case like a rhythmic heartbeat, a private metronome for his thoughts.
He can almost hear Jason's voice echoing in that curated silence—smooth and smug on the surface, but underpinned by a strategic withholding, trying to keep control by controlling the flow of information, ensuring you remain calm and focused on him, oblivious to the undercurrents tightening around your shared life with both men.
Dick's eyes flick once more toward the hallway, toward the persistent sound of the water, the steam now faintly visible as a haze in the air.
You're still in the shower, still enveloped in that steamy sanctuary.
Still relaxed, humming perhaps under your breath now that the initial rinse is done.
Still trusting, leaving your world open without locks or barriers.
Dick's smirk softens into something unreadable—a mix of resolve and quiet calculation—as he locks the phone again with a clean, decisive tap, the screen fading to black instantly. He sets it back down exactly where he found it—same precise position, same angle aligned with the counter's edge, as if it never stirred from its spot, no fingerprint smudges or warmth to betray the handling.
Then he returns to the groceries, putting the last few items away with quiet, unhurried patience—a box of pasta slotted into the pantry beside the sauces, a container of yogurt nestled in the fridge door, the empty bags folded neatly and stowed under the sink.
The shower keeps running, a steady backdrop to his movements.
And in the kitchen, Dick's mind is already in motion—not loud or frantic, not a whirlwind of schemes, but steady and strategic, mapping out contingencies like a chess master anticipating moves several turns ahead.
Because Jason is planning Saturday, with its dinner reservations and intimate promises.
And Dick is planning what comes before it—the subtle plays, the quiet observations, the ways to ensure that when choices arise, the board tilts in his favor.
BY FRIDAY, Dick has the entire evening mapped out in his head like a meticulously drawn blueprint—every detail considered, every potential reaction anticipated, every subtle shift in tone calculated with the same quiet precision he once used for high-stakes operations. There's no cartoonish villainy here, no evil monologue rehearsed in the mirror, no dramatic declarations of intent. Just Dick being Dick: calm, deliberate, patient in a way that's quietly lethal, moving invisible pieces into place with the slow inevitability of a tide coming in.
He knows Saturday is coming—your planned date with Jason, the makeup night you've both been circling around all week, the one where you'll show up on time, phone off, fully present, trying to stitch back the frayed edges of whatever this complicated thing between you three has become. He knows you're stretched thin these days: the long hours at work with endless emails piling up, the self-defense classes leaving your muscles sore and your knuckles bruised, the low-grade guilt that simmers constantly beneath your skin because you're balancing a past that won't stay buried with a present that's demanding more honesty than you're used to giving.
So Friday isn't about stopping you with force or confrontation. Friday is about making you feel something—something warm, something safe, something achingly familiar—right before you step out the door tomorrow and walk into Jason's carefully curated version of normalcy.
You come home expecting the usual Friday evening routine: maybe Dick sprawled on the couch with a half-watched noir film flickering on the projector, the remote balanced on his knee; maybe him at the kitchen counter absentmindedly tightening screws on a cabinet hinge that didn't actually squeak, his toolkit spread out like surgical instruments; maybe quiet, easy conversation while you kick off your boots, hang your coat, and decompress from the week, the apartment settling around you like a well-worn sweater.
But the second you push open the door, the key still jiggling in the lock, you know something is different.
The air greets you first—rich and layered, not the faint "something warmed up in the microwave" scent you're used to on tired nights, but something intentional: the sharp, aromatic bite of fresh garlic sautéing in olive oil, the earthy warmth of rosemary and thyme blooming under heat, a subtle undercurrent of roasted tomatoes caramelizing at the edges, and something deeper, like Parmesan rind infusing broth.
The kitchen light is softer than usual, the harsh overhead bulb swapped for the warm glow of the small pendant lamp you rarely use, its amber shade casting a golden pool over the counters. Low music drifts through the space—not blasting from a speaker, but gentle, almost subliminal: a slow, sensual bachata track or perhaps an old classic like "Perfect" by Ed Sheeran, the kind of song that wraps around the room like smoke, softening every sharp edge.
And Dick is in the kitchen.
Not sitting with a book, not leaning against the fridge scrolling on his phone. He's cooking—sleeves of his dark long-sleeve shirt rolled neatly to his forearms, revealing the corded muscles and faint scars that tell stories you don't always ask about; hair slightly damp at the temples and ends, as if he rinsed his hands under the faucet and then ran wet fingers through the dark strands without thinking, leaving them tousled in a way that's effortlessly boyish. He's focused but relaxed, shoulders loose, movements fluid and unhurried as he stirs a pan on the stove, the wooden spoon gliding through simmering sauce with practiced ease—like he's letting himself exist without the usual armor, without the constant low hum of vigilance.
He turns the moment you step fully inside, gray eyes scanning you in that instinctive way he always does: quick assessment of your face (tired lines around your eyes), your posture (shoulders slightly hunched from carrying the weight of the day), your energy (a little frayed, a little guarded). Then his expression smooths into something warm, almost pleased, the corners of his mouth lifting in a small, genuine curve.
"Hey," he says, voice low and calm, but threaded with a warmth that catches you off guard. "You're home."
You blink, thrown, still standing in the entryway with your keys dangling from your fingers. "What is all this?"
"Dinner," he replies, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, turning back to the stove to give the sauce one more stir before lowering the flame.
You shut the door behind you, the click echoing softly, and take another step in, eyes wide. "You cook now?"
"I can follow instructions," he says deadpan, then gestures with the wooden spoon like a conductor cueing an orchestra. "Wash up. Sit. Give me ten minutes."
There's a softness in the words, but it's still a command—quiet, sure, laced with that effortless authority he carries without trying. And what's strange is you don't fight it; you kick off your boots by the mat (the familiar thud of heels against wood), drop your bag on the chair, and head to the bathroom like you've been given directions you didn't realize you needed.
When you come back out—hands still damp from washing, face freshly splashed with cool water—the small dining table is set.
Not fancy-fancy, not restaurant-level pretense with folded napkins and multiple forks, but intentional, thoughtful: two simple white plates, real silverware (the ones you keep in the back drawer for "special occasions" you never use), a tall glass already filled with ice water and a thin slice of lemon floating on top (because he knows you like it that way on nights when you feel run-down). A single beeswax candle flickers in the center, its flame steady and low, casting dancing shadows across the wood and warming the air with a faint honey scent.
You hover at the edge of the kitchen, suddenly unsure what to do with this sudden tenderness, this unexpected care that feels too intimate for the casual boundaries you've both tried to maintain.
Dick catches the hesitation—of course he does; he always does.
"It's not a trap," he says, and there's a glint in his eye—humor, almost boyish for half a second, softening the intensity. "Sit."
You do, sliding into the chair, the wood cool against the backs of your thighs as you watch him move.
He plates the food with more care than you expect: a simple but perfect pasta dish—spaghetti tossed in a silky tomato sauce laced with garlic, fresh basil torn by hand, a generous shower of grated Parmesan that melts into creamy pools, perhaps with a few roasted cherry tomatoes burst open for sweetness and a drizzle of good olive oil. He doesn't just dump it like fuel for the night; he arranges it, twirling the strands neatly with tongs, making sure the portions are even, setting the plates down in front of you both like he's done this a hundred times in some other, softer life.
When he sits across from you, he doesn't immediately dig in. He watches—quiet, patient—as you take the first bite.
You expect it to be decent, edible, "good enough" for a guy who spent years living on protein bars and takeout.
It's better than that.
The flavors hit in layers: the bright acidity of the tomatoes balanced by the richness of the cheese, the subtle heat of garlic lingering on your tongue, the fresh basil cutting through like a clean note. You chew slowly, eyebrows lifting without permission.
"Okay... wow."
A faint smile touches his mouth, small and satisfied. "Yeah?"
"This is actually really good," you admit, still a little surprised, reaching for another forkful.
He shrugs like it's nothing, but his eyes stay on you, soft and attentive. "You needed a real meal."
The conversation starts easy after that—so easy you don't realize how much you've been starving for it, how the words flow without effort.
He tells you something small about his days at the motorcycle shop—nothing dramatic, just a dry observation about a customer who insisted on "synergy" between his custom exhaust and handlebar grips, mimicking the guy's pompous tone until you laugh, the sound surprising you with its lightness. He hums in quiet amusement, like your laughter is something rare and worth collecting, tucking it away.
You tell him about your week in return: the work stress piling up with end-of-year deadlines, the way your self-defense instructor pushed you harder than usual and left your shoulders aching, the subtle shift in Jason's texts back toward warmth after the cold week. You don't overshare the details, but you don't hide it either—letting the truth sit between you like an open hand.
Dick doesn't interrupt. He doesn't tense or bristle the way you half-expected. He just listens—calm, steady, present—like he's giving you space to talk yourself into clarity, letting the words settle without judgment.
And that's what makes it dangerous.
Because instead of pushing back against Jason's name, he's making you comfortable. Instead of arguing about boundaries, he's making you soft, relaxed, unguarded in the golden light.
Halfway through the meal, you realize he's laughing more than usual—not big, booming laughs, but these quiet little exhalations through his nose, the corner of his mouth lifting when you roll your eyes or drop a sarcastic remark about your boss. He even tells a brief, dry, oddly charming story about the first time he tried to use the fancy espresso machine at WayneTech and nearly triggered the "maintenance required" alarm, complete with self-deprecating mimicry of his own confusion.
You stare at him like he's revealed a secret identity.
"You're... in a good mood," you say, suspicion threading through the words.
He tilts his head slightly, eyes meeting yours. "Am I not allowed?"
"You're allowed," you reply, but you're still watching him closely. "It's just... different."
"Maybe I wanted different tonight," he says simply, no elaboration, no defense.
He clears the plates when you're done—refusing your offer to help with a quiet, firm "Sit," carrying everything to the sink himself. When he returns, he doesn't bring out dessert.
Instead, he turns the music up a little—not loud enough to overwhelm, just enough that the rhythm becomes clear: a slow, sensual melody, perhaps a modern bachata love song or a timeless classic like "All of Me" by John Legend, the kind of track that fills the room with warmth and invitation.
You lift your brows. "What are you doing?"
Dick doesn't answer immediately. He steps closer to where you're still seated, hand extending toward you with quiet confidence—like he's offering something he's been holding back for weeks, maybe longer.
"Dance with me," he says.
You blink, caught off guard. "What?"
He holds your gaze, steady and unwavering. "Just dance."
You let out a small laugh that's mostly disbelief. "We're in my apartment."
"So?" he replies, calm as ever. "It's Friday."
You hesitate, because you can feel what this is even if he won't say it out loud. It's not just dancing. It's proximity. It's intimacy disguised as something harmless, innocent, deniable. And you're tired—bone-deep from the week, vulnerable in that post-dinner quiet when your defenses are lower than they've been in days, your guard softened by good food, good conversation, and the unexpected gentleness of the evening.
So you stand.
Dick's hand closes around yours—warm, firm, sure—and he pulls you in with a gentleness that still feels like quiet control. He places one hand at the small of your waist, the other guiding your fingers up to rest on his shoulder, not rushed, not sloppy, treating you like something precious that deserves care.
You settle into him instinctively, bodies aligning chest to chest. Close enough to feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the solid warmth of him against you. Close enough that your body remembers without being asked—the way his heartbeat thrums under your palm, the faint scent of soap and clean skin that clings to him.
His grip isn't tight. It's secure, grounding.
He begins to move slowly, leading you in small, swaying steps across the living room floor—barely more than a shuffle at first, then a gentle turn, the rhythm of the music guiding you both. The city noise outside fades to nothing. For a moment, it's just the two of you: the soft candlelight flickering from the table, the warm glow of the pendant lamp, the music wrapping around you like a shared secret, the warmth of his body against yours.
You tell yourself it's innocent.
But then Dick's gaze drops to your face and stays there.
Not a quick glance. Not casual. A stare—quiet, unwavering, heavy with everything he's not saying.
It makes your throat tighten, your pulse quicken.
"You're staring," you murmur, trying to lighten it, trying to keep the moment from tipping over the edge.
"I know," he says simply.
Your breath catches a little. "Why?"
His thumb shifts at your waist—barely a movement, a slow, deliberate circle against the fabric of your shirt—but enough to send a slow ripple of heat down your spine.
"Because I'm allowed to look at you," he replies, voice low, intimate, almost a whisper against your ear. "And because you keep pretending you don't feel this."
Your heart gives a hard, irritated thump, half in denial, half in recognition.
"This?" you echo, like you can play dumb, like the word won't summon the truth.
Dick doesn't smile. He doesn't let you dodge.
He leans just slightly closer—still not forcing, still leaving you space to pull away—but enough that his words land like a brush of lips against your skin.
"This," he repeats softly, the word heavy with meaning. "You in my arms. You letting yourself relax with me. You forgetting everything else for a minute."
Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out—words tangled somewhere between protest and surrender.
The music continues, slow and enveloping. The candle flickers, casting golden light across his features. His hands stay steady on you like he could hold you together even when your thoughts start fracturing in too many directions.
He moves like he's done this a thousand times somewhere else—maybe in a dimly lit ballroom in another life, maybe in rooms with polished floors and crystal chandeliers you'll never see, maybe in dreams he doesn't talk about. His steps are sure, unhurried, each small turn and shift perfectly timed to the rhythm without ever feeling mechanical. His right hand rests low on your spine, fingers spread just wide enough to steady you, to anchor you, without gripping or crowding—possessive in the gentlest possible way.
Your fingertips brush the smooth cotton of his shirt, feeling the subtle flex and release of muscle beneath as he guides you through another slow circle. The fabric is warm from his body heat, slightly damp at the collar from the steam of the kitchen earlier, carrying the faint, clean scent of his soap mixed with the lingering aroma of garlic and basil from the dinner he made.
You can feel his heartbeat.
Not pounding like a war drum, not racing with nerves or urgency.
Just there—firm, steady, present. A quiet, reliable thrum against your palm when your hand drifts a little lower on his chest, like everything about him is built to endure, to hold steady when the world doesn't.
You're the one who breaks the spell first, the words slipping out before you can swallow them back.
"You know this is weird, right?" you murmur, your eyes flicking briefly to the line of his collarbone visible at the open neck of his shirt instead of meeting his gaze. "You being... like this."
"Like what?" His voice rumbles low, close enough that you feel the vibration of it against your cheek, warm breath brushing the shell of your ear.
You swallow, letting out a quiet breath that stirs the fine hairs at his temple. "Soft. Open. Vulnerable. Whatever this is."
His hand flexes at your back—just the barest increase in pressure, a subtle tightening of fingers like he's reminding himself to stay gentle. "You saying I'm not allowed to be human?"
"No," you counter, finally lifting your eyes to his, "I'm saying I'm not used to you showing it." The words come out softer than you intend, almost reluctant. "You've always been... composed. Untouchable. Even when you were literally touching me—when your hands were on me, when your mouth was on my skin—you still kept something locked away."
That earns a faint huff of a laugh from him, more breath than sound, but it doesn't reach his eyes; those stay serious, shadowed by the low light. He keeps leading you in slow, lazy circles across the living room floor, your bare feet whispering against the cool hardwood, the occasional creak of a board beneath your combined weight the only other sound besides the music and your breathing.
You feel the words building in your chest like slow pressure behind a dam, insistent and inevitable, and the more you try to ignore them, the more they demand to be spoken.
"Back then," you say, voice dropping even softer, "you wouldn't even tell me who you were."
His gaze sharpens just a fraction—enough that you feel the change in his focus, though his body never falters, never misses a step.
"We're really doing this now?" he asks quietly.
"Yeah," you answer, the word steady despite the way your pulse has started to climb. "We are."
You wet your lips, holding his eyes even though it makes your chest feel tight, like there's not enough air in the room.
"You knew everything about me," you continue, the memory rising sharp and clear. "My charges, line by line. My fears, the ones I tried to hide behind sarcasm. The way I breathed when I was sleeping—slow and even when I felt safe, shallow and quick when nightmares were close. The way my voice changed when I was lying, the little hitch when I wasn't telling the whole truth. You read me like a book you'd already underlined in places."
His jaw ticks—a small, involuntary movement—but he doesn't look away, doesn't flinch.
"And yet," you say quietly, "when I asked who you were—really were—you shut down. You let Red plant the seed of doubt, and instead of trusting me with the truth, you just... let it rot between us."
The song keeps playing, its melody weaving through the silence that follows. Your bodies keep moving in slow harmony, but the air feels different now—denser, charged with something heavier than the rhythm, like the moment before a storm breaks.
"You let me leave," you say, the memory sharper than you expect, cutting through the warmth of the room. "You watched me walk out of that place with nothing but a first name and a goodbye kiss that tasted like goodbye forever. No truth. No explanation. No fight to keep me there."
A muscle feathers in his cheek, visible even in the candlelight.
"That's not fair," he says quietly.
"Isn't it?" you ask, the question soft but pointed.
He doesn't answer immediately. His fingers shift at your waist—small, almost unconscious adjustments, like he's trying to ground himself as much as he's grounding you.
"I asked for more," you remind him, voice steady despite the ache building behind your ribs. "I asked for answers. For honesty. And instead of risking that I might look at you differently, you decided for both of us. You pulled back. You let the silence do the talking."
He closes his eyes for half a second—long enough for you to see the flicker of pain across his features—then opens them again, looking down at you like you're the only thing in the room that matters, the only thing that's ever mattered.
"I thought I was protecting you," he says, the words coming out low and rough, scraped raw. "From my past. From what I did. From what I'm capable of."
You laugh softly, but there's no humor in it—just a small, tired sound that catches in your throat. "You protected my body," you say. "You never trusted my heart."
That hits. It really hits.
You feel the way his posture changes—not dramatically, not a flinch, but enough that you know the words landed exactly where they were supposed to—his shoulders tightening, his breath catching for a single beat.
You keep going, because you have to, because these things have been living inside you too long.
"And now..." you say, swallowing around the knot in your throat, "...now you're doing the opposite."
He frowns slightly, brows drawing together. "How?"
"You're not protecting me from anything," you say, voice gaining strength. "Not from your past. Not from what you want. Not from this—" you gesture vaguely between your chests with a small lift of your hand, the motion brushing against his shirt "—this constant push and pull." You shake your head slowly. "Now you're fighting for me. Now you're cooking me dinner and asking me to dance and asking me to be your date to a gala like we're..."
You trail off, the word catching in your throat before it can fully emerge—normal, together, something real.
You don't have to finish it. He hears it anyway.
"Like we're what?" he asks gently, voice soft as the candlelight.
You swallow hard. "Like we're a thing again."
He studies your face for a long moment, eyes searching—not for weakness, not for escape routes, but for honesty, for the truth you're both too afraid to name outright.
"Aren't we?" he asks quietly.
Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between your lungs and your lips.
And that's when the question that's been burning all night finally claws its way out.
"Why now?" you whisper.
His brows knit, just a little, confusion flickering across his features.
You wet your lips again, tasting salt from nerves you didn't realize were there. "Why are you fighting for me now?"
He doesn't answer right away.
The song keeps playing—soft, insistent, wrapping around you like it wants to hold you both together. The world narrows down to the slow circle your bodies are tracing on the floor and the shrinking space between his eyes and yours.
You push on, because if you don't ask this now, you never will.
"In there," you say, voice shaking just a little despite your best effort, "you had more reason to hold on to me than anyone. You could've said, 'I need you. I want you. Don't give up on me.' You didn't. You let me believe I was the only one who wanted more. You made me think I was asking for something you didn't have in you."
His throat works visibly, Adam's apple rising and falling.
He looks like he wants to deny it, to push back, but he doesn't.
"And now we're out," you continue, eyes stinging now, "and suddenly you're... showing up. Joining my self-defense class. Fixing my locks with that careful precision of yours. Cooking in my kitchen like you belong there. Dancing with me in my living room on a random Friday night. Asking me to be your date to some fancy gala." You shake your head slowly, tears threatening but not quite falling. "You had me first, Dick. If anyone had the chance to claim something—to build something—it was you."
You swallow hard, the next words tasting bitter and necessary, like medicine you have to take even though it burns.
"So why?" you ask again, raw. "Why are you only fighting now that there's someone else in the picture? Why am I worth all this now?"
The question hangs between you like a live wire, humming with electricity, dangerous to touch.
His hand tightens at your back—not enough to hurt, just enough that you feel the restrained strength there, the power he keeps leashed so carefully.
He stops moving.
The music keeps flowing—sweet and melancholy—but your bodies go still in the center of the room: your hand still on his shoulder, fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt; his palm still pressed to your spine, warm and solid; your chests close enough that you can feel each other breathe—the rise of his inhale matching the fall of your exhale, a faint hitch as he pulls in air to speak.
For a moment, all you hear is that: his breathing, your heartbeat, the soft crackle of the candle wick.
He looks at you in a way that strips away everything he's kept carefully in place.
All the quiet distance.
All the strategic calm.
All the control he wears like armor.
And you see it—really see it—in his eyes:
Regret, deep and old.
Want, sharp and unfiltered.
Fear, the kind that lives in the marrow.
And something softer and more brutal than any of them—love, warped by circumstance and time and too many years of believing he didn't deserve it.
His voice, when it comes, is low and rough, like it's been dragged over gravel and broken glass.
"That's a fair question," he says.
You hold your breath.
He keeps his gaze on you, shoulders squaring slightly like he's bracing for impact, like he knows the truth is going to hurt both of you.
"And if you really want the truth," he continues, "the ugly version? The one that doesn't make me look good?"
You nod once, throat tight. "Yeah," you whisper. "I want that one."
He swallows, throat working again.
"Then the answer is simple," Dick says, voice barely above a murmur. "I didn't fight for you back then... because I didn't think I was allowed to keep anything good."
You blink, startled by the raw simplicity of it.
He doesn't stop.
"I was already guilty," he goes on quietly. "Not just in the legal way—though that was bad enough. In every way that mattered. I'd burned my life down. I'd made choices I couldn't take back, choices that stained everything I touched. You were the one thing in there that felt... undeserved. Too clean. Too bright." He shakes his head slightly, almost imperceptibly. "I thought if I held on too hard, if I reached too far, I would ruin you too. Drag you down into the mess I'd made of myself."
Your chest aches, a deep, bruising pain spreading behind your ribs.
"And now?" you manage, barely above a whisper. "What's changed now?"
He exhales, long and slow, the sound ragged at the edges.
"You walked out," he says. "You survived. You built something on the outside without me—without anyone. You let yourself love again. You learned how to live in a world that isn't made of concrete and bars and locked doors." His voice softens, rough at the edges but tender underneath. "You proved you're not breakable in the way I thought. You proved you're stronger than the worst things that ever happened to you."
He leans in, just a fraction—close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek.
"And somewhere along the way," he admits, voice cracking just slightly on the last word, "I realized I wasn't protecting you by staying away. I was just protecting myself from having to risk hearing you say no. From having to face the possibility that you might choose someone else because I was too afraid to ask you to choose me."
The honesty hits you like a physical thing—sharp, heavy, undeniable.
Your fingers curl tighter against his shoulder, knuckles whitening. Your heart feels too big for your ribs, pounding against bone.
"So yeah," he says quietly, eyes never leaving yours. "I'm fighting now."
You swallow, throat raw. "Because you're not scared I'll break?"
He shakes his head slowly.
"No," he says. "Because I'm finally more scared of a world where you don't know I want you. Where you think you were alone in wanting more. Where you walk into tomorrow believing I never cared enough to try."
His eyes lock onto yours, steady and unflinching, stripped bare.
"I let you go once without a fight," he says. "I'm not making that mistake again."
You stand there, caught between his hands and his words, the music fading into something distant and unimportant, the weight of his admission settling into you like heat and gravity and truth.
You just look at each other.
His hands—one settled warm and steady at the small of your back, fingers splayed wide enough to span the curve of your spine, the heat of his palm bleeding through the thin cotton of your shirt like a brand you can't quite feel yet. The other cradles your fingers where they rest against the broad plane of his shoulder, his thumb brushing the edge of your knuckle in slow, unconscious circles, as if he's afraid to let go even this small point of contact.
The music hums low in the background now—soft strings and a distant piano that feel like they're happening in another room entirely, reduced to a gentle undertone beneath the sound of your shared breathing. All the air between you feels charged—thick, electric, heavy with everything he just laid bare and everything you've never quite said back, every unsaid word hanging like smoke you can almost taste.
His eyes are bare in a way you've never really seen before.
No guard. No cool detachment. No calculated distance he wears like second skin.
Just raw, unfiltered honesty, and underneath it something fierce and aching—want so deep it borders on pain, regret so old it's carved into the lines around his eyes, hope so fragile it makes your chest hurt to look at it.
You feel your own defenses faltering—the sarcastic remarks you usually fire like warning shots, the careful lines you've drawn around your heart, the constant habit of stepping back whenever things get too intense, too real. They all feel suddenly useless, paper-thin in the face of this man standing in your living room on the last night of the year, admitting in a voice scraped raw that he's terrified of a world where you don't know how badly he wants you, how much he's always wanted you.
Your chest hurts—sharp, deep, like something's cracked open inside your ribs.
Your throat feels tight, swollen with everything you haven't said yet.
You're pretty sure he can feel your heart beating against his ribs—fast, unsteady, loud enough that it must be echoing through him the way his steady thrum echoes through you.
For a heartbeat, you almost look away—habit, self-preservation, the instinct to retreat when the vulnerability feels too big.
You don't.
You hold his gaze, gray meeting yours, and in that split second there's something like a silent conversation passing between you, wordless and perfect:
You saying, You hurt me when you let me go.
Him answering, I know—and I came back anyway.
You saying, I don't know if I can do this again.
Him answering, I'm going to try to make it worth the risk.
The space between you shrinks without either of you consciously deciding.
Maybe you lean in first, drawn by the pull of his warmth. Maybe he does, the last of his careful restraint giving way. Or maybe your bodies just... find each other, like they've been orbiting too close for too long and finally surrender to gravity.
His breath brushes your mouth—warm, uneven, tasting faintly of the wine you shared with dinner and something deeper, purely him.
Your fingers tighten on his shoulder, fabric bunching under your grip.
His eyes flick down to your lips, then back up, asking one last question without words—May I?
You answer by closing what's left of the distance.
The first touch of his mouth is almost careful—almost—like he's trying to remember how to be gentle with something he wants to devour whole. Your lips press together, soft, testing, a slow reconnection that feels both brand-new and achingly familiar. The restraint lasts only a heartbeat.
Then everything snaps.
You both lean in at once, and the kiss deepens so fast it makes your head spin. All the tension that's been simmering for months, all the unsaid words piling up like dry kindling, all the pretending you could exist next to each other without wanting to burn—it all floods into that single point of contact, igniting.
Dick makes a sound low in his throat—muffled against your mouth, raw and startled, like he wasn't prepared for how hard it would hit him, how completely it would undo him.
His hand at your back tightens, fingers splaying wider, pulling you flush against him until there's no space left—your chest pressed to his, hips aligned, the solid heat of him grounding you even as everything else spins. The other hand slides up from your fingers to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing the soft skin of your cheek as he angles your head exactly the way he wants, deepening the kiss with a familiar, devastating certainty. He kisses like he does everything else—focused, precise, devastatingly thorough—using every scrap of knowledge he has about you, about the way you like to be touched, the rhythm that makes you sigh, the pressure that makes you arch.
You taste him—clean, warm, a hint of the rich tomato sauce from dinner, the faint bitterness of coffee lingering on his tongue, and underneath it all something purely him, something that floods your senses with memory: prison air thick with disinfectant and desperation, cold concrete against your back, the burn of need in a narrow cot, his mouth on yours when the world felt like it was collapsing around you both.
But this is different.
No bars. No guards. No deals. No ticking clock.
Just you and him in your living room, with a candle guttering low on the table, wax pooling in soft golden drips, and your heartbeat pounding in your ears like a drum.
You part your lips slightly—just a breath—and that's all the invitation he needs.
The kiss turns hungry.
His mouth moves against yours with a desperation he doesn't bother to hide anymore—like all the restraint he's been clinging to for months has finally been given permission to break. His tongue slides against yours, slow at first, exploratory, relearning the shape of you, the taste, the way you respond when he does that one thing with the flat of his tongue that always made you shiver. Then more insistent, deeper, claiming in a way that feels both possessive and reverent.
It's overwhelming in the best way.
Your fingers curl into the fabric at his shoulder, then slide up into his hair—thick, slightly damp at the ends from earlier, soft strands slipping through your fingers as you tug him closer even though there's barely any space left. You can feel the ripple of muscle under your hands as he shifts, the way his chest expands with each sharp inhale, the way his breath stutters when you match his intensity, when you nip lightly at his lower lip and draw another low sound from him.
The kiss is a confession all by itself.
You pour into it everything you haven't said: the anger that still simmers when you think about how easily he let you walk away, the longing that's lived under your skin since the day you left, the confusion that kept you up at night, the resentment that flared every time he showed up again like nothing had changed, the relief that floods you now because he's here, really here, kissing you like you're oxygen and he's been drowning.
He answers with his own: regret so deep it tastes like salt on your tongue, want so sharp it borders on pain, hunger that makes his hands tremble slightly even as they hold you steady, a possessiveness he tries to temper but can't quite hide—the way he groans softly when you arch into him, the way his fingers flex against your spine like he needs to feel every inch of you to believe this is real.
For Dick, it hits like a crash.
He's been close to you for months—sitting next to you on the couch during movie nights, brushing past you in the narrow kitchen, handing you coffee in the mornings with that quiet smile, watching you sleep from across the room when he couldn't bring himself to leave—but nothing has given him this. The taste of you. The heat of your mouth opening under his. The way you kiss him back like you're trying to make up for all the time you lost, like you're as starved as he is, like every second apart was punishment.
He'd forgotten how dangerous it is for him to have this.
He remembers now.
He kisses you deeper, one hand sliding up into your hair, fingers threading through the strands at the nape of your neck, holding the back of your head like he's afraid you'll disappear if he doesn't anchor you. His other arm tightens around your waist, pulling you so close you can feel every breath, every shift, every tremor that runs through him when your nails scrape lightly against his scalp.
You break for air only because your lungs demand it, not because either of you wants to stop.
When your mouths part, it's barely an inch—close enough that his exhale becomes your inhale, the air between you warm and shared, tasting of him and you and everything you've both been holding back.
His forehead rests against yours for a moment, eyes closed, breathing ragged.
Then he leans in again, unable to help himself, chasing your lips like he's been dying of thirst and finally found water.
This kiss is slower, but no less intense—lingering, savoring. He takes his time, mapping your mouth like he's memorizing it all over again, letting his tongue trace along yours with a familiarity that makes your toes curl against the hardwood floor. It's dizzying, intoxicating, like your whole body is tuned around the simple fact of him—his scent, his heat, the way he groans softly when you suck lightly on his lower lip.
For Dick, it's almost too much.
It's been months since he tasted you like this—since your lips were under his, since your breath hitched against his mouth, since he felt you melt and push back at the same time, giving as good as you got. Having it again, here, now, without the constraints of concrete walls and rules and watchful eyes, is almost more than he prepared himself for.
He didn't expect it to feel like coming home and jumping off a cliff at once—safe and terrifying, grounding and free-falling.
You don't know how long you stay like that—caught in that loop of kisses, of brief breaks for air where you press your foreheads together and breathe each other in, of searching each other's faces like the answers to every question are written there in the candlelight.
Time blurs.
The music fades into the background completely—reduced to a distant hum you barely register.
All you know is the press of his mouth, the warmth of his hands—one still cradling your jaw, thumb stroking the apple of your cheek; the other wrapped around your waist like he could hold you here forever—the dizzy, terrifying relief of finally, finally letting some of this out instead of carrying it all alone.
When you finally pull back—really pull back—it's only far enough that you can see him clearly.
His lips are swollen, redder than usual, glistening in the low light. His breathing is uneven, chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow pulls. His eyes are darker than you've ever seen them—pupils blown wide, swallowing the gray until there's almost nothing left but black, all that carefully stacked control cracked open enough for you to see the man underneath: wanting, hoping, scared, determined, utterly undone.
You're not much better.
Your chest is heaving, lungs working hard to catch up. Your legs feel a little unsteady, knees soft like you've run miles. Your heart is beating so hard you're sure he can feel it under his hand, hammering against his palm like it's trying to tell him something it doesn't have words for.
For a few seconds, neither of you says anything.
You just stand there, holding onto each other—his arms still around you, your hands still on him, fingers tangled in his shirt and hair—the echo of that kiss buzzing through your bones like aftershocks.
It had already stripped away so much restraint, so many of the careful walls you'd both rebuilt over months of coexisting in the same space, that when you finally pulled back, it was like the entire room had shifted on its axis. The warm amber glow from the pendant lamp seemed suddenly richer, more intimate, casting long, soft shadows across the hardwood floor and the cluttered coffee table. The candle on the dining table had burned lower, its flame flickering in slow, hypnotic pulses, wax pooling in golden drips along the glass holder. Every inch of space between your bodies buzzed with an awareness you could no longer ignore, no longer pretend wasn't there.
You could feel his breath on your lips—warm, slightly uneven—and the tremor in your own breathing mirrored his.
For a single, suspended second, it was like neither of you knew what to do with this new, raw closeness, this sudden absence of distance after months of careful inches.
Then you moved at the same time.
You leaned in; he did too. Your mouths met again, less tentative this time, more certain, more inevitable. The kiss was immediate and hungry, like both of you were trying to reclaim something that had been stolen from you long ago, something you'd both been quietly mourning without ever saying it out loud. His lips were warm and sure against yours, slightly parted, tasting faintly of the rich tomato sauce from dinner and something deeper, uniquely him—clean skin, faint soap, the quiet heat of want held back too long. His hand at your back tightened, fingers flexing as he pulled you closer until there was no real space left between your bodies—your hips brushing his, your chest flush against the solid wall of his torso.
You weren't quite sure whether he started walking backward or you did. All you knew was that you were moving together—still kissing, still breathing each other in—as you blindly felt your way across the living room. Your shoulder brushed the sharp edge of the dining table, sending the candle flame dancing wildly for a moment. Your foot bumped into the rolled edge of the rug, nearly tripping you, but he was careful even in the urgency, guiding you with small, instinctive adjustments—his hand sliding up your spine to steady you, his body turning just enough to angle you around obstacles, protecting you from the furniture even as he refused to break the kiss.
The back of your knees hit the edge of the couch.
You broke the kiss on a soft, surprised gasp, fingers tightening in his shirt as you wobbled for a heartbeat. Instantly, his grip changed—one arm circling fully around your waist, strong and steady, keeping you upright; the other hand sliding to brace at your hip, fingers splaying wide to anchor you against him.
"Easy," he murmured against your mouth, voice low and roughened by everything that had just happened, by the months of restraint finally giving way.
Before you could answer—before you could even catch your breath—he shifted his weight. In one smooth, practiced motion, he sat back onto the couch, thighs spreading slightly to make room, and brought you with him.
You ended up settling into his lap without conscious thought, straddling him—your knees braced on either side of his powerful thighs, the worn leather of the couch creaking faintly under the combined weight. Your hands found his shoulders for balance, fingers digging into the muscle there as the new position stole your breath for an entirely different reason. You could feel the solid line of his body beneath you: the broad expanse of his chest pressing against yours with every inhale, the warmth of him radiating through layers of clothing, the faint tremor in his thighs as he adjusted to hold you steady. The angle brought your faces level, close enough that you could see every detail in the lamplight—the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw that had grown through the day, the softness at the corners of his mouth that only appeared when he let his guard down, the way his pupils were blown wide, turning the gray of his eyes almost black, ringed by that impossible, focused blue.
"Okay?" he asked, voice quiet but intent, his gaze searching your face with careful intensity—looking for any flicker of doubt, any sign of hesitation, any reason to stop.
You nodded, your throat too tight, too full for words. "Yeah."
That was all he needed.
His hand at your lower back urged you forward just a fraction, a gentle pressure that felt like invitation rather than demand, and you closed the distance, kissing him again. This time there was no slow build-up, no careful testing. He welcomed you with a low, guttural sound that vibrated against your mouth, his fingers flexing lightly where they held you, like he was trying to memorize the feel of you in this position.
You moved with him, your bodies adjusting instinctively to the new intimacy. Every small shift made you more aware of him—the breadth of his shoulders under your hands, solid and warm; the rise and fall of his chest pressing rhythmically against yours; the way his posture stayed both controlled and completely given over to you at the same time, thighs firm beneath you, arms encircling without caging.
His kisses changed as the seconds stretched.
They went from searching and uncertain to deep and consuming, like he was relearning you in real time, cataloging every response, every hitch in your breath. He drew your bottom lip into his mouth for a moment, tongue brushing gently along the curve of it, and the sensation sent a sharp spark straight down your spine, making you clutch at him harder, nails digging lightly into his shoulders through the shirt.
When he finally broke away from your lips, it wasn't to create distance.
It was to explore.
His mouth drifted across your cheek, his breath fanning warm and unsteady against your skin as he pressed a lingering, open-mouthed kiss at the corner of your jaw. His hand at your back eased you just a little closer, tilting your head slightly so he had better access. You felt the faint, delicious scrape of his stubble against your skin as he continued down along the line of your jaw, lips tracing a slow, deliberate path that made your breath shorten, your pulse thud heavily in your throat.
Then he found your neck.
He paused for half a heartbeat, his nose brushing the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, inhaling like he was memorizing your scent—the faint trace of your shampoo, the warmth of your skin after dinner, the subtle salt of anticipation. Then his lips pressed there—soft at first, almost reverent, a gentle kiss that still managed to send a sharp, electric warmth racing down your spine and pooling low in your belly.
You exhaled his name without meaning to, the sound soft and breathless, barely audible over the distant hum of the music.
He responded by deepening the attention he gave that spot, and then another—his mouth moving slowly down the side of your throat with devastating patience. His kisses varied—some light and lingering, feather-soft brushes of lips that made you shiver; some firmer, deliberate, the faint suction pulling a quiet sound from your throat; some open-mouthed, tongue flicking lightly against your pulse point, tasting the flutter there. Each one was placed with the same unnerving precision he brought to everything else in his life—strategic, focused, devastatingly effective. It felt less like he was stumbling through passion and more like he was following a map he'd drawn long ago, revisiting familiar territory with new urgency, new reverence.
Your fingers threaded into his hair—thick, slightly wavy, still faintly damp from earlier—feeling the soft give of it between your hands as you held on. He tilted his head slightly under your touch, angling his mouth to drag along the curve where your neck met your shoulder. His breath warmed that stretch of skin just before his lips followed, leaving another slow, careful kiss there, then another, the faint scrape of stubble sending fresh sparks across your nerves.
Every time his mouth landed, the rest of the world fell a little further away—the apartment with its familiar creaks and distant city hum, the looming decisions about Saturday, the unanswered questions about Jason and the gala, the complicated tangle of past and present. It all receded until there was only this: his hands steady on you—one still at the curve of your lower back, fingers splayed wide, thumb tracing slow arcs against your spine; the other resting at the back of your hips, holding you in place with gentle but unyielding strength—your knees braced by his hips, thighs bracketing his, the solid heat of him beneath you; his lips traveling along your neck like he was relearning every place that made you melt, every spot that made your breath catch, every inch of skin that remembered him.
The atmosphere in the room was no longer just charged—it was intimate in a way that felt both brand new and painfully familiar. The kind of closeness that didn't need words to explain itself, because the language of the way you held each other said enough: the way your fingers tightened in his hair when his teeth grazed lightly against your pulse; the way his breath stuttered when you shifted in his lap and pressed closer; the way neither of you rushed, savoring instead, drawing out every touch, every kiss, every shared breath like time had finally decided to give you both a reprieve.
The world narrows to this: the soft, wet slide of lips parting and reconnecting, the subtle suction when he draws your lower lip between his teeth for a gentle nip, sending a spark of heat straight down your spine.
His breath mingles with yours in ragged exhales, warm and uneven against your skin, carrying the faint scent of his cologne—clean, woody, with an undercurrent of the motor oil from his shop job that clings to him like a second skin.
