#bottom!reader

[solar-wing]

⚣ Puppy Love: Sweet and Romantic, but also somehow Murderous ❤️‍🔥

⚣❤️‍🔥 A/N → something I started writing while finishing up Shadowing Nightwing. Is this what I imagine my relationship to be like with Jason on a regular basis...absolutely. Absolutely. Am I somewhat delusional and living in a fantasy world? Also, absolutely, but also, mind your fucking business. anyways...! This was inspired from multiple posts and authors, who I have tagged and hyperlinked. @allllium @maj-b-s Thank you for feeding my obsession—ahem—my therapist will be sending you a bill. tee hee... WARNINGS: 18 + MDNI | College Male Reader | Fluff & Humor | Minor Violence (Implied) | Swearing/Crude Language | Smut | Breathplay | Possessiveness/Jealousy | Everyone wants Y/N's man |

⚣❤️‍🔥 Summary → Meet Jason and Y/N: Gotham’s answer to the ultimate “relationship goals”—if your relationship goals involve an overly protective vigilante with a slight obsession for tearing apart his boyfriend’s scandalous wardrobe (and sometimes his coworkers). Their love story? Equal parts intense, adorable, and absolutely chaotic. Jason’s the growling, brooding protector who’d burn the world for Y/N, while Y/N is the sunshine with just enough sass to keep him in check… well, sometimes.

⚣❤️‍🔥 Word Count → 14.5K

REBLOGS and replies are greatly appreciated, please! 💛

⚣ ENJOY ❤️‍🔥

If you asked anyone, they might hesitate to admit it outright, but the truth was hard to ignore: people envied Jason and Y/N’s relationship—and who could blame them? From the day those two started dating, they’d been like high-school sweethearts stuck in the honeymoon phase, but with ten times the intensity and none of the restraint. Not to sound bitter or envious—it was just a fact.

They were a painfully adorable couple. Jason was the doting, protective lover, almost to a fault. Sure, it’s a bit of a cliché, but he didn’t exactly help himself with the stark difference in how he treated others versus Y/N. Around everyone else, Jason looked permanently grouchy, as though every conversation he endured was a test of patience he barely passed. His eye-rolls, heavy sighs, and palpable disinterest didn’t go unnoticed; in fact, he made it pretty clear he couldn’t wait to walk away from anyone who wasn’t Y/N.

But the moment Y/N entered the room? Suddenly, Jason had nothing more important in the world. It was almost comical to watch this towering vigilante hang onto every word Y/N said like an overly attached puppy. Actually, that was the perfect way to describe their dynamic: Jason was a huge, lethal teddy bear with a soft spot, and Y/N was the unassuming boyfriend who had no clue how much sway he held over this giant who’d kill for him without hesitation.

Honestly, the best way to describe Y/N was as Jason’s polar opposite. He was social—well, social enough—and that sometimes got on his boyfriend’s nerves, who would’ve preferred to keep Y/N all to himself. It was partly jealousy, partly a possessive urge to monopolize his lover’s attention, but mostly it was Jason’s instinct to shield him from a world that had never been kind to the vigilante. Jason had been hardened by a lifetime of darkness, and he’d go to ridiculous lengths to keep Y/N’s light from dimming.

Not that Jason’s methods were exactly…practical.

“Jason, I get that you want to protect me, but you can’t shield me from everything,” Y/N said, finally sitting his boyfriend down for a much-needed conversation after yet another of Jason’s over-the-top protective stunts. “The only way you could do that would be to wrap me in bubble wrap and lock me away in a cave or something.”

“Trust me, I’ve considered it,” Jason muttered under his breath.

“Excuse me?” Y/N blinked, raising a brow.

“Nothing.”

Despite Y/N’s more social nature, he was everything Jason felt he was missing in life. He was the humor, the hope, the optimism Jason rarely allowed himself. And sure, his optimism came with a sprinkle of sarcasm when he was annoyed, but Jason loved that too. In fact, he was so taken by Y/N that it was nearly an obsession—though, to be fair, obsession was kind of expected from someone like him.

Would a therapist call it codependency or maybe some kind of unhealthy dynamic? Probably. But good luck telling Jason that. He’d likely see it as a personal attack—and let’s just say that if you value your life, you might want to avoid bringing it up. You’ve been warned.

But back to the point: Y/N and Jason’s relationship quickly became the kind that made even Y/N’s friends—most of whom were floundering in the love department—wonder just how he’d managed to snag such a devoted and caring guy. It especially made Jason feel appreciated, loved, and genuinely important to someone the way Y/N would never miss a chance to gush about his vigilante boyfriend to anyone willing to listen, and though he’d never admit it out loud, he secretly loved every second of it.

Though, do exercise a bit (lot) of caution, because once the topic turns to Jason, everyone’s in for a long haul—Y/N could and would talk anyone’s ear off that was willing to listen about how amazing his boyfriend is. Just as Jason was obsessed with Y/N, Y/N was equally smitten with Jason, and honestly? Jason wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Alright, Y/N, spill it! I need every detail about how you landed this guy. Don’t hold out on me—give me the exact prayer, word-for-word, quickly!”

“I—uh—well, I—”

“Come on, Y/N! My pen is drying up, and I’m not getting any younger!” His friend slapped a notepad and pen down in front of him, staring him down like he was about to write out a love spell straight from a witch’s spellbook.

“Girl, I don’t even know. The guy just kinda showed up in my life one day and never left,” Y/N shrugged, half-joking, though it was pretty much the truth.

It had all been by chance—well, kind of. If you could call Jason keeping an eye on Y/N “chance.” In reality, he’d been sort of… lurking, for good reasons (or at least reasons he’d justified to himself). It started one night when Y/N was finishing up his work-study shift at Gotham University. Now, calling an Uber would’ve been the smart, safe choice, especially in a city like Gotham. But he lived just 15 minutes away, and spending money on a five-minute ride? Please. He had a budget to consider.

That was before he found himself cornered in a dark alley by three oversized thugs who smelled like the embodiment of an ashtray mixed with cheap beer, a scent so thick it made his eyes water. The kind of men Gotham bred like weeds—rough, desperate, dangerous. Y/N barely had time to process the situation before one of them shoved him against a cold, brick wall, a knife pressing against his throat. His backpack was snatched and dumped unceremoniously onto the wet alley floor, its contents spilling out for their inspection.

His mind raced, paralyzed with fear and regret. He could practically hear his parents' voices reminding him to be cautious, to make smart choices, to avoid walking alone at night in places like this. Irony stung almost as much as the cold steel against his neck—the “responsible” choice would have been to spend that $15 on an Uber, not gamble his safety for a free walk. 

And was the money he’d save really worth risking his life for? Probably not. But hey, that was Gotham for you—always teaching life lessons the hard way. He braced himself, feeling the icy dread of not knowing if he’d make it out alive. Stories like these didn’t usually end well on the news in this city.

But fate, or something like it, had other plans.

Out of nowhere, a low, gravelly voice sliced through the night. “I’d drop the knife if I were you.”

Y/N didn’t dare turn his head, but he felt the tension shift as the thugs looked up, startled. Standing at the mouth of the alley was a figure who seemed to materialize from the shadows—a tall, broad man clad in black and deep red, with a sleeveless hoodie that revealed muscular arms wrapped in red bandages. A mask and hood concealed majority of his face, glowing red eyes staring down the thugs with an intensity that froze them in place. Strapped across his back were two long katanas, and a utility belt around his waist held holsters that almost certainly contained a pair of guns, adding to his already intimidating presence.

Red Hood.

Y/N had heard of him, of course. Gotham’s resident anti-hero, rumored to have a thing for…creative violence. The vigilante’s imposing size was enough to make anyone feel small; he towered over Y/N, his form carved out of muscle and something darker, something hardened. Even the thugs looked ready to wet themselves, and Y/N could feel the goosebumps rise on his skin as he finally dared to look up.

In less time than it took him to blink, Red Hood had closed the distance, dispatching the thugs with an efficiency that would’ve been impressive if it weren’t so, well, terrifying. Knives clattered to the ground, grunts and thuds filled the air, and Y/N just stood there, frozen like a deer in headlights, half expecting to wake up from a weird stress-induced nightmare.

But this was very real, as proven when Red Hood finally turned to him, and Y/N felt his breath hitch. Up close, the vigilante was even more intimidating—a wall of muscle wrapped in dark red and black, those red eyes glowing with an intensity that made Y/N’s knees wobble. There was no denying it; the guy was terrifying. Yet, for some reason, there was a weird, traitorous voice in the back of his mind whispering, He’s kind of hot, though.

“You alright?” The voice was rough, like gravel scraping across metal, but there was an undertone of concern. Red Hood’s gaze softened just a fraction, almost imperceptible, yet Y/N caught it.

“I—I think so,” he managed, his voice barely more than a whisper. His eyes were wide, and he forced himself not to flinch as Red Hood stepped even closer, the hulking vigilante now looming over him. Up close, he could see the muscles tense beneath the suit, the power radiating off him like heat.

Red Hood’s head tilted slightly, as if assessing him, and Y/N swore he felt like he was being scanned. Which, honestly, was fair. He was some college kid wearing a sweatshirt that said “Gotham U” in block letters, and this guy looked like he wrestled criminals for fun. But instead of feeling like prey, he felt this strange pull, like something was drawing him toward the vigilante. It was probably just adrenaline… or at least, that’s what he told himself.

Red Hood gave a grunt, a sound that could have meant anything from “good to hear” to “I’ll be keeping an eye on you, punk.” But then he leaned down, his helmet casting an ominous shadow over Y/N’s face. “Next time, take the Uber.”

Y/N blinked, the absurdity of the situation hitting him all at once. “Noted,” he replied, deadpan, because honestly, what else could he say?

He should have been scared—terrified, even. But instead, he found himself lingering on every detail: the way Red Hood’s chest rose and fell, the glint of his weapons, the sense of barely restrained danger that rolled off him in waves. And underneath all of that, a strange, quiet thrill that he didn’t quite understand.