Your hands roam without thought, one sliding up the back of his neck to tangle in his dark, tousled hair, fingers curling into the thick strands and tugging just enough to elicit a low, rumbling groan from deep in his chest.
Unconsciously, your hips begin to grind against his—slow, instinctive rolls that press the growing hardness in your jeans against the firm ridge forming in his, the friction building like a spark on dry tinder. The movement starts subtle, a natural response to the heat pooling low in your belly, but it escalates with each pass: your thighs bracketing his, muscles flexing as you shift your weight forward, the denim scraping roughly against denim in a way that sends jolts of pleasure radiating through your core.
You can feel the solid strength of his thighs beneath you, unyielding and powerful, his hips rising slightly to meet yours in a mirrored rhythm, the subtle thrust of his body against you amplifying the ache.
The couch creaks faintly under the shifting pressure, the worn leather cool against the backs of your legs where your jeans ride up slightly, but all you register is the building tension—the way your erection strains against the confines of your zipper, throbbing with each grind, the fabric barrier only heightening the tease.
This only riles up Dick further, his composure cracking like thin ice under heat. His hands, which had been steady at your hips, now grip tighter—fingers digging into the muscle of your sides with a possessive strength, thumbs pressing into the dips of your hip bones through your shirt.
You feel the shift in him immediately: his breathing quickens against your mouth, turning ragged and hungry, his kisses growing more urgent, more demanding, tongue delving deeper as if he's trying to consume you whole. A low growl escapes him, vibrating through your chest where your bodies are pressed flush, and his hands slide lower, tracing the curve of your ass before squeezing firmly, urging your hips to grind harder against him.
The action sends a fresh wave of arousal surging through you, your cock twitching in response, but it's clear in the way his eyes darken when he pulls back for a breath—pupils blown wide, brown irises nearly eclipsed—that he's beyond restraint now.
His gaze rakes over you, lingering on the flush creeping up your neck, the way your shirt clings slightly from the building sweat, and you can see the decision form in his expression: he wants you undressed, wants to peel away every layer between you until there's nothing left but skin and heat and the raw need that's been simmering for too long.
Without a word, his fingers hook under the hem of your shirt, knuckles brushing the warm skin of your abdomen as he tugs upward—slow at first, giving you a moment to stop him if you wanted, but when you don't, he lifts it higher, exposing the planes of your stomach, the faint trail of hair leading down from your navel.
The cool air of the room kisses your newly bared skin, raising goosebumps in its wake, contrasting sharply with the heat of his hands as they slide up your sides, thumbs tracing the ridges of your ribs.
You raise your arms instinctively, letting him pull the shirt over your head in one fluid motion, the fabric whispering against your hair before it's discarded to the floor in a careless heap. Now shirtless, you feel exposed under his intense gaze—his eyes drinking in the sight of your bare chest, the subtle definition of muscle from your self-defense classes, the way your nipples harden slightly in the cooler air.
His hands return immediately, palms flat against your skin, exploring with reverent hunger: fingers splaying across your pecs, thumbs circling your nipples in teasing passes that make you arch into him, a soft hiss escaping your lips.
But he's not done—far from it. His mouth finds your neck again, lips latching onto the pulse point there as one hand drifts lower, fumbling with the button of your jeans. The metal pops open with a faint click, the zipper rasping down as he eases it apart, his knuckles brushing the bulge in your boxers and drawing a sharp inhale from you.
The anticipation builds like a coil in your gut, your hips still grinding against his in shallow, needy circles, the friction now even more intense with the barrier thinning.
Dick's own arousal is impossible to ignore—the hard length of him straining against his pants, pressing insistently against your inner thigh with each movement, his breaths coming in hot puffs against your skin as he murmurs your name like a prayer, voice gravelly and wrecked.
He wants you bare, wants to strip away the last remnants of separation, and in this moment, with the room spinning around the heat of his touch, you want it too—want him to unravel you completely.
Dick's hand, warm and calloused from days spent wrenching tools at the motorcycle shop, snaked its way down the front of your body with deliberate slowness—fingers trailing along the taut planes of your abdomen, dipping beneath the elastic waistband of your boxers where the fabric clung slightly from the building heat and sweat.
The touch was teasing at first, his knuckles brushing the coarse trail of hair leading downward from your navel, sending a shiver racing up your spine as the cooler air of the room kissed the newly exposed skin when he tugged the waistband lower.
His palm pressed flat against your lower belly for a moment, grounding you, before venturing further, the rough pads of his fingers grazing the sensitive base of your cock, already straining hard and throbbing with need from the grinding friction of your hips against his.
He grasped you then—firm but not rough, his hand wrapping around the thick length of your dick with a confident squeeze that made your breath hitch sharply in your throat.
The heat of his palm enveloped you completely, fingers curling to form a perfect, snug grip, thumb pressing lightly against the underside where the vein pulsed prominently, tracing it upward in a slow, exploratory stroke that sent jolts of pleasure sparking through your core.
You could feel every ridge of his fingerprints against your sensitive skin, the subtle calluses adding a textured friction that heightened the sensation, making your hips buck involuntarily into his hand.
He began to jerk you with measured, rhythmic pulls—starting slow, his wrist twisting slightly at the head on each upstroke, spreading the bead of pre-cum that had gathered there to slick the motion, the wet glide easing the way as his pace gradually built.
Each tug was deliberate, precise, like he was savoring the way your body responded—the way your cock twitched in his grasp, hardening further under his touch, the veins standing out more prominently against the flushed skin. The pressure was just right, firm enough to build that coiling tension deep in your gut, but teasing enough to keep you on the edge, your balls drawing up tighter with every pass of his hand.
A moan escaped you then, raw and unfiltered, bubbling up from your chest and spilling into the kiss—muffled against his lips as your mouths moved together in a messy, heated tangle. The sound vibrated between you, low and needy, breaking free in the brief moments when your lips parted for air, only to be swallowed again as he claimed your mouth once more.
His other hand remained at your hip, fingers digging in to hold you steady as your body arched into the sensation, the dual assault of his kiss—tongue delving deep, tasting every corner of your mouth—and his hand working you relentlessly making your head spin, pleasure building like a wave ready to crash.
You had to tell him—had to force the words out through the haze of pleasure clouding your mind—because the way Dick's hand was working you, relentless and skilled, was pushing you dangerously close to the edge far too soon.
His grip on your cock was unyielding, fingers wrapped firmly around the thick shaft, pumping with a rhythm that alternated between slow, teasing glides and faster, insistent strokes that made your hips jerk involuntarily upward into his fist.
The slick sound of skin on skin filled the room, mingled with your ragged breaths and the faint creak of the couch beneath you, the leather sticking slightly to the backs of your thighs where sweat had begun to gather. Each twist of his wrist at the head—thumb circling the sensitive slit, spreading the steady leak of pre-cum to ease the friction—sent fresh waves of heat coiling tight in your groin, your balls drawing up taut, the pressure building like a storm ready to break.
Your erection throbbed in his palm, veins pulsing visibly under the flushed skin, the head darkening with arousal as blood rushed southward, making every nerve ending sing under his touch.
You broke the kiss just enough to gasp it out, your voice rough and strained, lips brushing his as you spoke: "Dick—if you keep doing that, I'm gonna come before anything else happens."
The words tumbled from you in a breathless rush, your chest heaving, forehead pressed against his as you fought to hold back, muscles tensing in your abdomen, thighs quivering where they bracketed his hips.
You could feel the smirk curve against your mouth before he pulled back slightly, his gray eyes locking onto yours—darkened with lust, pupils blown wide in the dim lamplight, a faint sheen of sweat glistening along his brow.
He didn't stop, though—not entirely. His hand slowed to a torturous pace, a lazy pump that kept the fire simmering without letting it erupt, his thumb pressing firmly against the underside of your cock where the vein throbbed most insistently, drawing another involuntary moan from deep in your throat.
"Go ahead," he murmured, voice low and gravelly, laced with that confident edge that made your stomach flip. His free hand slid up your bare back, fingers tracing the ridges of your spine before settling at the nape of your neck, holding you close as if to ensure you couldn't pull away.
"Come for me. I want to feel it—want to watch you fall apart right here in my lap." His breath was hot against your ear as he leaned in, lips brushing the shell before nipping lightly at your lobe, the sting sending another jolt straight to your groin.
Then, with a wicked glint in his eyes, he added, "Besides, I plan on making you come again and again tonight." The promise hung in the air like a challenge, his words dripping with intent—his hand resuming a firmer stroke as if to prove his point, fingers squeezing just right at the base before sliding up to the tip in a slow, deliberate twist.
You could feel the truth in it: the way his own arousal pressed hard against your inner thigh through his pants, thick and insistent, throbbing in time with his heartbeat; the way his gaze roamed your body hungrily, taking in the flush creeping across your chest, the way your abs tensed with each pull, the beads of sweat tracing paths down your collarbone.
He meant it—wanted to wring every ounce of pleasure from you, to push you over the edge and then build you back up, over and over, until you were spent and shaking in his arms.
The thought alone was enough to tip you closer, your moans growing louder, more desperate, echoing in the quiet room as the tension coiled tighter, ready to snap.
Dick leaned in slowly, his breath warm and ragged against your bare chest, the faint stubble on his chin grazing the sensitive skin just above your left nipple as he closed the distance.
His lips parted slightly, brushing the peaked bud with a feather-light touch at first—soft, almost teasing, the heat of his mouth contrasting the cooler air of the room that had raised goosebumps across your torso.
He pressed a gentle kiss there, lips enveloping the nipple fully, the wet warmth of his mouth sending a sharp jolt of pleasure straight down to your core, making your cock twitch in his still-moving hand.
He continued to jerk you off without missing a beat, his grip firm and rhythmic—fingers wrapped snugly around your throbbing shaft, slick with pre-cum that he smeared along the length with each upward stroke, his thumb circling the swollen head in lazy swirls that made your hips buck involuntarily.
The motion was steady, deliberate, building that coiling heat in your groin with every pull: slow glides from base to tip that had your veins pulsing under his palm, the rough calluses on his fingers adding just enough friction to edge you closer without tipping you over. Your erection strained in his hand, hard and flushed, the skin taut and sensitive, every vein standing out as blood rushed through you, making the head glisten in the dim lamplight.
His eyes tracked your facial expressions with intense focus, gray gaze locked upward from his position at your chest—watching the way your brows furrowed in pleasure, the subtle part of your lips as a low moan escaped, the flush creeping up your neck and staining your cheeks.
He lingered on every micro-reaction: the flutter of your eyelids when sensation spiked, the tense clench of your jaw as you fought to hold back, the way your Adam's apple bobbed when you swallowed hard.
It was like he was cataloging you, learning anew what made you unravel, his stare both predatory and reverent, darkened with lust as he drank in your responses.
Every time he bit or licked your nipple, he matched the movement with his hand—timing it with unnerving precision to amplify the pleasure. First, a slow lick: his tongue flattening against the hardened peak, dragging upward in a broad, wet stroke that left a trail of saliva cooling on your skin, the sensation electric and teasing.
As his tongue circled the areola—slow, deliberate laps that made your nipple tighten further—he synced it with a long, languid pump of his hand, squeezing at the base before sliding up to the tip, twisting his wrist just enough to make your breath hitch sharply. Then, a bite: gentle at first, teeth grazing the sensitive bud before nipping lightly, the sharp sting blooming into heat that radiated through your chest.
He matched it with a firmer stroke—hand tightening around your cock, quickening the pace for a beat, thumb pressing into the underside vein as he tugged upward, the dual assault making your back arch off the couch, a guttural moan tearing from your throat.
He switched to the other nipple seamlessly, mouth latching on with a soft suck that pulled the peak between his lips, tongue flicking rapidly against it in short, insistent bursts that had your fingers digging into his shoulders for purchase.
All the while, his eyes never left your face—tracking the way your expression twisted in ecstasy, lips parted in silent pleas, eyes half-lidded and hazy with building release.
The coordination was devastating: a swirl of his tongue paired with a slow, squeezing stroke that milked another bead of pre-cum from your slit; a sharper bite that made you gasp, synced with a faster jerk that had your balls tightening, the orgasm coiling tighter in your gut.
You grasped Dick's hair tightly, fingers weaving deep into the thick, tousled strands at the back of his head—dark and slightly damp from the sweat of your shared heat, the texture soft yet coarse under your grip as you tugged harder, anchoring yourself against the overwhelming rush building inside you.
Your knuckles whitened with the effort, nails scraping lightly against his scalp, eliciting a low, approving growl from him that vibrated through your chest where your bodies pressed together.
The tension in your core snapped like a taut wire, and you felt yourself cum—hot, intense waves of release surging through you, your cock pulsing wildly in his unrelenting hand as thick ropes of semen spilled out, splattering across your bare abdomen in messy streaks, the warm fluid cooling quickly against your flushed skin.
Some landed on his knuckles and the back of his hand, glistening in the dim lamplight, mixing with the slick pre-cum that had already coated his palm from minutes of stroking you to the brink.
Your body shuddered violently with the climax, muscles tensing and releasing in rapid succession—your abs contracting sharply, thighs quivering where they straddled his lap, a deep, guttural moan tearing from your throat as the pleasure crested and ebbed, leaving you breathless and trembling.
The scent of it filled the air between you—musky, intimate, mingling with the faint aroma of sweat and arousal that hung heavy in the room. Dick's hand slowed but didn't stop entirely, milking the last drops from you with gentle, coaxing squeezes, his thumb pressing into the sensitive underside to draw out every shuddering aftershock, prolonging the ecstasy until you were spent, your erection softening slightly in his grasp but still twitching with residual sensitivity.
He licked it up then, his eyes locking onto yours with a dark, hungry intensity that made your spent cock stir faintly despite the exhaustion. Bringing his cum-covered hand to his mouth, he extended his tongue—pink and wet—and lapped at the sticky fluid on his knuckles, the motion slow and deliberate, savoring the salty, bitter taste of you with a low hum of satisfaction that resonated in his chest. His lips closed around one finger, sucking it clean with a soft, obscene pop, the sight sending a fresh wave of heat through your veins even as your body recovered.
He didn't waste a drop, his tongue tracing paths along his palm and between his fingers, cleaning every trace of your release with focused precision, the act both filthy and intimate, his gaze never leaving your face, watching the way your expression shifted from blissed-out haze to renewed desire.
Before you could fully catch your breath, he leaned in and kissed you—his mouth crashing against yours with renewed fervor, lips parted and insistent, tongue delving deep to share the lingering taste of you in a messy, possessive tangle.
The kiss was salty-sweet, flavored with your own essence, his stubble scraping roughly against your chin as he tilted your head back slightly for better access, dominating the moment with a growl that you felt more than heard. His free hand—still clean—cradled the back of your neck, holding you in place as he devoured your mouth, breaths mingling in hot, uneven puffs.
Then, with surprising ease, he lifted you—his arms wrapping around your waist like steel bands, muscles flexing under his shirt as he stood from the couch in one fluid motion, hoisting your weight effortlessly despite your solid build.
Your legs unwound from his hips instinctively, feet finding the floor, but your knees felt weak, wobbly from the aftershocks of your orgasm, forcing you to lean into him for support. The room spun slightly around you—the candlelight flickering on the walls, the faint hum of the city outside the window—as he steadied you with a firm grip on your hips, his touch grounding and electric all at once.
He stripped you out of your pants and boxers then, hands moving with urgent efficiency—fingers hooking into the waistband of both layers at once, tugging them down over your hips in a single, decisive pull. The fabric rasped against your skin, catching briefly on the curve of your ass before sliding free, pooling at your ankles in a tangled heap.
Your cock—still semi-hard and sensitive—sprang free into the cooler air, the sudden exposure making it twitch, a faint string of residual cum glistening at the tip. You stepped out of the clothes clumsily, kicking them aside, now completely bare before him—your body flushed and marked by the evidence of your release, streaks of drying semen on your abs and thighs, skin prickling with goosebumps under his appraising gaze.
He pushed you down to the couch before you could react—hands on your shoulders guiding you back with gentle but unyielding force, the leather cushions cool and slightly sticky against your bare back and ass as you sank into them. The motion was controlled, not rough, but insistent, positioning you reclined with your legs spread slightly, exposed and waiting. Your heart pounded in your chest, anticipation thrumming through you as you watched him.
He slipped off his shirt then, reaching behind his neck to grab the collar and pulling it over his head in one smooth tug—the fabric whispering against his skin as it revealed the chiseled lines of his torso inch by inch: broad shoulders rolling with the movement, defined pecs flexing slightly, abs rippling under taut skin marked by faint scars from his past life.
The shirt landed discarded on the floor, forgotten, his chest heaving with deep breaths, nipples hardened in the room's air, a light sheen of sweat making his skin glow in the low light.
He pushed down his pants next—fingers unbuttoning the fly with quick, deft motions, the zipper rasping open before he shoved the denim down his hips, kicking them off along with his shoes in a hurried tangle. Though he didn't have any boxers on—commando, the realization hitting you like a spark—leaving him immediately bare, his cock springing free, hard and imposing.
The only thing you saw was his hard 10-inch length—thick and veined, curving slightly upward with a flushed, swollen head already leaking a bead of pre-cum that trailed down the shaft. It bobbed heavily with his movements, the skin taut and smooth, base nestled in a trimmed patch of dark hair, balls heavy and drawn up tight beneath.
The sight made your mouth water, your own spent cock stirring back to life as you took in every detail—the way it throbbed visibly with his pulse, the girth that promised a stretch, the sheer presence of it commanding the room as he stood over you, eyes dark with intent.
Dick leaned in slowly, his breath warm and uneven against your lips, the faint stubble on his chin grazing your skin as he closed the distance once more. His mouth met yours in a deep, lingering kiss—lips parting with a soft, wet sound, tongue sliding against yours in a slow, possessive tangle that tasted of shared arousal and the lingering salt of your earlier release.
His hands roamed your bare back, fingers tracing the ridges of your spine with firm pressure, pulling you closer until your chests pressed flush, the rapid thud of his heartbeat echoing against yours. The kiss deepened, his teeth nipping lightly at your lower lip, drawing a soft gasp from you that he swallowed with a low hum of satisfaction vibrating in his throat.
Before you could fully lose yourself in it again, he broke away just enough to murmur against your mouth, voice rough and commanding: "Turn around for me."
His hands guided you—strong and sure, one on your hip, the other sliding to your shoulder—as he maneuvered you to face away from him, spinning you in place with effortless control. Now with your back to him, he had full access and an unobstructed view of your ass—the firm, rounded curves exposed in the dim lamplight, skin flushed from the heat of the moment, a faint sheen of sweat making it glisten slightly.
You could feel his gaze like a physical touch, heavy and appreciative, lingering on the way your muscles tensed under his scrutiny, the subtle dimples at the base of your spine, the way your thighs shifted as you braced yourself against the couch arm for balance.
He sank to his knees behind you then, the movement deliberate and unhurried—the faint rustle of his knees hitting the rug, his hands settling on your hips to steady you both.
The position put him at eye level with your ass, his breath fanning hot across the sensitive skin, raising goosebumps in its wake. He started off with light kisses—soft, open-mouthed presses along the curve of one cheek, lips brushing tenderly at first, then lingering longer, the warmth of his mouth contrasting the cooler air of the room.
Each kiss was placed with care: one at the swell where your ass met your thigh, another higher up near the dimple, his stubble scraping lightly in a way that sent tingles radiating outward.
His hands joined in, rubbing against your ass with broad, soothing strokes—palms flat and warm, fingers kneading the firm muscle gently at first, then more firmly, squeezing the flesh with appreciative pressure that made you arch slightly, pushing back into his touch without thinking.
The rubs grew more exploratory, his thumbs tracing the cleft between your cheeks, parting them just enough to expose more skin, the intimacy of it making your breath hitch and your cock—still sensitive from your recent orgasm—stir faintly between your legs. He alternated between kisses and rubs, his mouth trailing a path across one cheek to the other, lips sucking lightly to leave faint, warm marks that cooled quickly, while his hands massaged in slow circles, fingers digging in to release the tension in your glutes, the sensation both relaxing and arousing, building a fresh ache low in your belly.
Then his tongue joined the fray—swirling against your cheeks in broad, wet strokes that left glistening trails on your skin. He started at the outer curve of one cheek, tongue flattening to drag upward in a slow, deliberate lick, tasting the salt of your sweat, the subtle musk of your body, the heat radiating from you.
The sensation was electric—wet and warm, the rough texture of his tongue sending shivers up your spine, making your fingers curl tighter against the couch cushion. He swirled in lazy patterns, circling closer inward with each pass: a figure-eight across the swell, dipping lower to trace the crease where cheek met thigh, then higher, teasing the sensitive skin near your cleft. His hands parted your cheeks wider now, thumbs holding you open gently but firmly, exposing your hole to the air—and to him.
His tongue found it then—swirling against the tight ring of muscle with pinpoint precision, the first contact a light, teasing flick that made you gasp sharply, your body jolting forward before pushing back instinctively.
The swirl deepened, his tongue circling the rim in slow, wet laps—clockwise, then counterclockwise—probing gently at the center with the tip, the warmth and wetness of it sending bolts of pleasure radiating through your core. Saliva gathered, making everything slick and messy, the obscene sounds of his tongue against you filling the room alongside your uneven breaths and soft moans.
The faint scrape of his stubble brushing the inner curves of your cheeks as he pressed closer, burying his face deeper between them. He lapped with focused intent, tongue flattening to drag broad, languid strokes along the rim—up and down, side to side—coating you in saliva that dripped messily down your perineum, the slickness building with each pass until you felt yourself loosening under the attention, your body responding instinctively, muscles relaxing as heat pooled low in your belly.
He got your hole nice and wet, saliva glistening in the dim lamplight, the cool air of the room making the moisture feel even more pronounced against your heated skin. His hands held your cheeks apart firmly but gently—thumbs pressing into the firm muscle, spreading you wider for better access, exposing you completely to his ministrations.
The sounds were obscene and unavoidable: the wet, smacking laps of his tongue against your entrance, your own ragged breaths turning into soft moans that echoed in the quiet room, the faint creak of the couch as your fingers dug into the leather for support.
Every swirl pushed deeper—his tongue probing gently at the center, circling the rim before dipping inside with shallow thrusts that stretched you just enough to hint at what was coming, the intrusion warm and insistent, making your cock—still sensitive from your earlier release—twitch and harden anew between your legs, hanging heavy and neglected for now.
Before long, the slickness was undeniable—your hole twitching and glistening, saliva trailing down your inner thighs in thin rivulets, mixing with the faint sweat from the building arousal. Only then did his fingers enter in—one at first, slick with his own saliva as he gathered more from his mouth, pressing the pad of his index finger against the softened rim and circling it teasingly before pushing inside with slow, careful pressure.
The intrusion burned slightly at first—a delicious stretch that made you gasp, your muscles clenching around the digit instinctively before relaxing under his patient coaxing. He crooked his finger gently, rubbing against your inner walls in exploratory strokes, searching for that spot that would make you see stars—the prostate, swollen and sensitive, sending jolts of pleasure through you when he brushed it, your body arching back into him with a low, throaty groan.
He wanted to prepare you thoroughly, to give you the prince treatment—lavishing attention on every inch, his free hand rubbing soothing circles on your hip while he added a second finger, scissoring them gently to stretch you further, the slick slide eased by the abundance of saliva and your body's growing eagerness.
It had been so long since he'd been inside you—months of tension, of stolen glances and unspoken want—and he moved with a reverence that spoke volumes, his breaths coming in hot puffs against your skin as he worked you open, fingers curling and thrusting in a steady rhythm that built the ache without rushing.
He whispered low praises between licks and kisses to your cheeks—"So good for me," "Missed this so much," his voice rough and sincere, laced with the promise of more.
He had plans to show you just how much he missed you, how serious he was about wanting you—not just in words, but in the way he took his time, fingers plunging deeper now, three of them stretching you wide, rubbing insistently against your prostate with each in-and-out motion that made your toes curl and your cock leak pre-cum onto the couch below.
The preparation was methodical, loving, drawing out moans and shudders from you as he built you up, his own arousal evident in the way his hard length pressed against your calf where he knelt, throbbing with restraint.
He wanted you ready, wanted you begging, wanted to prove with every curl of his fingers and every swirl of his tongue—now dipping back in alongside his digits for added slickness—that he was here for good, that this was just the beginning of unraveling you completely.
Dick then stood up behind you, his movements fluid and deliberate—the faint rustle of his knees lifting from the rug, the subtle shift of air as his body rose to full height, towering over you where you remained braced against the couch, your hands gripping the leather armrest for support.
His presence was overwhelming, a solid wall of heat at your back, his bare chest brushing lightly against your shoulder blades as he positioned himself, the faint sheen of sweat on his skin making the contact slick and intimate. You could feel the hard length of his cock—10 inches of thick, veined arousal—pressing insistently against the curve of your ass, throbbing with his pulse, the head already slick with pre-cum that left a warm, sticky trail where it nudged your skin.
He lined himself up with your hole then, one hand steady on your hip—fingers digging in just enough to hold you in place, thumb pressing into the dip of your hip bone—while the other guided his shaft.
The blunt head nudged against your entrance, teasing the slick, saliva-coated rim that still twitched from his earlier attentions, the contact sending a fresh shiver racing up your spine. Your hole clenched instinctively at the pressure, anticipation coiling tight in your gut, your own cock—half-hard and sensitive from your recent orgasm—stirring faintly between your legs as the promise of him filled the air.
Before pushing in, he lathered his dick with his saliva—gathering it first by bringing his free hand to his mouth, lips parting as he spat into his palm with a low, wet sound, the clear fluid pooling there before he wrapped his fingers around his shaft.
He stroked himself slowly, methodically—hand gliding from base to tip in long, even pulls, coating the thick length in a glistening layer of spit that made the veins stand out more prominently, the skin shining in the dim lamplight.
The motion was audible: the slick, obscene slide of his fist over himself, saliva mixing with his pre-cum to create a slippery sheen that dripped slightly from the head, trailing down the underside. He added more—another deliberate spit, the sound raw and intimate—ensuring every inch was lubricated, the head flaring wider as he pumped, thumb circling the crown to spread the moisture evenly.
The scent of it filled the space between you—musky arousal mingled with the faint, clean tang of saliva—heightening the tension as he prepared himself, his breaths coming in hot, controlled puffs against the nape of your neck.
He slipped inside you with ease then—the saliva and his thorough preparation making the entry smooth despite his size, the head breaching your rim with a slow, insistent push that stretched you open gradually.
The burn was minimal, a delicious ache that bloomed into fullness as inch after inch sank deeper: the thick girth forcing your walls to yield, the veins dragging against your inner muscles in a textured glide that sent sparks of pleasure radiating through your core.
You gasped sharply, the sound breaking the quiet room, your hole clenching around him instinctively before relaxing, drawing him in further until he was fully seated—his hips flush against your ass, the coarse hair at his base tickling your skin, his balls pressing warmly against your perineum.
Your back was against his chest and stomach now—pressed fully into him as he wrapped one arm around your waist, pulling you upright into a standing embrace, the solid planes of his abs flexing against your lower back, his chest heaving with deep breaths that matched your own.
The heat of him enveloped you completely: sweat-slick skin sliding against yours, his heartbeat thudding steadily against your shoulder blade, the faint rasp of his stubble as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck.
He held still for a long moment, letting you adjust to him—the overwhelming fullness, the way he throbbed inside you, stretching you to your limits, every subtle shift of his hips sending ripples of sensation through your body.
His free hand splayed across your abdomen, fingers pressing lightly into the taut muscle there, feeling the faint bulge where he filled you so completely, a low groan escaping his lips as he savored the tight, velvet heat clenching around him.
"Breathe," he murmured against your ear, voice rough and soothing, giving you time to acclimate before anything more, his own restraint evident in the slight tremble of his thighs against yours.
He the started off with his thrusts slow but deep, each one a deliberate, measured push that filled you completely—the thick length of his cock sliding in with unhurried precision, the head nudging against your inner walls as he buried himself to the hilt, stretching you open in a way that burned sweetly at first, then melted into a profound fullness that made your breath catch in your throat.
The motion was rhythmic, almost languid: he'd pull back nearly all the way, the veined shaft dragging along your sensitive prostate in a slow retreat that left you clenching around the sudden emptiness, only to drive forward again—deep, insistent, bottoming out with a subtle grind of his hips that pressed his pelvis flush against your ass, the coarse hair at his base tickling your skin.
You could feel every inch of him: the way his girth forced your muscles to yield, the pulsing heat of him throbbing inside you, the faint slick sounds of saliva and pre-cum easing the glide as your bodies connected over and over.
Sweat began to bead along your lower back, trickling down in thin rivulets that mingled with the moisture between you, the room filled with the intimate symphony of skin slapping softly against skin, your heavy breaths, and the occasional low groan rumbling from his chest.
While thrusting, he kissed your neck—his mouth latching onto the sensitive column of your throat with warm, open-mouthed presses that sent shivers cascading down your spine.
His lips were soft yet insistent, brushing the flushed skin just below your ear at first, then trailing lower in a path of lingering kisses: one at the juncture where neck met shoulder, his teeth grazing lightly before soothing with a suck that pulled a faint mark to the surface, blooming red against your skin.
His stubble scraped deliciously with each movement, adding a rough texture to the tenderness, while his breath fanned hot and uneven against you, carrying the faint scent of his earlier arousal and the salty tang of your skin.
He timed the kisses with his thrusts—each deep push accompanied by a kiss or a nip, his tongue flicking out to taste the sweat gathering there, swirling in slow circles against your pulse point where your heartbeat thrummed wildly under his lips.
The dual sensations overwhelmed you: the fullness inside contrasting the gentle worship of his mouth outside, making your body arch back into him, pressing your back more firmly against the solid plane of his chest and abs, his free hand splaying across your stomach to hold you close, fingers digging in just enough to anchor you as pleasure built in waves.
Your body adjusted to Dick rather quickly, as if it missed him—as if every muscle, every nerve remembered him intimately, welcoming him back like a long-lost part of itself. The initial stretch eased almost immediately, your inner walls relaxing around his girth with surprising ease, clenching and releasing in rhythmic pulses that drew him deeper without resistance.
It was like muscle memory: the way you opened for him, the faint burn fading into a warm, addictive friction that had you pushing back to meet his thrusts, your hole fluttering around him in eager acceptance. Heat spread through your core, loosening any lingering tension, your prostate singing with each deep nudge that sent sparks of ecstasy radiating outward—through your thighs, up your spine, making your cock—still sensitive and half-hard—twitch and leak fresh pre-cum onto your abdomen.
Sweat slicked your skin where your bodies connected, the slide becoming smoother, more fluid, as if your body had been waiting for this, craving the familiar invasion, the way he filled you so completely that it felt right, necessary.
Dick continued with his slow but deep thrusts, each one a deliberate, unhurried plunge that buried him fully inside you—the thick girth of his cock stretching your inner walls with a profound, aching fullness that made your breath hitch every time he bottomed out.
The motion was rhythmic and controlled: he'd withdraw almost completely, the veined shaft dragging slowly along your sensitive prostate in a teasing retreat that left you clenching around the emptiness, your hole fluttering in protest, only to drive forward again—deep and insistent, hips rolling with a subtle grind that pressed his pelvis flush against your ass, the coarse hair at his base scraping against your skin in a textured reminder of how completely he filled you.
You could feel every detail: the way his length throbbed inside you, veins pulsing against your slick walls; the heat of him radiating through your core; the faint, wet sounds of skin meeting skin, saliva easing the glide as your bodies connected over and over in a symphony of intimacy.
Sweat slicked the space between you, your back sliding against his chest with each movement, the friction building a delicious heat that made your muscles tense and release in waves, your own cock—hardening again from the stimulation—bobbing heavily between your legs, leaking pre-cum that dripped onto the couch cushions below.
But his lips switched from your neck to your lips in a passionate kiss—trailing upward first in a path of lingering, open-mouthed presses: one at the curve of your jaw, stubble scraping lightly; another at the corner of your mouth, teasing before he captured your lips fully.
The kiss was fierce and consuming, his mouth crashing against yours with a hunger that matched the rhythm of his thrusts—lips parting wide, tongue delving deep to tangle with yours in wet, messy strokes that tasted of salt and shared arousal, his breath hot and ragged mingling with yours in the scant space between.
His teeth nipped at your lower lip, drawing it between his own for a gentle suck that sent sparks racing down your spine, while his free hand cradled the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair to hold you steady, tilting you just right to deepen the connection.
You moaned into his mouth as he continued— the sound low and guttural, vibrating against his tongue as the dual sensations overwhelmed you: the deep, grinding thrusts hitting your prostate with each slow drive, sending jolts of pleasure radiating through your core, and the passionate kiss swallowing your cries, his lips muffling the noise while amplifying the intimacy.
The moan built from your chest, raw and needy, spilling out in broken waves between kisses, your body arching back into him instinctively, muscles clenching around his cock in rhythmic pulses that made him groan in response, the vibration humming through your lips.
Before the intensity could peak further, you leaned over the couch—shifting your weight forward with a deliberate arch of your back, breaking the kiss just enough to gasp for air, your hands reaching out to grip the back of the couch for leverage.
The leather was cool and slightly sticky under your palms, fingers digging into the cushioned top with white-knuckled force, nails scraping faintly against the material as you braced yourself. The new position deepened the angle—your ass presented more fully to him, back arched in a subtle curve that made each thrust hit even deeper, your thighs spreading wider for stability, toes curling against the rug for purchase.
Dick held onto your hips as if they were the steering wheel guiding his thrusts, his strong fingers digging into the firm muscle there with a possessive grip—thumbs pressing into the dips of your hip bones, palms splaying wide across your sides to control every movement, anchoring you against him as he drove deeper.
His hold was unyielding yet precise, calloused from shop work but warm against your sweat-slicked skin, the pressure leaving faint red imprints that throbbed with each pulse of your heartbeat, a mix of pain and pleasure that grounded you in the moment. It was as if your body was his vehicle, responsive to every subtle shift of his hands—tilting you slightly forward or pulling you back flush against his pelvis, dictating the angle and depth with the same focused intensity he brought to everything, his dick serving as the key that unlocked you completely.
The thick length of him filled you to the brim with each plunge—hot, throbbing, stretching your inner walls around his girth as he sank in fully, the veined shaft dragging against your prostate in a way that sent electric jolts radiating through your core, making your own cock—hard and leaking—bob heavily between your legs with every impact.
He shifted gears then, speeding up his pace from those slow, deep rolls to faster, more relentless thrusts—hips snapping forward with increasing urgency, the rhythm building like an engine revving, each drive harder and quicker than the last.
The change was seamless but devastating: his thighs flexing against yours, muscles coiling and releasing with power, the faint slap of his balls against your perineum adding to the symphony of sensation.
The echo of skin slapping against skin filled the room—a sharp, rhythmic cadence that reverberated off the walls, wet and obscene, mingling with your ragged moans and his low grunts of effort.
Each collision sent shockwaves through you: the firm impact of his hips against your ass causing the flesh to jiggle from the force, the rounded curves rippling visibly in the dim lamplight, skin flushing redder with every smack as blood rushed to the surface.
The jiggle was hypnotic, a visual testament to the intensity—your ass cheeks bouncing back against him, the motion making your hole clench tighter around his cock, heightening the friction that had him groaning deeper, his breaths coming in hot, uneven puffs against your neck.
Sweat flew in tiny droplets with each thrust, the air thick with the musky scent of arousal and exertion, your body rocking forward on the couch, fingers clawing into the leather for stability as the pace pushed you closer to the edge once more, every slap echoing like a promise of more to come.
He then pulled you back to his chest, his strong arm wrapping around your waist with a firm, possessive tug that lifted you slightly from your leaned-over position on the couch—missing the closeness, the way your bodies had been pressed together moments ago, skin to skin, heat shared in every breath.
His chest was a solid wall of muscle against your back, rising and falling with deep, controlled inhales, the faint sheen of sweat making your bare skin slide slickly against his as he drew you upright, molding you to him like you belonged there.
You could feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat echoing through your shoulder blades, syncing erratically with your own, the coarse hair on his chest tickling the sensitive skin along your spine, while his free hand skimmed up your side in a soothing stroke, fingers tracing the ridges of your ribs as if to reassure himself you were real, solid, his.
He had his hand around your neck almost like a chokehold—fingers splaying wide across your throat, thumb pressing lightly against one side of your Adam's apple while his index and middle fingers curved gently on the other, not squeezing hard enough to restrict your air but firm enough to hold you in place, a dominant grip that sent a thrill of vulnerability and trust racing through you.
The pressure was calculated, teasing the edge of control—his palm warm against your pulse point, feeling the frantic beat of your heart hammering there, the faint calluses on his fingers scraping lightly against your stubbled jaw as he tilted your head back slightly for better access.
It was possessive, intimate, the kind of hold that made your cock twitch with renewed interest despite the lingering sensitivity, your body responding to the subtle power play as heat pooled low in your belly once more.
He kissed you then—leaning over your shoulder to capture your mouth in a deep, consuming press, lips parting yours with insistent hunger, tongue delving inside to tangle with yours in wet, messy strokes that tasted of salt and shared arousal.
The angle was awkward but electric—your head turned just enough for him to claim you fully, his stubble rasping against your cheek, the faint scent of his sweat and cologne filling your senses as his breath mingled hot and heavy with yours.
His breath was hot yet sensual—puffing against your lips in uneven gusts that carried the warmth of his exertion, the subtle musk of his skin, a hint of the wine from dinner lingering like an aftertaste, each exhale fanning across your face in rhythmic waves that made your skin tingle, heightening the intimacy as he continued to thrust.
His hips drove forward without pause, the pace steady and unyielding—each thrust deep and deliberate, his thick cock sliding in and out of you with slick, rhythmic precision, the veined shaft dragging against your prostate in a way that sent fresh sparks of pleasure exploding through your core.
The sounds echoed in the room: the wet, obscene slap of skin on skin, your ass meeting his pelvis with each impact; the faint squelch of saliva easing the glide; his low grunts mingling with your moans.
Sweat dripped down his chest, trickling onto your back where your bodies connected, the friction building as his grip on your neck tightened just a fraction—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you of his control, his desire to keep you close, to feel every shudder and clench around him.
You leaned your head back in bliss as you felt the pleasure of Dick—arching into his hold, your neck exposed further under his hand, eyes fluttering shut as waves of ecstasy washed over you.
The sensation was overwhelming: the deep, filling thrusts hitting that perfect spot inside you over and over, making your toes curl against the rug and your fingers dig harder into the couch back; the heat of his body enveloping you from behind, chest pressed to your back like a furnace; the possessive chokehold sending a thrill of submission through your veins, your pulse racing under his fingers; the passionate kiss breaking only for gasps of air before he claimed your mouth again.
Your cock, hard once more, bobbed with each thrust, leaking pre-cum that trailed down your thigh, the building tension coiling tight in your gut as bliss overtook you, every nerve alight with the raw, unfiltered pleasure of him—of his cock owning you, his breath on your skin, his unyielding want proving just how much he needed this, needed you.
Soon you came from Dick's relentless pace, the building pressure in your core finally snapping like an over-tightened coil—the orgasm crashing through you in intense, shuddering waves that made your vision blur at the edges and your breath seize in your chest.
It started deep inside, a hot, electric surge radiating from your prostate where his thick cock hammered against it with every deep thrust, the veined shaft dragging relentlessly over that sensitive spot until pleasure overwhelmed you completely.
Your muscles clenched hard around him—inner walls spasming in rhythmic pulses that gripped his length like a vice, milking him instinctively as your own cock—hard and untouched for the moment—erupted between your bodies, thick ropes of cum shooting across your abdomen and chest in messy, warm spurts.
The release was powerful, your balls drawing up tight as they emptied, each pulse sending fresh jolts through your thighs and up your spine, making your toes curl against the rug and your fingers claw desperately into the couch cushion for anchor.
A raw, guttural moan tore from your throat—loud and broken, echoing in the room as your body arched back against his chest, hips jerking uncontrollably into the sensation.
Dick slowed immediately but didn't stop entirely, his thrusts turning shallow and gentle—almost soothing—as he rode you through the aftershocks, his cock still buried deep inside you, throbbing with his own restrained need.
He gave you a moment to breathe, his hand around your neck loosening slightly to a tender cradle, thumb stroking soothingly along your jaw as your chest heaved with ragged gasps, lungs burning for air. His other arm tightened around your waist, holding you upright against him—chest to back, his sweat-slicked abs flexing against your lower spine, heartbeat pounding steadily into your skin like a grounding rhythm.
You could feel him holding back, his body tense with effort: thighs trembling faintly where they pressed against yours, hips stilled in a deliberate pause to calm his upcoming release from happening too soon—the thick length of him pulsing inside you, veins throbbing against your oversensitive walls, but he clenched his jaw and breathed deeply through his nose, hot puffs fanning against your ear as he fought the urge to chase his own climax.
He still had plans to make you come more times—his earlier promise echoing in the way he murmured low against your neck, voice rough and edged with restraint: "Not yet... I've got more for you."
His cock twitched inside you as if to emphasize the point, the fullness a constant reminder of his control, his intent to draw this out—to wring every ounce of pleasure from your body until you were spent and shaking. He let you calm in his arms, lips brushing soft, reassuring kisses along your shoulder and the curve of your neck, stubble scraping lightly as his hand slid down your sweat-dampened chest, fingers tracing lazy circles around your nipple to keep the sparks simmering without overwhelming.
Your body trembled in the aftermath, muscles loose and heavy, cum cooling on your skin in sticky trails, but the pause was tender—intimate—his way of giving you space to recover while stoking the fire for what he had in mind next, his arousal still rock-hard and insistent inside you, promising he wasn't anywhere near done.
YOU AND DICK lost yourselves in a whirlwind montage of passion that turns the apartment into your private playground, every corner and surface becoming a canvas for your unbridled desire—fueled by an unconfessed love that surges through you both like an endless battery, granting stamina that defies exhaustion, allowing you to cum again and again only to dive right back in, bodies slick and insatiable.
It starts against the wall in the living room, moments after he pulls out from your earlier position—your back slamming against the cool, textured plaster with a thud that echoes through the room, his hands gripping your thighs as he hoists you up, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, ankles locking at the small of his back.
The pace is fast and frantic here, his hips snapping forward in rapid, punishing thrusts that drive his thick, 10-inch cock deep into you with each slam, the veined shaft stretching your hole wide, dragging against your prostate in quick, relentless strokes that make your vision blur.
The wall vibrates behind you, picture frames rattling faintly as your shoulders scrape against the paint, sweat already beading down your chest and mingling with his where your bodies collide. His lips attach to yours in a messy, devouring kiss—tongues tangling wildly, teeth clashing in the urgency, his breath hot and ragged against your mouth as he swallows your moans.
The friction builds like wildfire, your cock trapped between your stomachs, rubbing against his abs with every thrust until you cum hard—ropes of semen splattering across both your torsos, your hole clenching around him in spasms that milk his release moments later, his hot seed flooding you deep inside. But there's no pause; he pulls out with a wet pop, sets you down on shaky legs, and you're both moving again, driven by that unspoken love that reignites the fire instantly.
You tumble to the floor next, the rug soft but unforgiving under your knees as he pushes you down onto all fours—your palms sinking into the fibers, fibers matted from earlier sweat, the cool hardwood peeking through the edges as he kneels behind you. The pace slows here, torturously deliberate: he enters you inch by inch, his hands spreading your cheeks wide to watch as your hole swallows his girth, the slick glide eased by the mix of cum and saliva dripping from you.
Each thrust is deep and languid, hips rolling in slow circles that grind his cock against your inner walls, the head nudging your prostate with agonizing precision that makes your arms tremble and buckle slightly. The floor creaks faintly under your shifting weight, your knees burning from the friction as sweat pools beneath you, the air thick with the musky scent of sex.
His lips find your neck this time—latching onto the sensitive skin just below your ear, sucking and nipping in time with his thrusts, teeth grazing the pulse point where your heartbeat thunders, leaving faint red marks that bloom like badges of possession.
You moan low and broken, pushing back to meet him, until the slow build erupts—you cum onto the rug below, semen pooling in sticky puddles, your body shuddering as he follows, filling you again with a groan muffled against your skin. Yet the fire doesn't dim; that unconfessed love surges through you both, and he's pulling you up, guiding you toward the kitchen with hands that won't let go.
In the kitchen, it's against the counter—your back pressed to the cool granite edge, the surface chilled against your heated skin as he lifts you onto it with effortless strength, your ass perched on the edge, legs spread wide around his hips.
The pace picks up to fast again, his thrusts urgent and powerful—hands gripping the undersides of your thighs to hold you open, cock slamming into you with wet, echoing slaps that reverberate off the tiled walls, the cabinets rattling faintly with each impact. The fluorescent light overhead casts harsh shadows across your bodies, highlighting the sweat glistening on his abs, the way your cock bobs between you, hard and leaking.
Dishes clink in the sink nearby from the vibrations, the air scented with lingering garlic from dinner mixed with the raw musk of your arousal. His lips attach to your nipple this time—mouth latching onto the left one first, tongue swirling around the hardened peak in wet, teasing circles before sucking hard, teeth grazing the sensitive bud in a way that makes you arch off the counter.
He switches to the right, repeating the torment, the dual sensation of his thrusts and mouth pushing you over quickly—you cum across your stomachs, semen streaking his skin as he follows suit inside you, groaning around your nipple. But the stamina from that hidden love kicks in; no rest, just him helping you down, leading you to the couch with kisses that don't stop.
On the couch, it's a tangle of limbs—you straddling him again as he sits back, the leather cushions sinking under your combined weight, sticking to your sweat-dampened skin. The pace slows once more, intimate and grinding: you ride him with rolling hips, his cock buried deep as you circle your pelvis, feeling every inch stretch you, the head pressing insistently against your prostate in slow, building pressure.
The room's air is thick, heavy with the scent of sex—cum, sweat, and arousal mingling like perfume. His lips find your dick this time—leaning forward to take you into his mouth as you move, tongue swirling around the head in hot, wet laps that make your thrusts falter.
He sucks with focused hunger, cheeks hollowing as he bobs in time with your rhythm, the sensation of his mouth and your hole clenching around him overwhelming—you cum down his throat, swallowing your moans as he thrusts up harder, filling you once more. The unconfessed love fuels you both; breathless but insatiable, you slide off, pulling him toward the bedroom.
Finally, in the bed—sheets rumpled and cool at first against your overheated skin—you end up on your back, legs hooked over his shoulders as he kneels between them. The pace varies here, starting fast and frantic—thrusts pounding deep and quick, bedframe creaking rhythmically, headboard thumping softly against the wall—then slowing to deep, grinding rolls that let you feel every pulse.
The mattress dips under his knees, pillows scattering as you grip the sheets, knuckles white. His lips alternate: crashing against yours in passionate kisses, trailing to your neck for sucking bites, latching onto your nipple for teasing licks, even dipping down to swallow your cock briefly between thrusts.
Each position shift builds to climax—you cum across your chest, he inside you—over and over, that unspoken love granting endless stamina, bodies restarting immediately, lost in the cycle until exhaustion finally claims you both in a tangle of limbs and sated breaths.
BY THE time your bodies finally gave in, the night had blurred into the kind of hazy, breathless stretch that didn't feel like mere hours until you glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand—its red glow reading 2:47 AM, the numbers casting a faint crimson hue across the rumpled sheets and the edge of your pillow. The apartment was quiet now, save for the distant hum of the city outside the window—cars whooshing faintly on the rain-slicked streets below, the occasional siren wailing in the distance like a reminder that Gotham never truly slept.
But inside, in this cocoon of your bedroom, time had stretched and warped, shaped by the rhythm of your shared breaths, the tangle of limbs, and the raw, unfiltered connection that had consumed you both for what felt like an eternity.
Sometime after the last round of tangled sheets—twisted and damp with sweat, clinging to your thighs and lower back—quiet laughter bubbling up from your chest at some half-mumbled joke he'd cracked between gasps, whispered names exchanged like secrets in the dark ("Dick... yes..."), and half-bitten-off sounds of pleasure that echoed off the walls, you'd both managed to make it from the couch to the bed.
You weren't entirely sure how, the details fuzzy in the post-climax haze: a blur of strong arms wrapping around your waist, his chest solid and warm against your back as he half-carried, half-guided you down the narrow hallway, your feet stumbling slightly on the cool hardwood floor, toes curling against the chill.
Your fingers had been fisted tightly in the front of his shirt—wrinkled and half-unbuttoned from earlier urgency—the fabric soft and damp under your grip, as if you were scared of letting go, scared that the moment might shatter if you released him even for a second. The hallway light had been off, the path illuminated only by the faint spill from the living room lamp, casting long shadows that danced across the walls like silent witnesses to your journey.
Now, the room was stripped down to the raw aftermath, every surface bearing subtle marks of the night's intensity.
The lamp on your nightstand glowed low, its bulb dimmed to a soft amber setting that cast everything in a muted gold hue, softening the sharp angles of your bedroom—the wooden dresser with its drawers slightly ajar from where you'd rummaged for lube earlier, the half-open closet door revealing a glimpse of hanging shirts and jeans, the few framed photos on the wall capturing faded memories of friends and family trips, their edges catching the light like gilded edges.
The air was thick with the lingering scent of sex—musky arousal mixed with sweat, the faint tang of cum drying on skin and sheets, undercut by the clean laundry smell of your detergent and a hint of his cologne that had rubbed off onto your pillows.
The sheets were a chaotic mess, twisted around your legs in white cotton knots that trapped warmth against your calves, half kicked down to expose your thighs to the cooler room air, half draped haphazardly over your hips like an afterthought of modesty.
Your skin was warm, pleasantly heavy with exhaustion, every muscle loose and languid in that post-release glow that comes only after you've given every last bit of energy to being with someone—your arms lax at your sides, fingers still tingling faintly from gripping him so tightly earlier, your chest rising and falling in slow, even rhythms.
You lay on your side, facing the wall with its faint cracks in the paint from years of settling foundations, your breath finally slowing to a steady cadence, the rapid thrum of your heartbeat easing into a calm drum.
Your body sank deeper into the mattress with each exhale, the foam conforming to the curve of your shoulder and hip, cradling you like a well-worn glove. The pillow beneath your head smelled like you—fresh shampoo from your morning shower, the subtle salt of sweat, something faintly masculine and comforting that grounded you in the familiarity of home.
Your hair was mussed, strands sticking up at odd angles from where his fingers had run through it, damp at the roots from exertion. Your lips were still a little swollen, tender from hours of kisses—bruised in the best way, the faint taste of him lingering on your tongue like an echo. Your heartbeat had finally eased out of that wild, stumbling pace from the height of passion, settling into a quiet thump that matched the distant tick of the clock in the hall.
You didn't even remember the exact moment sleep took you, the transition seamless and inevitable.
One second you were blinking lazily, eyes half-open and heavy-lidded, feeling the subtle dip of the mattress as his weight shifted behind you, his arm sliding around your waist in a warm, enveloping arc to pull you close—his bicep flexing slightly against your side, fingers splaying across the flat plane of your abdomen.
The next, your lashes were fluttering shut, sealing out the golden glow of the lamp, your body recognizing the safety of his warmth, the solid press of his chest against your back, and deciding that was enough permission to shut down completely, surrendering to the pull of exhaustion.
Dick didn't follow you into sleep.
Not right away.
He lay on his side behind you, his chest flush to your back—skin to skin, the faint hair on his torso tickling your spine with each of his breaths, his body heat wrapping around you like a living blanket.
One arm was firmly wrapped around your waist, palm splayed flat across your midsection, fingers resting just below your navel, the touch possessive yet gentle, as if he were claiming you even in repose.
His thumb brushed absently against your skin in slow, barely-there strokes—a habit more than a conscious decision, the pad of his thumb tracing idle patterns over the faint trail of hair leading down from your belly button, keeping himself grounded in the rhythm of that small, repetitive motion.
He could feel every inhale you took, the steady rise and fall of your breathing syncing with the even rhythm of his own—your ribcage expanding against his forearm, the subtle shift of your muscles relaxing further into slumber. Your weight was relaxed against him—no tension in your shoulders, no flinch in your posture, none of the unconscious bracing he'd sensed from you in those first uncertain weeks after prison, when proximity had felt like a fragile truce.
You were soft now, pliant and given over, resting like you truly believed he would keep the world at bay if it tried to intrude through the locked door or the curtained window.
Your face was turned slightly toward the pillow, features smoothed out in the vulnerability of sleep—the faint lines of stress around your eyes erased, the usual furrow between your brows absent, leaving your forehead uncreased and peaceful.
Your mouth was slack, lips parted just enough that a soft, almost inaudible breath escaped with each exhale, the sound rhythmic and soothing, like the gentle tide of waves on a distant shore.
A strand of your hair had fallen across your cheek, stirring faintly with your breathing, and your lashes cast long shadows on your cheekbones in the low light.
Dick watched all of it, his gray eyes soft and unblinking in the dim glow.
Contentment wasn't an emotion he was used to claiming fully—calm, yes, the cool detachment of control he'd mastered in prison; the sharp, calculated satisfaction of a plan executed perfectly, definitely. But this—this quiet warmth spreading through his chest like slow honey as he held you, as he felt the gentle weight of your trust pressed along every inch of his body—this was rarer, more precious, something he savored like a man who'd learned not to take such moments for granted.
He let himself have it fully, without reservation.
His eyes traced the line of your shoulder—the subtle curve of muscle from your self-defense classes, the faint sheen of drying sweat catching the light like dew on skin. They followed the graceful dip to the curve of your neck disappearing into the pillow, the faint marks he'd left there earlier—soft, dusky blooms of red and purple against your skin, remnants of kisses and nips that had drawn moans from you hours ago.
His gaze lingered on those a beat longer, something possessive flickering in his expression, tempered by something almost painfully tender, a quiet acknowledgment of the vulnerability you'd both shared.
He leaned in just enough to breathe you in—drawing a slow, deep inhale through his nose, filling his lungs with the scent of you: the clean sharpness of your soap from the shower earlier, the salty tang of sweat from your exertions, the underlying warmth of your skin that was uniquely masculine and comforting, mingled with the faint remnants of dinner's spices and the wine you'd shared. The aroma settled deep in his chest like an anchor, grounding him in the reality of this moment.
You shifted slightly in your sleep, a subconscious murmur escaping your lips as you pressed back into him without waking—your body seeking more contact, more warmth.
Your hand, lax and heavy with slumber, came to rest over his forearm where it circled your waist, fingers curling loosely around his wrist, the touch light but instinctive, like even in dreams you didn't want to let go, didn't want the connection to sever.
He felt that touch ripple through him, a quiet affirmation that tightened something in his chest.
A small, quiet smile touched his mouth—barely there, just a subtle curve at the corners, but real and unguarded, the kind of expression he rarely allowed himself in the light of day.
His mind, usually a constant churn of calculations and contingencies—mapping out tomorrow's moves, anticipating Jason's next play, weighing the risks of the gala and everything it represented—was unusually still tonight.
The grocery store encounter, Jason's barbed words echoing in his memory, the looming conflicts waiting just outside these four walls—they were out there, persistent shadows at the edge of his thoughts, and he knew they were coming, inevitable as the dawn. But for the first time in a very long time, he wasn't pacing ahead of them in his head while lying next to you, wasn't dissecting scenarios while your breathing evened out beside him.
Right now, in this golden-lit sanctuary, he just... held you.
His thumb resumed its slow, absent-minded motion along your skin, tracing small, calming arcs over the firm plane of your abdomen, feeling the subtle rise and fall with each of your breaths. The steady rhythm of your breathing, the enveloping warmth of your back against his chest, the familiar ache in his muscles from the night's exertions—all of it wove together into something that made him feel both grounded and weightless, like he was anchored in a moment too rare to disrupt.
After a while, he shifted just enough to press a soft kiss to the back of your shoulder—light and careful, lips brushing the warm skin there with the barest pressure, not wanting to wake you or shatter whatever fragile peace had settled over the room like a blanket.
"Sleep," he murmured, barely louder than a breath, the word ghosting against your skin even though you were already deep in slumber, your body heavy and unresponsive in the best way.
Your breathing stayed steady, unbothered, heavy with the kind of deep rest that comes from true exhaustion and trust.
Dick let his head sink fully into the pillow beside yours, his eyes still on you—tracing the relaxed line of your jaw, the way your hair fell across your forehead, content just to watch the way you dreamed in his arms, peaceful and unguarded. His grip around you stayed firm but gentle, the silent promise of protection wrapped around your entire body, his arm a barrier against the world.
At some point before dawn, Dick's body finally reminded him he was human.
He lay there for a long time first, eyes half-closed, just feeling the weight and warmth of you against him. Your breathing was slow and even, your bare back pressed to his chest, his arm draped securely around your waist with your fingers curled over his forearm like you were still holding onto him in your sleep.
Eventually, though, the dull, insistent pressure in his bladder wouldn't be ignored.
Carefully, he eased his arm from under your hand, adjusting at a pace so slow it barely registered as movement. You made a soft sound, a sleepy murmur, but didn't wake. He watched your face for a beat—making sure you stayed under—then slipped out of bed, the mattress lifting just slightly as his weight left it.
The floor was cool under his feet as he padded across the room.
He snagged his boxers off the floor on instinct, stepping into them as he walked to the bathroom down the short hallway. He didn't bother turning on the light—he knew the path by now. The faint ambient glow from outside was enough to keep him from bumping into anything.
The bathroom door clicked shut behind him, the slightest sound in the quiet apartment. A moment later, the flush of the toilet and the rush of running water broke the stillness and then disappeared again when he turned the faucet off.
He lingered at the sink for a second, fingers braced on either side of the porcelain, head tipped forward as he let a slow breath out. In the mirror's faint reflection, he saw the ghost of his own expression—eyes shadowed, jaw lightly stubbled, hair ruffled back from your hands.
He pushed off the sink and stepped back into the hall.
The apartment was dim and hushed, the bedroom doorway a soft rectangle of deeper dark. He moved automatically toward it, already anticipating the feel of your skin, the way you'd instinctively roll back into him when he climbed into bed again.
But he didn't make it that far.
He paused midway through the living room, at the edge of the kitchen, when a sharp little buzz cut through the silence.
Your phone.
The sound came from the kitchen counter, where you'd tossed it earlier in the night and forgotten about it in the avalanche of everything that followed. Dick's head turned toward it immediately, instincts snapping into place before his thoughts had fully caught up.
One more vibration.
Then the screen lit the dark like a small, artificial square of daylight.
He could see it from where he stood: your phone face-up on the counter, the glow shining against the stainless steel of the sink, the frame of the cabinets. The message preview flashed across the top, bright and crisp in the shadows.
A text from Jason.
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as his eyes narrowed, focusing on the words visible on the lock screen. The message was short but unmistakable—something along the lines of:
You still up? Come over.
Or:
You ghosted. Come fix it. My door's open.
Whatever the exact words, the meaning was clear: Jason was inviting you over. At this hour. Like nothing had changed, like your night hadn't already been claimed by someone else.
Dick took a few slow steps toward the counter—not rushed, not loud, just steady. As he approached, the light from the screen threw pale highlights across his chest and caught the edge of his expression, sharpening the lines of his face.
His gaze dropped fully to the display.
It wasn't just one message.
Below the latest text bubble, he could see the time stamps stacked in a quiet, damning row—missed calls, earlier messages, pings from the hours when you and Dick had been busy with each other, far too occupied to even hear your phone, let alone answer it.
A call at 1:14 a.m.
Another at 1:27.
You okay?
Another call.
Pick up.
Then silence.
Until now.
This newest message—inviting, half-teasing, half-edged—was clearly Jason's last attempt of the night.
Dick's mouth curved at one corner—not quite a smile, not full amusement. Something more complex. A ghost of satisfaction, lined with something darker.
Jason had been calling all night.
You hadn't answered once.
Jason had reached out over and over, trying to pull you into his space.
You'd been in Dick's.
He watched the screen for another heartbeat, reading the text again, taking in the pattern of the missed calls, the time, the desperation hidden under Jason's studied casual tone.
Then, slowly, Dick's eyes lifted from the phone toward the dark hallway leading back to your bedroom—the place where you were still asleep, tangled in the sheets, naked and marked with his mouth and hands, entirely unaware your other lover had been trying to reach you.
He let the screen time out on its own.
The glow faded, plunging the kitchen back into its low, soft half-dark.
For a moment, he just stood there, the quiet hum of the fridge the only sound as he filed this new detail away—another piece on the board, another crack in Jason's carefully controlled exterior.
Then he turned and padded back toward the bedroom, his steps soundless, his mind sharp, his chest warming at one simple, selfish truth:
While Jason was calling,
you had been choosing him.
THE CLOCK on Jason's microwave ticked past 3:00 AM, he'd been pacing his living room for the last fifteen minutes, his bare feet thudding softly against the scuffed hardwood floor that creaked faintly under his weight with each restless step. He was dressed down for the late hour—nothing but a pair of loose gray sweats hanging low on his hips, the drawstring untied and dangling, and a faded black tank top that clung slightly to his broad chest from the faint sheen of sweat building along his skin, the fabric worn thin from too many washes and too many nights like this. The white streak in his dark, tousled hair caught the dim glow from the single lamp he'd left on in the corner, a stark contrast that made him look even more on edge, like a storm cloud ready to break.
His apartment was quiet in that oppressive late-night way—the TV screen black and silent on its wall mount, reflecting the faint city lights filtering through the closed blinds; the hum of Gotham's endless traffic muffled behind double-paned windows that rattled occasionally with a gust of wind; the only sounds breaking the stillness were the soft, irregular creak of the floorboards beneath his feet and the occasional sharp buzz of his phone vibrating on the glass coffee table in the center of the room. Each vibration sent a fresh spike of tension through him, his jaw clenching tighter, the muscle jumping visibly under his stubbled skin—but none of them were the notification he was waiting for, the one that would ease the knot twisting in his gut.
Your name sat prominently at the top of his recent calls list on the phone's screen, glowing mockingly in the dark when he glanced at it for the umpteenth time.
Half a dozen missed attempts from earlier in the night—outgoing calls stamped with times like 1:14 AM, 1:27 AM, 2:03 AM—each one ringing out to voicemail without a pickup, the automated message in your voice playing back in his ear like a taunt. Texts stacked below it in the conversation thread, all from him, all unanswered, the blue bubbles marching down the screen in a one-sided plea:
Jason: You good? Hit me back.
Jason: Answer your phone. We need to talk.
Jason: You better be asleep and not ignoring me. This isn't cool.
Jason: Come on, man. Don't do this.
Nothing. No reply. No typing indicator. No call back lighting up his screen with your name.
He'd checked the time obsessively, running through mental calculations—weighed the possibility that you'd just crashed hard after a long week, your phone silenced or forgotten in another room, told himself to chill and give you space like a rational person. But the longer the silence stretched, the more that old pit of worry opened up in his chest—part jealousy gnawing at the edges like acid, imagining you wrapped up in someone else's plans; part genuine fear something might be wrong, a flash of worst-case scenarios from Gotham's unforgiving streets flickering through his mind like bad movie reels. His pacing quickened, feet tracing a worn path from the couch to the window and back, hands flexing at his sides as if itching for a weapon or a fight to channel the energy.
Finally, he grabbed his keys off the coffee table with a sharp, frustrated exhale, the metal jangling harshly in the quiet—the ring clinking against his palm as he scooped them up, the familiar weight of his apartment key and the spare to his bike grounding him for a split second.
"Okay," he muttered to himself, voice low and rough, edged with irritation and resolve. "Screw this. I'm not sitting here like some punk."
He slid his phone into the pocket of his sweats, the device warm against his thigh from constant checking, then snatched his black hoodie off the back of the couch—the fabric soft and worn, zipper half-undone from the last time he'd worn it. He shrugged it on as he headed for the front door, the hood falling back against his shoulders, not bothering to zip it fully, just needing to move, to do something. He wasn't going to sit here and overthink it all night, spiraling into doubts. If you wouldn't answer, he'd just go over there—show up at your door, make sure you were okay with his own eyes, force you to look him in the face and say whatever this radio silence was out loud, whether it was exhaustion or avoidance or something worse.
He twisted the deadbolt with a metallic click, the lock disengaging smoothly under his fingers, then yanked the door open inward with more force than necessary, the hinges giving a faint squeak of protest—
—and froze mid-step, his body tensing like a coiled spring.
Dick was standing right there in the hallway.
No knock. No warning. No footsteps announcing his approach. Just silently occupying the space outside the threshold like he'd been waiting for this exact moment, positioned with that unnerving precision that suggested he'd timed it perfectly.
The overhead light in the corridor was dim and a little yellowed from age, the bulb flickering faintly as if on the verge of burning out, throwing elongated shadows under Dick's high cheekbones and along the hard, unyielding line of his jaw. He wore a dark leather jacket, zipped halfway up over a plain black t-shirt that hugged his athletic frame, paired with fitted jeans and scuffed boots that looked ready for a fight or a chase. No visible weapons bulged in his pockets, no overt threat in his stance—just that calm, squared-off posture with his feet planted shoulder-width apart, arms loose at his sides, exuding the quiet confidence of someone who didn't need props to be dangerous, who knew his body was weapon enough.
Jason's fingers tightened around his keys automatically, the metal biting into his palm, his heartbeat spiking from surprise to something sharper, more combative.
"The hell," he muttered, voice low and laced with disbelief, his green eyes narrowing into slits. "You stalking me now? What, you got nothing better to do at three in the morning?"
Dick's expression didn't change—not a twitch of surprise, not a flicker of amusement. If anything, it got calmer, more resolute, his gray eyes locking onto Jason's with that steady, penetrating stare that always felt like it was peeling back layers.
"We need to talk," he said, voice even and measured, carrying that quiet authority he wielded like a blade.
Jason laughed once, a sharp, humorless bark that echoed down the empty hallway. "Oh, that's cute. I was just about to come have that same conversation with you—preferably with my fists if you don't move."
He shifted his weight forward, like he might push past, muscles coiling in his shoulders, but Dick didn't budge from the doorway. Not blocking the hall completely, just... standing in exactly the right spot to make walking around him a deliberate choice, not an accident, forcing Jason to either yield or escalate.
Jason's eyes narrowed further, a dangerous glint flashing in them. "Move, Grayson."
"No," Dick said simply, the word flat and unyielding, like a door slamming shut.
Jason's jaw flexed, the muscle jumping visibly under his skin. "You got two seconds before I make you."
Dick didn't rise to the bait. He didn't lean in aggressively, didn't puff out his chest or ball his fists. He just held Jason's stare with that steady, unnerving focus, his posture relaxed but alert, like a predator conserving energy.
"You're not going to see him anymore," Dick said, the words quiet but weighted, landing like a punch to the gut.
Jason's fingers tightened so hard on the keys they dug painfully into his palm, drawing a faint sting. "Come again?"
"You're going to end it," Dick said, voice even and unflinching. "Break up with him. Walk away. Forget he exists."
Jason blinked once, processing, then let out a sharp, disbelieving snort that masked the surge of rage bubbling up. "You really came to my front door with that bullshit? At this hour? You got some nerve, I'll give you that."
He stepped closer, toe to toe now, their heights nearly matched but Jason's broader frame casting a slight shadow, eyes flashing with barely contained fury. "Let me make something clear to you, prison prince: you don't get to decide who I see. You don't get to show up in his life again, wreck his head with your mind games, and then tell me to walk. That's not how this works."
Dick didn't flinch, didn't even blink. "I'm not asking."
"Right," Jason scoffed, his lips curling into something dangerous, a snarl that bared teeth. "You're telling me. Like some big brother bossing around the family fuckup."
His voice dropped lower, laced with venom. "Do you have any idea how close I am to busting a cap in you right now? One wrong word, and I could end this little standoff real quick."
He said it softly, but there was nothing empty about the threat—his shoulders were set broad and tense, weight balanced on the balls of his feet in that loose, ready stance that meant he'd already mapped out half a dozen ways this could go sideways, his free hand itching toward the concealed holster at his back that he always kept nearby, even at home.
Dick studied him for a beat, his expression unchanging, then shook his head once, almost regretful, the motion slow and deliberate. "You won't," he said, voice calm as still water.
Jason's eyes narrowed to slits. "Try me."
"I already have," Dick replied evenly. "In that aisle at the grocery store. Remember? You talked big then too."
Something flickered across Jason's face—annoyance sharpening into memory, the tense standoff amid the snack shelves replaying in his mind. Dick's gaze sharpened, pressing the advantage without raising his voice.
"You're mad. You're jealous. You're worried," Dick went on quietly, each word measured like a scalpel. "But you're not suicidal. You know better than to start something you can't finish."
Jason's nostrils flared, his breathing quickening just a fraction. "You think I'm scared of you?"
"I think you know exactly what I've done," Dick said, and this time there was no softness under the words—just a cold, clinical edge, factual as a report. "You know the file inside out. You read the articles, dug into the records. You know how it went when I decided a man needed to be removed from the equation."
A shadow passed behind his eyes—cold, unyielding, not boastful, just a stark reminder of the man who'd once been a force of calculated destruction. "I dismantled Zucco's entire operation from the ground up," he continued, tone flat and unemotional. "Burned his warehouses to ash, one by one, the flames lighting up the night sky while his men scattered like rats. Exposed his smuggling routes to the feds, watched his empire crumble under raids and arrests. Walked through a room full of armed men—pistols drawn, knives out—and left only one breathing because I chose to let him carry the message." He took a half step closer, closing the last of the distance in a way that made the hallway feel suddenly smaller, more confined, the air between them thick with unspoken history. "So when you stand there and tell me you're going to 'bust a cap' in me, forgive me if I don't lose sleep over it. I've heard worse from better."
Jason's pulse kicked hard in his neck, visible under the skin, but he didn't back up an inch—his engine ran on pride as much as anger, and backing down was not in his wiring, not to Dick, not to anyone.
His voice dropped to a growl. "I'm not Zucco," Jason said, low and threatening. "You don't scare me. I've died and come back—what's one more round with you?"
"I don't need to," Dick replied, his voice steady as ever. "Fear isn't what I'm asking for."
He held Jason's gaze, unblinking, the gray of his eyes like storm clouds holding back lightning.
"I'm asking for sense."
Jason huffed a humorless laugh, the sound bitter and sharp. "You show up here uninvited to tell me to dump my boyfriend, and you wanna talk to me about sense? That's rich coming from the guy who ghosted him after prison."
"You and I both know what's happening here," Dick said, undeterred. "You see it every time he looks at me. I see it in the way you're clinging. He's split down the middle trying to hold us both in his hands, torn between what we had and what you're offering, and you're more worried about beating me in some pissing contest than you are about what it's doing to him—how it's wearing him down, making him question everything."
Jason's jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumped, his teeth grinding audibly. "Don't you dare tell me what I am to him. Don't act like you care now after leaving him high and dry."
"I'm not," Dick replied evenly. "I'm telling you what you aren't. What you'll never be."
Jason's mouth opened, outrage boiling over, ready on his tongue like venom, but Dick cut across it with the simple weight of his composure, his voice dropping lower.
"He will always come back to me," he said, the words quiet but slicing like a blade. "Even when he's trying not to. Even when he hates it. You've already felt it—the way he hesitates, the unanswered calls, the distance creeping in."
Jason's eyes burned with fury, but there was a flicker—just a small one—behind the anger, a shadow of doubt that flickered like a candle in wind. A flicker that said the worst part of this wasn't that Dick believed it.
It was that a part of Jason did too—the missed date nights, the way your eyes sometimes drifted when Dick's name came up, the subtle pull you couldn't hide.
He swallowed it down hard, straightening his spine to its full height, shoulders squaring like armor. "Say whatever you want to make yourself feel better," Jason said, voice tight and venomous. "I'm not breaking up with him because you're telling me to. I'd rather go to war with you every damn day of the week than hand him over to a ghost like you."
He stepped forward aggressively, his broader shoulder bumping Dick's with deliberate force as he pushed past, intent on barreling down the hall anyway, keys still clenched in his fist, hoodie hood flipping up slightly from the motion.
Dick's hand shot out—fast, precise, like a striking snake—fingers locking around Jason's bicep in a grip that was ironclad, not hard enough to bruise but enough to halt him mid-step, muscles tensing under the fabric.
They stood there for a second, bodies angled toward each other in the narrow hallway, tension humming like a live wire strung taut between them, the air thick enough to choke on.
"Then we're already at war," Dick said quietly, his voice low and edged with finality, eyes boring into Jason's like he could see straight through to the cracks.
Jason yanked his arm free with a sharp, violent jerk, breathing harder now, chest rising and falling visibly, eyes still locked on Dick's with unbridled fury.
"This conversation's done," he muttered through gritted teeth, turning away with a final glare, his footsteps heavy as he stalked down the hallway toward the stairs, shoulders tight and hunched like he was carrying the weight of the threat on them.
Dick let him go.
He didn't chase, didn't call after him with more words or warnings. He just watched Jason's back as he stormed away—posture furious, strides long and clipped, the echo of his boots fading down the corridor until the stairwell door slammed shut with a metallic bang that reverberated through the building.
Dick's expression didn't shift much—still calm, still composed on the surface.
But behind his eyes, the board had changed, pieces realigning in his mind like a chess master noting a new vulnerability.
Jason was still refusing, still threatening, still clinging to the fight with that stubborn fire that defined him.
But Dick had seen what he needed in that flash of doubt during their exchange, in all those unanswered calls stamped on Jason's phone earlier that night, in the simple, telling fact that Jason had been ready to bolt into the cold Gotham streets at three in the morning because you hadn't picked up, hadn't responded to his increasingly desperate attempts.
He'd pushed a fault line, exposed a crack in Jason's armor—the insecurity beneath the bravado, the fear that maybe, just maybe, Dick was right.
Now, all he had to do was wait to see where it cracked, how the pressure would build until Jason's resolve fractured under its own weight.
What would best friend!ocs reaction be if he found out you weren’t a virgin?
JEALOUSY. Immediate jealousy. He’d ask you who you lost it too. And when he finds out he’d be pissed, not at you though, pissed at the other guy for in his mind ”defiling” you (before he could). He’d be grumpy about it for a bit.
He might even pick a fight with the other guy just for a chance to punch him in the face.
You wouldn’t go unpunished tho. He’d fuck you roughly doggy style while whispering about about how you ”should’ve waited” and that he’d ”have to fuck you like the slut you were now”. He’d slap your ass hard making you moan loudly into his matress.
He’d finish once he has fucked several loads into you, until your hole was a cum stained mess with his seed streaming down your legs. He wouldn’t cuddle you, or tell you how good you’d been, he’d just tell you to get dressed and to get out and to ”go home and pray or something”.
He’d be back to his regular self the next day, except that he’d be even more protective of you and would make it clear to everyone that you were his. And he’d tell you that if you ever slept around again he’d have to punish you again.
ANGEL | Having a best friend who wants to be the one to take your virginity…
Male Best Friend!OC x Male Reader
Warnings: Smut, you’re both 18 (still in high school), purity kink (oc), cheating (oc on his girlfriend, anal sex, blowjob, fingering, fucking while his parents are home…
Summary: He’s your fuckboy best friend who wants you…
(A/n: First OC fic I’m posting, hope you all like it)
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• He’s your best friend who you’ve known since you were both toddlers. And you’ve stuck together ever since, even late in to your High School years.
• He’s one of the most popular guys in school, known for being the schools biggest fuckboy, with a new ”girlfriend” every other week.
• While you, yourself, weren’t unpopular but you were more so ”popular by proxy”, known for being the guy who has some weird sexual tension with his popular best friend.
• The best friend that buys you a red heart shaped lollipop everyday on the way to school insisting that it’s a completely normal platonic thing to do as he unwraps it and sticks it in your mouth. But who really does it because he loves seeing you suck on it, imagining your lips around something else.
• The best friend who’d never do that for any of his girlfriends cause he dosen’t really like any of them, at least not the way he likes you.
• He has a thing for virgins, loving the idea of deflowering someone, being the one to take their purity, ruining them. He usually gets tired of them afterwards.
• One day he invites you over to his house after school, the two of you hang out, sit outside tanning by the pool, play video games and later you eat dinner with him and his parents. After that you and him lay in his bed watching a movie on his tv.
• You’d be laying on your stomach, making him easily see the outline of your perky butt through your shorts.
• He knew you were still a virgin, you’d have told him if someone had popped your cherry.
• But yet he found something so whorish about you. The way you dressed, you were currently wearing a tank top and short-shorts. The way you sucked on the lollipops he bought you, as if hinting something at him. And the way you had that ”dumb slut” tone of voice.
• You were like a walking contradiction of your own wholesome and sweet personality.
• He’d lay down next to you, as close as he could, then pull you into a hug. And once you started getting confused by his clingyness and asked him what was up, he’d kiss you and you’d kiss back.
• The two of you would roll around in his bed making out. You crothes grinding against each other.
• He’d get you on your knees infront of him, pull down his underwear to reveal his hung thick juicy cock, dangling it in front of your face. And when you’d look up at him from the floor with innocence in your eyes and ask him ”What about your girlfriend?”. He just answers ”What about her?”.
• He’d love finally getting to see your lips wrapped around his cock instead of a lollipop. His dick stuffed in your mouth until you almost choked on it.
• Then he’d undress you, let you lay on the bed as he fingered your ass, he’d then lube his cock. And as you turned on to your back and he’d spread your legs he’d start pushing himself in to you.
• He’d love finally getting his cock inside your tight virgin hole, it clenched hard around him. He loved the sound of your moans and whines from having his dick shoved deep inside you.
• He’d say things like ”Fuck your loving this aren’t you, you’re not as innocent as I thought” and ”My little virgin, Y/n, finally losing it and to me of all people”.
• He knew that his parents definetely heard what the two of you were doing upstairs, hearing their son taking his friend like he did with every other girlfriend he’d ever had. The sound of his creaking bed, the sound of your moans, the sound their son’s rough thrusts. They could hear it all.
• The moans coming out of your mouth were music his ear. It helped encourage him and roll his hips so reach deeper inside you.
• He’d fuck you so good you came early and watch your embarassed face as you both knew he was far from done with you. But he’d just smile continuing his thrusts deep into until you got hard again.
• Once he’d gotten you to cum two more times he finally started getting close to his own orgasm and he pushed his full hard self into you erupting inside you, his cum taking what little you had left of your innocence.
• He’d pull out of you watching as your gaping hole leaked with his seed. The sight could make him hard all over again.
• He’d lay down and pull you close to him and whisper how good you had been. And he’d hold you as you drifted off to sleep as he layed awake thinking about you.
• Once the virginity was taken he grew tired of whoever he slept with, he only liked the part of having them first, ruining them for those who came after.
• But you were different to him, now that he’d deflowered you, he needed to be by your side to protect you from the sinful world he’d now taken you into.
summary: You weren’t supposed to be seen. But one night, one dance, and one stolen look from a boy you didn’t know was a prince changes everything. Now the kingdom is looking for you—and you have to decide if you’re brave enough to be found.
pairing: prince charming! gojo saturo x cinderella! male reader
content warnings: 18+, romance, fluff, angst, smut (oral + p in a), bottom male reader, signs of abuse, reader has chronic back pain, rats.
word count: 9.0k --- spotify playlist
best viewed in dark mode
There’s a quiet to the attic that doesn’t exist anywhere else in the house.
It settles after midnight, when the girls are done with their games and their laughter has thinned to silence. When your stepfather’s footsteps stop echoing through the halls. When the fire burns low and the wine is gone, and there’s no one left to perform cruelty for.
It’s only then that the house exhales—and you can breathe.