Satisfied, Red Hood gave him one last look before he started to turn away, blending back into the shadows. But in a flash of impulsiveness, Y/N called out, “Wait!”

Red Hood stopped, glancing over his shoulder, clearly not used to random civilians asking for an encore. Y/N hesitated, realizing how ridiculous he must have sounded, but the words were already out there, so he figured he might as well keep going.

“Uh… thanks. For, you know, saving me. And also for the life advice,” he added, his voice dripping with awkward humor.

There was a pause—a long, silent pause where Y/N briefly wondered if he’d made a terrible mistake. But then, to his surprise, he thought he saw the faintest tilt of amusement in the way Red Hood shifted his stance. Was that… a chuckle? No, probably not. But he’d like to think so.

Red Hood nodded—a subtle acknowledgment—before disappearing into the night, leaving Y/N alone in the alley with nothing but his scattered belongings and a heart that felt like it was trying to beat its way out of his chest. As he knelt down to gather his things, he couldn’t help but survey the carnage of his soggy notebooks and papers, along with his now-broken laptop and tangled, half-shattered headphones.

He let out a sigh, shaking his head as he picked up a notebook that was more mush than paper. “Well, this is fine,” he muttered, trying to keep his spirits up. “Just a little water damage. Adds character, right?”

Then he spotted his laptop, the screen shattered and a piece of it barely hanging on by a hinge. He laughed, a bitter chuckle that held more disbelief than humor. “Guess it’s one way to force an upgrade,” he murmured, stuffing it back in his backpack like a defeated soldier gathering his gear after a lost battle.

And the headphones? Well, they’d been cheap anyway, held together by more wishful thinking than actual quality. “You were too good for this world,” he whispered dramatically, dropping them into the bag with a resigned sigh.

Despite the state of his belongings, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d just survived something surreal, something that would haunt his dreams and maybe even—dare he say it?—excite him a little.

Unbeknownst to him, from the shadows a few blocks away, Jason eyed him from his hiding spot, a curiosity nagging at him, as if he’d found something worth watching over. He could see Y/N still crouched on the grimy ground, gathering his belongings—soggy notebooks, torn papers, a laptop with a shattered screen. He’d felt a pang of guilt as he watched, a flicker of sympathy mingling with a less-than-pleasant feeling of familiarity knowing all too well what it was like to lose the few things you relied on—to feel like the world had kicked you when you were down.

And while he’d never admit it, maybe a part of him liked that the kid seemed more amused than scared. After all, it wasn’t every day that someone didn’t scream when they saw Red Hood.

Of course, now that they were dating, Y/N was not surprised by the vigilante’s actions after their encounter when he’d come out of his apartment a week later to find a large box sitting on his doorstep with a plain label reading simply, “For You.” 

Inside was an assortment of brand-new school supplies including pristine notebooks in varying colors, a handful of smooth, high-quality pens and highlighters, and even a sleek, expensive laptop that he definitely could not afford on a student budget. Nestled beside it was a pair of high-quality Bluetooth headphones—the kind he’d ogled online but never dreamed of buying. And to top it all off, there was a sturdy, stylish bag to carry everything in.

And while most other people would’ve been slightly concerned at the fact that a random vigilante just happened to know their address after only one meeting where they didn’t even give their name, Y/N on the other hand, was processing the contents of the box with a mix of gratitude, amusement, and a new crush.

And so, their love story began, marked by Jason’s continued (and slightly overprotective) habit of rescuing Y/N from Gotham’s mean streets—even if the college student didn’t always realize he needed saving. Hence the “stalking” mentioned earlier.

Of course, was it technically stalking if it was done out of love and devotion for some random stranger you’d developed a massive crush on but couldn’t quite work up the nerve to talk to directly? Well… yes. Experts would say it’s still stalking. But hey, if those experts ever found themselves in a tight spot, Jason would be conveniently “unavailable” to save them.

Naturally, Y/N couldn’t exactly share the full story of his and Jason’s introduction. For one, his friends would roast him to the ends of the earth for being dumb enough to walk home alone in Gotham at night. He could practically hear their voices now: “Really, Y/N? Alone? At night? In Gotham? Do you not value your own life?” And frankly, he wasn’t about to give them that much material.

Oh, and there was also the tiny detail of Red Hood’s whole secret vigilante identity thing.

So, he went with a slightly edited version of the story, painting Jason as a “helpful stranger” who just happened to show up when Y/N “got lost” and had his bag stolen. And when his friends inevitably asked about the shiny new gear—a nearly $500 bag, top-of-the-line laptop, high-quality headphones, the works—he explained it all as a result of some extra scholarship money and financial aid he’d “saved up.” Sure, splurging on luxury tech and accessories might seem a tad unrealistic, but he’d throw in a line about a “really good sale” and call it a day.

Because as much as Jason’s habit of going overboard with gifts could be a little, well, extra, Y/N wasn’t about to complain. The man was thoughtful in a way few would ever believe, though his affection tended to be wrapped in thick layers of leather, weaponry, and a no-nonsense glare.

Jason loved hard, though he wasn’t quick to show it to just anyone. The guy kept his feelings locked up tighter than a Gotham vault, hardened by a lifetime of broken trust and betrayal. He wasn’t exactly the “wear your heart on your sleeve” type. But every so often, with the right person, he’d crack that tough exterior. And Y/N? Somehow, he’d slipped right through, without even trying.

And okay, could Jason be a little intense? Sure (absolutely). But when a vigilante with a borderline obsessive streak decides he cares about you, well… let’s just say things are bound to get a little out of hand. That’s just the price of having Gotham’s resident anti-hero as your personal guard dog.

Not that Y/N thinks of him quite like that, but it’s kind of funny, considering Jason really does act like a lovesick puppy when it’s just the two of them, his tough exterior melting away—it gave the energy of a Golden Retriever, maybe, or a Siberian Husky with an attitude problem. But the moment anyone else entered the room, his whole vibe transformed. If Y/N was his safe haven, the rest of the world was an enemy camp. He’d switch from doting boyfriend to a blend of German Shepherd, Rottweiler, and Doberman with the attitude and aggressiveness of a Chihuahua on an espresso shot. It was a little terrifying for others but to Y/N? It was just… Jason.

Part of what made their dynamic so unique was how Jason let himself be vulnerable around Y/N, something few people ever got to see. Y/N was his safe space, the person he could trust to see the parts of him he usually kept hidden—the softness, the care, the insecurities he guarded as fiercely as he guarded Gotham’s streets.

Funny enough, Y/N quickly discovered just a few months into dating that Jason’s love language was, without a doubt, physical touch. Why was that funny—and possibly the most ironic thing he’d ever experienced? Because when they first started dating, Jason avoided touch like it was the plague.

It took Y/N a while to notice it, but once he did, it was painfully obvious. Jason had this way of keeping just enough distance, as if he’d drawn a line no one was allowed to cross. At first, Y/N thought it was just Jason’s natural intensity, but over time, he began to see the pattern. Jason was hyper-aware of any physical contact—quick to dodge, tense when someone brushed against him accidentally, even flinching at touches he saw coming. It was like he’d trained himself to see any sort of physical contact as a potential threat.

And it made sense, really, considering Jason’s past and the double life he led—something Y/N only found out about a few months after they started dating. Jason’s body told a story all on its own, each scar and faded bruise marking a chapter of battles fought and enemies conquered. The scars weren’t just skin-deep; they were reminders of a life filled with danger, betrayal, and loss. And Y/N began to understand why Jason had always kept his distance, why he seemed wary of even the gentlest touch. To Jason, vulnerability had always come with a price.

Also, talking about his family was a rare event, and when he did, there was a hesitance, a guarded tone. Y/N knew bits and pieces—enough to understand that while Jason loved his family, there were wounds there too, emotional scars that ran just as deep as the ones on his body. He avoided talking about them, save for the occasional mention of Alfred, the family’s butler. Alfred was the exception, the one person Jason spoke of with nothing but respect and a rare softness. In time, Y/N came to love and appreciate Alfred just as much, seeing how deeply he’d cared for Jason when others hadn’t.

But even with Alfred, Jason’s life had taught him that letting people in, letting people close, meant risking pain. So he’d built walls, high and impenetrable, where touch was a luxury and distance was safety. Yet again, somehow, Y/N had slipped through those walls. Slowly, patiently, he’d helped Jason find comfort in a gentle touch, a warm embrace, and the knowledge that here, with him, there was no danger. Just love.

At first, it was subtle—the occasional shoulder touch, the brief brush of his hand, like Jason was testing the waters. But as he grew more comfortable, his affection started to show in quiet, gentle ways: a hand resting at the small of Y/N’s back, an arm draped protectively around his shoulders, or the way he’d pull Y/N close, as if his presence alone could shield him from the world. Sure, his protectiveness sometimes bordered on overbearing, but Y/N didn’t mind one bit. He’d come to cherish those moments, knowing that each touch, each fierce little act of devotion, was Jason’s own way of saying, I love you.

And before Y/N even realized it, Jason had practically become his shadow, glued to his side like some overly affectionate—albeit slightly brooding—puppy. It was like a switch had flipped, and suddenly, Jason couldn’t go a full five minutes without reaching out to touch him, craving the comfort and reassurance of Y/N’s presence. Jason was always there, one way or another: a hand resting on his neck, fingers tracing along his arm, a warm weight on his thigh, or just… hovering in his orbit like a bodyguard who happened to look at him like he was the best thing in Gotham.

Rarely did a moment pass when they weren’t connected in some physical way. More often than not, Jason would find any excuse to pull Y/N into a full-on cuddle, whether they were on the couch or in bed, as if he was storing up warmth like a battery. And his favorite spot? Laying his head on Y/N’s chest, listening to his heartbeat with his eyes closed, completely at peace as Y/N’s hands ran gently through his hair. For Jason, it was the ultimate comfort, a reminder that he was loved and safe—a rare feeling in his life.

It was endearing, really. Jason might’ve been Gotham’s big bad vigilante, but to Y/N, he was a full-grown man with the energy of a giant, needy puppy, demanding his attention with that silent, intense stare of his. And honestly? Y/N wouldn’t have it any other way.

Of course, Y/N would be lying if he said he didn’t get a kick out of the way Jason would pout and glare at him whenever he stopped rubbing his head or, heaven forbid, dared to refuse his touch. Imagine this six-foot-plus tower of muscle—a guy who could make dudes on steroids look like scrawny sidekicks—staring down his boyfriend with an actual pout because he wasn’t getting his cuddle fix. It was a sight that never failed to make Y/N laugh (not that he’d do it out loud; he valued his life, after all).

Jason could—and would—throw his ire at just about anyone else, often for the smallest of reasons. Anyone not named Y/N was fair game for his mood swings, his infamous scowl, and even the occasional growl. But with Y/N? Well, let’s just say he was spared from the wrath of Gotham’s most intimidating vigilante… unless he denied Jason cuddles or the sacred privilege of his bodily embrace. That, apparently, was the one line Y/N couldn’t cross.

The “punishment” usually lasted, at most, ten minutes. Jason would start by sulking, grumbling under his breath like a child denied dessert, and shooting Y/N the kind of glare usually reserved for Gotham’s worst criminals. Y/N, of course, would hold out as long as he could, but eventually, one of two things would happen. Either he’d cave, sighing as he finally opened his arms to let Jason claim his cuddle rights, listening as Jason mumbled dramatically about how he “should never be denied cuddles” because it was his god-given right, or—if Y/N took too long—Jason would take matters into his own hands.

And by that, it meant Jason would simply scoop him up, plop himself down, and drape his entire, solid weight on top of Y/N like some overgrown cat claiming it's human. There was no escape—Jason’s big arms wrapped around him like an anaconda, pulling him close until Y/N was completely enveloped, pinned down with zero chance of getting away.

Y/N didn’t mind, though. Quite the opposite, actually—it was hot. Sue him.

"Y/N, don’t take this the wrong way but… is your man single?” one of his coworkers asked, giving him a sly grin.

OOP—

GIRL. For your own sake—and for the sake of anyone within a mile radius—tread carefully. That man is as jealous and territorial as his possessive ass vigilante boyfriend, who’s on a level that’s practically legendary. No, seriously; Jason’s jealousy was on a scale that was insane.

Case in point: family game night. Tim had everyone playing this game where you had to come up with a word for each category starting with a randomly chosen letter. Simple enough, right? Well, when “J” was the letter of the round, let’s just say Y/N’s answers weren’t exactly… satisfying to a certain overprotective vigilante.

“Y/N,” Jason hissed, narrowing his eyes, “you’ve got two seconds to explain to me who the hell Jackson is.”

“I had to think of something!” Y/N replied, holding up his hands defensively.

Jason crossed his arms, staring him down. “And what does my name start with, hmm?”

“I—okay, listen, I panicked! I was thinking about Percy Jackson!”

Jason didn’t see it as jealousy—he was just protective, okay? But if his definition of protective happened to mean glaring down anyone who so much as glanced at Y/N, then so be it.

Y/N on the other hand…

Funny enough, Jason actually started complaining because every time he and Y/N went out together, people would give him looks, like they thought Y/N was in mortal danger. And okay, Jason got it—he wasn’t exactly small, or subtle. With his build, his perpetual scowl, and the way he seemed ready to throw down at any given moment, he could understand slightly why people would think the way they’d think. Shit, he’d do the same. But still.

When it got to the point of the cops getting called because the neighbors heard loud noises, grunts, and what they thought were sounds of pain and struggle after seeing a large and intimidating man drag Y/N into his apartment—when, in reality, they were just doing the dirty tango against the kitchen wall—it gets a bit annoying.

But that wasn’t even the real issue Jason had been complaining about. No, what had actually gotten under his skin was how everyone always assumed he was the threat, when in reality, it was Y/N they should’ve been worried about. People just didn’t see it, but Y/N had a dangerous side all his own. Just ask the kid who was dumb enough to try and pull a fast one on Jason by touching and caressing him in public when Y/N had stepped away for a moment.

The moment the college student came back… well, let’s just say things got ugly. Legally, however, Jason couldn’t speak about it. Not because he didn’t want to—oh, he’d love to relive the whole glorious scene—but because Y/N had made him, and his brothers, sign an NDA afterward. Yep, Dick, Tim, Damian, and Jason had to put pen to paper, bound to secrecy about The Incident.

Y/N had handled it with a level of ruthless efficiency that left the whole Bat family in awe. He’d dealt with that poor, clueless kid in a way that was so subtly devastating that even Bruce raised an eyebrow when he found out. Although, truth be told, Bruce wasn’t exactly shocked; he just hadn’t expected someone as sweet as Y/N to be quite so… resourceful.

After that, the whole family understood that, sure, Jason might look like the scary one—but when it came to those he loved, especially when it involved Jason, Y/N was a force to be reckoned with.

Y/N glanced back at his coworker with a slightly distant look before letting out a laugh, shaking his head. “Girl, don’t play.”

Girl—seriously, don’t do it.

Thankfully, she chose common sense and life at that moment, laughing along with him. “You know I’m just kidding! But seriously, where did you find him? The things I’d do just to get a man who looks at me with even half the love as he does with you.”

It was in Y/N’s honest opinion that Jason had to be an angel or some divine gift sent to him from the heavens above. Or God, the Universe, Santa Claus, took mercy on him knowing that kind of unserious trouble he could get himself into. Seriously, it was like his life was written by some dude who strove to put him in the most unthinkable scenarios ever thought of by man.

…

Hold up.

…

Nah…unless?

“But seriously, where do you even find a man like that? ‘Cause the ones out here? Girl, they’re giving ‘bare minimum’ and vibes. God really needs to start restocking the good ones.”

“Where did I find him?” Y/N repeated, smirking as he wiped down the counter. “I don’t know. One day he just showed up, brooding and scary-looking, and now he refuses to leave.”

His coworker rolled her eyes, leaning closer like she was trying to decode some deep secret. “You’re dodging the question. Men like that don’t just show up. Spill the tea.”

Y/N chuckled, shaking his head. “Honestly? If I told you the real story, you wouldn’t believe me.”

And wasn’t that the truth? If he started explaining how Gotham’s most terrifying vigilante had saved him from a mugging, delivered new school supplies like some twisted fairy godmother, and then proceeded to burrow into his life like an oversized, territorial puppy, she’d probably think he was delusional. Or worse, that he was into some bizarre fanfiction-level nonsense. Which, fair.

Before Y/N could add anything else, his phone buzzed on the counter. He glanced at the screen and couldn’t stop the small smile that crept across his face.

Jason: Did you eat yet?

Y/N sighed, typing back a quick Yes, Dad, even though it was a blatant lie. He didn’t need Jason going full hover-boyfriend just because he skipped breakfast.

Fifteen minutes later, though, Jason strolled into the shop like he owned the place, a brown paper bag in hand. Y/N barely had time to react before Jason plopped the bag on the counter, his expression hovering between annoyed and smug.

“Didn’t I just tell you I ate?” Y/N asked, arching an eyebrow.

Jason crossed his arms, his biceps straining his jacket in a way that made his coworker openly gape. “And I didn’t believe you. So here.” He gestured at the bag like it was some great offering, clearly unbothered by the audience they had. “You’re not skipping meals.”

Y/N sighed, opening the bag to find his favorite sandwich neatly packed alongside a container of fruit and—of course—a bottle of water. His coworker, meanwhile, was staring like she was witnessing a rom-com play out in real life.

“You know,” she whispered as Jason stepped back to lean casually against the counter, his watchful gaze flicking between Y/N and the shop’s door, “if you don’t marry this man, I will.”

Y/N snorted, shoving a grape in his mouth. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

In all honesty, Y/N knew the kind of love Jason offered wasn’t for the faint of heart. As previously mentioned, when that man loved, he loved hard—like all-in, no-holds-barred, borderline territorial levels of hard. And he wasn’t just protective—oh no, he was possessive with a capital P when it came to the things he cared about.

What did that mean?

Well...

Considering the kind of life Jason had lived—where the things he loved or that brought him joy were often ripped away in the most brutal, gut-wrenching ways imaginable—it wasn’t exactly a shocker. Jason had become fiercely devoted to guarding what was his, with a vigilance that often toed the line between endearing and slightly terrifying.

It was like an aggressive dog who decided one day that a random shoe was its favorite thing in the world. The kind of resource-guarding where even looking at the shoe too long earned you a deep, guttural growl of warning. Ignore the warning? Well, congratulations, you just donated a finger—or maybe two—to the cause.

If it’s not clear by now, Y/N was the shoe, and Jason was the dog. And when it came to Y/N, anything—or anyone—that so much as hinted at upsetting him, threatening him, or even mildly inconveniencing him would quickly find themselves on the wrong end of Jason’s wrath. It wasn’t a matter of if there’d be hell to pay, but how much. Spoiler: it was always a lot.

So, picture this: Y/N comes home after a long day of morning classes and an equally draining evening shift. On the surface, he looks fine. Totally normal. But what no one knows is that he spent the last twenty minutes sitting in his car, quietly sobbing into a handful of fast-food napkins.

He knew better than to bring those emotions into the apartment, though. Because while most boyfriends would give you a hug and let you vent, Jason would go full vigilante mode. If he even sensed that someone had made Y/N upset, it wouldn’t just be hell to pay—it’d be Gotham-wide carnage. And Y/N, being the thoughtful boyfriend he was, liked to minimize unnecessary casualties.

Armed with tissues, eyedrops, and a firm I’m fine, just tired mantra, Y/N stepped through the door, hoping to slide under Jason’s radar.

Nope. Not happening.

The moment Jason saw him, his expression shifted. Y/N had no clue what gave him away—was it the puffiness? His voice? The way he stood?—but Jason immediately clocked something.

“What’s wrong?” Jason asked, his voice calm, but laced with that dangerous edge that said he was already running through a mental list of suspects who might need a "visit."