You sit on the floorboards beside the bucket you haven’t emptied yet. The rag in your hands is damp, skin-roughening with soot. It’s not a real task, not something that anyone told you to do. You just needed something to keep your hands busy. Something that gives shape to the hours between darkness and dawn.
Your fingers are raw. Your knees ache. There’s ash on your sleeves and a splinter in your thumb, but you don’t mind. The attic is cold, yes, but it’s yours. Or at least—it's the one place no one else bothers to climb. That counts for something.
You glance toward the slanted window tucked beneath the roofline. The sky is silver. Cloudless. The moon stares back at you like it knows something you don’t.
You lower your eyes before it can say anything out loud.
⋆｡°✩
There are mice in the attic. They keep their distance.
You’ve never named them—not out loud—but they come and go often enough that you’ve started to recognise them. One of them is missing a patch of fur behind the ear. One always carries crumbs bigger than its body. One skitters in tight circles before settling, like it needs to outrun its own shadow.
You think they must be cold too. Winter came early this year, and the insulation in the upper floors is barely more than memory. The girls have fireplaces and velvet robes. You have a blanket that smells like dust and the long sleeves of your mother’s old shirt, which you’re not supposed to wear but do anyway, under your tunic. Hidden. Just for warmth.
Sometimes, the mice come closer when you hum under your breath. You pretend it’s a coincidence.
⋆｡°✩
The house used to be warm. You remember it that way—brief flashes of your mother’s hands kneading dough in the kitchen, her voice humming off-key while she watered the herb pots by the windows. Back then, the floors didn’t creak like they were grieving, and sunlight used to touch the corners of the room without shame.
Now, it’s Geto’s house. Not in name, maybe, but in power. His daughters move through the rooms like they were born from silk and contempt. They call you by your name when they need something scrubbed, but otherwise, you’re “him.” Or worse.
You used to try to win them over. You tried for a long time.
And then you stopped.
Now you keep your head down and your back straight. You work quickly, quietly. You sleep with your door locked. You speak only when spoken to, and not even always then.
There is safety in silence.
⋆｡°✩
The announcement comes over burnt toast and tea that tastes like bark.
You’re not meant to sit at the table, but Mimiko was too distracted by her own reflection this morning to complain, and Geto likes to pretend he doesn’t see you unless he’s scolding you. You’ve learned to drift along the edges of the room—quiet, invisible, but still useful.
“There’s to be a royal ball,” Geto says, flipping the parchment open with a lazy flick of his fingers. “Every eligible noble and commoner invited. Apparently, the prince is looking to marry.”
You don’t react. You butter the toast without looking up.
Nanako lets out a delighted gasp. “A royal ball! Father, we’ll go, won’t we? We’ll need gowns. Jewels. A carriage—”
“Slow down, sweetheart,” Geto replies, folding the parchment again. “There’ll be time.”
“He shouldn’t go,” Mimiko chimes in suddenly, her voice sickly sweet. “He’ll be there. Can you imagine?” She turns to you with a sharp smile. “You, in the presence of royalty? You’d embarrass the kingdom.”
There’s a pause. Just long enough for the moment to sting.
You don’t look at her. You nod, eyes fixed on your plate. You’ve become good at that—at swallowing down every little hurt before it blooms.
“That’s settled then,” Geto says, as if he were the one being mocked. “He stays home.”
You don’t ask who’ll clean the house before they leave. You already know.
⋆｡°✩
That night, you find yourself standing at the attic window again, forehead pressed to the glass.
It’s a habit you picked up as a child—watching the moonlight slip across the world while you imagined someone, anyone, looking back.
You used to tell yourself that one day, someone would. That someone would see you and know you. Not as a servant. Not as an afterthought. But as a person with a name, and a voice, and a heart that beats just as loudly as anyone else’s.
You don’t really believe that anymore.
But you watch the moon anyway.
Just in case.
The morning after the announcement, the house becomes unbearable.
There are fabric samples strewn across every chair. Shoeboxes lining the hallway. Perfumed letters arriving by raven—twice, even thrice a day. Mimiko and Nanako move through the rooms like glittering tornadoes, screeching over colour palettes and necklines, screaming at seamstresses who pretend not to flinch.
You scrub the floors while they argue about lace.
They barely notice you anymore. You’re just the shape that keeps the house polished. A pair of hands. A name they speak only when something’s spilt.
You try not to mind.
You’ve had practice.
⋆｡°✩
Geto brings in a mirror the size of a door and installs it in the dining room. “For fittings,” he says, waving off the servants as if he weren’t one once himself.
He stands behind his daughters as they twirl and pout, appraising them like fine art he expects someone else to purchase. He corrects posture. Adjusts wrists. Tells Mimiko she’s standing like a peasant. Tells Nanako she’s gaining weight.
You fold linens in the corner and try not to breathe too loudly.
He never looks at you. But you feel his disapproval anyway. It clings to your skin like ash.
⋆｡°✩
The day of the ball arrives like frost.
You wake before the sun, dress in silence, and sweep the staircases before anyone else opens their doors. There’s a rhythm to it now—scrub, rinse, repeat. The ache in your spine is familiar and comforting in its own small way. Pain, at least, is consistent.
By noon, the house smells like citrus oil and powdered sugar. The dresses are hung. The carriage is polished. Everything is perfect.
Except for you.
You stand by the front hall with the box of hairpins still in your hands as Geto makes his final inspection.
He nods once, satisfied. Then turns to you.
“You’ll stay here,” he says flatly. “Don’t open the windows. Don’t leave the house. And for heaven’s sake, stay out of sight.”
You nod. Of course.
The carriage pulls away.
And just like that—you’re alone again.
⋆｡°✩
You don’t cry.
You’re not a child anymore. You don’t believe in being rescued, and you don’t believe in magic. This world is a hard, cold thing, and there’s no use wishing it weren’t.
Still.
You wander through the empty rooms with the kind of quiet you imagine the dead must carry. Your hands drag across polished bannisters, past doorknobs and glass and velvet cushions that were never meant for you.
In the sitting room, a single slice of cake sits abandoned on a tray.
You don’t touch it.
Instead, you climb the stairs. Past the bedrooms. Past the locked study. All the way up to the top. To the attic. To the place you belong.
And when you close the door behind you, the weight settles over your shoulders like it always does—familiar and heavy.
But tonight, it feels just a little bit heavier.
Maybe because you let yourself imagine it.
Just for a moment.
⋆｡°✩
The sound comes just before nightfall.
A knocking—no, not quite. More like a sharp pop, a crack of air and wind and something older than both. It echoes, muffled, through the floorboards beneath your feet.
You freeze.
It happens again. Then silence.
You step cautiously toward the window, half expecting thunder, or maybe fireworks from the palace.
But the sky is clear. The world is still.
And the only thing staring back at you is the moon.
⋆｡°✩
The sound doesn’t come again.
You wait for it. Still, as the dust motes floated in the dying light. Ears strained. Eyes fixed on the floor, as if the silence might shift again, rupture again, give you some kind of sign.
But there’s nothing.
Just your own breath. Just the wind outside, curling soft fingers against the attic window. Just the ache in your knees, the sting in your wrists. The familiar weight of another evening with nowhere to go.
You stand there for a long time.
You think—maybe you imagined it.
Maybe that’s just what happens, when hope slips through the cracks of your ribs and you don’t catch it in time.
You move to sit down.
That’s when the second knock comes.
Not from below. Not from outside. But from within the attic.
From behind the wall.
You freeze.
Not a ghost. You don’t believe in those.
Not a thief. What kind of thief breaks into the attic?
There’s a creaking, low and almost…exhausted. Like the wood itself is trying to speak. Like something ancient is being disturbed, pulled awake by the wrong hands.
And then—
A sigh.
You swear you hear a sigh.
Soft. Dry. Slightly annoyed.
“Alright,” comes a voice. Flat. Unimpressed. “That’s enough dramatics. Move.”
You backpedal so fast you knock over the bucket.
The rag hits the floor with a slap. Water spills into the cracks between the boards. You don’t even look at it. You’re too busy staring at the corner of the attic that had definitely been empty before.
It isn’t empty now.
There’s a woman.
Or—at least you think she’s a woman. Her robes are a little too long and mismatched, and there’s a cigarette tucked between her fingers despite the fact that the chimney doesn’t reach this far. Her boots are muddy. Her expression is somewhere between world-weary and mildly inconvenienced.
She looks like she’s been late to every appointment she’s ever had and hasn’t felt guilty about a single one.
And she’s standing in your attic like she owns it.
You open your mouth to speak.
She beats you to it.
“Don’t scream,” she says, not unkindly. “You’ll scare the mice.”
You don’t scream.
You don’t move either.
Which is probably for the best, because she’s already walking toward you like this is normal. Like you’re the one intruding.
“I was aiming for the cellar,” she mutters. “But nooo, the magic said ‘aim for the heart of the house,’ and look where that got me. Dust in my lungs and you looking like you’ve seen a ghost.”
You finally manage to find your voice. Sort of.
“Who—”
“Shoko,” she says, waving a hand as if that answers anything. “Let’s skip the dramatic introductions, yeah? I’m on a deadline.”
You stare.
She exhales through her nose, then gives you the same look someone might give a plant that’s taking too long to grow.
“You’re him,” she says, lighting the cigarette with a flick of her fingers. No flint. No match. Just…fire, like it was waiting for her.
You don’t answer.
“Don’t do that,” she says. “Don’t look at me like you’ve never seen someone make a dramatic entrance before. I thought all you attic-dwelling waifs lived for theatrics.”
You shake your head slowly. “I don’t know who you are.”
Shoko tilts her head.
“Well, no,” she says. “Not yet.”
⋆｡°✩
“You’ve got the look,” she says, nudging a cobweb out of the way with the back of her hand. “The quiet sort. Watches windows. Hums to keep from screaming.”
You’re still not speaking.
She sits down without asking. Cross-legged right on the attic floor like she wasn’t conjured into existence five seconds ago. Her cigarette smoke spirals toward the beams and settles around her like a crown of ash.
“I know what this is,” you finally say, voice quiet. “You’re a dream.”
Shoko snorts. “God, I wish.”
You don’t answer. The bucket of water seeps closer to your heel, a cold bloom against the wood. You stare at it. At her.
She doesn’t blink.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” she says, softer now. Not gentle, but closer. Like she’s trying. “I’m here to help.”
You shift your weight. Not quite toward her. Not quite away.
“Why?”
She flicks ash from the tip of her cigarette. It disappears before it hits the ground.
“Because you deserve it.”
You blink.
She goes on. “I’m not saying that in the philosophical, vague-fairy-tale sense. I mean it in the plain, unromantic, real-world way. You’ve done the work. You’ve survived. You’ve kept your heart from going sour even when it would’ve been easier to let it rot.”
You laugh. It’s small and brittle.
“I don’t think anyone would call me kind.”
“I didn’t say kind,” she says. “I said whole. You still have a piece of yourself that no one’s broken. That’s more than most.”
She says it so casually that it takes you a second to understand she meant it as a compliment.
You don’t know what to do with that.
You sit, slowly. She watches, but doesn’t comment.
The floor creaks beneath you. The attic is very still.
She speaks again. “Do you want to leave?”
It’s such a simple question.
Do you want to leave?
You stare at her. Your tongue feels thick.
“I can’t.”
She shrugs. “Didn’t ask if you could.”
You swallow.
“I want—” you start, then stop. “I don’t know what I want.”
“Sure you do,” she says, ashing the cigarette onto nothing. “You’ve just been taught not to say it.”
Your hands twist in your lap. She waits.
You say it like it hurts.
“I want to go. Just once. I want to be in a room where no one looks at me like I’m something to step over. I want to be wanted, just for a night. I want to know what it feels like to be seen.”
Shoko nods.
You stare at her. “That’s stupid, isn’t it?”
“No,” she says. “That’s a wish.”
⋆｡°✩
The air shifts.
It’s subtle—but you feel it. Like the attic exhales again, but this time with purpose. Something loosens in the walls, in the dark, in the shadows that have been your only company for years.
Shoko stands.
She snuffs out her cigarette on her palm. No mark. No burn.
When she speaks again, her voice is something older.
Not louder. Not deeper. But ancient. Measured. Like the moment you speak it aloud, it’ll echo.
“Then let’s give you your night.”
⋆｡°✩
She doesn’t wave a wand.
There’s no burst of glitter, no chorus, no sudden wind that tosses your hair back and makes your heart race. Nothing theatrical. Nothing pretty.
Instead, Shoko simply raises one hand—palm open—and exhales.
And the attic breathes with her.
The shadows bend first. Not away from the light, but toward it, curling like they’re waking up from a long sleep. The corners of the room soften, then blur, then ripple like heat above flame. Your breath catches in your throat.
There’s a sound, like thread pulling from cloth. And then—
Light. Dim at first. Then rising, warm and heavy like honey poured slow over your skin.
You don’t flinch.
You can’t.
It wraps around you. Not tight. Not painful. But thorough. Like it’s measuring. Weighing. Choosing.
Your shirt dissolves at the cuffs. Not burns—dissolves, the fabric unspooling into the air like mist. You lift your hands, startled, and they don’t feel like your hands anymore.
Shoko hums. “You’re lucky. Some people resist it. You—you’re letting it in.”
You blink at her, mouth dry. “Letting what in?”
She looks at you then, really looks, and says:
“Yourself.”
⋆｡°✩
The clothes build themselves, stitch by stitch.
It starts at your collarbones—warmth, pressure, then silk. Deep charcoal, almost black, but edged in silver so fine it could be moonlight. It fits perfectly, even before it finishes forming. Like it knew the shape of you before you did.
The sleeves wrap next—long, smooth, elegant. A flash of something translucent near the cuffs. Not ruffles, but something more fluid, like smoke in fabric form.
A jacket follows. Trimmed with silver thread, small accents that catch the dying light from the attic window. The kind of detail no mirror would ever see, but someone who was looking at you—really looking—might.
Your boots reform around your feet. Soft. Sleek. Practical enough to run in, but elegant enough to be remembered.
You don’t know how to breathe.
Shoko watches.
The final piece is a brooch—small, just over your heart. A pin in the shape of a crescent moon. Not garish. Not royal. Just… honest.
“I don’t understand,” you murmur, voice catching.
She doesn’t smile, but her voice is kind when she answers. “You don’t have to. Just wear it like you do.”
⋆｡°✩
The light fades.
The attic returns.
But you don’t.
You’re still you, but taller somehow. Straighter. Shoulders set. Like the weight hasn’t disappeared—but you’ve finally grown strong enough to carry it.
Your hands shake.
You press them against your chest. The fabric beneath your fingertips is real.
“I’m not supposed to be there,” you whisper.
Shoko flicks her cigarette back into her fingers and lights it with a snap.
“You’re supposed to be wherever you want to be,” she replies. “And tonight? You’re going.”
⋆｡°✩
You turn toward the attic stairs.
“Wait,” she says, and you freeze.
She tosses something into your hands.
Shoes.
Polished leather. Silver-buckled. Sleek, precise. The kind of shoes made for palace floors, not soot-stained attics. You run your thumbs over them. They’re real. Solid. One is slightly warmer than the other, like it’s holding onto something the world hasn’t seen yet.
“Enchanted?” you ask softly.
Shoko exhales smoke through her nose. “One of them.”
You blink. “Just one?”
She shrugs. “You only need one to be remembered.”
⋆｡°✩
The carriage waits at the edge of the estate.
It wasn’t there before. You would’ve heard it. Seen it. But now it sits beneath the moonlight like it’s always belonged—quiet, waiting, wheels perfectly clean despite the muddy road.
You don’t ask questions.
Shoko didn’t explain where it came from, and you didn’t ask.
You step down from the attic, cross the now-silent halls in a suit that doesn’t touch the floor when you move. The house doesn’t know you anymore. The wallpaper doesn’t sneer. The stairs don’t groan in protest. Even the silence has changed—it watches you now, instead of swallowing you whole.
You don’t look back.
Not at the staircase. Not at Geto’s study. Not at the kitchen where you used to stand barefoot and bleeding. That life still lives here, but you’ve stepped out of its skin.
For one night.
The coachman doesn’t speak. He tips his hat. The door opens. You climb in.
And the wheels turn toward the palace.
It’s farther than you thought.
You’ve seen it only from a distance—sharp spires against the horizon, gold-glass windows catching the sun like a promise. But up close, it’s something else entirely. Too large. Too luminous. The kind of place that exists outside time.
You step out into torchlight and laughter.
Music filters through marble arches. Strings and woodwinds. A swell of something grand, something old. People in silks and satin flow up the staircase like water—gloved hands, high collars, laughter polished and practised.
You shouldn’t be here.
But you are.
And no one stops you.
⋆｡°✩
The ballroom doors are wide open.
No guards. No fanfare. Just an invitation in the shape of light.
You cross the threshold on steady legs.
The floor is mirrored marble. Chandeliers drip crystal firelight. The ceiling stretches into a painted sky—cherubs and constellations you don’t recognise.
No one looks at you.
And somehow, that’s worse than the mocking would’ve been.
You drift along the edges at first. One step. Then another. A glass in your hand that you didn’t ask for. A compliment tossed over someone’s shoulder, not meant for you but close enough to sting.
And then—
He enters.
⋆｡°✩
You don’t see his face at first.
Just the way the room bends.
People part. Eyes turn. Laughter softens into interest. Not fear. Not awe. Just something deeper. Like gravity. Like inevitability.
And then he steps forward, and you understand.
White hair, sharp-cut and careless. A smile that looks carved into something ancient and shining. His coat is midnight blue, collar open just enough to be casual, cuffs rolled as if he’s already done dancing and plans to do it again.
There are jewels on half the people here. Gold on everyone else.
But he doesn’t need either.
He is the light in the room.
You don’t know his name.
You don’t even realise he’s looking at you until it’s too late to look away.
⋆｡°✩
You try to look away first.
That’s your mistake.
Because now he knows.
You’re not sure how you know he knows—but you do. It's in the tilt of his head. The slight quirk at the corner of his mouth. Like your gaze didn’t just find him, but called him.
And he’s answering.
He moves through the crowd like it was always meant to part for him. Not fast. Not eager. Just easy. Certain. As if he’s done this a hundred times before and always ends up here.
At you.
Your throat is dry. Your hand tightens around the glass you never drank from.
He stops in front of you.
Up close, he’s worse. Or better. You can’t decide.
His eyes are bright—too bright. The kind of blue people write songs about and then spend the rest of their lives trying to forget. His hair is a mess of silver and moonlight, and his smile is almost too much. Like he knows it is, and uses it anyway.
He glances down at your untouched drink.
Then back up at you.
“Not your thing?” he asks, voice low, amused. Not mocking. Not yet.
You manage a reply. “Wasn’t thirsty.”
“Lucky me,” he says. “Neither was I.”
He reaches out. Takes the glass from your hand. Places it on a passing tray without looking.
Then he holds his hand out to you.
Just like that.
As if you’ve already said yes.
As if you’ve always said yes.
“Dance with me.”
Not a question. Not quite a command. Just an expectation. A possibility.
You stare at his hand. At the long fingers. The pale wrist. The soft flash of a silver cufflink shaped like a star.
“I don’t know how,” you say quietly.
He leans in, just slightly. Just enough to make your breath stutter.
“That’s alright,” he says. “I do.”
⋆｡°✩
The music isn’t loud.
It doesn’t need to be.
He walks you to the centre of the room like it’s normal. Like every person isn’t watching. Like the marble floor doesn’t ache under your feet, trying to whisper, this isn’t for you.
But he holds your hand like it is.
And when you move—when your feet remember how to follow, when your body remembers joy—he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t lead you like you’re fragile. He lets you catch up. Lets you breathe.
And when you do—
You start to smile.
Not wide. Not bright. Just a little. Just enough.
But he sees it.
His smile answers yours.
And the world keeps spinning.
⋆｡°✩
The music fades into something slower.
Your chest is still rising too fast, but his hand is steady at your back. He hasn’t let go. Not once.
Every step, every turn, he watches you like there’s no one else in the room. Like this isn’t a palace. Like this isn’t a dance among royals. Like you’re not somewhere you shouldn’t be.
Like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.
“Still nervous?” he asks, voice low, just under the violin swell.
You glance up. His smile is soft now. Tilted. Familiar in a way it shouldn’t be.
“I didn’t know it would be this easy,” you say.
He raises a brow. “Dancing?”
“Being seen.”
He doesn't laugh. Doesn't look away. Instead, he slows you to a stop, right there in the middle of the floor.
His hand slips from your waist to your wrist.
“Come with me,” he says.
⋆｡°✩
He leads you out through the back hall, past open doors and gilded arches, until the palace swallows its own noise. The music fades behind columns. The warmth of the crowd falls away.
You step into a quiet corridor, and then—
A garden.
Not the one guests passed through. This is smaller. Older. Half-forgotten. Wild vines along the stone. A cracked marble bench. The scent of lavender and something sweeter underneath—like sugar left in the sun.
It’s moonlit and hidden and yours.
You inhale, and it fills your lungs like a prayer.
“Better?” he asks.
You nod.
He lets go of your wrist but stays close. Too close. You feel his breath near your temple. He’s taller than you’d realised on the dance floor.
“Do you bring all your dance partners here?” you ask, not meaning to sound like anything—but it comes out softer than expected. Curious.
His smile quirks, lazy and real. “Only the ones I want to keep a little longer.”
Your heart kicks once. Stupid thing.
“I’m not exactly... worth remembering.”
He looks at you then, full and unguarded.
“Funny,” he murmurs, “I was just thinking the opposite.”
You don’t know what to say to that.
So you don’t say anything.
His gaze drops to your mouth. Brief. Barely there.
But your breath stutters anyway.
You want to close the space between you.
He’s already leaning in.
His voice is barely a whisper now.
“What’s your name?”
You hesitate. You’d almost forgotten that you hadn’t given it.
“I—”
DING.
The first chime hits like a stone to the chest.
DONG.
You flinch.
He pulls back, startled.
DING.
“No,” you whisper.
The air shifts. Your jacket tightens. Something in the fabric shudders like it’s remembering itself.
You take a step back.
“I’m sorry.”
“Wait—” he starts, reaching for you.
DONG.
“I have to go,” you say, already turning.
“Wait! At least tell me who—”
DING.
You’re gone.
The night is breaking, and the magic is pulling you with it.
You run.
Not elegantly. Not the way you danced.
This is a stumble-sprint, half-flight down the corridor, heart pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to get back to him. The marble floors blur. Gold columns, oil paintings, half-turned faces in distant rooms—none of it matters now. Only the ache in your chest and the way the air grows heavier with every step.
The magic is unravelling.
You feel it in your sleeves first. The seams loosen. The silver edging at your cuffs begins to smoke and vanish, the way dew fades from a blade of grass. You press your hands to your chest like you can hold it all together—but the fabric keeps melting under your fingers.
The music is gone. The laughter behind you is too far to matter. All that exists is the echo of your boots—no, just one boot now—against the floor.
You don't remember when it happened.
Just that you turned a corner too sharp. That your foot slipped. That something caught for a second and then gave way.
You look down.
Your right foot is bare.
The enchanted shoe is gone.
You double back.
It’s lying on the stairs.
You don’t go back for it.
You can't.
DING.
The ninth chime.
The gold embroidery at your hem vanishes mid-step. The jacket fades, thread by thread, until all you’re left with is the thin, patched tunic underneath—too short now. Yours, but not yours anymore. The magic never fully disguised your body. It just made the weight feel lighter.
You grab the stair railing as the garden doors disappear behind you.
The tenth chime echoes off the stone.
You’re almost at the exit.
You think you hear your name.
Not your real name. Not the one Geto calls you with disdain. But yours. The one only someone who sees you might say.
But it’s too late.
You hit the gravel outside barefoot, panting, lungs burning with cold air and regret.
The eleventh chime splits the sky.
You don’t look back.
⋆｡°✩
Somewhere behind you, he stands at the top of the staircase. His gloves are in his pocket. His coat is unbuttoned. He’s not looking at the crowd.
He’s looking at the stairs.
And the single shoe left waiting.
⋆｡°✩
The twelfth and final chime rings out.
Midnight has come.
And you're already disappearing into the dark.
You wake before the sun.
You always do, but today it feels different.
Not because your body hurts—though it does. Not because the air is cold—though it bites.
But because something inside you is too quiet.
Like your chest has been scrubbed hollow.
The attic doesn’t look any different.
The boards still creak when you shift your weight. The frost still kisses the corners of the glass. The mice still rustle softly in the wall like they don’t know anything has changed.
But it has.
You sit up slowly, fingers curled in the edge of the blanket that isn’t warm enough. Your knees are sore. Your palms sting. The magic’s gone, and it didn’t leave anything for you to hold except—
Your breath catches.
You look down.
There it is.
Nestled at the foot of your bed.
One shoe.
Not both.
Just the right one.
Silver-buckled. Unscuffed. A quiet gleam to the leather that doesn’t belong to this world.
The matching pair had vanished with the rest of the suit. But this one stayed.
Of course it did.
You don’t touch it.
Not yet.
You just stare.
Your chest tightens slowly, like the ache has to rebuild itself from the edges in.
You replay the night in pieces.
The ballroom. The music. The boy with the moonlight grin and the storm in his eyes. The garden. His hand on your back. His voice, soft and certain, asking for your name like he’d keep it safe.
You wonder if he’s looking for you.
You wonder if he’s still at the top of those stairs.
You wonder if he’ll know you now, in patched sleeves and soot-stained soles.
If he’d want to.
You press the heel of your hand into your chest, hard.
Just to feel something.
⋆｡°✩
Far from the attic, in a palace where the candles never burn low, a king lies dying.
Not with drama. Not with blood or fury or breathless speeches. Just… slowly.
Quietly.
Gojo sits beside him.
He’s not dressed for grief. Still in the same half-wrinkled clothes from the night before—collar askew, hair a mess, the ghost of the ballroom clinging to his shoulders.
He hasn’t slept. Hasn’t moved since the garden emptied and the last guest was sent away.
He hasn’t spoken.
Not until now.
“I met someone,” he says softly.
The king doesn’t open his eyes, but his mouth twitches. Barely there.
“A noble?” he rasps, voice like dry paper.
Gojo almost laughs. “Not even close.”
The king hums. A tiny sound. “Thank god.”
That earns a real smile. Faint. Brief.
Gojo leans forward, fingers curled tight over the blanket. “I didn’t get his name. Didn’t even ask. He ran. Lost a shoe.”
The king’s chest rises slowly. “Romantic.”
“Frustrating,” Gojo says. “He was real. Not… shiny. Not faked. I think he looked right through me and still stayed.”
The king doesn’t speak for a long time.
Then—
“Then go,” he says, hoarse but sure. “Go find the one who saw you.”
Gojo’s throat closes.
The king’s eyes stay shut.
“You’ve carried this crown too long,” he murmurs. “Go be loved, Satoru. Don’t let this place kill that part of you.”
There’s silence.
Then Gojo bows his head.
“I will.”
⋆｡°✩
The king dies two days later.
The mourning bells toll across the city. The gates are draped in black. The court dons solemn silks and speaks in hushed tones.
Gojo buries his father quietly.
No fanfare. No grand declarations. Just a hand pressed to the coffin and a whisper no one hears.
He returns to the throne room with quiet thunder.
No coronation. No applause. Just a man in mourning with the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders and something softer clenched between his hands.
A single shoe.
Silver-buckled. Clean as memory. The only piece of the night that didn’t vanish.
The court hushes when he steps to the dais.
He speaks without ceremony.
“I’m not here to celebrate a title,” he says. “I’m here to honour a promise.”
A ripple of confusion passes through the crowd.
Gojo lifts the shoe for all to see.
“This,” he says, voice steady, “was left behind by the person I danced with at the royal ball.”
Murmurs rise. Names, questions, whispers like wind.
Gojo’s next words cut straight through.
“I don’t know their name. Or where they came from. But I know how I felt.”
Silence now. Even the courtiers lean forward.
He breathes in. Then:
“Find them.”
The prince’s men arrive two days later.
They come in pairs—one to carry the shoe, one to carry the threat of a sword.
Some houses greet them with fanfare. Others slam the door. But in every room, they kneel before the hopeful, the desperate, the delusional, and ask them to try it on.
None of them fit.
None of them feel right.
⋆｡°✩
Toji doesn’t really want to be here.
He’s already threatened to eat the shoe twice. Nanami pretends not to hear him.
“You’re not putting it in your mouth,” Nanami says flatly as they stand in front of a bakery.
“I wasn’t gonna put it in,” Toji replies. “Just, you know. Scare the kid a little.”
“No.”
“They’ve got sugar tarts in there.”
“We’re here for the shoe.”
“I can multitask.”
Nanami sighs and knocks.
⋆｡°✩
Three houses later:
“This is a waste of time,” Toji mutters.
“It’s a royal command,” Nanami answers, like that means anything.
They’re standing in front of a weeping blacksmith.
“I swore I saw the mystery person,” the blacksmith says, tears in his beard. “They were in my dream. Had wings. Glowed.”
Nanami pinches the bridge of his nose.
Toji offers him a handkerchief. “We’ll send word if we find them, yeah?”
The blacksmith sobs louder.
Toji pats him on the shoulder.
“You tried, champ.”
⋆｡°✩
Back at the estate, the air has changed.
You don't notice at first. You're doing laundry. Small, quiet motions. Wrists in soap, eyes on the window.
But when you climb back up to the attic, the door is open.
That’s not right.
You never leave it open.
You step inside.
Geto is waiting.
He’s holding something in his hand.
It takes you a moment to register it. To understand what you’re looking at. To realise it’s yours.
The other shoe.
The one the magic didn’t claim.
Geto doesn’t look angry.
Worse.
He looks resigned.
“I knew,” he says, voice low. “The night you came home. I knew it was you.”
You don’t speak.
There’s something brittle in your chest. Like glass.
Geto turns the shoe over in his hand. “It was supposed to be Mimiko or Nanako. Anyone else. Someone who could give this family something back. But you—”
He shakes his head.
“I married your mother for love, you know.”
You flinch.
“I was a servant. Just like you. She didn’t care. She saw me. She chose me. And then she died. And I got stuck. In this house. With bills, and mouths, and nothing to show for it but my hands and my daughters.”
He looks at you then, sharp and quiet.
“You think I hate you,” he says. “I don’t.”
You want to speak. You don’t know how.
“I envy you,” he finishes.
Then he drops the shoe.
And before you can move—before you can breathe—he steps on it.
It doesn’t break.
Of course it doesn’t.
The magic’s long gone.
So he picks it up instead.
And throws it out the window.
You hear it hit the gravel outside.
And then—
Click.
The door locks behind you.
Geto’s footsteps fade down the stairs.
And you’re alone again.
Trapped. Silenced.
But not invisible anymore.
⋆｡°✩
You don’t move right away.
You hear Geto’s footsteps fade, one by one, until the house swallows them whole. Until the only sound left is the wind against the glass, and the beat of your pulse behind your eyes.
The lock clicks again in your mind.
Sharp. Final.
And then—
Nothing.
Just quiet.
You sit.
Not gently. Not with grace.
You drop straight to the floor, legs folded awkwardly, palms flat on the cold wood. The air smells like old wood and soap. Like sorrow dried into the beams.
Your hands curl into the sleeves of your shirt. Not to hide. Just to feel something.
The window glows with late morning sun. Too bright to pretend it’s still night. Too soft to call this anything but cruel.
You swallow.
You whisper to no one, “It wasn’t supposed to matter.”
The words hang there.
And then—
A scritch.
Then another.
Soft and quick, like tiny feet against the baseboard.
You blink down.
Yuji, the one with the torn ear, darts into view. He stops near your feet. Sits up on his haunches like he’s checking on you.
You offer him your palm.
He noses it once. Then skitters away to the corner where Megumi and Nobara have already gathered.
There’s a scrap of ribbon there. Frayed. Half chewed.
And a single wooden spool.
You don’t know how they found it. Or why they’re bringing it to you.
But they do.
You exhale.
“I’m not making a new shoe,” you say quietly.
They freeze.
You soften. “...Thank you, though.”
Yuji does a little hop. You can almost hear him say you’re not done.
You lean back against the wall.
You look at the door.
The lock is still in place.
The window is still too small.
Your limbs are still tired.
But something in you is standing up.
You’ve never asked to be found before.
But now—
Now you know what it felt like to be seen.
And you’re not letting that disappear without a fight.
Bang bang bang.
Not a gentle knock.
Not the kind nobles use.
The door shakes in its frame.
Mimiko shrieks from somewhere down the hall, “Father—!”
“Coming,” Geto calls, voice too smooth, too fast.
He brushes dust from his sleeves and opens the door with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
Nanami doesn't smile back.
Toji doesn’t look like he’s ever smiled at all.
The taller one—Toji, in dark military trim and boots that leave real dirt on the clean floor—looks over Geto like he’s furniture. Nanami, perfectly pressed and sharply polite, holds a velvet-lined box in his hands.
Inside it, nestled like a relic, sits the shoe.
The room tightens.
“We’re here on royal command,” Nanami says, calm as a cut. “Every household within the capital must comply.”
Geto’s smile doesn’t falter. But his fingers twitch at his sides.
“Of course,” he says. “My daughters will be thrilled.”
⋆｡°✩
The twins are anything but.
They stumble into the drawing room in matching silks, half-dressed and sweating.
Mimiko tries to charm. Nanako tries to lie. Both try on the shoe.
The shoe does not fit either of them.
Not Mimiko, who tried to stuff her foot in sideways, biting her lip like pain might be mistaken for grace.
Not Nanako, who screamed at the guards and insisted it was her shoe—until Nanami calmly pointed out it would have to be her right shoe, and she’d shoved her left foot in.
Both of them are red-faced now. Geto looks pale.
Nanami closes the velvet box with finality.
“That’s all,” Geto says quickly, stepping between them and the door. “Thank you for your time, but as you can see—”
“We appreciate your cooperation,” Nanami says, already half-turned. “We’ll be on our way—”
And then—
CRASH.
Not subtle.
Not small.
Wood shatters. Something heavy hits the floor above. Then a thud. A clang. Another loud bang, like someone’s trying to tear a room apart.
Because one of the guards—the one who had been silent this entire time, helmet shadowing his face, standing too still in the corner—steps forward.
And removes his helmet.
White hair falls loose.
Eyes like the end of a sky.
It’s him.
The prince.
No coat. No crown. Just a low voice and a gaze that could slit a throat with kindness.
“Check the room,” Gojo says.
Toji doesn’t hesitate.
He moves toward the stairs.
And Geto?
Geto stops breathing.
⋆｡°✩
Meanwhile, upstairs—
You’ve already broken a chair.
The window’s too high, and the door won’t give, but fury moves faster than fear.
You threw the table against the wall. You shattered a glass jar. The room is in chaos.
Not because you thought someone would hear you.
But because if you’re going to be locked away again—this time, the walls will remember you were here.
And downstairs, they just did.
⋆｡°✩
The door gives way with a shudder and a kick.
Toji steps inside the attic like he’s seen a thousand rooms like this—and hates every one of them. He doesn’t speak at first. Just scans the broken chair, the shards of glass, the boy standing in the middle of it all like a storm passed through him and didn’t finish the job.
You square your shoulders, fists tight.
“I’m not going quietly,” you say.
Toji raises a brow.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he says. “Not until you try on the shoe.”
⋆｡°✩
You’re still stunned when you’re led down the stairs.
The house feels different now—seen, somehow. You don’t flinch when Geto glares. You don’t look at the twins when they hiss your name like it’s a curse.
Because all you see is him.
Gojo.
Not in a dream. Not behind a mask.
Just him.
And he’s looking at you like you invented music.
⋆｡°✩
“I didn’t know,” you say softly.
His smile curves at the edges. “Good.”
You blink. “What?”
“I wanted to be seen as me, not as—” He waves a hand. “Royal disaster. Golden boy. Walking headline.”
“You’re still ridiculous,” you mutter.
“Mm,” he says, “but you danced with me anyway.”
⋆｡°✩
Nanami brings the shoe.
It still gleams like it remembers the night better than you do.
You kneel.
Your fingers tremble.
You fit your foot inside.
It slides in like it never belonged anywhere else.
A quiet settles over the room.
Nanami exhales, almost like relief.
Toji nods once.
The twins make some sound between a gasp and a wail.
And Gojo?
He takes two steps forward.
Then drops to one knee.
No theatrics. No ceremony.
Just him.
And you.
And the weight of everything you both carried here.
“I don’t know your name,” he says. “But I’d like to learn it every day.”
You swallow.
His hand is warm.
“Will you marry me?”
You stare at him.
Then, slowly, like something new is blooming in your chest—
You smile.
And take his hand.
The palace feels warmer now.
Not because of the sun. Or the gilded windows. Or the three-tiered cake that someone dropped during the reception and tried to blame on the reindeer.
But because of him.
Gojo stands beside you on the balcony, arm loose around your waist, his thumb brushing idle circles against your side like he still can’t believe you’re real.
You’re both still in partial wedding attire—him with his jacket tossed over a chair somewhere, you barefoot, crown lopsided, shirt collar unbuttoned and clinging just a little to your throat. You should probably be inside. The court is probably looking for you.
But the garden below is quiet.
And the air tastes like late summer and the end of something you never thought would happen.
⋆｡°✩
“What happened to them?” you ask, leaning into him just enough to be smug about it.
He hums. “Geto’s under investigation for falsifying noble status. Pretty sure he’s banned from the capital for life. Last I heard, he’s trying to sell spiritual healing potions out of a cart in the countryside.”
You snort. “And the twins?”
“Assigned to community service. Fifteen years of it.”
You blink. “What do they do?”
“Paint fences. Clean royal kennels. Muck out stables.”
You try to look sympathetic.
You fail.
⋆｡°✩
The sky is peach-gold now.
You lean back against the railing, one hand braced behind you, and Gojo’s eyes trace the line of your neck like he’s memorising it.
“What?” you ask, smirking a little.
“You’re too pretty for this world,” he says easily. “I might have to exile you just to stop fights.”
You roll your eyes. “You’re not exiling me. You married me.”
He steps in closer.
“I did, didn’t I?”
His hand settles just under your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. His smile turns softer.
Hungrier.
“Wanna kiss your husband?”
You grin. “Maybe.”
He doesn’t wait for permission.
⋆｡°✩
“You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice like velvet warmed in sunlight.
You don’t answer. Just let your fingers trail down the line of his collarbone, slow and curious, feeling the heat beneath his skin. You’re still a little dazed from it all—the ceremony, the kiss, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the kingdom.
Maybe the world.
Gojo watches you with a softness that doesn’t match the grin tugging at his lips.
“Still thinking about saying yes?” he teases, tilting his head.
You hum. “I’m thinking I want to kiss you again.”
“Be my guest.”
You lean in. He meets you halfway.
The kiss starts gentle—lazy, even. But there’s something under it now. Something hot and restless curling between your ribs. Your fingers move to his jaw, then to the back of his neck, dragging him just a little closer. He obliges with a pleased sound, deepening the kiss, mouth parting just enough to catch your breath between his lips.
He tastes like sugared wine and strawberries, and you swear you could drown in him.
By the time you break apart, you’re breathing harder than you expected. Your eyes meet, close enough to feel the words before you say them.
“I want you,” you whisper.
It comes out raw. Honest.
Gojo stills. Just for a moment.
Then—
“Yeah?” His voice is lower now. Rougher around the edges. “You sure?”
You nod.
“Then come here.”
⋆｡°✩
He lifts you before you realize he’s moving. Hands strong, steady, one at your back, the other beneath your thighs. You yelp softly, laugh against his throat, and he huffs out a breathless chuckle that turns into something deeper.
The doors to your chambers are already cracked open. He kicks them wider.
The room beyond is quiet. Candlelit. Fresh linens, tossed shoes, and half a glass of wine still left untouched on the bedside table. You don’t see any of it.
Just him.
He sets you down gently, reverent in a way that makes your chest ache.
You sit on the edge of the bed as he leans in, hands braced on either side of your thighs, lips ghosting over your cheek, then your jaw.