Y/N froze, debating his options. He knew better than to lie. Jason would sniff it out in seconds. But he also knew that the moment he opened his mouth, Jason wouldn’t rest until he figured out who—or what—was responsible.

And honestly? That was the kind of energy Y/N both feared and loved about him.

“I just had a stressful day at work, Jason. I’ll be fine,” Y/N said, sidestepping as he tried to make his way past the towering vigilante and towards the bathroom.

But trying to get past Jason when he was in that mode? Easier said than done. It was like trying to walk through a solid brick wall—one that was armed, brooding, and ridiculously muscled. Jason was locked into full protective-boyfriend mode, which meant Y/N wasn’t going anywhere until Jason had the name, address, and probably the social security number of the person who dared to upset him.

Why he needed the social security number? Well, Bruce did teach him to be thorough when handling "cases." And in Jason’s mind, this was no different.

In one smooth move, Jason’s arm shot out, stopping Y/N’s attempt to breeze past him. With two quick steps, Y/N found himself backed against the wall—well, Jason’s chest first, and then the wall behind him. Jason leaned in, his presence overwhelming in the best way possible, his dark, piercing gaze locking onto Y/N’s like a laser. That intense look he gave—the one that said I have no problem keeping you right here until I get answers—made Y/N’s knees weak.

Not that he minded. Let’s be real: Jason’s body, his sheer presence, had always been Y/N’s favorite place to decompress, even if it came with the added pressure of being metaphorically (and sometimes literally) pinned to the hot seat. And honestly? Who could complain about being wrapped up in the arms of a man like Jason. If you wouldn’t feel the same, take your judgment elsewhere.

Jason tilted his head, his voice low and commanding as he leaned in closer. “Talk to me, baby. What happened?”

“It’s nothing,” Y/N muttered, looking away, though his traitorous heart betrayed him by picking up speed. He could feel Jason’s gaze on him, heavy and unwavering. “Just a bad day.”

“That’s not nothing,” Jason replied firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. His arm caged Y/N in further, his body so close that Y/N could feel the heat radiating off him. “Bad days don’t make you cry in your car before coming home.”

Y/N’s eyes widened slightly. Damn it. How does he always know?

Jason leaned even closer, his lips brushing against Y/N’s ear as he whispered, “I’ll ask again. Who made you cry?”

That commanding tone, combined with Jason’s overwhelming presence, had Y/N’s walls crumbling faster than he’d like to admit. “Jason, it’s nothing you need to get involved in. It’s my boss—he’s just been... making things harder than they need to be,” he said, his voice faltering as he tried to downplay the situation.

Jason’s jaw ticked, and his free hand gently cupped Y/N’s chin, tilting his head back so their eyes met. “Details. Now.”

Y/N hesitated for a moment before the frustration, hurt, and exhaustion bubbled over. “He’s cutting my hours—again. And I need those hours, Jason. For rent, for groceries, for school. I’ve tried talking to him, emailing HR, even bringing in a neutral third party, but nothing changes. And today…” He swallowed hard, his voice cracking. “Today, he reduced my schedule to the point where I’ll barely be able to afford ramen next week. And then he called me into his office to give me some bullshit ‘coaching moment’ that was really just him tearing me down in front of everyone.”

Jason’s expression darkened, his eyes narrowing as Y/N’s words sank in. “What did he say?” His tone was dangerously calm, the kind of calm that meant bad things were about to happen to someone.

Y/N shook his head, his voice breaking as he tried to get the words out. “I—I don’t want to repeat it. It was nasty, Jason. Just nasty.”

Jason’s grip softened immediately, his hand moving to the back of Y/N’s neck as he pulled him into his chest. “Baby, come here,” he murmured, his voice gentler now. Y/N didn’t resist, letting himself melt into Jason’s arms as the tears he’d been holding back all day finally spilled over.

Jason held him tightly, his strong arms a fortress of safety and comfort as he whispered, “It’s okay. I’ve got you. Let it out.”

They stayed like that for a while, Jason eventually guiding Y/N to the couch so they could sit down. He pulled Y/N into his lap, holding him as if to shield him from the world. Y/N buried his face in Jason’s chest, the warmth and strength of his boyfriend grounding him as Jason’s hand gently stroked his back.

After a while, Y/N’s voice broke the silence. “Promise me you won’t do anything rash, Jason. Please.”

Jason’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he nodded. “I promise.”

The next day, Y/N found himself questioning that promise when Jason showed up at his workplace. The vigilante didn’t cause a scene—he didn’t need to. A quiet, private “conversation” with Y/N’s manager in the backroom was all it took. Whatever Jason said, it worked. By the time he left, Y/N’s hours had mysteriously been restored, and his manager couldn’t look him in the eye without stammering.

When Y/N confronted him later, Jason just smirked, pulling him into a kiss. “I didn’t do anything rash,” he said innocently. “I just... clarified some things.”

And honestly? Y/N didn’t even want to know what “clarified��� meant.

It was that incident—the one where Jason paid a visit to Y/N’s workplace—when Y/N’s coworkers finally met the infamous boyfriend they’d only ever heard about in passing. Well, passing might’ve been an understatement, considering Y/N used any and every opportunity to talk about his man. At first, the constant mentions of “Jason this” and “Jason that” had been met with teasing eyerolls and mock groans. But after seeing Jason in action, shutting down their tyrant of a manager with one calm but devastating conversation, everyone got it. Completely.

Jason and Y/N quickly became what the group lovingly referred to as the “template” for relationship goals. Y/N didn’t mind the label; he liked that people saw the best parts of their dynamic. What they didn’t see—or couldn’t fully grasp—was the effort and balance behind it all. Jason wasn’t just the tall, brooding vigilante who swooped in to save the day, and Y/N wasn’t just the sweet, supportive boyfriend standing in his shadow. Their relationship was a partnership in every sense of the word, built on mutual protection and care for one another.

It was that incident—the one where Jason paid a visit to Y/N’s workplace—when Y/N’s coworkers finally met the infamous boyfriend they’d only ever heard about in passing. Well, passing might’ve been an understatement, considering Y/N used any and every opportunity to talk about his man. At first, the constant mentions of “Jason this” and “Jason that” had been met with teasing eyerolls and mock groans. But after seeing Jason in action, shutting down their tyrant of a manager with one calm but devastating conversation, everyone got it. Completely.

Jason and Y/N quickly became what the group lovingly referred to as the “template” for relationship goals. Y/N didn’t mind the label; he liked that people saw the best parts of their dynamic. What they didn’t see—or couldn’t fully grasp—was the effort and balance behind it all. Jason wasn’t just the tall, brooding vigilante who swooped in to save the day, and Y/N wasn’t just the sweet, supportive boyfriend standing in his shadow. Their relationship was a partnership in every sense of the word, built on mutual protection and care for one another.

“Y/N, how much is your rent for this place? It’s really nice, and I’m looking for something closer to campus,” his friend asked one day during a study session at his and Jason’s apartment. A few of their classmates had joined, and the group was sprawled out in the living room, surrounded by open textbooks, laptops, and half-empty mugs and cups.

Y/N was about to answer—he really was—but then paused, his face twisting into a look of genuine confusion as he stared off into the distance, like he was searching the recesses of his brain for an answer that just wasn’t there. “Uh… I think $1,100? Maybe? Don’t quote me on that, though. I’m not 100% sure.”

His friends all exchanged baffled looks. “Wait, what do you mean you’re not sure?” one of them asked, narrowing their eyes. “How do you not know your own rent?”

“I do! I just… forgot,” Y/N said with a shrug, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Now they were all staring at him like he’d grown a second head. “Y/N, literally what the fuck? How do you just forget how much you pay in rent? Who forgets that?”

“I don’t know, okay? I knew it when I signed the lease, but every time I try to pay it at the beginning of the month, Jason’s already paid it. Sometimes months in advance! And, I don’t know, after a while, it just stopped being something I thought about.” Y/N gestured vaguely, as if this explanation somehow made perfect sense.

That didn’t stop the dumbfounded stares—or the flicker of envy in more than a few pairs of eyes.

“Wait, wait, wait.” One of his friends held up a hand. “So your boyfriend just pays your rent for you every month—without even asking—and you just… let him?”

Y/N snorted, sitting back on the couch. “First of all, rude. It’s not like I just let him. Trust me, if you were in my shoes, you’d understand that trying to stop Jason from taking care of me is like… I don’t know, trying to explain to someone in a MAGA hat what a cult is and that they’re in one. You’re not winning that battle.”

Can the church get an amen?

Y/N wasn’t lying—not even a little—when he said that trying to stop Jason from taking care of him was an exercise in futility. If anyone dared to tell Jason he was “doing too much” for his boyfriend, congratulations, they’d now joined the prestigious ranks of those “experts” Jason would gladly let fend for themselves in a crisis. When it came to Y/N, Jason handled it all: physically, emotionally, financially—you name it, he was on it like white on rice. And no amount of protesting from Y/N could change that.

And oh, did Y/N protest.

“Jason, did you pay my rent again?” Y/N asked, stepping into the apartment with his wallet still in hand and a clearly exasperated look on his face. He’d just come back from the leasing office, only to find out his balance was already cleared with a sex month advance payment. Again.

His frustration hit a slight pause, though, as he spotted Jason lounging shirtless on the couch—pause for an aroused deep breath—engrossed in what appeared to be an intense game of Mario Kart on his Nintendo Switch. A book Jason had been reading earlier was tossed haphazardly to the side, forgotten in the heat of the Rainbow Road battle.

Jason didn’t even glance up as he responded, “Yeah, I did. Why?” His thumbs moved quickly over the buttons, his face set in that annoyingly sexy, hyper-focused expression that made Y/N momentarily forget why he was upset in the first place.

“Why?” Y/N snapped, pulling himself out of that temporary daze. “Because I told you not to! That’s why!” He stormed over, planting himself squarely in front of the couch, arms crossed and glare locked on his boyfriend. “Jason, we’ve talked about this. I can handle my own rent.”

Jason sighed, finally pausing his game. He leaned back against the couch with an air of deliberate calm, setting the joy-con controllers aside. “I know you can,” he said, his voice smooth and measured in a way that made Y/N’s resolve falter. Jason’s eyes flicked up to meet his, dark and steady, pinning Y/N in place. “But here’s the thing, babe—you don’t have to.”

“That’s not the point,” Y/N shot back, his voice wavering slightly as Jason stretched lazily, his arms going behind his head in a way that made the muscles in his chest and shoulders flex. Unfair. He was doing this on purpose.

“Isn’t it, though?” Jason’s lips curved into a slow, smug smirk. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and Y/N’s breath hitched as the intensity of his gaze locked onto him. “Taking care of you isn’t optional for me. It’s my job. Whether it’s paying the rent, making sure you eat, or keeping your gorgeous ass out of trouble, that’s mine to handle.”

Y/N’s cheeks burned as he tried to maintain his glare, but it was a losing battle. “Jason,” he said firmly, though the quiver in his voice betrayed him, “you can’t just decide these things without asking me.”

Jason tilted his head, studying him in a way that felt equal parts tender and possessive. “Sure I can,” he said smoothly, reaching out to hook his fingers lightly around Y/N’s wrist, tugging him forward until he was standing between Jason’s knees. “You can handle yourself—I know that. But you don’t need to. Not when I’m here.”

Y/N opened his mouth to protest, but Jason tugged him down into his lap, wrapping an arm around his waist to hold him close. His free hand slid to the back of Y/N’s neck, his thumb brushing against the skin there in a way that made Y/N’s heart race.

“Tell me,” Jason murmured, his voice low and commanding, “why should I let you stress over something I can fix? Hmm?”

Y/N bit his lip, trying to muster the strength to argue, but Jason’s tone, his touch, the sheer weight of his presence—it all left him scrambling for words. He hated how easily Jason could reduce him to this flustered mess, and he really hated how much he secretly loved it.

“You’re impossible,” he finally muttered, dropping his head against Jason’s shoulder, his voice soft and defeated.

“And you love me for it,” Jason murmured against his ear, his smirk practically audible.

Y/N groaned but didn’t pull away, his fingers curling against Jason’s chest. “This conversation isn’t over,” he mumbled, though even he didn’t sound convinced.

“Sure, babe. Whatever you say,” Jason replied, leaning back with Y/N still in his lap, his grip firm and unyielding. He reached for his Switch with his free hand, resuming his game like he hadn’t just completely derailed the argument and walked away victorious.

And as much as Y/N wanted to be mad, he couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at his lips. Damn it. He really did love him for it. The student didn’t need to say how much he appreciated the weight of Jason’s steady presence; Jason didn’t need to hear it to know. And while Y/N would keep fighting to hold his own ground, there was a part of him—an unspoken, undeniable part—that found comfort in letting Jason hold the world at bay for him.

Their domestic life was a careful dance of their unspoken dynamic, with Jason ensuring their world was secure and steady, while Y/N kept their home—and Jason—centered and whole. Their roles played out naturally, shaped by who they were as individuals. Jason made sure the outside world couldn’t touch Y/N, taking care of the big things, the dangerous things that he’d never let his boyfriend come within a mile of. His presence was a shield, and his devotion ran so deep that sometimes it felt like he’d lay the world at Y/N’s feet if it meant seeing him happy.

Y/N swears there was one time he cracked a joke about wanting to live out his “soft boi” aesthetic—because, obviously, the ‘i’ made it edgier—and Jason, without missing a beat, ran with it without ever looking back.

But Y/N? He was the one who kept their world turning smoothly, the quiet, grounding presence that made sure Jason had a place to fall apart when life became too much. Whether it was stocking the kitchen with Jason’s favorite snacks or simply sitting with him on the couch after a rough patrol, Y/N created the kind of space Jason didn’t even realize he needed—safe, steady, and entirely his.

That balance extended to the little things too. Jason liked to cook when he had the time, his meals always hearty, protein-packed “fuel” designed to keep them going. Y/N, on the other hand, was the one who brought warmth to the table, sneaking in something sweet or comforting—even if it meant slipping vegetables into Jason’s plate, much to his dramatic protests.

“Because it’s pesto,” Y/N replied innocently, grinning as he leaned against the counter. “Don’t act like you’re too good for spinach.”

Jason grumbled something under his breath—something about how spinach was a lie—but ate every bite, proving once again that Y/N knew exactly how to play him.

And then there were the quieter moments—the ones that reminded them both why they worked so well together. Nights spent curled up on the couch, Jason sprawled out with his head resting in Y/N’s lap, his fingers absently tracing patterns along Y/N’s thigh. Y/N would run his fingers through Jason’s hair, the simple, soothing gesture melting away the tension that Jason carried like a second skin. Sometimes they’d talk—about Jason’s patrols, Y/N’s classes, or random nonsense that didn’t matter. Other times, they simply existed together, the quiet hum of their apartment a welcome reprieve from the chaos of the world outside.

But even Y/N, the softer half of their partnership, had his limits when it came to anyone crossing a line with Jason. Like the time a journalist ambushed Jason at a charity event, spouting thinly veiled accusations about his past. Jason had been moments away from snapping, his fists clenching at his sides, when Y/N calmly stepped in.

“If you don’t have something constructive to say,” Y/N said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “then I suggest you find someone else to bother.”

The journalist, thrown off by Y/N’s tone—gentle but edged like a blade—backed off almost immediately. Jason hadn’t said a word about it afterward, but later that night, when they were home, he’d kissed Y/N’s temple and murmured a quiet, “Thank you.”

Y/N was never afraid to step in for Jason when he needed him to, even if Jason wouldn’t—or couldn’t—outwardly ask for it. And the fact that Jason didn’t have to ask made it all the more meaningful for the vigilante. Y/N always seemed to know when to intervene, especially in moments when Jason couldn’t advocate for himself—particularly when it came to Bruce.

It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. Jason had come home late that night, his steps heavy, his shoulders slumped in a way that told Y/N everything he needed to know before Jason even said a word. Gotham’s chaos could wear Jason down, but this kind of defeated air? That was Bruce’s handiwork.

Y/N didn’t push right away. He let Jason slip into the apartment, kick off his boots, and collapse onto the couch without a word. Jason sat there, his hands hanging limply between his knees, staring blankly at the floor like he was stuck in some internal tug-of-war. Y/N sat beside him, his hand lightly brushing Jason’s shoulder before resting on his thigh—a grounding touch.

“What happened?” Y/N asked softly.

Jason’s jaw tightened, and he exhaled sharply through his nose. “It’s Bruce,” he said after a long pause, his voice raw. “We were handling this case—a trafficking ring. I had it handled, Y/N. I had it. But he pulled the plug on the whole thing because it didn’t fit his goddamn code.” His fists clenched, his knuckles turning white. “There were kids involved, and he still chose the ‘moral high ground’ over what needed to be done. And then—” Jason’s voice broke, and he shook his head, his frustration giving way to something more fragile. “He looked at me like I was the problem. Like I was… too much again. Like I’m always too much.”

Y/N’s heart clenched as he took in the words, the quiet ache that laced Jason’s tone. It wasn’t just the case or Bruce’s stubbornness that hurt him—it was the way Bruce always seemed to find a way to make Jason feel like he’d never be enough, no matter what he did.

Y/N leaned in, his hand sliding up to the back of Jason’s neck, fingers gently massaging the tension there. “You’re not too much, Jay,” he murmured, his voice steady. “Not for me. Not for anyone who actually knows you.”

Jason didn’t respond, but the way he leaned into Y/N’s touch, his head bowing slightly, said more than words ever could.

An hour later, when a knock came at the door, Y/N didn’t need to guess who it was. He stood, sighing as Jason stayed where he was on the couch, visibly tensing at the sound. Y/N opened the door to find Bruce standing there, in some more casual wear (if you could ever call Bruce’s “old money” aesthetic casual), his expression as unreadable as ever.

“Y/N,” Bruce greeted, his tone clipped. “I need to speak with Jason.”

Y/N didn’t move, his hand braced casually against the doorframe. “No, you don’t.”

Bruce blinked, clearly unused to being told no—and even less accustomed to hearing it so decisively. “It’s important.”

“Is someone dead or currently dying?”

The blunt, and sarcastic tone of his words, while it didn’t visually throw the billionaire off, Y/N could see Bruce was surprised by his tone. He didn’t know how, but he clocked the shift in his demeanor. Maybe he was picking up some skills from his boyfriend after all.

“No, but–”

“Then, it can wait,” Y/N said, his tone edge with a finality that left no room for question or pushback.  “He just came home, and I don’t think he needs you piling on more stress right now. Whatever you’ve got to say can wait.”

Bruce’s lips pressed into a thin line. “This isn’t about stress. It’s about his actions tonight. He—”

“—did what he thought was right,” Y/N interrupted, his voice sharpening just slightly. “And from what he told me, he was right. You’re the one who undermined him and made him feel like he was a problem.”

Bruce opened his mouth to respond, but Y/N stepped out into the hallway, lowering his voice but not his resolve. “Look, Mr. Wayne, I get that you care about him in your own… specific way. But if you want to keep him in your life, maybe stop treating him like he’s the black sheep who’ll never measure up to your perfect little code. Because right now? You’re the only one who can make him feel like this, and that’s not the kind of impact someone who ‘cares’ should have.”

Bruce’s face didn’t betray much, but Y/N caught the faint flicker of something—guilt, maybe—in his eyes. Still, he didn’t budge. “This conversation isn’t over.”

“No,” Y/N said calmly, stepping back into the apartment and beginning to close the door. “But it is for tonight. Goodnight, Mr. Wayne.”

With that, he shut the door, turning back to see Jason watching him from the couch, his expression somewhere between awe and disbelief.

“Did you really just tell Bruce Wayne to go home?” Jason asked, his lips twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to smirk or shake his head.

“Damn right I did,” Y/N replied, crossing his arms with a small, satisfied huff. “And I’d do it again.”

Jason let out a low chuckle, his hand brushing through his hair as he leaned back against the couch. “You’ve got some nerve, you know that?”