“Tell me what you want,” he says, voice low and warm.
You reach up. Thread your fingers into his hair.
“Kiss me like you did that night,” you say. “And don’t stop.”
He grins against your mouth. “Gladly.”
And he does.
⋆｡°✩
The world falls away the second his lips meet yours again.
There’s no crowd here. No music. No kingdom watching. Just the sound of his breath and yours, the rustle of fabric as fingers drag slowly down your back, and the warm press of his palms against your skin like he’s memorising every inch of you.
You pull him closer. He goes willingly.
The kiss deepens. His mouth is hot and sure, moving with a rhythm that makes you dizzy. His tongue brushes yours, and you gasp into him—your fingers clutching the back of his shirt, your legs parting slightly as he slots himself between them.
He presses you gently back onto the bed.
The sheets shift beneath you—soft, crisp, faintly perfumed—and his weight follows, settling against you with a slowness that feels like worship.
His hand cradles your face as he kisses you again, slower now. Lingering. Like he has all the time in the world.
“Still sure?” he asks, voice hoarse at the edges, lips brushing your cheek.
You nod, breath caught in your throat. “I want you.”
Gojo exhales like he’s been waiting to hear that his whole life.
“Okay,” he whispers, “I’ve got you.”
⋆｡°✩
He doesn’t rush.
He undresses you carefully, easing your clothes from your body piece by piece, always watching, always touching, like he’s unwrapping something sacred. His hands trail down your arms, your ribs, your hips—every inch of your skin kissed, touched, praised.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, not like a compliment, but like a fact.
His own clothes fall away soon after, and when he kneels above you, bare in the candlelight, you forget how to breathe.
He’s strong. Slender. Scars across his stomach, down his hip—each one traced gently beneath your fingers. His eyes darken when you touch him, a low sound humming from his chest as you explore him with quiet wonder.
He kisses your chest, your stomach, the inside of your thigh. Each press of his mouth is tender, reverent. You shiver when his lips ghost lower—when he parts your legs with one slow sweep of his hand and settles between them like he was always meant to be there.
When his tongue touches you, your fingers curl in the sheets.
He’s slow. Gentle. Languid.
Learning you. Reading every twitch of your hips, every gasp, every whispered plea. He hums when you moan, the sound low and satisfied.
You arch when he wraps his arms under your thighs and pulls you closer.
“Let me take care of you,” he whispers, voice rough and thick with want.
And he does.
With his mouth, his fingers, his voice—coaxing you open, unravelling you gently, turning heat into warmth into fire.
By the time you come undone, you’re panting, legs trembling, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer.
He doesn’t leave you. Doesn’t pull away. Just presses slow kisses to your skin and climbs up to meet your mouth again, breath catching as he feels you cling to him.
You reach for him. Trace the line of his jaw.
“Take me,” you whisper.
And he does.
⋆｡°✩
He enters you slowly, carefully, stopping when you tense, kissing your throat until your body melts into his again. His hand finds yours against the pillow, lacing your fingers together as he presses deeper.
It’s intense. Full. Your breath stutters, and his does too.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
You nod.
He starts to move, and it’s overwhelming.
His weight on you, his breath on your neck, the way your bodies move together—every thrust angled with care, every sound he makes pressed against your ear like a secret. He moans when your hips rise to meet him. Groans when you say his name like you mean it.
He doesn’t look away. Watches you fall apart underneath him. Watches your lashes flutter, your mouth part, your breath hitch.
“Fuck, you feel incredible,” he says, voice wrecked.
You pull him down, kiss him hard, gasping against his lips as heat blooms low and deep in your core.
He speeds up—just enough.
The sound of skin on skin, the headboard creaking gently, the rhythm of his hips, your hands in his hair—it all builds into something slow and bright and utterly consuming.
You fall apart first, back arching, thighs clenching around his waist.
He follows with a gasp, pulling out just in time, his hand stroking you through it as he spills onto your stomach with a trembling groan.
⋆｡°✩
After, he’s quiet.
He wipes you down gently, kisses your chest, your temple, your knuckles.
Then he pulls you into his arms, your head tucked beneath his chin, his thumb stroking slow circles into your spine.
You’re half-asleep when he whispers, “I’m never letting you go.”
You smile.
“You better not.”
Later, as the sun dips below the rooftops, you’re sprawled together on the balcony, limbs tangled, cheeks flushed, breath finally slowing.
He presses his forehead to yours.
You close your eyes.
The world is quiet again.
Until—
Scurry scurry.
You open one eye.
Yuji. Then Megumi. Then Nobara.
The mice dash across the stone railing, tails twitching, feet fast, all three heading for the figure standing just beyond the edge of the light.
Shoko.
Still in her boots. Still in her long coat. Still impossibly cool.
She holds out one palm.
The mice leap into it without hesitation.
She glances at you and Gojo, sprawled out and glowing like kings in love.
“Cute,” she says.
You sit up. “You stayed?”
She lights a cigarette with a flick of her fingers.
“Nah,” she says. “I just came to collect my assistants.”
Gojo squints. “Assistants?”
“They picked you,” Shoko says, looking directly at you.
pairing: jj maybank x luke's girlfriend's son male reader
genres: angst, fluff
summary: jj takes you out to spite his father, fully aware that both your parents are dating
a/n: ngl i think this could be a whole chapter series so let me know if yall are interested in that-
there were 3 rules to going out with jj maybank.
according to his friends, you should never ask him about his previous conquests or his father. then as jj pulled up the driveway, john b whispered that you shouldn't ask him to do anything remotely romantic either unless he initiates it.
the fact that there were rules to going out with him should've scared you. but there was some part of you that wondered what it's like to go out with the man who's devastating gaze often lingers on you for too long. so there you were sitting at the pier, breaking the first rule.
"how many dates have you bought here?" regret scalds over your skin like hot water the moment you finish your question. your legs hang over the dark ocean crashing into the support of the extended boardwalk. the sky bleed fiery orange above, slowly fading into the deep purple atmosphere.
jj sat beside you, one knee propped up to the side. he chuckles in a way that's both intimating and tempting. "damn, five minutes and you're already asking me about previous relationships? can i at least learn your last name first?"
you narrow your eyes. "you know my last name. your dad is dating my mom. that's why you asked me out right?"
jj tilts his head, a playful smirk forms on his lips as his ocean blue eyes met yours. "now who told you that? i asked you out because i think your ass is cute." his look was as arresting as the times he watched you from afar at parties or at restaurants. you don't know how long he stares at you, but whenever you see him, he's always turned to your direction and remains that way even after he's caught.
you look away and watch the waves crash below. if his look is enough to light your stomach on fire, then it scares you to think exactly what other feelings could jj cause with simply existing.
jj hops to his feet and extends a hand. "come on," he says. "i don't plan to sit the whole night."
without much of a choice, you take his hand. he doesn't let go immediately like you expected. he drops it to the side, his rough fingers threading into yours. he takes off his baseball cap and fits it into your head. jj's messy blond hair falls over his eyes, ghosting his gaze with rugged elegance. "there, you look like you're mine."
"it's our first date, jj. i've never spoken to you before." you mumble hesitantly, the tightness of the cap around your head taking a bit of adjustment.
"exactly. isn't it romantic if i call you mine and you call me yours even if you don't know who i am and i don't know who you are?" jj steps closer, his warmth radiating against the north carolina breeze. you had to lift your head up to meet his look. "now come on, much to do."
jj pulls you through the thick crowds, his hold unwavering despite being bumped by others multiple times. he turned around and checked on you more times than you thought he would, and each time he had a smile that strummed your heartstrings.
your first destination was a shooting game. balloons deflated to be smaller and thicker are pinned to a cork board surrounded by animal stuffed toys increasing in size. pellet guns are tied to the partition where you and jj stood behind. "classic shooting game," he explained, picking up a gun and pointing it towards the balloons. "what ya want?"
you laugh softly, quickly scanning the prizes. "uh, that big dolphin, i guess? if you could get it."
"huh," jj breathed mockingly. "hey how many do i shoot for that big dolphin for this gentleman with me?" he yelled at the attendant.
"three red ones." the attendant said without enthusiasm.
"alright, listen up pretty boy. i'll teach you your first lesson about dating me." jj raises the gun with one straight arm. he closes one eye, his jaw clenches and strains the powerful cords of his neck. focus looks attractive on him.
with three pulls, three red balloons exploded into pieces. you couldn't quite believe how fast he did it at first— and how he perfectly shot them in a row.
"never, ever underestimate what i could do for you." jj emphasizes, taking the dolphin plush and shoving it into your arms. your mouth still hung open, both from surprise and just how hot his words smoothly rolled of his tongue. "if i tell you im gonna give you something then darling, you're getting it."
you smile into the dolphin, inhaling the cotton candy scent that clung onto it. "thank you."
"what are we naming it?" jj cocks his head to the side.
"huh?"
"our first child." jj drawls confidently, leaning against the booth. "since we dont have kids or a dog yet. our children are plushies. and that dolphin is the first one."
you tap his chest playfully. "you don't even know if i want kids."
"once we get to the making kids part, you're gonna want to have my children pretty boy." jj pulls his cap off you, runs his hand through your soft hair, his touch lingering before ruffling them free and putting his cap back. if this was still part of his ploy to make you fall for him to piss off his father, then it's working terribly well.
jj led you to a carousel next. you were the only ones over the age of 10 riding a plastic horse, but barely mattered when jj's hand was on your waist the entire time. the ride spun adequately slowly so there was no need for support, but the warmth and weight steady on your body didn't waver.
"you like this, don't you?" jj whispered on your ear from behind, sending rivulets of heat through your skin. he leans in just enough to brush his lips on your lobe. "you don't have to admit it. i already know the answer."
you slightly turn around to meet his cocky smile, the yellow lights transcendent on his skin and highlighting his sharper handsome features. "how do you know that? can you read my mind or something?"
"i don't need to, pretty boy." he purred. "the fact that you're not pulling away from me says it clear and loud."
you face forward again, pretending to watch the kid in front of you just so he won't see the flush on your cheeks. jj chuckles, sending vibrations through you, noting that he's aware anyway.
when the carousel halted, you secretly hoped jj would want another ride. but he got off and helped you off the horse with more hands involved than needed. he leads you through a quieter portion of the boardwalk, between two booths that closed early for the night.
"so, did you enjoy tonight?" jj asked, leaning against the wall with half of his face covered in the dark. the other was shadowed in red and violet lights that accentuated his razor-sharp jawline and lazy eyes.
"surprisingly, yes." you admit. "i didn't know what to expect but this feels nice. going out on a pretend date with you."
jj raises an eyebrow. "who said this is still pretend?"
you laugh quietly. "do i still have to pretend i'm unaware of your real reasons?"
jj shrugs. "well i guess it did start that way. it was this entire cruel intentions play in my head just to make my dad's dating life weird. thought i'd make myself love you to hurt him." he pushes off the wall and closes the distance between you. your breath gets caught in your throat, the anticipation knotting inside your stomach as he leans down. his breath ghosting your lips. "but this isnt a game for me anymore, pretty boy. not when you smile like that. or squirm like that whenever i get close. you're something different."
jj holds your cheek gently. "so what do you say? what if we turn this into something real? just for fun."
you meet his blue eyes boring into yours. and as beautiful as he looked in the dark, your hands still went up to jj's chest and gave him a light shove. "if you want to kiss me, im gonna need more than one date."
for a second, jj looked flabbergasted— like he wasn't used to rejection. then, the playful smirk came back, knowing that its a game he'll eventually win. "fair. what are you doing tomorrow night?"
a steady exhale leaves your lips. "nothing."
"dress in something cute. like you did tonight. and wear my cap again." jj leans until there's only a paper-thin distance between your lips. "but fair warning, i might not have as much self-control as i had today."
it took all your strength to not show him how weak that made you. but your legs betray you when they suddenly buck forward. jj catches you with one hand caressing the small of your back.
jj chuckles, giving his cap on your head a light tap. "see what i mean, pretty boy?"
⚣🤫 A/N → Well, I'll be bathing in holy water for the next week. I don't know why this request stumped me for so long, but I'm really happy with how it turned out. Also, I feel this should be obvious, but I still feel the need to say, this is fiction, of course, but if someone shows these behaviors in real life with you, especially the apology with sex thing (dear lord), babe...that's a red flag. BUT, this is again fiction, so shut up and enjoy it! MUAH 😘
WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI | Omegaverse | Mature Language | Intense Smut | Dub-con Themes | College AU | No Powers AU | No one is a Superhero | Childhood Friends to Enemies | Enemies to Lovers | Conner is Clark and Lex's biological son | Alpha Conner Kent | Omega Male Reader | Angst | Jealousy | Filthy Things
⚣🤫 Summary → "Honestly?" Artemis leaned back, voice as dry as sandpaper, as she crossed her arms over her chest with an amused look. "If you ask me, this is a perfect chance for you two to squash whatever this is—and finally put the rest of us out of our misery. You guys act like you wanna bang each other more than kill each other half the time anyway."
Y/N nearly choked on his spit. He pantomimed gagging and puking, making the most disturbing upchucking noise that once again had the two girls exchanging looks with each other.
"See, this is what I mean. A simple 'No, I don't want to screw Conner' would have sufficed. Now, it's just more obvious how bad you want him to crack you open. And I'll bet he wants the same, considering he's the one who requested you as a partner."
The indignation on Y/N's face was nearly comical, and Zatanna may or may not have shoved a bit more food in her mouth to hold in her laughs. She didn't outright agree with her blonde friend, but she definitely didn't disagree either.
⚣🤫 Word Count → 28.9K
REBLOGS & replies are greatly appreciated, please! 💛
⚣ ENJOY 💓
Conner Kent is a fucking enigma, and if Y/N didn't know what an enigma was before, he certainly knows it now.
When he first got to college, he wasn't expecting anything too abnormal from what most teenagers would expect from life after high school. Freedom to do what you want and be who you are. Getting to make your own rules and create amazing and hilarious memories while also building long-lasting relationships and friendships.
All that and a bag of chips.
But, Y/N should have known not to simplify his life down to the average person's expectations, considering he was nowhere near an average person himself. His last name was Wayne, and at first glance, that may not seem like anything substantial, but when you realize the parent behind the last name, then it's easily understandable why Y/N should lower his expectations.
Albert, his family's butler, always said he often went through life wearing rose-colored glasses. And yes, you read that right. Y/N's family butler, Alfred Pennyworth, who works for his family, more specifically, his father, Bruce Wayne, the majority shareholder and heir to the multinational conglomerate Wayne Enterprises.
The Bruce Wayne, beloved by the public for his philanthropic ways and for being a leading voice for change in the world. An Alpha man with many titles to his name, but the most famous one being the "Billionaire Playboy." And while Y/N loved his dear old dad, even he had to admit that there was definitely truth to the nickname.
If you don't believe him, just ask his half-brother Damian. While their father is known for being a caring and benevolent man, and one of the few cisgender, white, and powerful men in the world to use his wealth and status for good, unlike many of his counterparts, he's also…well, let's just be blunt. He's a hoe.
He knows it; his children know it; the media knows it; Stevie Wonder can see it. Y/N once said it directly to his father's face, and it was reasonable to assume Bruce (while not denying it) wasn't impressed with the term, let alone it having it come from his son, and had scolded him. Alfred had scolded him as well—but had also conveniently waited until Bruce turned around to give a fist bump to the youngest Wayne.
However, being a Wayne wasn't all opulence, lavishness, and fun. Much of Y/N's life was in the spotlight and constantly up for public debate—something that grew old and tiresome very quickly. But it didn't start that way.
Bruce, with the help of his PR and security, managed to keep the pregnancy out of the public eye. And, at his Papa's request after he was born, Y/N stayed with him in Metropolis out of the spotlight, spending the summers and every other holiday with his father in Gotham in hopes that he could live a normal childhood that wasn't in the eyes of the world. Bruce agreed and complied, but always made sure his son and "baby-daddy" were financially supported.
Bruce hated that term, which is why his Papa constantly used it to amuse himself. Something else Alfred secretly lived for but didn't comment on. And Y/N certainly is his Papa's child.
So, Y/N spent his first ten years of life with his Papa in Metropolis, living an ordinary life, and would visit Gotham every other holiday and over the summer to spend time with his dad. And while with Bruce, he'd spend time with all his siblings. He didn't have too many friends outside of his family to help keep his identity private and out of the public eye.
Yet, everything changed when back home in Metropolis, while spending the evening with his Papa, who was working late, a swarm of reporters and paps—ironic when you think about it—swarmed around the doors of the Daily Planet, waiting to get a shot of Bruce Wayne's alleged "Bastard Offspring."
The stories were ruthless, to say the least, and his Papa had to take away his internet privileges for a time just to protect him from the awful things being spread not only about him, but also about both of them. Kids from school, some of whom he thought were his friends, made fun of him as well, calling him the "Wayne Bastard" and other cruel names. His Papa had to take a leave from the Daily Planet until things calmed down. Most critics, especially those with a grudge against one or both of his parents, were discussing how Y/N was another child from an unmarried union involving the Billionaire Playboy, and how the CEO should be a better example for those who look up to him, especially men and alphas—and that was just from the ones holding back.
Others —and quite a few of them, at that—had much to say, especially towards Y/N's Papa, who was getting massacred across the blogs. Being called a 'gold digger' could have been considered a compliment when compared to the different things people were saying. Things got so bad that their personal information was leaked online, and fearing for their safety, they had to relocate with Bruce's help to a more private and secure address.
As one can imagine, it didn't sit well with the billionaire to see his son and co-parent being ripped apart online for something that was no one's business but theirs, prompting him to give an exclusive interview to Lois Lane, a kick-ass journalist, reporter, and dear friend to Y/N's parents, along with her partner, Clark. In that sit-down discussion, he called out the hypocrisy & double standards, the fake moral outrage, and the hateful and dangerous acts people were targeting at a child. He wasn't married, sure. However, he was still a grown man who engaged in grown activities and took responsibility for said actions. As a father, he not only ensured that he provided more than enough but also maintained a consistent and active presence in his son's life. Something most of these trolls online, clutching at their pearls, couldn't say about themselves.
That, among other things, was enough to quell the public and give fire and validation to those who were speaking in defense of both Y/N and his parents. People loved it when a white man stood on business—the billionaire's message was very much "clocking" to them.
Although his parents and Lois could not initially discover the source of the leak, the dust had eventually settled. But, it was clear that there would be no returning to the previous life Y/N once had. It was mutually decided, even suggested by his Papa, that it'd be in Y/N's best interest, with his identity now exposed to the public, for him to move and stay with his dad permanently in Gotham. His Papa would stay in Metropolis, however, returning to his career at the Daily Planet, and Y/N would visit him bi-weekly, during the summer, and on holidays.
Now, one might wonder—how the hell does Conner Kent fit into all of this?
Well, long story short, not only did he use to be Y/N's closest friend in childhood once upon a time—he was also the reason for all that shit happening in the first place.
Him—and his ain't-shit daddy, Lex.
"Would it be wrong if I sent your father a 'Happy Birthday' text that ended with 'Fuck you'?"
Y/N held in the laugh that nearly slipped out as he pushed open the double doors to the lecture room, where the air smelled both stale and musty. He made his way down one of the aisles to the seat where his friend Zatanna was sitting, stylus pen out as she jotted down the bulleted notes she'd gotten from the class resource page.
"Is this about the paparazzi photo that leaked of him and Selina Kyle leaving his birthday gala together?" He claimed the seat to the right of the dark-haired woman, sending her a greeting smile as she moved her bags so he could sit down.
"I– well, no… but," the stuttering, soft voice over the phone line brought an amused smirk to the younger Omega's lips as he retrieved his laptop along with the case for his Bluetooth earbuds. "Why are you being nosy?"
Y/N let out a laugh while grabbing his phone from his pocket. "I get it from my daddy," he mocked his journalist father in a childish, sing-song tone. The college student could practically hear the eye roll from his parent—a common trait that many loved to point out, which the father-son pair shared.
It was amusing for the Omega to hear both his dads constantly act as if they still had nothing going on between them. Considering they were continually checking in and asking about the other, no one, especially their son, believed them when they said they weren't interested in each other on that level. Who would when both were guilty of using their child to spy on the other's dating life?
When Y/N mainly lived with his Papa, he'd be sent to Gotham for the summer and holidays with the responsibility of reporting back any person he didn't recognize to his parents. Then, when he moved to Gotham, it was always subtle questions and inquiries about who was who. And Bruce would do the same, asking about any Alphas he'd seen his Papa with and if Y/N liked them or not, whatever that was supposed to mean. His Papa could claim all day that his dad was not a man he'd be interested in, but Y/N's very existence testified against that.
Yes, they were brilliant. And, yes, they were his role models. But they also were the most oblivious idiots on the face of planet Earth. Multiple things could be true at once.
Thankfully, aside from their occasional and questionable jealous habits, there was never any animosity between the two parents—those mainly lived in the bedroom. Y/N and everyone else would be fools to pretend they weren't aware of his parents still getting it on with each other whenever they could. They had a very respectful partnership and dynamic, and any type of differences they may have had, they put their son above those disagreements. However, their "strictly co-parenting" relationship—his Papa's words, not his own nor anyone else's—was now practiced with higher caution to avoid another surprise bundle of joy.
"Whatever. I've got my sources checking in behind that one–"
"Stalker much?" Y/N quipped just as the professor made their way in from the side door, "Alright, Papa, I gotta go. I just made it to class," Y/N said, while giving a smile to his friend as he took the seat to her right.
"Alright, love ya stinkhead. Call me later."
Y/N hung up just as the double doors to the lecture hall opened again. The Omega didn't even have to turn around to know who it was—the sudden knot in his stomach told him at the sound of the heavy footsteps hitting the aisles. Not to mention the icy agitation chilling his skin to the point, it was prickling.
Zatanna paid the two muscle jocks no mind as they made their way down the aisles, one of them turning to give Y/N a flirty look while the other ignored him completely as they took their seats in the same row as him and Zatanna. The one Alpha who gave him the flirty wink was just some random jock on the school's football team who'd been trying to get in Y/N's pants since the semester started. The other…
The other who'd completely ignored him would be Conner Kent, aka, the source of his sudden and noticeable irritation. Y/N's jaw tightened at the bitter thought of that name on his tongue, even if it was just mental.
He'd never be able to understand, no matter the number of times it was explained, how his Uncle Clark—sweet and cuteness aggression levels of wholesome Uncle Clark—could have ended up in bed a vile specimen like Lex Luthor, and not even have thought to use any type of protection, at that! Clearly, both his dad and Uncle Clark.
Just the mental image of those two doing the dirty tango was enough fuel for nightmares that he could will to his great-grandchildren—generational trauma at its best. Truthfully, Y/N wouldn't have put it past someone like Lex to have manipulated that fateful night. Despite his conception being a result of the 0.01% chance, contraceptive companies intentionally don't advertise; at least there was some compatibility and tangible attraction between his parent.
Y/N couldn't think of one conceivable reality where his Uncle Clark would be attracted to Lex fucking Luthor of all people without some kind of date-rape drug being involved. The two were complete opposites in every imaginable way, and yet, somehow, from that questionable mess of events, they'd made Conner.
Conner, who may have shared physical traits from both his fathers, but acted more like his bitch-ass, baldheaded, ran-through ass daddy—not that he was judging Lex in any type of way. Sure, Conner had Clark's easy-to-get-lost-in blue eyes, strong jawline, dark and soft hair that you could spend hours playing in, and a build that could rival a comic-book superhero, but his attitude was something you'd expect from someone who was the spawn of a bug like Lex Luthor.
Conner, all stoic, mean, and brooding, who always acted as if people were below him because of who he came from. Cause, let's be clear, Y/N came from the same kind of people, and he didn't act anything like that. Damian, his most high-strung and proper acting older brother, would beat his ass if he ever even tried to act like Conner acted.
And another thing—
"Stop staring," Zatanna murmured, jabbing at his side, "You're not exactly being subtle."
He was not staring!
"I was not staring!"
Zatanna's single arched eyebrow spoke loudly enough, a cosmetics company would pay to copyright the look for their new line of eyebrow tweezers. Y/N just scoffed, not even bothering to reply, while he turned to his unopened laptop, muttering under his breath. Their professor had apparently been five minutes into his lecture, cuing his ever-diligent friend to wordlessly turn her tablet screen over a bit so he could copy down the few notes he missed. And still, throughout the lecture, he kept catching his glances moving to the side of him.
Conner sat slouched in his seat, broad shoulders sinking lazily into the chair, while his thick arms folded over that brawny chest, the fabric of his shirt stretched just enough to hint at the muscle underneath. His gaze stayed fixed on the front, that maddeningly stoic expression giving nothing away, like he couldn't care less about anything around him. He wasn't even taking notes on the lecture, probably counting on his daddy to buy his diploma in the end.
And even if he sat in the space as if he didn't care to be here, it was infuriating to see how the space seemed to revolve around him. Just the way his legs sprawled wide, long thighs eating up the row made it impossible not to notice him. Like, could he be any less considerate? He was acting as if he didn't need to make room for anyone, let alone the other Alpha sitting right next to him, who was just a little under his size and might also need room.
Which was also annoying in itself, because even if it wasn't directly affecting Y/N, it was indirectly affecting him, and that was a problem! Conner's lack of consideration for legroom meant Y/N was defending someone he also found annoying, considering that someone had been hitting on him since late August, despite his incessant batting him away like an annoying fly.
Conner didn’t spare Y/N a glance, either oblivious or pretending to be. But when his friend—Matt… Matthew, ugh, whatever—giving himself more breathing room, it just so happened to bring him one spot closer to Y/N. Close enough to have the Kent Alpha's attention, glancing at the small space between Y/N and his friend for the hottest of seconds.
The professor clapped his hands, grabbing Y/N's attention back to the front of the room. "Alright," the man announced while pulling up the slide with the project details on the projector, "…time for you to pick your partners. This project is meant for two, but if there's an odd number of people, I'll accept one group of three. I encourage you to pick someone you don't know or someone you know you'll easily get along with."
Oh, thank god, they got to choose. Y/N really didn't want to end up in a cliché scenario where he was paired with someone he didn't get along with. What a travesty.
"The real world won't always be as kind as I. Still choose wisely, as you will be working together for the next three weeks. I do already have some pairings submitted, so for those who have gotten their confirmation, you're free to go. The rest of you, once you have your chosen solidified, please come down to submit them to me, and you're free to go as well."
When the professor started the timer for everyone to choose their partners, Y/N automatically turned to his left, not even glancing at the Alpha to his right, who looked to already be preparing to spew some nonsensical offer that could be mistaken as sexual harassment, or Conner, who just started grabbing his things to stand.
"Hey, partner," He said with a relaxed smile. This project was going to be a breeze with the two of them working together. At least, that's what he thought until he saw the slightly guilty look on Zatanna's face when she looked up at him while closing her tablet.
"Sorry, Y/N, but Artemis and I already paired up."
Y/N's whole body seemed to scowl as she started packing her bags, "What? How. She's not even here," Y/N pointed out, unless she was testing out an invisible cloak she'd rented from the magic shop down the road.
"Yeah, but the project was announced two days ago, and Artemis asked me yesterday to partner up. Do you know not check the assignment alerts in your school email?"
No.
"Yes! I do… quite often, actually. Do you?" His tone was nothing but accusation, which, unfortunately, did nothing to help his argument.
Zatanna rolled her eyes and kept packing. "Just go and ask if you can join us as a third. Then we can be a group of three."
A shadow fell over him from behind, Y/N turning to see Matthias—or Mark, whatever—smiling in what he thought was an inviting way. "Or, you could partner with me," the Alpha suggested, his grin dipping into something deliberately suggestive as he leaned a little too far into Y/N's space. Where were COVID restrictions when you needed them?
"We'd make a good team… I can be very hands-on."
Y/N didn't even want to know what he was thinking in his head behind those words.
"Uh, thanks for the offer, but I'm good." Y/N turned sharply, slipping down the now-empty row Zatanna had vacated, making his escape before the conversation could kill any more of his brain cells. A faint scoff followed him, paired with a muttered, "Omegas, right?" He ignored it, knowing that if he responded, it could make things much worse.
He approached their professor, who had a couple of students already standing in front of the podium, giving their names and pairings to be checked off. When it was his turn, in his most polite voice, he asked to be placed in a group of three with Artemis and Zatanna, hoping no one else had yet taken the only spot available.
The professor's brows lifted. "There hasn't been a request for a group of three yet, so that should be fine. Let me just..." He began typing, searching through the class roster.
Relief loosened Y/N's shoulders until the professor's expression shifted.
"Wait, I'm sorry, looks like you're already in a pairing with… Conner Kent."
Those words, more accurately, that name, hit like a sucker punch.
For a second, Y/N was sure the lighting in the room dimmed, and he was two seconds from passing out. Or someone had vacuumed all of the air out of his lungs, which would explain the immense tightness in his chest. His skin prickled hot and cold at the same time, noting a faint trace of a scent that reminded him distantly of skinned warmed under the sun mixed with something leathery, knowing all too well who it belonged to in the back of his mind.
"I'm sorry, there must be a mistake," he said, working in overdrive to keep his voice even as he felt his pulse spike under his skin.
"No mistake," the professor replied, "I received an email this morning with your partner request from Mr. Kent himself."
The hair on the back of Y/N's neck stood straight as he felt the gaze on him like heat from the sun magnified on him through a car windshield. Suddenly, the shock and confusion he felt melted away and reformed into something hot and furious.
He turned around, spotting the very source of his rising ire, who stood next to Mason—Mark, no Marcus, oh, who fucking cares—as they chatted about something he sure was stupid and ignorant. Though even in conversation, Conner, with one hand holding his backpack strap and the other probably balled up in a fist in his pocket, met his narrowed gaze head-on, as if he was waiting for that very moment.
Y/N glared at the man even harder, as his own hands clenched into fists at his sides, while a small group of his classmates made their way past him to the professor.
"Hi, we'd like to be a group of three."
People just didn't get it. They didn't see things from Y/N's perspective, and therefore couldn't understand why he was not only incredibly pissed with the LexCorp heir, but also hopelessly confused. Correct him if he was wrong—he wasn't—the last time he checked, the feelings of dislike and contempt were mutual between him and Conner Kent. So where the hell did this sudden attitude change come from?
"Dude, seriously," Artemis groaned while stabbing at her salad, "I get you're upset, but could you chew that chicken sandwich with a little less malice? Some of us are actually trying to enjoy our meal."
Y/N froze mid-bite, fully prepared to defend himself, but considering the sting from where he'd bitten his tongue just a few minutes prior, he could admit he was being a little… over-zealous in his munching. Either that, or the chicken sandwich really was just that good. Two things can be true at once.
Zatanna covered her mouth while chewing her own food, "Be thankful it's only the sandwich he's taking it out on. Which, you're welcome, by the way." The pointed look he was receiving from between her index finger and thumb was more unsettling than one might imagine.
He scowled at her in return, but didn't argue back—mostly because she was right. She did, indeed, physically plant herself between him and Conner before he could do something he'd regret. And everyone should consider themselves lucky that she did, considering there wasn't much he would regret.
"I'd actually have enjoyed seeing the footage of Y/N tearing him to shreds." Zatanna directed her pointed look toward their blonde friend, who looked every type of unashamed at her words.
"Don't encourage him."
"No, please encourage me. I need the validation. I encourage these activities. Continue these endeavors, please," Y/N said in some accent neither girl could decipher. His impersonation skills were not as good as he liked to believe.
Despite the irritation it caused, most people on campus couldn't help being a little invested in the ongoing tension between the two males. Though in this case, "invested" was just a polite way of saying nosy. When you were the sons of the two wealthiest men in the country, people tended to pay attention to you. And nothing stirred gossip more than the heirs of rival empires acting out that rivalry themselves.
Not that it had always been that way.
"Honestly?" Artemis leaned back, voice as dry as sandpaper, as she crossed her arms over her chest with an amused look. "If you ask me, this is a perfect chance for you two to squash whatever this is—and finally put the rest of us out of our misery. You guys act like you wanna bang each other more than kill each other half the time anyway."
Y/N nearly choked on his spit. He pantomimed gagging and puking, making the most disturbing upchucking noise that once again had the two girls exchanging looks with each other.
"See, this is what I mean. A simple 'No, I don't want to screw Conner' would have sufficed. Now, it's just more obvious how bad you want him to crack you open. And I'll bet he wants the same, considering he's the one who requested you as a partner."
The indignation on Y/N's face was nearly comical, and Zatanna may or may not have shoved a bit more food in her mouth to hold in her laughs. She didn't outright agree with her blonde friend, but she definitely didn't disagree either.
"That's just all types of wrong and fucked up," Y/N scoffed.
"Is it, though?" The blonde countered, lips twitching. "Everyone loves a good enemies-to-lovers story."
The frown that carved across Y/N's face was so sharp, Artemis almost laughed. Even funnier that the frown reminded her of a certain someone who shall not be named, believing it best not to go too far."But, honestly, can I ask? What is your problem with him? I mean, sure, he's a typical meathead jock and spoiled rich kid—no offense—but what did he do that was so bad?"
The expression on Zatanna's face changed as she slid him a look, bracing herself for anything but a sweet fairy tale.
Y/N opened his mouth, prepared to bite back with a well-rehearsed insult into a soliloquy when his nose twitched. A scent wafted up his nose that was sharp and clean, and reminded you of ozone and leather, threaded with a maddening warmth the Omega could recognize anywhere in a crowd.
And, as if it were muscle memory, his head snapped toward the source of it. Conner Kent, with his picture-perfect masculine features, dark hair, and blue eyes that used to be a source of comfort and pleasure for the Omega, but now brought on other feelings… of resentment.
Y/N stiffened on instinct, his senses prickling even before his eyes found the broad-shouldered figure in his usual tight, black t-shirt paired with his brown jacket, cutting through the crowd. And, in typical cliché fashion, the Alpha's eyes had also locked onto the Omega's, both of them locked in a staring match as his friends claimed the booth on the other side of the sitting area they were in.
It wasn't a dramatic moment—no gasps, no cinematic soundtrack—but it wasn't nothing either. Something hot and nauseating twisted low in his gut, a familiar mixture of instincts and irritation.
The Omega tore his gaze away, shifting minutely as though the leather of the booth had grown uncomfortable. His hands stayed busy with his drink, ignoring the prickling feeling of his skin while crossing his legs together under the table. He gave his attention back to his friends as if nothing had happened and as if he still couldn't feel those piercing blue irises still watching for whatever reason, or the dull, hollow ache from down below.
"He ruined my life."
It was official. It was final, and there was nothing he could do… they let Jennifer Lopez on another stage with a mic, and it was on. Clearly a recession indicator.
Oh—and the professor wouldn't let Y/N switch partners from Conner. That too.
Truly, he had tried, sending multiple emails, attending office hours, practically begging and pleading, offering sacrifices to his dignity and sanity—maybe a bit of an exaggeration, but in this case, his mentality was more close to a 'fuck it, we ball' type scenario, so it didn't really matter. Yet, despite all his efforts, the professor remained unmoved. Which was quite infuriating, considering there were plenty of students eager to take his place. Because apparently, being partnered with Conner, one of the hottest Alphas on campus—not his words—was some kind of once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
Y/N couldn't fathom it; in fact, he called bullshit. There's no way someone could have that type of reasoning—let alone belief—and not be on some type of psychedelics. You could not convince, nor trick him into believing it; it was propaganda he would not fall for. But to each their own, right?
Wrong!
"Can I work on my own?" No.
"Marcel is more than eager to switch. Can I trade with him, please?" Still no, and apparently his name was Dylan. Sounds fake if you ask him, but whatever.
No matter what way Y/N tried to offer, the professor would not budge, insisting all partner assignments were final, a smug academic authority being held that Y/N would be noting in his instructor review of the man at the end of the semester. He'd rue the day he crossed Y/N Wayne.
So now, he was stuck with the Alpha, much to Artemis's endless amusement.
On the bright side, it was only a two-week project—manageable. Y/N could grit his teeth, power through, and be rid of Conner for the rest of the semester, and hopefully the year and his entire college experience. In fact, he was prepared to handle the entire project himself. That way, he wouldn't have to spend more time with the Alpha than absolutely necessary. Easy, right?Something simple, and that would be very hard not to go according to plan.
"No."
Well, that didn't go according to plan.
"What do you mean 'no'?" Y/N hissed at the Alpha as they stood outside the lecture hall after their class a couple of days later. After pitching the idea to Conner, which Y/N thought was immaculate and would be an effortless yes, he was a little more than disappointed to see that wouldn't be exactly the case.
Conner stood just a step too close, muscled arms hidden under his brown jacket and folded across his chest, his expression maddeningly unbothered. "Exactly what I said. No."
Y/N gaped at him, the fucking nerve of the prick. "Are you fucking kidding me? Why are you making this so complicated? Just let me do the project on my own, and we can keep pretending neither of us exists to the other. Still don't understand why you picked me in the first place, but whatever. No need to subject ourselves to extra torture."
"I'm not letting you do all the work, take all the credit, and then run crying to the professor about how I didn't contribute so I tank the grade," Conner shot back, his voice dropping into that smooth Alpha timbre—calm on the surface, but with the coiled heat of a growl underneath.
Y/N scoffed at that, throwing his hands up in response. "Oh, please. If you actually thought I'd pull that, then why the hell did you ask to partner with me in the first place?"
Conner's jaw flexed, a crack in his calm facade forming that was eerily familiar like his daddy. That shiny dome-headed bastard…
"Can you, for once in your goddamn life, just grow up and act like an adult?"
Y/N let out a sharp laugh in response, but there was no humor to his tone whatsoever. "The irony of you—the same guy who's in tabloids every other week for throwing tantrums at the press—calling me immature? That's rich."
Conner rolled his eyes, but it wasn't casual; there was a rising tension brimming beneath it. His shoulders stiff and chest rising with a little too much restraint. "You're not doing the project alone."
"I am doing the project alone."
"No, you're not."
"Yes, I am."
"I said, no, you're not." The last word cracked through clenched teeth, low and resonant, Conner shifting just a step, but one step that was enough. Close enough that Y/N noticed his personal space evaporating in the spacious hallway, just outside the lecture hall doors.
His spine stiffened as well at the rising smoky scent encircling him, the Alpha's broad frame standing in front of him as if daring the Omega to try and stand against him. His lungs felt caught against the sudden press of the scent surrounding him, but he forced his voice flat. "Back off, Conner. No one's impressed."
He met the Alpha's steely gaze, glaring him down as if challenging him to try and step around him. His mouth curled into something that wasn't quite a smile, with pride and indignation flickering in his eyes. Conner looked as if he wanted to say more, but instead, remained quiet, with the air too thick between them, too taut with something unspoken.
"Yo, Y/N, you alright over here?"
The tension cracked at the interruption, Roy Harper's voice cutting through like glass to the taut energy between the two. Y/N turned, still feeling the irritation bubbling in the center of his chest, and something else stirring lower. He gave the red-headed Alpha sauntering over with his backpack lazily strung across one shoulder a relieved smile.
"Buzz off, Harper," Conner snapped before Y/N could answer, his voice low and with an edge to it. Y/N turned back to give him a scolding look as Roy closed the gap between them.
Roy's smug expression widened, something taunting to the opposing dark-haired Alpha. "Or what, broody?" He leaned a little on the word, enjoying the way Conner's jaw tightened. His eyes flicked between Y/N and the brooding Alpha, lingering on the way Conner was all but crowding Y/N against the wall.
"I'm fine, Roy," Y/N said firmly, stepping sideways to put a bit of distance between himself and Conner. "Just going over project stuff. Stuff I'll be handling on my own." He threw Conner a pointed look and the Alpha glare that was trained solely on Roy only darkened in reply as it turned to him—scent pulsing hotter.
Amusement danced openly across Roy's face, even as his instincts urged him to push back against the Alpha who was clearly trying to dominate the space surrounding them with his posturing and scenting. He was surprised Y/N couldn't sense the jealousy flickering just beneath, even if it was blatantly obvious to him, but that could just be something Alphas recognize in each other.