“Please,” Y/N shot back with a roll of his eyes. “You act like it’s a big deal. Someone had to say it, and we both know you weren’t going to.” He paused, watching Jason closely, his eyes narrowing slightly. “And speaking of things you aren’t doing…”

Jason raised an eyebrow, his interest visibly piqued. “Oh? Do tell.”

Y/N leaned forward, tapping Jason’s knee with mock seriousness. “First, you’re going to get off this couch, because moping is not a good look for you. Then, you’re going to help me put away the laundry because I’ve been doing it all day while you were out being Mr. Broody Vigilante. And after that? You’re going to make us both something to eat, because I’m starving and I’m not lifting a finger tonight. You’ve got work to do, big guy.”

Jason blinked, his lips parting slightly in surprise before his expression shifted into something darker, sharper. He cocked his head, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, really?” he drawled, his tone low and deliberate as he sat up straighter. “That’s how it’s gonna be, huh?”

Y/N’s pulse quickened, but he held his ground, leveling Jason with his best faux-bossy glare. “That’s exactly how it’s gonna be. So, get moving, Todd.”

Jason was on his feet before Y/N could blink, towering over him with that quiet, commanding energy that always sent a thrill down his spine. He didn’t say a word at first, just leaned down slightly, his eyes locked on Y/N’s like a predator sizing up its prey.

“You think you’re in charge now?” Jason asked softly, his voice deceptively calm. His hand brushed against Y/N’s jaw, his thumb tracing the curve of his cheek with deliberate slowness. “That’s cute.”

Y/N swallowed hard, refusing to back down even as Jason’s presence enveloped him. “Not cute,” he retorted, his voice wavering just slightly. “Efficient.”

Jason’s smirk widened, and in one swift motion, he scooped Y/N up from the couch, earning a startled yelp that quickly turned into laughter. “Efficient, huh?” Jason murmured, his lips brushing against Y/N’s ear as he carried him toward the bedroom. “Let’s see how efficient you are at following orders, then. Because we both know who calls the shots here, don’t we?”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed, his breath hitching as Jason pinned him with that intense, unrelenting gaze. “Jason…” he started, but his boyfriend was already laying him down on the bed, his movements slow and deliberate, the weight of his presence impossible to ignore.

“You wanted me to focus on something else,” Jason murmured, leaning over him, his hands braced on either side of Y/N’s head. “Congratulations, sweetheart. You’ve got my full attention now.”

And just like that, Y/N’s carefully constructed plan to distract Jason had backfired spectacularly—not that he was complaining. If there was one thing Jason was good at, it was reminding him exactly who was in charge.

“Alright, Y/N. Truth or Dare,” his best friend asked, a mischievous glint in his eye as the group sat around in a circle during their weekly de-stresser game night. Of course, their version of game night had taken a more explicit turn—totally par for the course with this group.

“Um… truth,” Y/N said hesitantly, already sensing trouble.

“Oh, perfect,” Seth said, rubbing his hands together like a cartoon villain. “Alright, Mr. L/N, the time has come for you to reveal your truth. Are you a bossy power bottom or a slutty, submissive one?”

The room erupted into a mix of laughter and gasps, with a couple of dramatic “oh my God” reactions thrown in for good measure. Y/N’s eyes went wide, his mouth opening and closing like a fish as he tried to form words. Before he could even start to defend himself, someone else chimed in.

“Bro, seriously? What kind of question is that?”

Y/N immediately felt a wave of relief wash over him. “Thank you—finally, someone gets it—”

But then came the follow-up.

“We all know there’s not a dominant bone in his body. If anything, it’s giving brat who likes to be put in his place.”

The room fell silent for half a beat before laughter exploded all around him, punctuated by a few dramatic “damn”s and someone nearly choking on their drink.

Y/N blinked, his brain short-circuiting as the betrayal sank in. “Excuse me?!” he finally managed, his voice high-pitched and offended as he pointed an accusing finger at the culprit.

“I dare you to try and tell me I’m lying,” His friend challenged him with a raised eyebrow. And when Y/N couldn’t formulate a defense for himself, his friend nodded his head knowingly, “Exactly as I thought.”

Because was he actually lying?

“I dare you to tell me I’m wrong,” his friend challenged, one eyebrow arched and a smug smirk tugging at their lips.

Y/N opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out—just the faintest stutter of indignation as his brain scrambled for a defense that simply didn’t exist.

His friend nodded knowingly, leaning back with a triumphant grin. “Exactly what I thought.”

Because, honestly… were they even wrong?

Frankly, if you looked at their relationship as a whole, was it really that surprising?

Jason, in a nutshell, was all rough edges and a protective streak that could rival Fort Knox, but with a kind of intimacy that Y/N never saw coming. It was whiplash in the best way possible. One minute, he was Gotham’s most intimidating vigilante, and the next, he was softly murmuring sweet nothings while holding Y/N like he was the most fragile, precious thing on the planet. Y/N had once joked that Jason was like a human light switch—rough and dominant one moment, soft and needy the next. Now? It was just something he accepted… and secretly loved.

Because the roughness Jason brought into their bed was never just about dominance—it was about claiming. There were nights when Jason would grip Y/N’s hips like he was staking his territory, growling low in his ear as he worked Y/N’s body to the point of trembling. If Jason was feeling particularly territorial—or, as Y/N liked to put it, “possessive alpha wolf mode”—restraints were almost a guarantee. Y/N would be left tied up, squirming and gasping as Jason moved with a kind of intensity that left no room for doubt about who was in control.

And then, like clockwork, came the switch.

Imagine this: a six-foot-something mass of pure muscle and testosterone, who’d just spent the last hour absolutely wrecking Y/N—legs shaking, throat raw from moans that could probably be heard two apartments over—suddenly curling up beside him like the world’s biggest teddy bear. Jason would go from rough, grunting dominance, a man on a mission to leave Y/N marked and molded for days, to nuzzling into Y/N’s neck with soft kisses and quietly demanding to be held like he was the one who’d been put through the wringer.

It was absurd. Completely and utterly absurd. And Y/N? He let it happen every single time. No wonder Jason was so spoiled in their relationship.

What else was he supposed to do when Jason left him in a post-fuck haze so blissed out he couldn’t even remember what year it was? By the time Jason would return from cleaning him up, soft praise slipping from his lips as he gently wiped Y/N down, the fight had already left him. And honestly? Who was Y/N kidding—he didn’t want to fight it. Not when Jason would tuck him against his broad chest like they hadn’t just committed sins the mattress might never recover from.

But here was the kicker: for all the dominance Jason brought into their dynamic, Y/N knew the man craved the quiet moments afterward just as much—if not more. Those moments when Y/N’s hands would slide up into Jason’s hair, gently massaging his scalp, or trace over the faded scars on his chest like they were the most fascinating pieces of art. Jason wouldn’t say much—he didn’t need to. The way he sighed into Y/N’s touch, letting himself completely relax, said everything.

It was a ridiculous dance of give and take: Jason would obliterate Y/N’s body with enough intensity to leave him rethinking all his life choices, only to turn into the world’s biggest cuddle bug immediately after, soaking up every ounce of affection Y/N could give him. And as much as Y/N liked to complain about the whiplash, the truth was that he wouldn’t change a single thing about it.

Because as much as Jason loved being the one in control, Y/N had him wrapped around his finger the moment his fingers slid into Jason’s hair, soothing away the world like only he could. It was a balance only they understood, and it worked in ways no one else could ever pull off.

But it wasn’t just in the bedroom where Jason’s attention shined. Y/N would often catch Jason’s gaze lingering at the most random moments, his blue-green eyes shamelessly raking over him like he was a five-course meal and Jason hadn’t eaten in weeks. Whether it was Y/N lounging around in a simple t-shirt and sweatpants, running errands in shorts that rode up just a little too high, or even bundled up in the most unflattering hoodie he owned, Jason’s carnal desire never wavered. If anything, it intensified as their relationship deepened.

Jason didn’t even bother hiding it anymore. Y/N had long stopped being surprised by the firm smack on his ass whenever Jason walked by, followed by the satisfied grin his boyfriend would flash as if to say, Mine.

“Jason!” Y/N would shriek every time, a startled jump or yelp accompanying his protests. But the man never looked the least bit guilty. If anything, he’d double down, grabbing a handful and muttering something along the lines of, “Couldn’t help it,” or, “You’re teasing me.”

The truth? Jason had rules—categories, if you will—when it came to Y/N’s wardrobe. There were outfits Y/N could wear in public, outfits strictly for lounging at home, and then there were the "home only" outfits. And no, "home only" didn’t mean cute loungewear. It was a polite way of saying, for Jason’s eyes only.

“Babe, you’re not wearing that outside,” Jason had said once, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorway as Y/N attempted to leave for the gym.

“It’s just a pair of shorts!” Y/N protested, gesturing down at the admittedly form-fitting gym wear that showcased his thighs just a little too well.

“Exactly,” Jason replied, his eyes narrowing. “Those are home shorts. You’re not walking into a gym full of thirsty people in that.”

“Jason, you’re being ridiculous,” Y/N huffed, crossing his arms.

“Maybe,” Jason said with a shrug, stepping forward to wrap his arms around Y/N’s waist. He leaned in, lips brushing against Y/N’s ear as he added in a low voice, “But that doesn’t change anything, now go change..”

And that was that. Jason had an uncanny ability to make his tone very rigid and unyielding, leaving no room for argument which would have Y/N’s protests dying on his lips every time.

Then, there were the outfits Y/N didn’t even get to leave the house in—because they didn’t survive Jason. It had become a running joke between them, the sheer number of shirts, pants, and underwear Jason had destroyed in fits of possessive frustration. If something hugged Y/N’s figure a little too well, Jason didn’t bother holding back. Many an innocent shirt had been ripped clean down the middle, casualties of Jason giving in to his urges.

“Do you have any idea how much you cost me in clothes?” Y/N had grumbled once as Jason stood over him, shirtless and smirking like the devil himself.

Jason had only shrugged, pulling Y/N into his lap. “Then stop wearing stuff that teases me,” he murmured, his lips trailing along Y/N’s neck. “Or don’t. Gives me an excuse to buy you more.”

And buy he did. But let’s be real—certain clothes never lasted long in their relationship. Case in point? The time Y/N ordered a pair of shorts he’d been eyeing for weeks, fully aware that Jason would raise an eyebrow so high it’d disappear into his hairline. Still, in a moment of fuck it impulse, Y/N clicked "add to cart," setting the stage for the chaos to follow.

When the package arrived, Y/N pushed the door open with a huff, struggling to balance the various bags and boxes in his arms as he shuffled into the apartment. “Jason, can you help me?” he called, his voice slightly muffled as he tried not to drop anything.

Jason, sprawled on the couch and scrolling through his phone, glanced up. His eyebrows rose at the sight of his boyfriend buried beneath a mountain of shopping bags. “More clothes?” he asked, standing up and strolling over with a teasing smirk.

“Yes, more clothes,” Y/N shot back, setting his haul down on the kitchen counter. “You know, since someone has a habit of destroying half my wardrobe.”

Jason shrugged, entirely unbothered. “What can I say? Some of them deserved it.”

Rolling his eyes, Y/N began unpacking his bags, pulling out folded shirts, joggers, and a few items that were more… adventurous. As Jason retreated back to the couch, Y/N grabbed one of his new purchases and headed to the bathroom to try it on.

A few minutes later, Y/N emerged, ready to test the waters. He stepped into the living room, his expression smug as he strolled in wearing a pair of black shorts that barely qualified as clothing. The sheer mesh fabric, paired with slits running up the sides, left little—if anything—to the imagination.

Jason glanced up, and his relaxed posture evaporated. His gaze sharpened, his smirk vanishing as his eyes darkened with a possessive glint. “Those,” he said, his voice dropping to a low rumble, “are not leaving this apartment.”

Y/N paused, glancing at Jason’s expression before looking down to examine the shorts. “What? These? Oh, come on, they’re gym shorts,” he said, smoothing the fabric over his thighs. “I can’t wait to test them out during leg day.”

Jason’s jaw ticked, his gaze locked on Y/N like a predator sizing up its prey. “You’re not wearing those to the gym.”

“Jason, don’t start,” Y/N said, stepping closer to the couch—his first mistake. Paired with the loose, cropped tank he was wearing, the look was downright scandalous. He twirled around playfully, flashing a cheeky grin. “See? They’re nice. Functional.”

Jason didn’t reply. He just sat there, arms crossed, his eyes narrowing as Y/N paraded around, pushing the limits. The tension between them was palpable, thickening with every second that Jason didn’t speak. And when Y/N cocked a hip and teased, “What? Don’t like them?”—that was the final straw.

Jason moved so fast Y/N barely registered it. In one fluid motion, he reached out, grabbing the shorts by one of the side slits and yanking hard. The fabric tore with a sharp rip, leaving Y/N stumbling forward with a gasp.

“Jason!” Y/N yelped, his voice equal parts indignation and shock. But before he could gather himself, Jason leaned back on the couch, effortlessly pulling Y/N into his lap. His hands gripped Y/N’s waist, holding him firmly in place as his legs were spread across Jason’s thighs.

“These,” Jason growled, his hands sliding down to Y/N’s exposed skin, “are home-only shorts. Got it?”

Y/N squirmed, pressing his hands against Jason’s chest in a weak attempt to push away. “Jason, you can’t just—”

Another sharp rip interrupted him as Jason’s rough fingers tore at the other slit, leaving the shorts hanging on by mere threads. Y/N gasped, heat rushing to his face as Jason’s hands roamed possessively, smoothing over his bare thighs with deliberate, firm strokes.

“What did I say?” Jason questioned, his voice a dangerous whisper that sent shivers down Y/N’s spine. “These are for my eyes only.”

Y/N’s protests dissolved into breathy whines as Jason’s hands tightened around his waist, pulling him closer. A sharp smack landed on Y/N’s rear, drawing a startled yelp, followed by another that left him gripping Jason’s shoulders for balance.

“Stop squirming,” Jason ordered, his tone firm and commanding as he leaned in, his face inches from Y/N’s. His dark gaze pinned Y/N in place as one hand slid to the back of his neck. “You know how this works, sweetheart. You push, I push back.”

Y/N bit his lip, his glare faltering under Jason’s intense stare. At some point, the defiance melted into submission, and their lips collided in a heated, desperate kiss. Jason’s hands never left Y/N’s body, gripping, claiming, and asserting dominance with every touch.

Before Y/N knew it, he was on his knees, Jason standing over him with his pants tugged low enough to reveal just how demanding he was. Y/N didn’t fight it—instead, he leaned into Jason’s command, eager to please the man who had thoroughly dismantled every ounce of his bravado.

By the end of it, Y/N was back on Jason’s lap, legs spread on either side as his body trembled with it being moved roughly up and down on the vigilante’s manhood, his own throbbing hardness rubbing against his boyfriend’s abs as Jason held him close. The only piece of clothing left between them were the shredded remains of the mesh shorts clinging to Y/N’s hips—barely.

Of course, Jason had to replace them with not one, but three new pairs after the fact. But he made it very clear they’d all meet the same fate if Y/N ever dared to wear them outside the apartment.

Did Y/N listen? Absolutely not. Because, let’s be real—he loved pissing Jason off. And honestly? Maybe the whole “brat who likes to be put in his place” thing wasn’t so far off after all.

And, of course, Jason wasn’t the only one who knew how to push buttons. He had his own arsenal of outfits that drove Y/N wild, and he wielded them with precision. Whether it was his compression gear that clung to his chest and arms in ways that made Y/N’s mouth go dry, or his Red Hood attire that practically screamed dominance, Jason loved to see the effect his clothing—or lack thereof—had on Y/N.

“You’re staring,” Jason had teased once, pulling his hoodie over his compression top in the middle of the gym.

Y/N, flustered and blatantly ogling, had tried to recover with a weak, “No, I wasn’t.”

Jason had chuckled, leaning in just enough to murmur, “You were. And I liked it.”

But the real chaos came in the bedroom. Jason, ever the tease, would sometimes refuse to take off his compression shirt or Red Hood pants during sex, fully aware of the primal side it brought out in Y/N.

“Stop, don’t take it off,” Y/N had panted once, his fingers gripping the slick, tight material as Jason tried to pull it over his head. “Leave it on.”

Jason had smirked, leaning down to kiss Y/N’s neck as he growled, “Anything you want, sweetheart.” He knew exactly what he was doing, letting Y/N’s hands wander over the material, the added friction driving him crazy in the best way.

Jason loved pulling that raw, uninhibited side out of Y/N. It was a side only he got to see, and he relished every second of it. Because while Jason loved being the one in control, he also loved seeing Y/N completely undone, lost in the moment with him.

It was, perhaps, a side effect of Jason’s deeply ingrained dominant nature—his unrelenting need to maintain a sense of control over his surroundings and the people within them. Did that mean he saw Y/N as something to control? Absolutely not. But Jason would be the first to admit that the urge to assert himself surfaced now and then. Fortunately, he had found a way to channel it into something far more productive, releasing it in moments of intimacy where it was not only welcomed but eagerly reciprocated.

And those moments of intimacy? They weren’t confined to the bedroom. Jason’s possessiveness bled into every aspect of their lives, a steady undercurrent to the way he loved. His need for control stemmed from a life filled with chaos, and Y/N understood that better than anyone. Whether it was the firm weight of Jason’s hand resting on the back of his neck during a particularly heated moment, or the low, growling reminders of exactly who Y/N belonged to, Jason’s message was always clear: he didn’t just love Y/N—he claimed him, body and soul.

Jason didn’t say much when Y/N walked into their apartment wearing the oversized hoodie. It was one of Jason’s, slightly frayed at the cuffs and just loose enough to drown Y/N’s smaller frame. The sight alone had Jason's lips twitching upward, his ego swelling with unspoken pride. There was something about Y/N wearing his clothes, especially in public, that hit Jason in a way he couldn’t describe. It wasn’t just the visual—it was the claim it represented, the quiet acknowledgment that Y/N was his, and he didn’t even need to say it out loud for the world to know.

“Isn’t this your hoodie?” Y/N asked casually, dropping his bag onto the floor as he walked past Jason toward the kitchen. He sounded innocent, completely unaware of the fire he’d just stoked. “I borrowed it to wear on campus today. It’s so comfy.”

Jason didn’t respond right away, his gaze trailing after Y/N like a predator tracking its prey. He could see how the fabric clung to Y/N’s shoulders and chest, the way the hem barely grazed the tops of his thighs. It was maddening. He let out a slow, measured breath, leaning back into the couch. “Yeah, sweetheart. It’s mine,” Jason finally said, his voice low but even.

Y/N hummed a little as he rummaged through the fridge. “Well, don’t expect to see it for a while. I’m keeping it.”

Jason’s jaw ticked, his fingers tapping against the armrest of the couch. You’re keeping it, huh? The possessive part of his brain whispered promises of retribution, even as he outwardly played it cool. He waited, biding his time.

Later that night, Jason made his move.

Y/N barely had a chance to react before he found himself pinned beneath Jason on the mattress, the hoodie in question already shoved halfway up his torso. Jason’s massive frame hovered over him, his green-blue eyes blazing with a mix of heat and unrestrained hunger.

“You wore my hoodie,” Jason murmured, his voice husky and low, each word dripping with an intensity that sent a shiver down Y/N’s spine.

“Yeah,” Y/N managed to reply, his voice breathless as Jason’s hands slid beneath the fabric, rough palms grazing over his bare skin. “I… I didn’t think you’d mind.”

Jason smirked, leaning down until his lips brushed against Y/N’s ear. “I don’t mind, sweetheart,” he whispered. “In fact, I like it. But you should’ve known what that would do to me.”