The redhead whistled low under his breath, then tilted his head, redirecting his attention back to the Omega of his interest, seeing as he did his part in intervening on what clearly looked like someone being forced into an uncomfortable position. It could also just be because he's petty and didn't care for Conner. Two things could be true at once. "Alright. Well, I was gonna grab a bite at the café before my next class. Want to tag along?"
Y/N shot a short glance back to Conner, who looked constipated with something, and also like he was two seconds from trying to rip Roy's head off. Though it didn't make him hesitate one bit. "Sure, why not?"
As they turned to leave, Roy slung an arm around Y/N's shoulders in an easy, territorial drape. It looked casual enough, but the placement was anything but. His wrist skimmed the vulnerable line of Y/N's neck, dangerously close to the scent glands there. The intent was unmistakable, carved into every inch of the contact, and underscored when Roy glanced back at Conner, smug as sin. His grin carried all the words he didn't bother to say.
Conner stood rooted in place, teeth clenched hard enough that his jaw ached. He said nothing—didn't feel like he had the right to—but his silence carried more weight than any retort could have. His own scent still hung stubbornly in the hall. But beneath it was just a faint, maddeningly faint something curling through the air. Something that was hot and had the hairs on the back of his neck bristling at the sweetness of it.
Many wouldn't believe it—most couldn't even imagine—that once upon a time, Y/N and Conner hadn't despised each other. That once, they'd been friends, and their history ran long, tangled in ways that went far beyond the rivalry between their fathers' empires.
Before Y/N's existence had detonated into a national scandal overnight, back when he spent most of his time in Metropolis with his Papa, he'd known a very different Conner Kent than the world did. Not the temperamental, egotistical heir everyone gossiped about—the spoiled, rich Alpha son of Lex Luthor, poster child for power and arrogance. No, Y/N had known another version, one hidden from the public eye, a version that wasn't just his father's shadow.
When his parents reached a mutual agreement to keep Y/N out of the spotlight, only a few people were entrusted with the truth of his parentage. On Bruce's side, that was his siblings, Alfred, and a few carefully vetted within Wayne Enterprises—mainly lawyers tasked with weaving Y/N seamlessly into trusts, wills, and other legal jargon.
Give credit where credit's due: Y/N's Papa had done it right. If you're gonna get pregnant, make it count. Y/N was born into security, a luxury most around him could never dream of. And yes, there were perks to having Bruce Wayne as a father, but they also came with invisible strings that Y/N didn't always appreciate. Every friend he brought home was subjected to background checks that went three layers deeper than any average parent would bother with. It could've just been the journalist in his Papa, paranoid by profession, but the point still stood.
And, from the start, Y/N had been taught caution—to be careful with who he let in, because not everyone's intention would be pure. Bruce even went as far as to keep "Wayne" off every official document tied to Y/N, just to minimize the chance of leaks to the press. Still, people were nosy by nature. Colleagues at the Daily Planet, other parents at school, classmates—it didn't matter. The question always came up sooner or later: Who's his other parent? And each time, it scraped at his Papa's patience.
The only people from his Papa's side who were trusted with that information were Lois Lane and, by extension, her husband Clark Kent, who was Conner's other daddy. Nobody understands how something like that could've even been possible, yet it was, and it was reality, if Conner's existence was any testament.
Y/N and Conner weren't so different, really—their lives born out of passion-filled nights, though in Conner's case, "passion" might've been a generous word for whatever had transpired between Clark and Lex. Y/N wasn't ruling out anypossibilities there. And the big difference between them was that Bruce had always been an active part of Y/N's life, co-parenting on respectful, even if unconventional, terms with his Papa. Lex, meanwhile, could barely be bothered to acknowledge Conner's existence.
It hardly mattered, though. Clark had stepped up, taking responsibility for a child he hadn't expected, raising Conner on his own until Lois entered the picture. And because Y/N's Papa and Lois weren't just colleagues, but genuine friends, Y/N spent much of his childhood alongside Conner—and later Jon, Clark and Lois's bright-eyed son and Conner's younger half-brother.
The three of them grew up under the soft hum of newsroom chaos, Countless nights spent entertaining themselves while their parents chased down scoops, interviews, and city-shaking stories. In those early years, Conner and Y/N were inseparable—almost suspiciously so. Their bond carried a tenderness that had both Y/N's Papa and Lois exchanging knowing smiles, while Clark remained hopelessly oblivious. Y/N's instinctive care for Conner, matched by Conner's fierce protectiveness of Y/N, looked for all the world like the start of some storybook childhood romance.
That is, until Lex Luthor decided to interfere.
By the time boys turned ten, it was no secret that Y/N's Papa and Lois held little respect for LexCorp's CEO. They kept things professional, yes, but their disdain wasn't exactly subtle. And Lex, petty to his very core, couldn't stomach being on the outside looking in—especially not at the sight of his favorite old fling thriving in love, friendship, that didn't include him and with people he despised.
So he turned his attention toward Conner, suddenly becoming interested in his son, only for that "interest" to quickly reveal itself for what it was: a weapon. He leveraged Conner as a tool to wedge himself into the Kent household and make everyone's life miserable. It escalated all the way to Lex filing for full custody, blindsiding Clark, Lois, and even Y/N's Papa.
They fought back with everything they had—even Bruce's lawyers were brought into the fold—but in the end, Lex won. Conner was ripped away, leaving Y/N's world gutted, and the blows didn't stop there. Not long after, word of Y/N's existence leaked to the press, and suddenly, his quiet reality was gone as well.
No one—neither his parents, nor Lois and Clark—ever found the source of that leak. All Y/N knew was that within months, he'd been uprooted, leaving Metropolis behind to live full-time with his father in Gotham. It wasn't a bad life, not really. He got to see his siblings and Alfred more often. But sometimes, in the dark, he still missed the life he'd left behind.
A life left behind due to one—you guessed it—Lex Luthor. Taking Conner away had been the first blow, a calculated strike meant to hurt Lois and Clark. But Lex wasn't the type to stop at one wound; he had other fish to fry, namely Y/N's Papa. So when the billionaire stumbled onto the truth of Y/N's parentage—courtesy of a careless slip from his own unsuspecting son—Lex didn't waste a second. He dropped an anonymous tip to Metropolis's biggest gossip sites with no trace left behind.
Of course, Y/N didn't find this out until years later, when he and Conner had both grown up and been separated so long, they'd barely recognized each other at an important political gala hosted by a mutual friend of their fathers.
"Oh, sorry–"
"Hey, watch it–"
The words cut off as soon as the recognition hit. They hadn't seen each other in years, save for the stiff smiles and quick flashes caught of them in the press. Y/N had filled out well in his youth, but Conner's transformation? That was a whole other story, not that it should have been a shock, though. After all, underneath Clark Kent's glasses and wholesome, nerdy reporter vibe was anything but a skinny frame—growing up on a farm will do that—and clearly, his eldest had inherited every ounce of that build.
Broad shoulders, chiseled jaw, an immovable brick-wall stance—which Y/N just crashed into—and a lil' dump trunk action going on in the back. Listen, Omega as he may be, he was only a man. He could appreciate the sight of a good posterior like anyone else.
The real sucker punch, though, was the scent. No surprise that it smelled of Alpha, but Y/N wasn't prepared for the way it hit him—hard, dizzying. Smoky leather laced with sharp ozone, like the air right after a lightning strike. Earthy, damp wood layered underneath the kind of smell you'd catch deep in a forest after a storm had passed.
And now a storm was beginning to pass through his pan– HEY! Control it.
"Conner? Hi."
The scent in the air shifted, sharp and heady—something like rockrose— that left Y/N swaying more than would be appropriate to admit. Conner's eyes, still that impossible shade of blue that used to swallow him whole when they were younger, swept over his face, down his frame, then snapped back up with a tension that made Y/N's chest tighten before it hardened.
"Oh, it's you."
Well, that didn't sound pleasant.
Y/N blinked but kept his smile, caught off guard by the cool dismissal in his tone. It had been years since they'd seen each other—why ruin the moment? "How have you been? Are you here with your dad?"
Conner's expression didn't soften; if anything, his jaw locked harder. "Why do you care?"
Y/N stalled, lips parting. "Um—excuse me?" He heard the forced laugh from his lips more than he felt it, an irritation sparking, but he pushed it down. Surely, this was just…miscommunication. They'd grown up, weren't kids anymore, and so things were different. People changed, and maybe Conner didn't know how to act after so much time apart, needing a minute to warm up. "Am I missing something? Is this like when you used to get cranky past bedtime?"
The Alpha's glare sharpened. "Seriously? You're asking if I'm grumpy? Could you be any more childish?"
Alright, well fuck him (Y/N) then, and fuck the high road too.
"Okay, wow." His voice clipped, a heat sparking in his chest. "I was trying to be respectful since it's been forever, but you're really leaning into jerk territory." Y/N's voice sharpened to match his, layered with bite. "What's your deal? Last I checked, we were close. The only thing that's changed is time, so why are you acting like I kicked your puppy? I haven't done anything to you."
Conner's brow twitched, and he stepped forward with what he probably thought was menace. "You're doing something now—being an annoying little runt who can't take a hint."
Y/N spine snapped straight. Life in the spotlight had taught him how to build a thicker backbone than any Alpha temper could break, and they tried plenty of times. He wasn't gonna fold for something as petty as this. "Excuse me? Come closer and say that, so I can smack the shit out of you properly."
"Like you'd even try," Conner sneered, eye flashing. "You're too busy playing perfect son—daddy's little angel who can do no wrong. What, is he planning to marry you to another rich son so you can spread your legs and help him increase his wealth?"
Y/N's hand flew up before thought could catch it. "You son of a–"
"Conner."
Lex Luthor slid into view behind the Alpha, his smirk dripping with arrogance.
Bitch.
"I do hope what I just saw was a… spirited component of a heartfelt reunion," Lex drawled, the pause deliberate, designed to sting. "Surely, you weren't truly just insulting your old friend, the youngest Wayne son of all people." His gaze flicked toward Y/N, sharp and amused.
It always baffled people when they learned Lex Luthor was an Omega. Nothing in his posture, his voice, or the calculated gleam in his eye suggested softness. He moved like a man who never once bowed to instinct, his smug composure always three steps ahead of everyone in the room.
"My apologies," he went on, silky smooth. "For my son's… lapse in manners. I assure you, I raised him better than this."
Something about that felt like it should be ironic, and Y/N felt like he should laugh, if his pulse weren't still hammering in his ears. However, he didn't get the chance to dwell on it.
"Y/N."
His dad's voice spoke from behind him, helping to ground him a bit now that he didn't feel so… outmatched from Lex's presence. Bruce stepped up behind him, a firm hand finding his shoulder, the quiet weight of it easing the tension swimming in his chest. "Is everything alright?"
Y/N didn't need to turn to know his brothers and sister were likely standing by as well. He could practically picture Damian's distasteful scowl at both Lex and Conner in this very moment. Speaking of, said Alpha had barely moved an inch after getting the shit smacked out of him, which was unsurprising, given his physicality.
The slap had probably barely registered for the Alpha. He hadn't stumbled, shifted, nor even flinched; the only evidence was the faint red bloom on his cheek. His glare burned, and Y/N's skin prickled under the weight of it, instincts bristling like fur on end.
His scent had been clinging to the air like smoke in a closed room—dark, earthy, the faint rot of damp soil laced with that sharp giddiness of rockrose. Y/N was surprised no one else seemed to notice it, given how strong it seemed, like it was surrounding him. It had been almost as if Conner's very presence had carved the air around him and marked it as his.
A bit dangerous and reckless on his part, that kind of posturing, especially in a room thick with Alphas—one of them being his literal father. It wasn't going to fly well, yet no one else seemed to pay it any mind or even notice, for that matter.
For a moment, it was like the entire room narrowed down to just the two of them—his father’s steady hand the only tether keeping him grounded as Conner’s glowering threatened to burn straight through him. Yet, something about it felt… off. Y/N couldn't shake the nagging sense that the Alpha's stare wasn't just aimed entirely at him, but rather toward something else the Alpha must have found offensive. Who knows, the boy is weird and childish as hell, as Y/N has come to realize, just like his ain't-shit daddy.
"Y/N, is everything okay?" Bruce's tone was calm, monotone as always, but laced with that softness he reserved for his children—a note others would never recognize in the Billionaire Playboy unless they knew him well.
Y/N dragged his gaze away from Conner. "Yeah, Dad. I'm good."
He definitely wasn't—his chest still felt tight, palms clammy—whether that was leftover anger from Conner's earlier rudeness or something else entirely… it was a problem for future him to sort out.
"Oh, Bruce, don't fret over it. The boys were just catching up. Nothing too serious." Lex's smooth baritone carried just the right amount of dismissal. Y/N, meanwhile, couldn't fathom how his dad—or even Tim, who worked under him—tolerated snobs like Lex on a regular basis. The galas were torture enough.
"Thank you, Lex," Bruce replied evenly. "But, I'll still make sure my son is well, seeing as yours seems intent on posturing where he has no claim or right to." His grip on Y/N's shoulder firmed. "At his age, I'd imagine he understands proper social etiquette toward Omegas."
Oh, so his Dad could smell Conner scenting the air around them… awkward.
Wait, what did he mean by proper etiquette toward Omegas? What did he or Lex have to do with this? Well, besides apparently Lex not teaching him any manners.
Out of the corner of his eye, Y/N caught Lex's composure falter—just a hairline crack, indignation flashing before his smile snapped back into place. "Yes, well, we all have our lapses in judgment now and then, don't we?"
Behind Y/N, two sharp scoffs cut the air—Damian and Jason, without a doubt. His nerves only wound tighter since if his Dad could apparently snuff out Conner's blatant over-scenting, then his siblings almost sure as hell could, which would only spell impending disaster. Considering how those two had this pact deal of taking to an extreme level the concept of being"overprotective siblings," nearly making it an Olympic sport, which Bruce only encouraged. Hence, Y/N's non-existent dating life in high school.
Lex, of course, wasn't finished. "I imagine you did the same when you laid in bed with his bearer. Such a romantic little tale, Conner, you must tell me the story again like you did when you were younger."
It took a moment to register. Then Bruce's hand clenched almost imperceptibly on his shoulder, the scent around him now curdling over Conner's as hostility bled from all his siblings, not just Jason and Damian, but Dick, Tim, and Cass as well. Y/N knew he hadn't heard Lex wrong. One glance at Conner was enough to see the truth. His body stayed indifferent, but his eyes betrayed him. Guilty.
Of all the fuckery…
"He fucking snitched on me?!"
After their last conversation, Y/N had done exactly what he said he would: finished the entire project himself. A week of work, no Alpha input except slapping Conner's name on the header, and careful planning of ducking down hallways and skipping lecture to avoid him. It wasn't easy, though. Conner had been circling like a wolf, clearly hunting him down, but Y/N was determined. Stubborn may have been a better word.
Late that following Sunday evening, satisfied with his work, Y/N uploaded the project to the class portal a week early—freedom! And to celebrate, he treated himself to a greasy IHOP breakfast with Zatanna, Artemis, and Artemis's equally smug boyfriend, Wally.
The day was no less than perfect, at least until he checked his email.
Subject: Group Project Submission
From: Kaldur Ra-hm
Good morning Y/N,
I hope you're enjoying a good start to your week. I've received your completed project assignment and wanted to congratulate you on a job well done. However, it has come to our attention, including the professor, that it may not have been the 100% combined and honest work of both you and your assigned partner.
As you should be aware, as it was outlined in the class syllabus, it is considered a violation of the student code of conduct and academic integrity policy to submit work that is not your own, which includes work done on behalf of another student that they did not contribute to. While this is not a severe violation that would call for disciplinary action, it does disqualify this submission from a full grade, and if you do not want to be marked as a 0 for this project (which contributes to 40% of your final grade as a reminder), it will need to be resubmitted, with the combined work of both you and your assigned partner.
The professor has made me aware of your dissatisfaction with your pairing, and while I can understand your frustration, please keep in mind that the purpose of these partner/group assignments is to teach you how to collaborate with others that you may not always see eye-to-eye with. It is an essential skill you'll need to master if you want to be successful outside of college, as you will frequently find yourself in scenarios where you are working with people you don't get along with.
Of course, if matters between you and your partner reach certain unsafe and extreme circumstances, I'm sure the professor will consider alternative options, should matters reach that point. Until then, you will need to redo the entire assignment again, with the help and contribution of your assigned partner. And as a precautionary measure to ensure full authenticity, the professor instructs you to choose a different topic than what you've previously submitted, something both you and your partner agree on.
If you have any questions, feel free to email me or attend the posted office hours on the class portal. Enjoy the rest of your day, and see you in class!
Sincerely, Kaldur – Teaching Assistant
By the time he finished reading, Y/N's stomach had dropped straight through the sticky IHOP floor. His friends looked at him with concern until he wordlessly shoved his phone across the table.
Artemis read the email once, then wheezed into a full fit of laughter, while Zatanna's brows lifted, her smirk spelling out what she didn't bother saying aloud. "I told you so," she said anyway, twisting the knife.
Wally leaned over Artemis's shoulder, snorting. "Dude, I knew the guy was moody, but this? Petty and moody. That's hilarious."
"Oh, trust me, I knew," Artemis cut in, grinning like a cat that got the canary, "He was pissed last class when Y/N skipped—never mind it being twice in a row. I told you, he wants between those legs, and this just proved my theory. He's desperate."
Y/N ignored her, jaw tight, packing his untouched pancakes into a to-go box with short, furious movements. "See you guys later," he muttered, grabbing his wallet and storming off to pay.
He told himself he was going to his dorm to drop his food off, which he did. He told himself he wasn't going to let this get under his skin, which he also did, until thirty minutes later, when he somehow found himself entering the campus gym, seething.
Don't ask how he knew Conner would be there. Everyone knew Conner was a gym bro—antisocial or not—he practically lived in this place.
And no, the walk didn't cool him down. If anything, with each step, his fury boiled hotter. By the time he scanned his ID at the desk and mumbled a distracted thanks to the staff, he was seconds away from biting someone's head off. A particular someone, though, he wasn't going to chop off some innocent student's head because of his extremely pointed anger.
And there he was, bench pressing a frankly stupid amount of weight like it was supposed to impress somebody. Dressed head-to-toe in his standard black, Conner's compression shirt clung to him like a second skin, leaving little to the imagination. It stretched tight across his chest and arms, outlining every cut of muscle like he wanted people to stare, and Y/N did, but don't tell anyone that. It was against his better judgment and will—he's the victim in this scenario.
Broad chest, sculpted arms, the flex of his biceps as he pressed the bar skyward, Y/N's brain short-circuited for half a second, an involuntary flicker of appreciation for the sight that only served to piss him off more. That, and the same infuriating scent of smoky leather and a bit of musk clouding the ozone that slipped under Y/N's skin like a slow burn. There was a bit of heat prickling on the back of his neck and lower, in a place he'd rather not acknowledge. So don't ask… or wonder. Hey! Stop that!
If the hollow ache and faintest tell of slick forming in his insides from him clenching his thighs together, he'd chew glass before admitting Artemis's theory may have been right. It was managing to invade his mind, a curiosity forming of what it'd be like to be opened, filled, and pinned down by all that he was currently glaring at. But, he wasn't here to ogle. He was here because he was angry at the egotistic meathead, sitting there lifting weights like he hasn't done anything wrong.
Yeah, that's what he'd keep telling himself.
"You fucking snitched on me!" His voice rang sharp, carrying over the clank of iron and Zara Larsson playing in the speakers overhead. Like girl, now is not the time. Thankfully, the gym seemed devoid of others, minus one or two stragglers in and out, so it wasn't like they'd attract an audience.
Conner racked the bar with a heavy slam and sat up, chest heaving, sweat beading down the lines of his throat. He didn't even flinch at the accusation. "So?"
"So? Did you just fucking 'so' me? Why are you such a fucking dickhead?!"
"I told you not to do the project without me," Conner said flatly, wiping sweat from his brow with a towel. "You did it anyway, so I emailed the TA. You're smart enough to understand cause and effect. So again—what's your point?"
"My point, asshole," Y/N snapped, stalking closer to the sweaty Alpha whose eyes were traveling up and down his body with zero attempt at subtlety, "is that you went out of your way to make this shit harder than it has to be. The TA literally said the project was well done. We both could've gotten 'As' if you hadn't pulled that stunt. But no, because you felt the need to prove your point like the immature, fuck ass baby you are, here we are."
The flare of Conner's nostrils was immediate. His scent sharpened, spiking the air with a heavier wave of heat. His jaw flexed as he stood, all that sweat-dark muscle unfolding in one motion, shoulders broad enough to blot out the rest of the gym from his towering stance. The bench press clattered behind him as he stepped into Y/N's space, close enough that their chests nearly brushed.
"Any other guy," Y/N barreled on, voice mocking and not taking note of Conner's rising aggravation, "would've been over the moon to let me do the work alone."
"Any other guy, huh?” Conner’s voice dropped low, rough, almost a growl. “That what you’re saying?”
Y/N lifted his chin, pulse stuttering as the Alpha loomed over him. "Yeah, any other guy. Matter fact, your annoying friend Dylan—if that's even his real name—would've been thrilled as long as I gave him a little attention." He mocked in a sharp tone.
Feeling like an intangible bar had been crossed, Conner's eyes had narrowed, dark and sharp, his jaw ticking once before he moved closer into the Omega's space. Y/N barely had time to breathe or react before he was suddenly herded back against the mirror wall by the Alpha.
"Oh, so now you suddenly remember his name, and that just makes him better?" His voice was low while his gaze cut sharply over Y/N's face before dragging lower, lingering in a way that made the Omega's skin heat under the weight of it. "The only reason Dylan wanted you as a partner was to fuck you. At least I actually wanted to contribute."
Y/N scoffed, chin tilted up defiantly, though pulse kicked hard at the hollow in his throat. "Like you're any better? So you're admitting the only reason you chose me as your partner is some weird Alpha possessive bullshit?" He jabbed a finger into Conner's chest, though it barely moved against the wall of muscle. "Why? We're not friends, Conner. You've made damn sure of that. And now you're mad because I'd rather work with someone who actually wants to work with me rather than someone who only does it out of spite? Grow up."
Conner's eyes burned, his lips curling while his chest rose faster with every word. He leaned down, close enough that Y/N could feel the heat of his breath, scent wrapping around like it was trying to strangle him. "You'd rather be partnered with some asshole who only wants to use you than with someone who could actually provide—and I'm the immature one?"
Y/N swallowed, forcing a smirk. "Whether I wanted to fuck him or not, that's my business, not yours. You're not my friend, my parent, my doctor, the Lord Almighty, or—god forbid—my boyfriend. What goes on between my legs is, and hear me clearly when I say this, none of your fucking business.
Conner's teeth clicked audibly as his jaw tightened. His eyes raked over Y/N's face, an expression of something the Omega didn't want to name, impossible to miss no matter how hard he tried. His scent spiked with a hot and dark mood, his whole body taut with something hovering between fury and want.
"Doesn't matter," he bit out, voice rough. "You're with me, not him. You can't switch partners, and you're not allowed to do this alone. So why don't you suck it up and act like the fucking adult you claim to be for once."
Y/N's voice dropped to an icy octave, yet the smirk on his face sharpened into something else. "You want to talk about being an adult? Remind me who ran to the professor like a kindergartner who didn't get the toy he wanted at playtime." His lip curled. "And as much as I'd rather chew glass than admit this, Artemis was right. You don't give a damn about this project—you care about me. Or more specifically, me and who I let in my pants. Hopefully not for the reason she thinks, cause ew. But, tell me I'm wrong."
Conner's throat worked. "You—"
"Ah." Y/N raised a hand, cutting him off, smirk sharp and poisonous. "Don't even bother. I'm sick of this, and I'm sick of you. Last year, and every day since that fucking gala, you've acted like you wanted nothing to do with me, and I moved on. I adapted. Especially after finding out the truth about how the press found out about me." His eyes narrowed, venom lacing his voice. "So don't you dare come at me with this sudden territorial Alpha act. It's not cute, and it's not welcome. You want this project done now? Email the professor yourself for us to work separately, or do the damn thing by yourself, and I'll just take whatever grade comes with it. But I'm not working with. Point. Blank. Period."
Despite the hostility sharpening his words, his stomach was knotted tight, his pulse beating so fast, he felt like it was echoing in his ears. He hadn't lifted a single weight, yet sweat prickled along his skin, while his nose flooded with the sudden, cloying musk of rockrose that seemed to bloom off Conner's body and wrap around him like a net. The Alpha left him barely an inch of air to breathe, boxing him in so tightly that every inhale dragged more of that dominating scent down into his chest until it curled lower, settling with a dangerous thrum between his thighs.
Something wet stirred in his pants, faint and traitorous, a dampness gathering where he pressed his thighs tight together, the friction only making it worse. His underpants clung, uncomfortable and telling, and the hollow ache inside of him gave a small, answering pulse that left his breath hitching before he bit it down.
He could try to ignore it, but it was difficult with Conner's bulk pinning him against the glass, the smell of him crawling into his head, and the noticeable shift of muscle in his jaw and arms, which lit up something in Y/N that he refused to name.
It didn't mean anything; it couldn't. Any healthy, young Omega would react to this kind of situation. Any Omega's body would flinch, spark, and squirm if shoved into close quarters with an Alpha radiating heat and dominance like this. That was all it was—biology and instinct. It didn't matter that his heart lurched every time he caught a stronger hit of that smoky rockrose, or that his eyes kept dragging to the line of Conner's throat, the sharp set of his jaw, the ripple of muscle flexing when irritation crossed his face.
No, absolutely not. He wasn't giving in to this—wasn't giving in to him.
Couple of weeks earlier…
The semester had started slowly, just as every semester did. Classes, syllabi, introductions. The only real noise came from kids partying like they hadn't seen alcohol before, thrilled to be free of curfews and parents who actually cared whether they came home safely at night. Freshmen especially.
Conner couldn't bring himself to care. He didn't want any of it—the parties, the noise, the pretending. Lord knows he did enough of that already. The only thing he had in common with his classmates was the desire to get out from under their parents' thumbs. Though for him, it wasn't just about rules, cause he didn't just want to escape Lex's, he wanted to escape Lex. Period.
College hadn't seemed like much of a point, if he was honest. His future had always felt pre-scripted, set in stone before he could make choices of his own. Lex never outlined his plans, never spoke about inheritance or estates or what would happen after. But it felt a little unspoken, or maybe it was wishful thinking. It wasn't important to speak about, not in Lex's eyes, and Conner had long ago learned to stop asking. Still, the silence left an itch, a gnawing reminder that his life wasn't really his.
And if there was a future that meant Conner would have to deal with his bearer more than he planned to; he had no interest in that. None whatsoever.
Seeing Y/N at that gala had only sharpened the resentment. It was the moment he knew, even if his actions and words didn't reflect it, that everything Lex told him—fed him—was a lie. Years had gone by since their last encounter, but the second Conner's eyes landed on him, everything came rushing back. The good memories—the warmth, the laughter, the ease—hit first, sharp enough to make him falter. And then the bitterness surged, just as Lex had trained into him, like poison waiting to be uncorked.
Conner had been ripped from everything that mattered. Torn from his dad's house, from the kind of home that offered more than just a roof over his head. food on the table, and clothes on his back—it offered care… attention. Someone who actually saw him and valued him.
With Lex, the house was bigger—more ways to avoid him—the rooms were colder, and the silence was thicker. Luxuries replaced affection. Endless material "upgrades" dangled in front of him like keys to a gilded cage. He could have anything, everything—except the one thing Lex refused to give: himself.
Conner had learned quick. He wasn't a son—he was a tool. A resource, a weapon Lex could wield against his dad, his stepmom, and anyone unlucky enough to land on his hit list. And when Lex discovered just how deeply Conner cared for the child of the reporter he hated more than his stepmom, that was it. Lex couldn't resist twisting the knife, using his son's affections as leverage, knowing it would cut deeper than anything else. Hurting Conner was just collateral, cause as long as it caused pain to the bastards Lex hated the most, it was worth it.
Because that's who Lex Luthor was, and that was who Conner had been left with.
But he hadn't realized the full scope of it until that night at the gala. The moment Lex revealed, with a smirk and a glass of champagne in hand, that he had been the one to leak Y/N's identity to the press. Conner had barely processed the words before everything fell apart. He saw the betrayal flash across Y/N's face, before Bruce whisked him away like a good, protective father would. Conner hadn't even gotten the chance to explain, to apologize, or even beg. And maybe it didn't matter. He wouldn't have known what to say anyway. His throat had locked, shame and anger choking him silent while all of Y/N's siblings—people he also once shared fond memories with—glared at him like with nothing but disdain.
So he let him walk away, and that's when he knew he couldn't do it anymore—be Lex's little puppet instead of his son. So, Conner turned toward the only relationship he thought he still had a chance of salvaging—his real father, that one that actually acted like it.
When he turned eighteen, he reconnected with Clark, seeing as Lex could no longer stand in the way. Moving in with his dad should have felt like a fresh start, and in many ways, it did. Clark, Lois, his little brother Jon, and even Y/N's Papa welcomed him back with more grace and understanding than he deserved.
Y/N's Papa in particular hadn't been surprised at the truth, not after years of reporting on Lex's corruption and pettiness. He'd known from the start what kind of man Lex was. But just because he understood didn't mean he excused what happened. He made it clear: the hurt between Conner and Y/N wasn't his to fix. It wasn't Clark's or Lois's or anyone else's either. If Conner wanted to repair what had been broken, that burden was his alone to carry.
Bruce, of course, hadn't been so diplomatic. Despite his usual charisma and tactfulness as a successful businessman, when it came to his youngest son, the billionaire had no reservations about making his disdain plain and obvious. And Conner couldn't even blame him, knowing he'd likely be the type to do the same.
That first year of college, Conner didn't know how to approach Y/N. Every instinct screamed at him to try, to explain, and make things right. But then he'd see him on campus—laughing with Artemis, throwing an arm around Wally, talking with Zatanna, or leaning in close to some Alpha who was all too eager to linger around him—and something ugly and raw would rear its head. It'd burn through his veins hotter than anger, hotter than shame, freezing his feet to the ground.
Because how could he step forward when it already looked like Y/N had moved on? Surrounded, admired, and wanted by people who clearly knew how to treat him better than Conner believed he was capable. Though it didn't stop the selfish desire for him to be the only Alpha allowed around Y/N. When they were younger, and the signs of Conner's Alpha designation began to make themselves clear, Clark had begun teaching him early on how to deal with and recognize certain things.
Lex continued these teachings, but not as healthily and constructively compared to Clark. He didn't even take the time to do it himself, just hired some people to do it for him. Either way, he could recognize possession and understood the way Alphas circled Omegas they desired. And every time he watched it happen around Y/N, it made him sick with something he didn't want to name. He'd lost the right to call Y/N his, but the idea of someone else filling that space—stealing those smiles, those scents, those soft sounds—was enough to make his hands curl into fists.
So he stayed back, watching and swallowing down apologies until they curdled into resentment. Y/N was too warm, too open, too magnetic, and it was too much for Conner to have to keep witnessing that. He couldn't stomach the thought of being just one of the many faces among dozens crowding for his attention. Yet, it was that same jealousy that'd make him snap sooner than later.
Being back with his family—his real family— meant being steeped in memories he hadn't realized anyone else still carried. It meant having to endure all the laughter-filled retellings of how protective Conner had been as a boy, and how he'd hover at Y/N's side with all the seriousness of a soldier guarding a prince. Jon even teased him about how he used to growl if anyone, especially bigger kids, got too close to Y/N. As embarrassing as they were, they all served as pleasant reminders of the boy he used to be before he'd been twisted by Lex's manipulations.
They'd even talked about Y/N's very urgent care and self-imposed duty to take care of Conner, something that had been as natural to him, apparently, as breathing. Whether scraped knees or scratched knuckles, it was always Y/N's hands that reached for him first—fussing, scolding, and tending to him with a gentleness that no one else seemed to have the patience for. When Conner sulked or retreated into silence, Y/N never left him to it. He'd sit there swinging his little legs back and forth, filling the quiet with soft chatter or simply existing close enough to remind Conner he wasn't alone. It was Y/N being steady and warm, intuitively protective in his own right.
What burned the most about these memories wasn't that his family remembered them in the first place—it was that they spoke of them fondly, while Y/N himself might not even think about them anymore. Hearing those stories served as a reminder. In a sense, it made Conner recognize that at one point, Y/N had been his in a way no one else could claim, planting a seed that couldn't rip out. No matter how much he tried to convince himself he had no right, the thought gnawed at him: I was his Alpha once, and I could be again.
Thus, when sophomore year rolled around, Conner had already decided—he wasn't going to sit back again and watch Y/N drift further out of his orbit. Not this time. One thing half a lifetime under Lex Luthor had taught him was resourcefulness: how to get what you wanted, no matter the obstacles. It didn't take much digging to figure out Y/N's schedule, and while most of his courses didn't fit anything Conner could justify, one elective was open enough for him to slip into.
The decision was sealed when Dylan came swaggering into their shared apartment, back from that very class during the first week of the semester, bragging about how Y/N was in it—and how he was finally going to "get lucky." Dylan said it with such casual arrogance of an Alpha who thought he was clever, tossing in crude hints about how partnering with Y/N for the first project of the semester would be the perfect chance for him to "slide in." Whatever that meant.
Conner didn't hear the rest because his vision had already gone red-hot, picturing a quite unpleasant image of Y/N and Dylan together, and Conner's mugshot that would follow promptly afterwards. It already took every ounce of control not to snap the guy's neck right there, and less than five minutes to fire off an email to the professor, requesting—no, insisting—that he and Y/N were partners.
Was Y/N aware of this? Of course not. Would he be happy about it? Absolutely not. But he'd deal with it, Conner would give him no other choice but to deal with it. He wasn't here to win popularity points; he was here to wedge his way back into Y/N's life in his own little convoluted way—he was more like Lex than he'd care to admit—even if it meant brute-forcing the door open.
The project was never the point; the point was proximity. The point was making sure that if Y/N was going to argue, laugh, scowl, roll his eyes at, or lean close to someone, it would be him. Not Dylan nor any of those other Alphas sniffing around him. Only Conner.
Conner told himself it was about an apology, which was true to an extent. It was about fixing what Lex had broken between them, but it was also something deeper than that. Because beneath that, under the shame, the anger, and the guilt, something was searing: the bone-deep certainty that Y/N was his. No one else soothed him like Y/N used to when they were kids; that attention, his gentleness, had been his, and his alone. He always had been, in ways no one else could touch, and Conner would be damned before he let anyone else take it away from him.
One way or another, he'd earn forgiveness. One way or another, he'd remind Y/N who had always protected him. And one way or another, he'd make Y/N his again—completely, irrevocably, and only his.
"Oh, fuck…"
Now, how Y/N ended up in this situation was a question only divine forces could answer.
Surely, it was a mistake; it had to be. It couldn't be anything else but a mistake.
There was no plausible universe in theory or reality where he would have intentionally let this happen. Obviously, there'd been some cosmic glitch, a rip in the fabric of space-time that had cruelly dropped him into this exact moment. Either that—or he was an idiot so deep in denial, he might as well choke on it.
He and Conner were full-blown arguing in the middle of the gym, with Y/N all but threatening the Alpha to email their professor requesting that they work separately or for a partner swap. Either that, or he could work on it by himself without the Omega's help. To no one's surprise, Conner wasn't pleased with that ultimatum.
So much so, that instead of them continuing their argument in the middle of the gym, Conner decided to continue it in the Male Alpha locker room, like civilized adults. Because, yes, a civilized adult will shove another civilized adult into a restroom, slam them back against the wall hard enough to rattle the tiles, and kiss them like he's trying to devour the man alive instead of talking and communicating their frustration. Nothing strange uncivilized or questionable about that.
And, yes, Y/N was indeed kissing him back. Wait, that was meant to say not kissing him back! Alright, who wrote this?
Conner's mouth was rough and insistent, his teeth scraping Y/N's bottom lip as if to silently state who was in control. His hand had already shoved past the waistband of Y/N's pants, his fly unceremoniously opened by aggressive hands. How Y/N went from cursing and insulting this man, to having his fingers working deep inside his slick, grasping heat was beyond him. He wanted to scream that this was crossing a line, that this was exactly why he hated the arrogant Alpha. But what came out instead were needy, broken noises as his hips arched down onto Conner's hand, shamelessly chasing each thrust of his fingers.
The air was heavy with sweat and musk, a raw spike of pheromones clouding the room from both males. In the past, Conner attempted to restrain himself, particularly when they were in public, but in this moment, he didn't care. He wanted every inch of the Omega trembling in his arms—as he should be—and marked in his scent. On the other end, Y/N was busying trying to wrap his mind around what was happening, feeling Conner's scent crawling all around him, under his skin, flooding his lungs, or feeling like every nerve inside him was sparking and tingling, akin to when you rub wood together and make fire from the friction. His stomach twisted, feeling nothing but a greedy, deep need to be filled where he had that fluttering ache.
Yeah, a cosmic mistake. That could be the only explanation.
He had tried to walk away, pushing off the wall, spitting something along the lines of not allowing himself to be forced to work with Conner, and that he'd rather fail the entire class than allow himself to be bullied into compliance. He even managed a sidestep, brushing past Conner's shoulder toward the gym exit.
That had been the mistake.
Something in Conner snapped at the sight of him slipping out of reach—slipping away. Before Y/N could take another step, a strong hand wrapped around his arm, not bruising nor cruel, but unbreakable. A grip that made it clear walking off was not an option. With a sharp yank, Conner hauled him back, steering him without pause across the gym floor and through the heavy door of the MA locker room.
Y/N had snarled at him to let the fuck go, his voice carrying a mix of outrage and something thinner and more frantic. He shoved at Conner's forearm, tried digging his heels against the tiled floor, but the Alpha didn't loosen his hold. Not even close.
Conner grounded out something about the conversation not being over, his jaw tight as steel, and then, Y/N found himself backed up against another wall, cornered. His next curse died on his tongue when Conner's hand came up and caught the back of his neck, dragging him forward. Their lips collided in a bruising crash, a kiss so raw and consuming, it nearly knocked the air out of Y.N. His protests dissolved into muffled sounds against Conner's mouth, sharp inhales and choked-off whimpers, every ounce of fury stolen by that taste, that force.
He could've fought harder—shoved him back, turned his head away—but the second their lips met, Y/N's own body betrayed him. His chest lurched against Conner's, fingers twitching where they'd braced to push him away, only to curl helplessly in the tight compression material of the Alpha's shirt instead. His mind went blank, giving in to the pull he'd spent years denying.
After that, Conner didn't waste a heartbeat. With a growl that rumbled deep in his chest, he bent his knees and grabbed Y/N by the thighs, hauling him up like he weighed nothing. The impact of his back slamming into the wall rattled through him as Conner spread his legs wide and shoved himself between them, forcing the Omega to wrap them around his waist. His palms claimed Y/N's ass instantly, gripping hard, massaging, grinding their bodies together with deliberate punishing friction.
Y/N gasped, hands pressed flat against the Alpha's chest, squirming and wiggling against him in a half-hearted struggle. But every grind of his hips and pelvis against Conner's abdomen only made the Alpha's growl deepen and his hold tighten, only serving to feed a growing fire. His hips rolled, grinding his thick cock through the barrier of his sweats against the Omega's trembling core.
And when Y/N twisted again, still struggling and trying to slip free, Conner snarled, over the Omega's bravado, and slid his hand down. Without warning, he'd roughly pulled open the button and fly of the Omega's pants, shoving past the waistband, fingers slipping under the thin stretch of underwear. It caused Y/N to jolt with a sharp gasp, warning the Alpha against even daring to attempt what he was about to, only to get told to shut up in response.
It was something deep, something that had his voice edged with more than just jealousy, something darker. A kind of fervent anger from multiple different things, but mainly in that moment that Y/N was still attempting to deny him. His fingers sank into the sultry heat waiting for him, becoming drenched immediately in slick that coated his skin as though Y/N's body had already been preparing for him. He plunged deep, curling two thick fingers inside with a force that made Y/N's back arch, his slick spreading in wet sounds every thrust.
Y/N had hissed, letting out a slew of broken curses that turned into sharp moans between clenched teeth. Conner watched, eyes blazing as he thrust harder with his fingers, thumbing the throbbing appendage directly above the wet orifice while crashing his lips back against Y/N's, tongue sweeping in as he fucked him with his fingers.
"You're so fucking annoying." Y/N snapped against his lips, though it came out choked and ragged.
"Yet, you're still here," Conner growled, a little too cocky and satisfied for Y/N's ego to thrive. His lips pulled away to drag down the Omega's jaw, biting hard enough to bruise, licking over the sting, then sucking at his throat until the skin darkened under his teeth, which rewarded him a whimpering noise that he greedily wanted more of. "You could've left when you wanted to. But, you didn't."
Y/N clawed at his shoulder, squirming. "I—ah—only because you forced me in here, asshole—" His nails scraped down the Alpha's biceps, trying to sound furious even as his hips arched helplessly.
"You don't sound like you want me to stop," Conner muttered against his skin, breath hot, dragging his tongue lazily over another bruise he'd just made. He'd matched every thrust of his fingers with the grind of his hips, his erection pressing firm against Y/N's pelvis, making the Omega feel how hard he was.
"F-fuck you—" Y/N tried to scoff at the Alpha's previous words, tried to keep the bite in his voice, but the sound cracked into a broken moan when those pesky fingers curled inside him, hitting deep, relentless strokes. "Th-this doesn't mean anything," Y/N gasped, his thighs trembling as if they didn't know whether to spread open or fight to close.
Conner decided for him, forcing them open wider as he wedged himself deeper between them. His possessive fixation was blatant, voice all command, heavy with both authority and smugness. "Then why are you holding me like that?"
Y/N tried to respond, but the words fell apart into a sharp cry as Conner shifted his angle, grinding his palm against Y/N's swollen penis, his fingers pushing against his sensitive insides. It didn't matter anyway, as the Alpha only wanted to hear his Omega crying for him more, his quivering body and moans louder than words. But who said he couldn't drive his point home a little harder?
"You're working on the project with me," Conner snarled, voice edged with command as he kept his pace punishing. "You're not getting another partner, and you're not working alone. You work with me and only me."
Y/N shook his head, his whimpers becoming pitiful as Conner's hips pinned him to the wall, his chest broad and heavy against his. "No—ngh—don't wanna–" His words strangled into a sob, his walls spasming tight around the Alpha's fingers.
Conner groaned low in satisfaction, feeling the contrast of their bodies that made him run hot even more than he already was. His own body like steel, sinewy with control, against Y/N, who was all softness, trembling, and wet, pliant against the wall. It made his chest swell with pride, surging even more as he felt the Omega clutch him tighter, rubbing against his body like he needed it.
"Don't care," Conner growled into his neck, his thrusts never faltering while he continued circling and rubbing the Omega's weeping dick. "You get me. You don't get anyone else. Just me."
Y/N wanted to bite at him, tell Conner how much he was full of himself, only that would be a bit self-defeating, considering it was quite the opposite considering his cavern—hot, wet, and tight—was clenching greedily around the thick digits inside him. Conner's nostrils flared, scenting the Omega's arousal as it coated his fingers and palm. This was a place no one else would ever touch, not as long as he was breathing. It was for him and him alone, something he'd fight and kill any man or Alpha for daring to intrude on.
"You're mine," he grated, voice rough with more growl than word. His fingers curled and drove deeper, stretching the Omega as if he was trying to brand him. He shoved his other free palm harder under Y/N's ass, hoisting him higher while covering his lips with his own again. He loved the sounds of Y/N's moans and whining cries, but they were getting too loud. He swallowed every beautiful noise down with his mouth, biting and licking, smothering those sounds so no one else could hear them. They were for his ears only.
The slick was obscene, dripping down Conner's wrists, sticky heat wet in lewd trails that glistened under the fluorescent lights. Every push of his fingers into that soaked core drew a filthy squelch, loud in the quiet of the locker room, echoing off tile like a chorus to Y/N's broken gasps.
Conner dragged his fingers out slowly, savoring the wet stretch, the quiver of resistance fluttering desperately to hold him in. Hr broke from Y/N's kiss only to lift his hand, eyes locked to the Omega's flushed face as he pressed slick-soaked fingers to his nose. He inhaled greedily, nearly feral, growl rolling off in his chest as he tasted with his tongue, lips closing over slick-coated knuckles, his gaze never breaking from Y/N's. But, he didn't stop there.
With deliberate slowness, he slid the same wet fingers across Y/N's lips, painting them with his own slick. "Taste," he grunted, voice shredded raw, a command more than a request. Whether Y/N's lips parted out of obedience, instinct, or for him to tell him off, Conner didn't care as he shoved them inside, pushing wetness past his tongue until the Omega shuddered and whimpered around the intrusion.
The act wasn't just filthy, it was intimate in a way that clawed at the deepest instincts of the Alpha. Smearing it across Y/N's lips, he sealed their mouths together in a hungry kiss, and in that mingling of heat and fluid, Conner felt a satisfaction that went beyond lust, a certainty that this was his Omega, his body, his taste, his to keep.
Even if it took some more time for said Omega to get it through his head.
Conner's pride flared like fire as Y/N swallowed down proof of his own surrender, his fingers moving back down to shove inside where they belonged, knuckles grinding against smooth walls that squeezed tight around him. Y/N cried out, nails digging hard into Conner's shoulder, nearly ripping at the material covering the muscles.
Conner's forehead pressed against his temple, his voice a guttural scrape. "Look at me." His free hand gripped Y/N's jaw, forcing his dazed eyes open, forcing them to lock on his. "Only me." His chest rumbled, seeing the glassy eye look flash with indignation, shock, awe, but most of all, submission. His thrusts grew sharper, wetter, louder, every squelch a declaration.
He groaned when he scented something sweeter, muskier beneath the Omega's whimpers. Y/N's body trembled as he felt his chest tingle, nipples tightening, with the faintest sensation of wetness seeping into his shirt. Conner caught it instantly, a guttural noise rumbling in his throat as he scented down the Omega's chest, inhaling the sweet, heady scent of his body's milky reward. More proof that everything this body gave off belonged to him. "Fuck," he groaned, reverent and hungry, grinding harder, fingering deeper like he was staking a flag in conquered land.
"Mine." His chest puffed as Y/N clung tighter, arms winding around his neck as his body started to go limp from all his squirming. His fingers tangled into the Alpha's dark hair, something that made Conner stand taller for, feeling accepted.
A rough sound broke from him as he bit hard into the Omega's sweaty neck, leaving a bright red mark that he'd smugly knew would take time to clear up. "Cum." The order was deep, leaving no room for refusal.
Y/N came apart violently, his entire body seizing against Conner's chest. His thighs clamped around the Alpha's hips, trembling uncontrollably, the muscles jerking with each wave that tore through him. A broken sob escaped his throat, muffled against Conner's mouth, as his core spasmed around the thick fingers buried inside him. Slick and cum mixed, gushed in hot bursts, splattering down Conner's wrist and dripping onto the tile floor with wet, obscene splashes that echoed in the small locker room. His opening quivered under the assault, every fluttering clench drawing out another gush while his dick spurted hot streak after streak of pure cum between his and Conner's abdomens.
Conner groaned into his mouth, chest swelling with pride at his triumph as if he'd just won a battle. He didn't ease up, fingers grinding deep as if coaxing every last drop from him, relishing the messy slick coating his hand, his arm, and the floor beneath them. When Y/N's body finally sagged against him, wrung out and shaking, Conner kissed him harder, greedily swallowing the wet, broken noises, and enjoying the subdued state.
He eased his hand free only to hold it up, slick and dripping in shining ropes, forcing Y/N's dazed eyes to follow the mess he'd made before pressing another searing kiss to his mouth, making him taste himself in the kiss.
"Stay right here while I grab my gym bag. I'm not done with you yet."
A clear dynamic shift occurred after that locker room encounter; his walk of shame said more than enough. The universe, by some miracle, spared him a complete humiliation; the gym was nearly empty, and the only two people at the front desk didn't so much as glance up. Either they were saints of discretion, or they'd heard everything and were giving him the dignity of silence.
Something for his late-night anxious thoughts to dwell on later.
Conner, naturally, carried not an ounce of shame. The smug bastard all but strutted beside him, satisfaction written in every line of his body. He didn't bother hiding it, not when Y/N's legs were still unsteady, not when the Omega was walking out wearing a pair of Conner's own boxer-briefs under his pants.
Y/N hadn't been so lucky in the aftermath with his clothes. His underwear had been ruined; stretched and drenched with slick in a way that made "salvageable" laughable. He'd tried to slip back into his pants without them, muttering curses under his breath, but Conner stopped him cold. Commando wasn't an option, not with the Omega's scent still wafting off him, thick and sweet, enough to draw in any Alpha within a mile who caught the faintest whiff of slick.
His solution had been simple: pulling one of the clean pairs of boxer-briefs from his gym bag and holding them out. Y/N had looked at him like he was crazy, while Conner returned his own look, showing that it wasn't a suggestion nor a request.
"Either you put these on, or I walk out there with my gym bag over one shoulder, and you over the other. Your choice."
The threat wasn't idle, and Y/N was aware of it. Every muscle in Conner's arm flexed like he was already preparing to make good on it, and Y/N knew very well what that would look like to anyone who witnessed it. Slung over the Alpha's shoulder, mussed hair, swollen lips, smelling of sex with slick still drying on his thighs.
No, if he wanted to keep whatever shred of dignity he had left and wanted to cling to his thin plan of avoiding Conner altogether after this, shutting this whole mess down before it spiraled into something else, then he knew which choice he had to make. His own pride hissed, but he sucked it up as he snatched the briefs from the smug Alpha.
He figured this was what Conner wanted. Not just to cover and protect him, but to mark him. The fabric wasn't just a shield against unwanted attention; it was a soft claim. Was there selfishness in it? Motivation beyond practicality?
Is 4 the sum of 2+2?
"Conner—jeez a-ah, fuck ... !"
Y/N's cry was muffled into his sheets as the Alpha pinned him forward over his bed, arms wrenched behind his back, wrists locked tight under the calloused, rough hand. Conner's other palm forced his thighs wide, spreading him open with brutal ease, baring his slick, pulsing core like it was his right to take. The area between his legs felt hot and ticklish as Conner's tongue plunged deep into his insides, lips sealing over the puckered opening. Every drag and suck pulled obscene squelches into the air, wet sounds filling the room as Conner devoured him like he'd never stop.
Y/N gasped, back arching despite himself, the sheets beneath him already soaked in a combination of slick and Conner's spit. His legs kicked weakly, but every movement just made the male press deeper, pushing his tongue as far as he could as if he was trying to suck out the Y/N's soul from between his legs.
"Stop squirming," Conner husked, gripping the cushy thigh with a tight jerk as he glared at the back of the Omega's head, hair damp with sweat. His tongue speared back in, lapping greedily at every clench and flutter, groaning low in his chest like he was starved for it. The vibrations shot up Y/N's spine, dragging a broken moan from his lips that he tried—and failed—to bury in the sheets.
"That's it," Conner muttered against him, pulling back just enough to suck hard at the swollen rim, wet pops echoing between them. His spit and Y/N's slick dripped down to his chin, a filthy mess he had no shame in making worse. "You'll learn better than to push me away."
Y/N fidgeted again, shame coloring every whimper, but Conner's hand in the small of his back shoved him deeper into he mattress, keeping him pinned where he wanted him. He manhandled Y/N easily, adjusting his hips higher, spreading him wider until there was no part of him hidden from view.
"That's right, keep dripping over me," Conner growled, licking a thick stripe through the mess before plunging his tongue back in, fucking him with rough, relentless strokes. "Keep making a mess for me. Show me who you belong to."
Y/N choked out something garbled, some mix of protest and plea, but his thighs were already shaking, body giving itself away. He tightened his grip on Y/N's wrists, hauling them higher up his back until the Omega's spine bowed.
The room filled with noise—wet, obscene squelches as Conner's tongue plunged and curled his hungry groans, trembling straight into Y/N's core. Every sloppy lap, every greedy suck echoed, the bed creaking in rhythm with his helpless writhing.
Conner didn't let up. His grip on Y/N's wrists wrenched tighter, holding him arched and open while his other hand pinned the trembling thigh hard into the mattress. The Omega bucked anyway, hips stuttering against the relentless heat of Conner's mouth, slick splashing audibly down his chin, dripping onto the sheets below.
A growl ripped from Conner's chest, muffled against Y/N's skin, almost feral in the way it rumbled through his insides. Y/N (though he'd never admit it willingly) sobbed into the sheet, voice breaking as the first orgasm wracked through his insides—legs seizing, hole clenching around Conner's tongue, slick and cum mixed gushing hot and fast. The wet squelch of it filled the air, obscene and loud.
But Conner didn't stop; his tongue drove deeper, cruel in its precision, dragging the climax out into shuddering waves. Every cry Y/N gave—high, broken, wrecked—was swallowed by Conner's growls, by the sloppy, ravenous sounds of him sucking greedily at the Omega's release.
Y/N tried to twist away, too sensitive, too raw, but Conner's chest pressed harder into the back of his thighs, forcing him still. "Stay," he snarled, low and sharp, before burying his face back between them with renewed hunger.
The overstimulation tore through Y/N's body, each stroke of Conner's tongue dragging another sob, another strangled wail from his lips. Slick splattered the sheets, soaking them, dripping to the floor.
Conner only growled louder, his naked chest dripping with the evidence of his claim on the Omega, trailing in shiny wet trails down his abdomen. The second orgasm hit like a thunderclap, Y/N's body convulsing, with his thigh jerking open wider as slick spurted messily out of him, splattering against Conner's face, his chin, the sheets below.
Y/N screamed into the mattress, body curling tight, chest dragging hard against the sheets. His nipples rubbed raw against the fabric, each brush sending white-hot sparks through him, the pressure making them leak until the sheets beneath his chest were damp with a sweet milky stain. The dual sensation—his chest tingling, his core spasming and gushing uncontrollably—was unbearable, too much, too good.
At last, Conner wrenched his mouth away with a guttural snarl, his face shining, his chest heaving like he'd just pulled breath after drowning. Y/N barely had a chance to inhale before his wrists were released and his whole body was flipped with a single, brutal motion. The world spun, then he was on his back, legs spread wide, Conner's weight bearing down on him.
A smug glint flashed across Conner's sweat-slick face as he pressed a knee into the mattress between Y/N's thighs, keeping him splayed. One big hand clamped over the Omega's chest, kneading hard, rough, like he had every right. The other shoved straight down between his legs, fingers forcing slick flesh apart, plunging into his drenched heat again without hesitation. The wet noise echoed sharply and loudly, dripping down Conner's wrist as he kept working him open.
Y/N's breath broke into mewls, hips arching helplessly into both sensations at once. Conner's mouth latched onto his chest, sucking at a leaking nipple with a greed that matched the mess between his legs. Tasty arousal spiked milk spilled onto his tongue, down his chin, his teeth scraping hard, leaving red marks in his wake as he pulled back to bite and mouth roughly at the swollen skin.
The Omega's thighs trembled, tears streaking his temples as pleasure spun out of control. "C-Conner, it's too much—" he gasped, voice raw and trembling as his weak arms pushed up against the Alpha's puffed out chest.
Conner only gave a sharp, dark chuckle against his torso, the sound cruel and boyish at once. He pulled off with a wet pop, lips curved into a smirk. "Too bad," he rasped, before diving back down, suckling harder at everything his Omega had to offer him. His fingers pumped rougher, curling sharply against the spot that made Y/N's whole body jolt off the mattress. Every thrust of his hand splashed slick down to the sheets, every hungry suck from his chest dragged another wail from Y/N's throat. Conner reveled at the sight of his Omega overstimulated, leaking, crying, but clinging desperately to him all the same.
The third orgasm ripped through Y/N like a lightning strike, his body seizing around Conner's fingers, walls milking, tightening as if trying to milk them with frantic pulses as more slick squirted out, splashing against Conner's wrist, running in sticky trails down his arms, soaking the sheets so thoroughly the mattress was also squelching beneath them.
Y/N sobbed through the mind-shattering sensation, voice high and broken, tears streaking his temples as he gasped for air. His chest heaved, nipple-aching and leaking under Conner's suckling lips, his hips jerking helplessly against the Alpha's unrelenting hand.
Conner didn't stop until every shudder ran its course, until Y/N lay trembling and soaked beneath him, ruined and open. Only then did he finally pull back, his fast, wet breath, his chest heaving, his mouth curved into a feral, boyish smirk that reminded Y/N of the boy he once knew in childhood.
He released Y/N's nipple with a final, wet pop, licking the creamy delicacy from his lips before looking down at the Omega, his hands still buried inside him. His voice came low, rough, a command and a claim all at once:
"Mine."
Y/N whimpered, eyes dazed and glassy, body clinging to Conner's despite himself. And Conner—his chest puffed full of pride, smug, and unyielding—looked every bit like an Alpha who'd just reduced their Omega to tears and knew he'd do it again. The Omega was drenched in him—fluid, scent, submission—and yet it still wasn't enough. Not until Y/N understood, without question, who he belonged to.
He stood, looming, and with a sharp tug yanked the drawstring of his sweats. The fabric dropped in one ruthless motion, pooling at his feet. Y/N's protests caught in his throat before they even formed. His hazy mind short-circuited at the sight before him.
The Alpha's body was a weapon—broad shoulders, tapering into a chest sculpted thick with muscle, his stomach ridged and hard like stone, built for force rather than vanity. Veins bulged down his forearms as he shoved his clothes aside, cock standing proud and flushed, heavy enough to make Y/N's mouth dry.
The Alpha's appendage stood thick and heavy, the flushed tip already leaking, veins ridging up the shaft like lines carved into stone. It wasn't just big—it was daunting, obscene, a weapon of flesh and hunger that made Y/N's stomach clench and his throat go dry. The kind of cock that didn't just stretch; it split, reshaped, claimed. The kind that made an Omega's body remember who'd been inside it, even after they were gone.
His insides fluttered, traitorous, still sloppy with slick. His brain supplied the image unbidden: that length buried to the hilt inside him, pushing against every spot deep and raw until there was nothing left but his Alpha's size and heat, pressing up into his belly, stealing his breath. He swore he could feel it already, phantom-deep, his walls twitching around like they were bracing for the inevitable.
Conner curled his hand around the thick shaft, giving it a slow pump, almost mocking, as if to show him just how much he was about to take. The Omega's lips parted on a soundless whimper, heat rushing to his face and just.
Y/N's lust-drunk staring shattered the second rough hands grabbed his thighs, hauling him to the edge of the bed. Before he could blink, he was scooped into the Alpha's arms, muscles like iron forcing his body to cling instinctively—legs curling tight around his waist, arms clutching his shoulders. Conner carried him with ease, like his Omega weighed nothing, before shoving him against the wall. The drywall groaning at the impact, Y/N pinned between stone and steel.
"Wait—Conner, I don't think I can handle any more…" Music to an Alpha's ears.
Conner's grin was sharp, predatory. His cock, thick and heavy, rubbed in long, slow drags across Y/N's soaked orifice, spreading slick and teasing the trembling rim. "You'll take it," he muttered, voice low and ragged, chest heaving against Y/N's. "Every inch."
Y/N tried to stall, clinging to reason. "Do you even have protection?"
"Are you close to your heat?" Conner shot back instantly.
"No. I'm on Sterilinex suppressants."
Y/N regretted the words the moment they left his mouth as Conner's eyes darkened, a dangerous gleam sparking. "Sterilinex works double as a birth control too, doesn't it?"
The Omega swallowed hard. "Yes, but—that doesn't matter—"
It mattered. Oh, it mattered. That thought slithered into Conner's head like temptation itself, curling, burning, demanding. He rolled his hips, the blunt head of his cock nudging insistently, as if demanding to be let into its property. He coated himself in the Omega's slick until his entire length glistened with it.
"Fine," Conner rumbled, voice dropping lower, possessive and sharp. "I won't fuck and knot you…if you admit you're my Omega."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me." His cock pressed harder against the quivering rim, threatening to push. "Say it."
"And why the hell would I? What makes you deserve—hell, that you're even good enough—for that title?"
"Maybe because I already made you cum three times on your bed," Conner growled, jaw set tight, "and once more in the locker room. But I'll be happy to prove it again." His hips gave a sharp thrust, the swollen tip breaching just enough to sting.
"You can't be serious—"
"Dead."
Y/N's eyes narrowed, lips trembling as he steadied himself, knowing exactly what line he was about to cross. Like his Papa always taught him, if an Alpha truly deserves something, they'll damn sure work to prove it, and you shouldn't make it any easier for them. His spark of defiance won out, even as slick dripped freely between them.
"Hell. No."
That was the last thread snapping. Conner snarled, anger and hunger flaring all at once. "Wrong answer."
He slammed his hips forward. The stretch was brutal and immediate, even with all of Conner's fingering inside him from before. His walls strained wide, forced to yield around the obscene girth. Y/N's mouth fell open on a broken cry as Conner shoved in deeper, every inch spearing through muscle, pressing up into places that had never been touched so raw. His cock drove into him like a battering ram, thick veins dragging against hypersensitive flesh, the head pushing so deep that Y/N swore he felt it bulge up inside his belly.
Every thrust forward ground his spine into the wall, every retreat shallow before Conner plowed deeper still, chasing that suffocating fullness. The Omega's vision blurred, the world dimming at the edges as his body struggled to stretch fast enough, clenching and fluttering helplessly around the sheer size. He could feel himself molding around it, stuffed and swollen, the pressure unrelenting.
Conner groaned into his neck, voice guttural, smug, and savage all at once, before staring back into the Omega's sex-blown gaze, his head falling forward as he lost himself on the Alpha's cock. "Look at me while you take it."
Pinned high against the wall, legs locked tight around the dark-haired male's waist, Y/N could only choke out gasps and whimpers, every sound swallowed over by the lewd sound of slapping flesh from Conner's hips driving in between the Omega's quivering thighs. His nipples flared up once again, releasing a new wave of leaking milk as he was moved up and down, his milky arousal cream smearing his chest as his body exposed him further. His own untouched dick also leaked, drooling against his stomach from nothing but the invasion and stretch going on just beneath it.
Conner adjusted his grip, one palm squeezing cruelly into the plush of Y/N's ass as the other pressed tight between his shoulder blades, creeping closer around the Omega's sweaty neck. He felt like an undefeated conqueror, staking his claim on land that had rightfully belonged to him and always would.
"Say you can't take it," Conner growled in his ear, voice thick with arrogance as his knot already began to swell threateningly at the base. "And I'll make you prove yourself wrong again, and again, until you admit it."
"Fuck you," Y/N spat, though the words came out breathless, trembling, stripped of venom.
"Already am," Conner husked, tone dark but laced with boyish arrogance. His mouth brushed Y/N's ear, hot and cruel. "And I'll keep fucking you until you admit whose you are. Even if I have to keep you here, like this, all day."
"Not gonna happen."
Conner's grip on his throat tightened, thumb pressing just enough to tilt Y/N's chin, forcing his gaze forward as he snapped harder. The pace turned vicious, pounding in fast, brutal slams that ricocheted Y/N's body against the wall with every thrust. The impact rattled through his spine, his lungs knocked empty with the sheer force of it.
The Omega's cries cut through the room, sharp and desperate, tangled with the wet slap of flash and obscene squelches each time Conner buried himself to the hilt. Y/N tried to turn his face away, but the Alpha's grip kept him locked, forced to take every moment of it—every inch of cock carving him open, every brutal stretch that shaped his insides to fit nothing but Conner.
Inside, it was devastating. Y/N felt every vein drag against his walls, the swollen head battering mercilessly against his most private places—deep, untouched places—until he swore he could feel the blunt shape bulging inside his lower belly. His body fluttered helplessly, forced to mold around the Alpha's size, stuffed so full that each thrust ground his core wider, harder, unrelenting.
Conner's stamina was inhuman, his rhythm steady even as his pace ramped higher, like he had no end in sight. He fucked like a machine built for this—slamming Y/N open, pulling only halfway out before rutting back in, jackhammering into that tender core with ruthless precision. His breath rasped hot against Y/N's ear, punctuated by low grunts and the ragged growl that came with every drive of his hips.
Y/N's vision blurred. Each thrust pressed so high, he saw stars, his chest jolting, nipples dripping wet as he jerked up and down with his body, spreading droplets of arousing milk that smeared as his body rocked. His own cock drooled untouched, twitching uselessly against his stomach, as the Alpha's cock head bullied his insides over and over until Y/N couldn't tell if he was gasping from pleasure, pain, or the impossible mix of both.
"Keep running that mouth," Conner snarled, pace unyielding, slamming him harder. "I'll fuck the fight right out of you."
And, fuck he did. The words barely had time to register before the Alpha made good on the promise. His thrusts turned savage, rhythm relentless, every slam spearing Y/N's insides with merciless precision. The sound was scandalous—wet, sticky, the smack of hips against as and the squelching gush each time Conner bottomed out.
Y/N's cries cracked, his walls clamping down tight, fluttering around the thickness, battering inside, clenching helplessly as if trying to hold him in place. Slick overflowed, splattering down his thighs, dripping onto the floor in lewd trails.
"No—no, I can't—" Y/N's protests shattered into a strangled moan as his cock jerked, untouched, spilling over in hot spurts against his stomach. His whole body trembled, legs shaking, nipples tingling, leaking even more as his release pulsed out of him. He sobbed into the overstimulation, feeling it twice as hard as he did before as his core clenched around Conner like a fist.
The Alpha snarled, chest heaving with feral pride, fucking him through it without slowing, forcing the orgasm to wring itself out until Y/N was twitching and gasping, body sagging limp against the wall.
But Conner didn't stop. Not even close.
A rough hand released his throat only to grab the Omega's jaw, forcing his dazed, wet eyes up. Conner's expression was sharp, victorious even. "I'm not through with you yet.
He pulled out in one brutal stroke, slick dripping down Y/N's thighs, and manhandled him toward the bed. With no more patience for softness, Conner bent him over the mattress once again, shoving his leaking chest down into the sheets until Y/N's ass was presented open and spread. The Omega whined, still twitching from the last climax, but Conner only pressed a heavy palm between his shoulder blades, keeping him face down.
"Up," he growled, smacking his ass once for emphasis. "Keep it there."
Y/N's legs trembled as he obeyed, back arched, ass in the air, hole glistening and stretched wide, still dripping from everything Conner had already done. It was a picture of submission and ruin, and the Alpha's new favorite sight in the world.
He teased the head of his cock against the swollen entrance, smearing slick around it, dragging the stretch out while Y/N whined and kicked. Conner chuckled darkly at the sounds, savoring them. "Sensitive, huh? Good. Makes it better for me."
And with a sharp thrust, he pushed back inside, the angle deeper, crueler, his cock head grinding right into that raw spot that had Y/N screaming out instantly.
"Not fair," the Omega gasped, tears dampening the sheets.
Conner's laugh rumbled low and mean against his back as he bent over him, teeth grazing the nape of his neck. "Fair's for someone else. You belong to me, so I don't need to be fair. Especially if you can't follow a simple direction."
The Alpha set a brutal rhythm, hips driving in with pounding force that rattled the bed frame. His cock hit deep, right against that raw, swollen spot inside that made Y/N jolt and cry out each time, the kind of relentless pace that didn't allow room to breathe, let alone recover. The wet slap of skin and the obscene squelching of slick filled the air, drowning out everything but Y/N's broken moans and sobs.
Conner's arms snaked under him, rough hands gripping his chest, kneading the leaking mounds until slick milk smeared down his stomach and across the sheets. The friction against his nipples only added to the storm ripping through him, every squeeze sparking fresh shudders that had his body convulsing uncontrollably around the Alpha's cock.
"Conner—a-ah, fuck ... ! I can't—" Y/N sobbed, words muffled into the sheets as his body seized in another overwhelming release, spilling nothing now but a weak dribble while his walls clenched in rhythmic spasms.
The Alpha snarled in satisfaction, fucking him through it without mercy, pace never faltering. His stamina was monstrous, each thrust steady, driving, unrelenting. He grinded in deeper, smearing slick over his own thighs, his breath hot and harsh against Y/N's ear.
"Don't stop now," Conner growled, biting at his neck as his hands kneaded rougher at his chest. "You'll take every last one I give you."
The Omega's body betrayed him, jerking from the raw overstimulation. His cock twitched uselessly, balls aching, the sensation so sharp it turned to tears streaking down his face. Every shudder wracked him harder than the last, little broken cries spilling no matter how he tried to bite them back.
Conner only leaned into it, cruel and intimate, pressing his lips against Y/N's temple, panting hot against his skin. "Say it," he demanded, voice rough with heat and pride. "Say I'm your Alpha. Submit to me, and I'll let you go."
Y/N shook his head desperately, voice cracking. "I-In your dreams—"
The Alpha chuckled darkly, chest swelling with pride at his brat's defiance even as his body trembled and wept against him. "Then I'll just keep going," Conner promised, rolling his hips with punishing precision, cock sawing against his swollen sweet spot again and again until Y/N shrieked, his body clamping down so hard it milked every inch.
The Alpha's pace stayed steady, merciless, his stamina making it clear he wouldn't break before Y/N did. Every thrust dragged another twitch, another convulsion, another ruined orgasm until the Omega's body was quaking with exhaustion, his tears soaking the sheets beneath his face.
"Good boy," Conner praised low in his ear, voice all gravel and possessive heat as his hand slid from Y/N's chest to his throat again, holding him steady as he sobbed. "That's it. Take it all. You're mine, and only mine."
With fluid strength, he pulled out slowly, savoring the Omega's whine at the sudden emptiness, then shifted them. Strong hands caught under Y/N's thighs, lifting him like he weighed nothing, flipping him into Conner's lap.
The new position swallowed him whole. Facing away, Y/N was forced to straddle the Alpha, thighs stretched wide over corded muscle, chest pressed against Conner's hard body. Conner's cock slid back in deep from below, the angle obscene, splitting him open all over again while his ass sank against Conner's lap.
"Fuck—!" Y/N sobbed, clutching at Conner's biceps, much to the Alpha's smug delight. Those same arms wrapped tight around him, caging him in. One broad hand gripped his chest, kneading the sensitive mounds, slick milk spilling against his palm; the other held one of his ass cheeks tight, forcing every thrust to rock him down harder.
"Look at you," Conner's voice was ragged, a low heat as his lips dragged over Y/N's collarbone. His blue eyes lifted to meet the Omega's—sharp, hungry, almost reverent—watching the way pleasure had stolen his senses, how his limbs went slack and his breath came in ragged pulls as Conner guided him up and down that thick, relentless shaft.
Y/N's arms curled around Conner's shoulders, clinging like a child to a lifeline; his body slumped forward, forehead pressed into the hollow of the Alpha's neck, too spent to keep upright or to keep fighting the wash of sensation. He was drunk on it—on the way Conner moved, the press and drag of flesh, the way every roll of his hips teased new tremors from his core.
"You'd make things so much easier on yourself," Conner murmured against his skin, voice low and amorous, "if you'd just admit it. If you'd just say the words." His hands tighten slightly to steady the tremor under him; the motion was gentle and owning all at once. "Who do you belong to?"
The intimacy of it all was suffocating. Each grind forced Y/N to feel the sheer thickness inside him, rubbing every raw nerve until his head dropped back onto Conner's shoulder, his cries spilling uncontrolled. His body betrayed him, trembling harder with each roll, every orgasm weaker and wetter until he felt like he couldn't hold himself up anymore without the support of the Alpha, fingers digging into his skin like anchors.
Y/N could feel how the Alpha's chest was puffed with what had to be a shit-eating satisfaction, even more as Conner kissed the tears streaking down his cheek as he kept him steady. "Say it," he murmured, low, commanding, the sound trembling straight through him. "Let me hear it. Give me what's mine."
Y/N sagged in Conner's arms, his body shuddering and wet, every inch of him molded against the Alpha's chest. Conner kept him there, pinned in his lap, cock buried to the hilt, throbbing inside that molten, slick heat. It was overwhelming—like being hugged from the inside, a warm, wet grip that pulsed around him in needy rhythm. Every squeeze, every flutter of muscle told him what Y/N's refused.
He felt Y/N's smaller frame pressed into his, milk-stained chest smearing wetness across his sternum, thighs shaking as they clung around his waist. The contrast was intoxicating—the broad bulk of his own sinewy frame holding the Omega tight, steadying every weak shiver and convulsion, as if proving over and over that he was built to hold him, to own him.
He buried his face in the damp crown of Y/N's hair, inhaling, his growl vibrating deep as his knot began to swell at the base of his cock. The thought of sealing him—locking them together, making sure no one could ever pull him free—ignited a raw, primal fire in his chest.
Conner's smirk curved against his temple. "Say it," he demanded, low and guttural, every thrust punctuated by the grind of his swelling knot. "Say who I am. Say who you belong to."
Y/N whimered, shaking his head again, but his voice cracked, breaking apart on a sob. "N-no… I can't—"
"You can," Conner growled, thrusting up harder, filling him until his stomach tightened with the pressure. His arms crushed Y/N tighter, one hand kneading the leaking mounds of his chest while the other braced his stomach, forcing every convulsion to roll down onto his cock. "You will."
The Omega broke with a cry, tears streaking his face as he clung tighter, forehead dropping back against Conner's shoulder. His lips trembled, then parted, and the words spilled out ruined and wet.
"M-my Alpha…"
Conner's heart slammed against his ribs, a victorious snarl tearing from his throat. His hips snapped up brutally, pounding into the wet heat like he could carve the truth deeper, bury it inside Y/N's very bones. "Again," he demanded, feverish.
"My Alpha!" Y/N cried, voice high and broken, body convulsing around him, milking him.
That was it. Conner's pride, his hunger, his need—all of it combusted. He drove in deep, grinding his knot against Y/N's entrance until it broke past, locking them tight. The Omega screamed his name, body trembling as another orgasm shattered through him, and Conner's head fell back with a guttural roar.
Heat spilled inside him in thick waves, his cock throbbing as he pumped Y/N full, cum flooding deep until it overflowed around the knot, dripping hot and sticky down their thighs. The Omega clung like a lifeline, still twitching, still sobbing his title into Conner's skin, while the Alpha's chest puffed broad with triumph.
Y/N would be very surprised if he still managed to beat the teen pregnancy statistics after this.
Conner got what he wanted; he finally had him, tied, marked, and claimed. He made him his Omega in every way that mattered, and as his pulse slowed, still locked inside that wet, trembling heat, he pressed a reverent kiss to Y/N's damp temple, voice ragged but certain.
"Mine. Always mine."
When the haze of that last knot finally broke, Conner didn't peel away. He stayed locked in, one massive hand rubbing circles along Y/N's thigh, the other cradling his head to his chest as the Omega twitched weakly in his lap. His breathing was rough but steady, heat radiating from him like a furnace, and the sound of his heartbeat thudded steadily against Y/N's ear.
"Easy," Conner murmured, thumb brushing sweat from Y/N's temple. He was gruff in taking care of the Omega afterwards, but undeniable in all his frustrating ways. He steadied Y/N's trembling body, easing the ache with grounding touches. His knot sat swollen and buried deep inside, every pulse of his cock heavy and deliberate, proclaiming to Y/N exactly where he belonged.
And yet, when the knot softened, it didn't end. Conner's libido was a cruel thing. He went again, then again. Each round harder, greedier, his thrusts carving their way into Y/N's body like he meant to rewrite him from the inside out. Every time Y/N thought he'd wrung Conner dry, the Alpha's cock would swell and flood him again, with him clinging onto those hard, sweaty back muscles for dear life, fingers tangled in the damp, dark strands of the Alpha's hair while said man kissed and growled into his neck, knock locking them tight with his cum gushing hot and thick until Y/N's belly felt heavy with it.
By the third round, his legs barely obeyed him. They quivered like dead weight, thighs sore and stretched to the bone. His body felt too full, the overwhelming sensation of Conner's size still throbbing inside even in the pauses between. His hole leaked and twitched around him, muscle worn raw and pliant, thighs sticky with everything Conner had spilled. At some point, a spade needed to be called a spade, cause Conner was acting no better than a dog pissing on a fire hydrant to mark its territory, only the piss was Alpha sperm and Y/N was the fire hydrant.
Of course, the smug bastard savored it. He looked down at Y/N like a man surveying his conquest, chest rising proud as if the exhaustion in Y/N's body was a crown he'd earned. He had that pompous Alpha air now, almost boyishly arrogant, like a child getting the cookie out of the cookie jar before dinner. He felt he'd proven himself beyond a doubt, and maybe he had.
It was in the soft after-hours, when Conner had finally—finally—let fatigue creep into his bones, despite the twitch in him that still wanted another go at the Omega's insides. Y/N was this close to taking him to get neutered.
They lay in his bed—clean sheets that Y/N made the dark-haired male put on because he wasn't sleeping in that mess—and Conner hadn't complained once as he stripped them off and tossed them in the corner. The Alpha had even padded across the room in nothing but his birthday suit—Y/N was definitely not checking out the package in the back or those wide shoulders and back muscles his hands had just been clawing at—grabbed a bottle of water, and pressed it into Y/N's hand like he was afraid he'd collapse without it. Hydration, wiping him down with a warm cloth, rubbing his thighs to ease the ache, Conner's care came gruff and quiet, but it was thorough.
The least he could fucking do after everything he'd wrung out of him.
Now, Y/N was cocooned between the rock-solid, firm wall on his left and the actual wall on his right, the Alpha acting unconsciously like a barrier, a living bulkhead keeping the world away. One arm was thrown heavily over his waist, the other spread beneath his pillow, and the slow rise of Conner's chest against his back lulled Y/N toward sleep.
He turned his head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of the dark mop of Conner's hair, damp and tousled from the workout they'd put each other through. Y/N didn't dare admit how unfairly sexy the Alpha looked after sex—flushed skin, dark eyes, soft around the edges, but still glittering with hunger, body radiating the kind of satisfied arrogance only an Alpha could muster. Would it be worse than admitting that, under all his defiance, there was a giddy, boyish happiness rolling around inside him at being wanted so absolutely by the object of his childhood affections? He'd long buried the softness he held for the boy currently holding him after the gala incident, though, and he wasn't about to dig them up again just because of a few rounds of—amazing—sex.
He'd never let the bastard know. Not when Conner was already smug enough with the way he refused to leave even a breath of space between them, his big hands tracing slow, lazy paths over Y/N's skin, sparking heat everywhere they touched. And definitely not when Y/N could feel a very familiar hardness pressed against the small of his back, stubborn and insistent even now.
The Omega huffed, torn between rolling his eyes and throwing himself out the window. Conner's palm drifted lower, cupping the curve and dip at his hips like it belonged there, and Y/N realized with a start that the Alpha wasn't just being lewd, he was checking him, fingers kneading over tender muscle, gauging soreness, making sure nothing felt wrong after taking him so rough. It was careful, clinical almost, except for the way Conner's cock gave a proud twitch every time Y/N flinched.
With a groan, Y/N shifted, turning onto his other side, and with a grunt in return at the movement, Conner loosened his hold only long enough to let him roll, then immediately hauled him back in, fitting their bodies together chest to chest. Their legs tangled—Y/N's leaking chest brushing against Conner's firm torso, and the Alpha growled low in his throat at the contact. His rough hands immediately found ass cheeks, squeezing, pulling him flush until that thick hardness nudged his entrance, insistent and hot.
"Easy there, big fella," Y/N muttered, lips twitching despite himself. "I'd like to keep my limbs functional, so either calm down or take a cold shower."
Conner's answer was a playful growl, equal parts irritation and smugness, the sound vibrating against Y/N's lips as his hips jerked forward in a sharp nudge. He kneaded the globes with greedy hands, cock prodding against his used, throbbing hole like a bad child trying to push their way into a space they were kicked out of.
"Bad," Y/N deadpanned, voice cracking at the same time his legs twitched from oversensitivity. "Down, boy."
Conner's chuckle rumbled deep in his chest, lips brushing over Y/N's temple in something too close to tender, before he sank his teeth lightly into his shoulder, warning the Omega that this "dog" wouldn't stay down for long. His hand flexed hard against Y/N's ass, but then—softly—he kissed his temple. A kiss, not a bite, Y/N froze for half a second at how gentle it was.
And just like that, the weight of everything that had transpired pressed down on him.
The silence between them stretched, and with it, Y/N felt the haze of heat fade into something heavier. The elephant in the room had been circling them too long for Y/N's comfort, and if he didn't say it now, he might never.
"Conner," he started, voice rough, throat dry. "We need to talk."
Conner stiffened—just barely—but Y/N felt it in the way his arms cinched tighter, like his body had caught the words before his mind had. The Alpha buried his face briefly against Y/N's neck, inhaling deep, and then dragged his nose across his skin like he could ward the conversation off with scent-marking alone.
Y/N put a hand to his chest, pushing gently until Conner lifted his head, their eyes meeting in the low light. "You can't just…" Y/N swallowed, searching. "You can't just throw me against walls, crawl into my bed, and act like you've got some claim on me without even asking. I'm not a prize, Conner, certainly not yours. And I won't be some toy you play and toddle with whenever you feel like it. You've fucked with my emotions enough for the last three years; I won't count the six before that because what happened wasn't your fault. But, I won't be played with anymore."
Conner's jaw flexed, his grip tightening almost imperceptibly at Y/N's hip. For once, he didn't interrupt, didn't snarl or growl, didn't deflect with cocky arrogance. He just held on, breathing hard through his nose, like a dog bracing for a blow.
Y/N could feel a clinginess weaving in, and this time, it wasn't from him. The way Conner's thumbs stroked against his side unconsciously, like he needed the contact to anchor himself. The way his forehead dropped against Y/N's, eyes squeezed shut, so big and strong, and yet looking like a cornered, wounded pup forced to sit still for scolding.
"I'm sorry…"
The words landed like a foreign sound in Y/N's ears. His body went rigid in Conner's arms, and his eyes went wide, blinking hard as though they hadn't translated right. The Alpha's tone was so raw, it scraped him open, and the worst part was—he could tell Conner saw his shock. The faint flicker of hurt in his gaze made Y/N's chest tighten. Because Conner wasn't used to Y/N being surprised, he could apologize. Once, long ago, it hadn't been like this.
"I never meant to hurt you," Conner continued, voice low, rough, thick with a weight Y/N wasn't used to hearing. His hand tightened reflexively at Y/N's hip, grounding himself there. "I'd sooner hurt myself than do something that stupid. But my father—Lex—" His jaw ticked, venom spitting in just the way he said the name, "—lied to me. He pulled me away from the only family I had, from my actual dad, who gave a damn, and used me as a pawn to hurt not just him, but yours too."
Y/N's throat worked, but no words came. His body, pinned against Conner's warmth, still hummed with sensitivity; every breath of the Alpha pressed his broad chest against Y/N's, every flex of those huge hands reminding him just how caught he was. He hated how much he noticed.
"And I didn't mean to tell him about you." Conner's gaze flickered down, almost ashamed, though his thumb never stopped stroking slow, desperate circles into Y/N's side. "It slipped one day. Something about Bruce, something that Lex put two and two together from, and I didn't realize what I'd done until years later. By then… he'd fed me enough poison about you and your dads to make me hate you. To make me… play right into his game."
The admission was a soft tremor, and it made Conner press tighter—hips jerking forward unconsciously. The heavy head of his shaft, already nudging between Y/N's thighs, slipped where his body was still raw and pliant, spreading him with one deep, slow glide.
Y/N breath hitched, a piquant gasp cracking the air. His body betrayed him instantly, clenching down around the intrusion, stretching wide around Conner's thickness as if opening itself eagerly to let him in. "Conner—" he hissed, meant to be a warning, but his nails dug into the Alpha's biceps instead of pushing him away.
Conner groaned, forehead pressing to Y/N's shoulder as though he couldn't stop. His hips rocked deeper, tender, devoted. "I didn't mean to hurt you," he repeated, the apology spilling against Y/N's skin while his cock spilled heat inside him. Conner's grip twitched on his waist, his voice breaking softer. "Got damn it, I'd never mean to. But that night at the gala—when I first saw you, it was like—like old times. All I wanted was to pull you in and hold you. But Lex's words were still in my head, and instead of fighting them, I pushed you away. Hard, too hard. And even then, I couldn't stand the thought of someone else near you, couldn't stand anyone's scent on you but mine."
While Y/N fought to keep his mind rational—not to drown in the molten bliss of that blunt, flared head, dragging across every tender ridge inside him with its maddening upward curve—his eyes snagged on the mirror across the room. The sight knocked the breath from his lungs.
Conner loomed over him in the reflection, a broad wall of muscle blotting out the world, his wide back flexing with every rut of his hips. Even beneath the tangled sheets, Y/N could see the Alpha's ass working, driving him deeper, branding every inch of space between Y/N's legs as his, and his alone.
And the Omega hated—hated—that it looked so right.
His own reflection betrayed him: hair a wile halo, strands sticking in all directions from Conner's relentless grip and his own desperate fingers clawing at the stupidly thick neck. His arms curled tight over Conner's shoulders, clinging, hooking around him like instinct had taken over. In the mirror, the Alpha's dark head was buried in the crook of his throat, utterly consumed, as if the rest of the world didn't exist.
'Good.' A thought echoed deep in the back of his mind.
The sight carved something raw and guttural into Y/N's gut. A truth he couldn't run from, no matter how hard he wanted to deny it.
Conner wasn't just focused on him—he was obsessed. He wasn't just rutting into him—he was worshipping him, with every ragged thrust, every shudder that rippled through his hulking frame. And Y/N, damn him, wanted it—wanted all of it. He wanted this mountain of an idiot Alpha lost in no one else, tethered to no one else, devoted like this to no one else.
The thought of Conner like this—sweating, snarling, rutting—anywhere else sent a bitter, violent flare of heat down Y/N's spine. Another Omega beneath him? In his arms? In their bed? His chest squeezed so tight, it bordered on rage. The idea was unfathomable, unacceptable!
If anyone even dared to try, he very well might kill them.
But that didn't mean Conner got off scot-free. No, he'd make this smug bastard work for it. Work for his forgiveness and his true devotion. If Conner really wanted to claim him, then Y/N would damn well make sure he was worthy of it and that it was mutual. If he truly wanted Y/N's attention, relationship, submission, he'd have to understand the price to pay to earn something like it, and the bigger price he'd pay if he lost it.
"Hmm. Is that why you were over-scenting me like some dog pissing on a hydrant?" Y/N's gritted, breath shaky, body trembling around the thick length filling him so intimately. "You know, Jason and Damian both wanted to beat the shit out of you for that? You're lucky my dad's the rational one. Sort of."
Conner's chest rumbled against him, but his hips kept their soft, steady thrusts, like he couldn't bear to stop. His mouth dragged hot over Y/N's jaw, words vibrating low while his arms tightened like steel bands. "Guess in the back of my mind, you were still… mine. Still, the one I wanted to protect. To keep. When Lex brought up your parents, and I saw your face—saw how hurt and shocked you looked—it hit me what he'd done, what I had done. I looked up the stories and articles that night, the first time I had ever read them fully, and I realized it was him all along. Realized he used me to hurt you, and I hated both him and myself for it." His jaw flexed, and then he dragged his mouth over Y/N's jaw like he needed contact, needed to taste him just to keep speaking.
"But I didn't know how to come to you. Didn't know how to apologize. Then I saw you laughing with other guys, other Alphas, ignoring me, and it—" His breath snarled out hot against Y/N's cheek. "It fucking killed me."
Y/N shuddered at the words, a whimper caught in his throat as another slow push of the Alpha's curved shaft stroked deep against his tender walls. "So instead of manning up and owning your mess, you decided to be a territorial prick? That's your excuse? Is that the only reason you picked me as your partner?"
"No!" Conner growled, the word grating against his throat, hips jerking sharper. His cock buried deeper, the head grinding right against Y/N's sweet spot until he gasped. "Well… partly, yeah. It pushed me to move. But it wasn't the only reason."
"So if your friend hadn't wanted to partner with me, hadn't wanted to fuck me—" Y/N's lips twisted into a smirk as he felt the Alpha immediately tense, his words teasing against his ears even as his voice cracked from the stimulation, "I'd be in his bed right now with him, instead of you."
That made him snap.
A feral snarl ripped from Conner's chest, his thrusts no longer soft, but urgent, near frantic. He rolled them hard, pinning Y/N beneath his hulking weight, wrists caught in one massive hand. His cock shoved in to the hilt, grinding deep enough, Y/N's body molded around him with no space left unclaimed.
"Are you trying to piss me off?" Conner's voice was wild, his eyes burning down into him. His chest heaved, his whole body trembling with the effort not to lose control. "I'm trying to apologize, and you're gonna sit here and talk about other Alphas?" His hips drove in again, a deep, punishing grind that made Y/N arch involuntarily. "Say it again, and I'll remind you—" his teeth grazed Y/N's throat, dangerous, "—exactly whose Omega you are."
Conner's grip once again turned brutal, his hips slamming forward with a ragged snarl that rattled in his chest. The force of it shoved Y/N flat into the mattress, wrists pinned above his head in one massive hand while the Alpha drove in to the root, grinding deep, not giving an inch of space to breathe.
For a moment, his thrusts stuttered, not losing their depth, but trembling with restraint. "I don't—" His forehead pressed hard against Y/N's voice, breaking open with something raw, unguarded. "I don't know how to stop wanting you. I tried. Lex tried to make me hate you, made me push you away, but I swear—I swear—I never meant to hurt you." His grip on Y/N's wrists shook, his breath hot and frantic. "You're mine. I want you to always be mine."
And with that, he bottomed out and stayed there, knot swelling fast, locking them together with a hot, brutal stretch. Y/N gasped, his body convulsing around him, every nerve ending alight as Conner spilled again, messy and overwhelming. Thick heat surged into him in heavy waves, the Alpha's cock pulsing endlessly, so much that it leaked back out, streaking down his thighs despite the knot trying to hold it all in. His belly ached with fullness, an obscene weight that left him shaking, trembling, clenching down involuntarily to milk every drop.
Y/N's eyes moved to the mirror once more, the reflection in it sealing a truth—Conner trembling, groaning through gritted teeth, emptying himself like he'd never stop. And Y/N, face twisted in ecstasy, clinging to the very Alpha he'd just sworn he wouldn't give in to just earlier that day.
By the time the last spurt left him, Conner was shaking, arms still caging Y/N in. His lips pressed against the Omega's jaw, breathless, words spilling without polish. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I'd never mean to hurt you. Anyone but you. There has to be a part of you that still believes that." He sounded wrecked, like the admission carved something out of him.
Y/N swallowed hard, chest heaving, but didn't answer… yet. More like he couldn't answer. His body was too busy throbbing, twitching, filled beyond reason. All he could do was cling weakly as Conner softened around the edges, lowering himself onto the Omega gently, their bodies still bound tight.
The knot pulsed faintly, but Conner's urgency had burned itself out, leaving him sprawled heavy over Y/N, chest pressed flush to his, arms cinched tight like he thought letting go might undo everything. His breath was ragged against Y/N's neck, not the growl of a rut-drunk Alpha anymore, but something quieter, almost fragile.
"I don't expect you to forgive me tonight," he murmured, words rumbling against Y/N's skin. His voice was rough, cracked from use, but stripped of that arrogant edge. "But I need you to know—I never stopped wanting you. Never stopped caring about you, despite how much Lex tried to get me to. I don't think I could, even if I tried."
Y/N stayed still, staring up at the ceiling, throat tight. His body ached, stretched sore around the knot still holding him open, belly heavy with the load Conner had dumped in him, and yet—his heart was a different kind of sore.
"I believe you," he muttered, voice brittle. "But wanting someone isn't the same as treating them like they matter. I understand a lot of it wasn't your fault, and it was just your dad being the shady, manipulative bald bastard he's always been—no offense."
He felt Conner's chuckle against his body, and whether or not he acknowledged it, a growing part of him, something he hadn't felt for some time but never forgot about, was starting to re-emerge in this soft moment with the Alpha. "However, you can't think that just because you fuck me stupid, it undoes the past three years."
Conner stiffened above him. His hands, which had been rubbing lazy, grounding circles into Y/N's sides, faltered for a heartbeat—then resumed, gentler this time, as though afraid to let go. His forehead dropped into the crook of Y/N's shoulder, and the Omega felt it: the tremor in that massive frame, the subtle quake of a man who had spent the whole night proving himself with brute strength, only to unravel at a few simple words.
Y/N sighed, his own arms shifting despite the ache that ran through them. His wrists were free now, no longer bound above his head, and he used them—sliding soft fingers across the broad expanse of Conner's back, tracing the ridges of muscle, smoothing over the sweat-slick lines as though he could iron out the tension there. The difference in their stature was almost laughable: his smaller hands dwarfed by shoulders too wide to hold, his body pliant against a wall of solid Alpha muscle. And yet, Conner clung to him like a drowning man, crushing him into the mattress with his weight, needing the contact, needing his touch.
It was almost unfair, Y/N thought, how soft he felt—outside and in—compared to Conner. His fingers trailed slowly over the strong spine, rubbing with careful pressure, nails occasionally grazing. The Alpha shuddered each time, unconsciously pressing closer, burying his face deeper into Y/N's throat like the tenderness undid him more than any orgasm ever could.
His other fixations didn't stop, without him even realizing it. His hands wandered again, cupping Y/N's ass like it belonged there, thumb pressing into the soft dip of his hip—his favorite part, always unconsciously groped, even now. His cock twitched, still thick and heavy, locked deep inside, his knot stubbornly swollen, and Y/N could feel the faint, slow pulses of cum still dripping out of him, each lazy throb forcing more into an already aching belly and womb.
The thought sent a shiver down Y/N's spine. He could feel him, every inch of the Alpha's cock still lodged inside, stretching him wide, nudging tender spots with every faint shift of their bodies. Even worse, he could feel the sheer volume of it—the sticky heat inside his gut, a mess so excessive, it started leaking past the seal of the knot earlier, streaking out and between his thighs in thick rivulets before Conner had lazily fingered it back into him with a grunt.
'This idiot,' Y/N thought to himself. It was like Conner didn't understand the reckless reality of what they had done, and all he could think about was his possessive thoughts and Alpha mumbo-jumbo. They didn't use protection, not once. And Conner had not once pulled up on him, didn't even consider it. Knot after knot, load after load, the Alpha had bred him over and over until his body felt branded with it. Even if he weren't in heat and on suppressants, with the sheer amount still sitting thick and hot inside him, coupled with the copious amounts he took earlier, he'd be surprised if he wasn't pushing out triplets in the next nine months. Y/N's heart twisted with the thought, his mind anxious and half-panicking with something he didn't dare to name.
And yet, all he could do in the moment was lie there still, rubbing Conner's back harder, grounding himself. His soft touch worked up to the Alpha's neck, slipping into the damp strands of dark hair, combing through slowly. He hated how natural it felt, how easy it was to soothe this mountain of a man with something so small, so simple.
Conner groaned into his throat, the sound thick and guttural, and had a slow grind of his hips, pushing deeper like he couldn't help himself. His words spilled against Y/N's neck, raw and thoughtless, more instinct than reason.
"Fuck—it feels so good inside you. Tight and soft, everywhere I need you to be, like you were made for me." His cock throbbed hard, a twitch punctuating every word as his breath dragged heavy across Y/N's skin. "Can't get enough of it. Can't stop stuffing you full. You're perfect just like this—my hole, my Omega, mine to fill."
Y/N's face burned, but his body betrayed him, clenching down on the knot reflexively. The thought came unbidden—God, I'm never walking again.
"You thick-headed oaf," he muttered, fingers still stroking his hair, even as his chest fluttered at the rawness in Conner's voice.
Conner's answer was another rough groan, muffled against his skin, big hands skimming over hot skin to massage the still trembling thighs he was splitting, kneading the sore muscles while his knot throbbed deep inside its rightful place.
"I'll prove it to you, however long it takes," he said hoarsely. "Don't want you with anyone else. Won't let you be with anyone else."
Silence stretched between them, thick with everything unsaid. Conner shifted only enough to wipe the sweat from Y/N's temple with his thumb, then pressed a kiss there—quiet, reverent, too tender for the mess he'd just made of him.
"You're still an ass," Y/N muttered, voice muffled into Conner's damp hair.
The Alpha's chest rumbled with a low laugh, shaky but real. "Yeah," he admitted, brushing another kiss against his temple. "But I'm your ass."
Y/N's lips twitched despite himself. He didn't let Conner see the almost-smile.
The Alpha's knot eased, softening at least, but Conner didn't move right away. Instead, he cupped Y/N's hips with wide hands, testing the soreness, rubbing him down like he could knead the ache out of him. When he finally pulled free, he was quick to grab the warm cloth again, wiping Y/N with slow, uncharacteristic care, even as his cock twitched at the sight of him dripping full with his seed. He didn't comment, didn't gloat—just tucked him against his chest afterward, dragging the blanket over them both like a wall against the world.
Y/N let him. Just this once.
Tomorrow, he'd figure out what the hell to do with the idiot Alpha in his bed. It'd probably start with making some clear rules and boundaries, some easy to follow, others not so much. He could already feel the storm ahead when he told the Alpha there'd be no more sex, at least not like what they'd just done. He may have gotten his submission today, but he still had a long road to go down before he could say confidently it was his for good. He still had to earn his full forgiveness.
But that could all wait. Well, after they woke up and he forced the Alpha to go to CVS to pick up at least three Plan B's. But tonight, he let himself surrender, too damn tired to fight the way Conner's heartbeat steadied him.
Artemis was going to get a kick out of this.
The following day, Y/N seriously considered skipping class—for what would've been the third time in a row. He was half-buried under the covers, phone in hand, staring at the absence tracker on the university portal when his stomach sank. Attendance counted toward the final grade, and he only got four freebies before his score started bleeding points.
He was just about ready to groan, shove the blanket back over his head, and resign himself to a self-pity nap—when the irritating Alpha beside him yanked the sheets away and forced him upright.
Annoying bastard.
With all their physical activity yesterday, Y/N's body felt like it had been run through a meat grinder and glued back together. His legs were twigs, his thighs burned, and the constant, nagging ache between them reminded him exactly why. He swore he could still feel the slow stretch, the heavy fullness, every time he shifted in bed.
Conner, of course, was insufferably proud of it. His smug grin every time Y/N winced was enough to make him want to throw a shoe at his stupidly broad chest.
He'd be in for it later, though, once Y/N dropped the new house rule: no sex. No exceptions. Cue evil cackling.
The energy between them had calmed, feeling almost disturbingly domestic even, with the two of them getting ready together in his dorm. Showering together—at Conner's annoying persistence—brushing teeth in the mirror. Y/N wanted to scoff at the normalcy, at the ridiculousness of an Alpha that big and stupidly built maneuvering around his tiny bathroom like he belonged there. And yet… it was difficult to ignore the way it felt, watching Conner move about his space like it was natural.
More difficult was the sight itself: damp hair, wide shoulders, and only a pair of dark boxer briefs riding low on his hips, pulled from his gym bag that he kept handy, along with a spare change of clothes and personal grooming tools. The guy may act like a muscle-headed oaf sometimes (a lot of times), but at least he's resourceful. Conner stretched as he dried off, his muscles flexing in ways Y/N's traitorous brain catalogued all too easily.
If he didn't rein himself in, he'd break his own damn rule before it was even established.
Conner knew it, too. Every time Y/N's gaze slipped, the bastard smirked like he'd won something, all slow and satisfied, radiating that thick, swaggering machismo that made it feel less like a look and more like a claim. He didn't just stare—he was devouring. His eyes dragged boldly and unashamedly over Y/N's frame, but always circled back to the same places: the curve of the ass he'd bruised with his grip, the slope of the hips he'd held down, the thighs he'd spread wide until they shook. He ogled as if Y/N was already his for the taking.
When Y/N caught him gawking back, Conner didn't even pretend to be embarrassed. He wanted to be caught—leaning in the doorway half-naked, arms crossed over that broad wall of a chest, cocky and smug, his stare slow and deliberate, as if Y/N was already stripping bare again, bent over or pinned beneath him, right where Conner thought—knew—he belonged.
"You keep looking at me like that," Conner drawled, voice thick with arrogance, "and I won't be letting you leave this room."
Y/N snorted, grabbing his backpack and shoving past him with a deliberate brush of shoulders. "Let me? Please. Like I'd ever allow you that kind of authority. Then again, I doubt you could handle it."
The Alpha's hand shot out, firm around his waist, pulling him back long enough just to murmur at his ear. "I handled you just fine last night." His thumb pressed into Y/N's hipbone, claiming, proprietary, before letting him go again. "And I'll handle you again. Sooner or later."
Y/N rolled his eyes enough to ache, but his pulse betrayed him, kicking up hot under his skin. He refused to give Conner the satisfaction of seeing it.
Like he made clear last night and would repeat, if the bastard wanted him, he was going to have to work for it.
By the time they got to the building, they still had ten minutes to spare before class. Conner, ever the picture of a doting gentleman, insisted on carrying Y/N's bag for him, like Y/N couldn't possibly handle the weight himself. He beat him to every door, too—shoulders squared, jaw cocky, striding ahead with the kind of easy machismo that made it less about manners and more about showing off. It was almost like when they were kids, except now, Conner filled doorways with his size, holding them open like a man staking territory.
Y/N had a vivid flash of Clark, bumbling and lovesick in his clumsy courtship of Lois, and for a moment, the resemblance was almost laughable. Different personalities, same pattern. Like father, like son, down to the instinct to bulldoze their way into someone's space, calling it affection. Could only play the nerdy innocence card, unlike his brooding son.
Before they made it to the lecture hall, Conner veered toward the café tucked inside the building. Neither of them had eaten since yesterday, and he wasn't about to risk Y/N going nuclear on an empty stomach. Better to spare the world that fate. He pressed a heavy hand to Y/N's shoulder, steering him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Wait here," Conner ordered, already squaring his broad frame toward the counter.
Naturally, that rankled. Already set in his morning crankiness, Y/N ignored him, slipping past the crowd, phone in hand, aiming for the lecture hall. If he could snag a seat between Zatanna and Artemis, it would piss Conner off royally—and honestly, wasn't that worth the risk of whatever payback he'd get coming for him later?
His thumbs flew across his screen as he drafted a text, half-grinning at the thought of Conner's scowl—right up until his shoulder slammed hard into another chest. The impact jolted him, his phone nearly slipping from his hands as he stumbled back.
"Oh, excuse me. My fault," Y/N muttered, glancing up, only to find himself looking into the eyes of none other than Roy Harper.
The redhead steadied him by the arms with an easy grin. "Do you always not pay attention to where you're going?"
Y/N gave a sheepish huff, stuffing his phone back into his pocket. "Given my track record, I wouldn't be doing myself any favors if I tried to say no."
Roy's smile tilted slyly, his blue eyes dancing as Y/N met them head-on. They weren't nearly as easy to drown in as others, but there was a teasing spark there, bold and deliberate. "What are you even doing? Don't you have class in this same building?"
"Got cancelled," Roy shrugged, dragging a hand through his hair with practiced ease. "So I'm heading to the dining hall to grab a late breakfast since I skipped this morning. Wanna come with?"
Y/N cocked a brow, already edging toward the doors of his lecture. "Oh, well, how lucky for you. Unfortunately, my class is not of the same fate, so I'm going to have to respectfully decline."
"Ah, come on." Roy walked backward a few steps, rolling his head up playfully before locking his eyes back on the Omega. "You're telling me you've never skipped a class before?"
"Oh, I have," Y/N admitted, lips quirking despite himself. "Skipped both lectures last week."
Roy chuckled, leaning one shoulder against the nearby wall like he had all the time in the world. "So, you can't skip one more time for me?"
"And just why would I do that?" Y/N asked, folding his arms, both amused and wary.
"'Cause I heard I'm great company," Roy answered smoothly, lowering his voice just enough to make it sound like an offer rather than a joke,
Y/N blinked at him, unimpressed, though the corners of his mouth twitched. "Oh, really? Hmm. Well, sorry. That's not a great enough incentive for me. My standards are a bit higher than that."
Roy's laugh was easy, unbothered, eyes glinting with mischief. "Hmm, alright. I like a challenge anyway. Well, why don't you let me take you out after your class?"
The words hung between them, light on the surface but edged with intent. That was when Y/N felt it—the subtle prick of a stare, familiar, heavy, and hot on the back of his neck. It wasn't aimed at him so much as at the Alpha standing in front. of him, bold enough to ask him out.
"He already has plans."
Conner stood a few feet away, beverage tray in one hand, Y/N's bag slung over his other shoulder like it weighed nothing. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes told a different story—locked on Roy, keen and firm.
He didn't raise his voice; he didn't need to. The simple statement was laced with certainty, heavy enough to make the air between them thrum: Y/N was his, and Roy had just stepped into marked territory.
Roy's brow furrowed, his easy grin faltering only slightly as his gaze flicked between Y/N and Conner. He straightened from the wall, crossing his arms over his chest in a show of confidence that didn't quite hide the tension in his jaw.
"Plans, huh?" he drawled, sizing Conner up. "Didn't realize you were the scheduling type, Kent." His tone wasn't confrontational, not yet, but there was an undercurrent of challenge, a subtle flex of his own macho pride.
Conner didn't do so much as blink. He shifted the beverage tray into one hand and let the other settle heavy on Y/N's shoulder, fingers spreading like he was planting a flag. "Yeah," he said evenly, his voice pitched low, steady, firm. "He's with me."
The possessiveness in those three words wasn't subtle. It was the kind of claim that left no room for interpretation.
Roy's eyes narrowed just enough to show he caught it. His grin tilted sharp, like he wanted to push back, just to see how far he could get. "With you, huh? Didn't think you were the type to—" He let the sentence hang, sly as ever. Conner's arm tensed around Y/N's shoulder, pulling him a little closer into his side, and his stare hardened with that quiet Alpha weight. "Don't think, Harper. It's not a good look on you."
For a beat, the two of them locked eyes, a silent pissing contest in the middle of the hallway. Roy held, but only for a second too long before his smirk softened into something more resigned. He lifted both hands in a mock surrender, chuckling under his breath.
"Alright, alright. Message received, big guy." He gave Y/N a last, pointed look—half amusement, half warning—before pushing off the wall and strolling away. "Catch you later, sweetheart."
Y/N rolled his eyes at the nickname, but before he could retort, Roy was already gone. Which left him squarely under the weight of one very smug Alpha.
Conner arched a brow at him, lips tugged into that self-satisfied smirk that made Y/N want to simultaneously kiss him and smack him. "Sweetheart, huh?" Conner muttered, tilting his head, looking every inch like the cocky bastard he was. "He's lucky I didn't put him through a wall."
Y/N bristled, shoving lightly at his chest but getting nowhere—Conner didn't budge an inch. "Don't start. You don't get to act like you own me just because you scared Roy off. I'm the one who decides where I stand, got it? You don't call the shots here."
Conner's grin only widened, more wolfish now, like Y/N's pushback was gasoline on the fire. "Oh, I hear you," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. Then, in one smooth move, he caught Y/N's chin in his hand, tilting his face up while his other palm slammed against the wall by his head, drinks set onto the bench next to him. The solid bulk of him crowded closer, chest pressed flush, cutting off every escape route with sheer size and weight.
"Thing is," he murmured, eyes burning down into him, "you can talk all you want, but I can feel it. Right here." His thumb stroked along Y/N's jaw, deliberate, possessive. "The way you don't really push me away. You like this fight. You like when I push. You like it when I don't back down."
Before Y/N could snap back, Conner's mouth crashed against his, rough and insistent. It wasn't a gentle, sweet kiss, but a claiming one. His lips sealed hard, his tongue pushing past with shameless demand, his chest a wall that pinned Y/N immovably against the cold surface. One hand cupped his jaw, tilting, owning the kiss; the other slid to grip his hip, anchoring him as he could physically remind him who held him, who filled his insides just the night before. Y/N was left gasping against the unyielding press of his chest.
Conner broke just enough to murmur against his lips, breath ragged, a growl threaded through every word. "Told you—I'll prove myself. Over and over, until you can't doubt me anymore. And when I do, you won't just admit you're mine, you'll be proud of it." His teeth caught Y/N's lower lip, biting just enough to sting before soothing it with another hot, bruising kiss.
Y/N shoved at him again, flushed and breathless, scowling through the heat still curling low in his belly. "Cocky bastard."
Conner's chuckle rumbled into his mouth, smug and low. "Confident, assured bastard."
"Well, well, well."
The voice made them both snap their heads to the side. Standing a few feet away, wide-eyed and more than a little entertained, were Zatanna and Artemis—books in hand, mouths curled into knowing smirks.
Zatanna arched a brow, clearly amused. Artemis, on the other hand, looked seconds away from bursting out laughing. Her smirk was pure predator, eyes glinting like Christmas had come early.
"Called it," Artemis said, crossing her arms with a smug grin so wide it could've split her face. "Pay up, Z."
"Oh, fuck me," Y/N groaned, burying his burning face into Conner's chest, who could only laugh at his Omega's embarrassed distress.
"Already did, babe. Happy to do it again later, though."
Warning: NTR, Overstimulation, Noncon, spanking, crying, no lubed, cheating, PWP, fingers on mouth, nipple play. Neglected reader. Based on manga named "I fucked your wife till morning"
“Stay safe, honey,”
you spoke softly as you watched your husband leave for work.
“Hmm,” he replied without emotion, closing the door behind him.
Your heart ached the moment it clicked shut.
It had been three years since he last showed you affection–three years without real conversations or sex.
At first, you thought it was just work stress. But even if he was tired, he could’ve still come to you. You would’ve let him use you to relieve his stress. You would’ve done it again and again, just for him.
You looked down and quietly made your way to the living room to start cleaning.
You missed feeling loved. Missed being wanted. He never used to be like this. Even before marriage, he was affectionate, sweet, and had a high sex drive. Now, he barely looks at you. He treats you like a maid.
‘What did I do wrong?’ you thought.
You always did your part–woke him up with breakfast ready, said yes to whatever he asked, and gave him consent whenever he was in the mood.
So why? Did he get bored of you?
You sighed after finishing the living room. It was already afternoon. Time to cook lunch.
A ring from the doorbell caught your attention.
You walked over and gently opened the door.
Standing there was your old college friend with benefits, Sukuna.
He smirked, red eyes looking down at you. “Hey Y/N, long time no see.”
You frowned and folded your arms. “Hello. Why are you here?”
Sukuna raised an eyebrow. “Not inviting me in?”
You sighed and stepped aside. He walked in, closing the door behind him and taking off his shoes while watching you walk ahead.
You grumbled as you opened the fridge. “State your business.”
Sukuna chuckled, his thoughts drifting. ‘Fuck, I missed that cocky mouth.’
“Your husband asked me to pick up the folders he forgot.”
You blinked, glancing over your shoulder as you set the vegetables down in the sink. ‘Right, I forgot he works for our company.’
You gave a small nod and walked toward your husband's office. On the desk was a brown envelope. ‘This must be it.’
You picked it up and carefully handed it to Sukuna, who was still staring at you with that same hungry gaze… like before.
“Here,” you said, feeling a bit uncomfortable under his intense stare.
You turned your back. “If you’re done, then get ou–”
You didn’t get to finish when you suddenly felt his hand squeeze your ass.
“What the!” you shouted, quickly stepping back. “Why the fuck did you do that?”
Sukuna chuckled. “What? You used to like that before.”
You glared at him. “That was before. I have a husband now!”
Sukuna stepped closer, his large frame towering over you. You swallowed hard, feeling a little intimidated.
He leaned in, his voice low as he whispered, “You look neglected... like a wilted flower.”
Both of his hands grabbed your ass again, and he pressed a kiss to your neck. “Let me water you. Spray you with something again?” he whispered with a smirk.
You let out a soft gasp. This—this was what you’d been craving.To be touched again. To be wanted.
But not by him by your husband. ‘No, my husband I can’t…’
You pushed against Sukuna’s muscular chest, looking down to hide your flushed face.
“Please respect me and my husband's relationship,” you said quietly. “I can get you fired.”
Sukuna slowly backed away, still grinning as he watched your reaction. “I wouldn’t mind risking it to fuck you.”
You clenched your pants tightly, your body betraying you.
He left, walking out of your home,but not without a plan in his mind.
He had left you hot, needy just like before.
You put a hand over your crotch.
‘Fuck… I need to stroke it.’
--------------------
The very next day, your husband left quietly again as if you didn’t exist.
And that day, Sukuna came back. He wore a tight-fitted button-up shirt with a black necktie, showing off his muscles, paired with fitted black pants. It looked so tight, it almost seemed like he had a third leg.
You gulped and were about to close the door, but his hand stopped it.
Sukuna easily pushed the door open and slowly stepped inside. “Relax. I’m just here to grab something again,” he said casually.
Your eyes narrowed. “You’re not here to touch me? Because I swear, I’ll get you fired.”
You turned and walked into the living room, letting him in.
Sukuna took off his shoes and entered, his eyes fixed on your backside. He licked his lips, a slow smirk forming.
“Like your husband would care.”
“Wha–” Before you could finish, you felt him touch your nipples through your clothes.
“Ng–what the, Sukuna!” you gasped, biting your lip as he teased your sensitive nipples, twisting them playfully.
“Haa… ngh…” Your legs felt weak just from the stimulation. After three years of celibacy, your body has become far too sensitive.
Sukuna didn’t respond, he was too focused on corrupting you all over again.
You gripped his hands as he continued playing with your chest. “P–please, stop… S-Sukuna! My husband…!”
Sukuna tilted his head and spoke calmly, “He’s overworked today. You know that, right?”
You whimpered, your resistance fading. You grabbed his hand and pressed it over your mouth to muffle your moans. “Nhm~ mhmp!”
Sukuna chuckled as he remembered your wedding –the wedding where his co-workers were also invited by their boss. “Man, that wedding was hilarious. To think you were getting married? Seeing you wear a white suit to a wedding when back in college...”
He leaned close to your ear. “You were my fuck toy.”
You immediately shot back, “That’s because you took advantage of my drunken state! Ah!”
Sukuna lifted your shirt off. You felt tears forming in your eyes–was it from fear? Or excitement? “No!”
Sukuna continued to play with your perky nipples. “I really missed these nips!”
He recalled the day he first fucked you. “At first, I just saw your nipples when you lifted your shirt while you were drunk. There was no way I could stop myself that day after seeing these cuties,” he smirked, licking your neck, making you shiver from the warmth of his breath and the coldness of his saliva.
Your mouth trembled. ‘That’s right, this man stole my virginity that night.’
Suddenly, Sukuna went under your arms to suck your nipples.
“Ahn! Hmm~♡” you whined like a slut.
Sukuna nibbled on them while speaking. “I still think about these while masturbating. I miss fucking you.”
Your brows furrowed as you felt him pull your pants down and touch your boxers.
‘Stop…’ You felt your body tingle and grow needy. It was so hot you grabbed him even more, even though it felt wrong. ‘What’s with this feeling?’
Sukuna pulled your boxers down, his gaze never leaving your face. “You were a cute pet who’d changed his style to my taste.”
Your body trembled as his tongue licked your cheek. ‘Stop, don’t make me remember’
Sukuna felt something wet down your shaft as he touched it. “Oh?”
He looked down, seeing your dick twitch already hard and leaking pre cum. “I only mentioned the past, and you’re already leaking pre? HAHAHA!what a fucking whore.”
Your nipples twitched from the cold air while your body trembled against him. “N-no,” you shook your head as you felt the familiar tip grinding on your hole.
“I’m his husband now! I’m not your–”
THRUST!!!
“Ahn!!” Your mouth opened wide, tongue out, as you felt a hard tip poke your prostate. It burns, but it also feels so fucking good.
“Haaa! So thick! Sukuna!” you said between breaths, trying to adjust to his size.
FWAP FWAP!!
Sukuna immediately thrust without caring that there was no lube used his precum covered for that.
He leaned close to your face with a wide smirk. “Squeeze your ass tight! Stick your tongue out!”
Like before, you obediently opened your mouth, sticking your tongue out for him to kiss you deeply.
“Mhm! Hmmp!” You moaned while he devoured your mouth.
Your eyes rolled back as you felt his dick fuck your prostate, hitting deeper inside your guts. Your legs shook, feeling vulnerable and already fucked. Every sensation felt like electricity, making you dumb on his dick.
You were about to lose yourself to the feeling of his dick when suddenly you remembered your husband’s face. ‘No! No!’
Sukuna somehow noticed you weren’t focused on him, so he thrust deeper and played with your dick.
FWAP FWAP FWAP!!
Your body shook as Sukuna pulled away from your mouth. “Ngh! Slow down! You’re too de-deep! My gu-guts!” you whimpered as you felt his fingers playing with your tip.
Suddenly, he pushed you to the ground, and your phone fell in front of you.
Your head rested on the floor while your ass raised up. He kept thrusting so fast you felt like you were going to cum.
Your body trembled, feeling his thick dick filling you up.“Cum-cumming! Ku-kuna ngh!” you gasped.
He ignored you and kept thrusting.
“Cumming♡♡!!” you cried out, arching your back. Your eyes rolled back, your tongue out, drool leaking onto the floor.
Sukuna’s thrusts didn’t stop, he kept going brutally.
You tapped the floor helplessly, moaning and crying, tears running down your cheeks.“No…kuna…so de-deep. Eek!!”
PLOP PLOP FWAP!!
Sukuna grinned as he looked at your body. “Don’t try to build a home when you’re just a fuck toy.”
He pulled your head back, making you arch, your ass grinding deeper into him.
‘Hurts! So harsh!’ Your head leaned back, tongue still out, crying from the mix of pain and pleasure.
Sukuna looked down at your pathetic state.“Aren’t you embarrassed?”
You nodded, completely dumb like he had made you before. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!!♡ Ahhhn!”
Sukuna let go of your hair and slapped your ass, spanking it red.
You squeaked from the sting “Eek! Noo!”
Sukuna watched his fat cock disappear as your ass swallowed it whole. ‘So tight. Still hasn’t changed. Still so fucking good!’
He grunted, feeling himself about to cum.
FWOP FWOP!!
“Mhm! Ngh~ ahhn! Hugna!!” You whined, drool staining your hair. Your tears ruined your face –ruining yourself again for him.
Sukuna clicked his tongue as he pushed his fingers inside your mouth.
“Mhngh!” You shuddered, swallowing and licking his three fingers as he played with your tongue.
Your eyes saw a message notification from your phone, coming from your husband. You closed your eyes tightly.
“Cummingh!” Your moans were muffled because of his fingers. Your body twitched again as you came, your dick spurting semen and staining the floor.
“Fuck… I’m cumming!” Sukuna grunted as he felt you tighten more around his thick cock, twitching inside you as he came.
Sukuna pulled out his now soft cock– watching his semen come out your hole like before. He smirked as he stood up, putting on his pants again “Make sure to change your style like before. And get lubed up tomorrow”
He left your body trembling and messy.
You felt the familiar warm, thick, and slimy feeling inside you. Trailing down your thighs.
‘I’m sorry, darling. I’ll revert back to being his slut♡’
--------------------
“I’m home.”
Your husband grunted as he closed the door. His eyes widened at what he saw.
“You changed your style? You look good”
His gaze traveled over your body. You used to wear baggy clothes, but now you wore tight, revealing ones. You even changed your hair and were wearing makeup.