Before Y/N could respond, Jason’s lips captured his in a searing kiss, stealing the air from his lungs. The hoodie bunched awkwardly around Y/N’s chest as Jason adjusted their positions, one hand pinning Y/N’s wrists above his head while the other roamed freely, kneading his thighs and gripping his waist.

Jason moved slowly at first, rocking his hips in a deliberate rhythm that had Y/N arching up into him. The friction of the hoodie’s fabric against their heated skin was intoxicating, Jason’s voice dropping into a growl as he murmured filthy words into Y/N’s ear.

“You wore this out in public,” Jason said, his voice dark and possessive as his hand slid up to gently grip Y/N’s throat. “Let everyone see you in my clothes. Do you know what that does to me? Huh? Knowing they all saw you like this, wearing something that smells like me?”

Y/N whimpered, his eyes glassy as he gazed up at Jason. His thighs trembled where they were pressed against Jason’s hips, every sharp thrust pulling more desperate sounds from his lips.

Jason tightened his grip slightly, just enough to send a jolt of adrenaline through Y/N without ever crossing the line. “Next time,” Jason growled, his pace rough and demanding now, “ask me first. Or better yet, let me put it on you myself. Because when you wear this, it’s not just a hoodie—it’s a mark. A reminder to everyone who you belong to.”

Y/N’s head lolled back against the pillow, his hands twisting beneath Jason’s unyielding grip. His voice was barely above a whisper as he replied, “Yours, Jason. I’m yours.”

That was all Jason needed. He buried himself deeper, his hand slipping from Y/N’s throat to cup his jaw as he captured his lips again. By the time they were both spent, the hoodie had become an even bigger mess—damp with sweat and stretched beyond repair. Jason lay beside Y/N, his chest rising and falling as he dragged a hand over the faint marks he’d left on Y/N’s neck.

“You’re not wearing this hoodie out again,” Jason murmured, his tone soft now, though no less firm.

Y/N let out a sleepy laugh, snuggling closer to Jason’s side. “Good thing you’ve got plenty more for me to borrow.”

Jason chuckled, pressing a kiss to Y/N’s temple. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

Y/N smirked, his eyes fluttering shut. “Not a chance.”

Jason let out a soft laugh, wrapping his arms around Y/N and pulling him closer. Because for all his possessiveness, all his need to dominate and claim, it was moments like this—holding Y/N close, feeling the steady beat of his heart—that reminded him what all of it was really for. Y/N couldn’t help but smile to, because no matter how overwhelming Jason’s love could be, it was also the safest place Y/N had ever known.

Yeah, their love really was like no other. Y/N could absolutely understand why people envied and praised their relationship—it was intense, chaotic, and tender all at once, the kind of connection that made rom-coms look bland by comparison. If he were in their shoes, he’d probably be gushing about it too. Hell, he already did, and he was living it.

But honestly? The next person who came up to him with the audacity to ask if Jason was single was about to catch hands. Y/N normally wasn’t the jealous one in their relationship as it’s been made clear—normally—but there were limits. And some people clearly didn’t know what those limits were.

Just ask that bitch, Xavion…

☀️ | Jason Todd/Red Hood | ☀️

☀️ | Masterlists | ☀️

[madsxyins]

Mine, Always

pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

word count: 1.5k

warnings: Sexual content, Possessiveness, Rough sex, Praise, Degradation, Overstimulation, Language (lmk if i missed something!!)

synopsis: Teasing Paige Bueckers never goes your way, or does it..in paige’s POV

‼️MDNI‼️

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

There are games I win, and games I own.

Tonight? I fucking owned it. On the court, in the stats, and in the one place no one else knew mattered—her eyes.

She was watching me again. Just like always.

Sitting courtside in that cropped hoodie like she didn’t know what it did to me. Legs crossed, lip between her teeth, eyes tracking my every move like I belonged to her. Like she didn’t spend the last week teasing me, testing my patience, saying just the right shit to keep me on edge.

It worked. Every time I scored, I heard her laugh. Every time I broke down the lane, I felt her stare like a hand between my thighs.

And when we won? The way she stood clapping, smiling like she was the prize?

I knew I wasn’t going to make it to sunrise without ruining her.

She was already in the locker room when I got out of the postgame meeting. Leaning against the wall like she hadn’t just spent the past two hours turning me into a fucking animal.

I didn’t say anything at first. Just walked up, slow, my body still pulsing with adrenaline. My jersey was half off, damp with sweat. Her eyes roamed over me, smug and lazy like she was waiting.

“You thought that was funny?” I asked, stepping into her space, pressing one hand to the wall beside her head.

She tilted her chin up. “What?”

I raised an eyebrow. “All that teasing. All that staring. Every time I looked over, your thighs were pressed together like you wanted me to watch you squirm.”

She didn’t deny it. Didn’t even pretend to be innocent.

“I just like seeing you focused,” she said with a smile that made my jaw clench.

I leaned in until my lips hovered near her ear. “No. You like pushing me until I break.”

Her breath caught. I let mine brush over her skin.

“Princess.”

That word wrecked her. I felt her body shift—thighs tightening, breath hitching, hands curling into the hem of her own shirt.

“You’re mine,” I growled, hand sliding to her waist. “Say it.”

She gasped, the sound small and breathless. “I’m yours.”

I kissed her hard, hand gripping her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek. When I pulled back, her lips were red and parted, pupils blown wide.

“You want me to fuck you here?” I hissed against her mouth. “Up against these cold-ass tiles so you never forget who you belong to?”

She whimpered.

“But lucky for you,” I whispered, dragging my teeth along her throat, “I’m feeling generous.”

I stepped back and took her hand.

“Let’s go.”

The second my dorm door shut behind us, she was on me—kissing me like she wanted me to lose it. I backed her into the wall, pulling off her hoodie, biting her bottom lip as she moaned into my mouth. I could already feel how hot her skin was. Her heart pounded through her chest.

I lifted her in one motion, and her legs wrapped around my waist like muscle memory. I carried her to the bed and tossed her down, stripping as I went.

She laid there in nothing but her underwear, hair messy, lips kiss-bruised, chest rising fast.

“You gonna behave?” I asked, pulling open the drawer to grab my harness.

She shook her head slowly, defiant and needy. “Not a chance.”

I smirked. “Good.”

I strapped in slow—tightening the buckles at my hips while she watched me with hungry eyes. She bit her lip when I gripped the shaft and adjusted it. She loved watching me wear it. Knew exactly what it meant.

I crawled over her, kissing from her ribs to her thighs, making her squirm.

“So wet already,” I murmured, running two fingers through her folds. She was soaked. Her hips twitched when I circled her clit just once.

“This all for me, princess?”

“Only you,” she breathed.

I leaned forward, dragging the tip of the strap through her arousal.

“You belong to me,” I whispered, voice dark. “You don’t get to act like that in front of everyone and then pretend you’re not aching for me to put you in your place.”

She whimpered. “Please, Paige. I need it—need you.”

I didn’t hesitate.

I slid inside in one long, slow thrust, watching her mouth fall open, her body arching beautifully.

“Fuck,” I muttered, gripping her thighs as I bottomed out. “Look at how you take me.”

I set a rhythm—deep and steady—letting her feel every inch of me. Her nails dug into my back, her moans breaking free with every thrust.

“You tease me in public just to get fucked like this, huh?” I growled. “Is that what you wanted?”

She nodded frantically. “Yes—God, yes—”

I picked up the pace, hips snapping forward, the strap slick from how wet she was. I adjusted the angle until I hit that spot that made her cry out, and then I didn’t stop.

Her legs wrapped around me tighter. Her head dropped back.

“Look at me,” I demanded. “I want to watch you cum for me.”

I reached between us and rubbed her clit fast and hard, just how she liked it. Her moans turned frantic—desperate. Her thighs shook.

“Cum on my cock, princess,” I growled. “Let go. Right now.”

She shattered.

Her back arched off the bed, a strangled scream tearing from her throat as her orgasm slammed through her. Her whole body tensed, walls clenching around the strap, her hands fisting the sheets.

I kept going, working her through it—slow, deep thrusts that made her sob and gasp and twitch.

“You can take more,” I whispered, dragging my fingers down her flushed skin. “You’re mine. You always take more for me.”

She nodded weakly, still trembling.

“I’m yours,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Yours.”

I kissed her lips, her jaw, her chest—softer now, but still claiming every inch of her.

When I finally pulled out, she was completely wrecked. Her skin glowed, her legs still twitching, her eyes dazed with that fucked-out look I’d chase to the ends of the earth.

I laid down and pulled her into my arms, burying my face in her hair.

“That’s what happens when you tease me,” I murmured, brushing my thumb over her hip. “Next time, I won’t be so patient.”

She laughed, breathless and wrecked. “Not sure you were this time.”

I smirked. “You loved it.”

She nodded, eyes already closing.

“Always do.”

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶

author’s note: i feel like this is better than the last smut i wrote!!!lmk if i made any mistakes. hope u guys enjoyed reading this!!! lmk if i should start a taglist and if u want to be added! req some stuff i have nothing to do all week lmao

[randomshyperson]

hiii😸

i wanna request wanda with hugs no. 31😻 ur fluff is so good i want to bash my head into the wall

/pos

hope u get free from ur writer's block!!😻

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

prompt: hugging while straddling the partner | words: 2066k | warnings: (+18), dark(ish)!wanda, smut, bottom!reader, dom!wanda mainly, implied variant death sorry, but happy ending for the main.

a/n-> this is the last one actually, i got my drafts confused if you saw more in the masterlist you didn't. i won't be posting anything for a while now just to write new series but I won't be gone for long I hope.

challenge masterlist | general masterlist

-&-

Considering all the things that had happened until she reached this moment, Wanda expected there to be more noise.

Fighting. Or even pain.

Two years and six hundred and eighty-four universes and she had finally found you.

Not a fallen hero version, not an evil clone, not a dead wife.

Just you, available, alive and asleep.

The room was dimly lit by the rays of sunlight that passed through the half-open curtain. Her variant must have gotten up early to prepare breakfast, and Wanda took complete control before she could even open the door. She took in little of the room, mostly focused on your sleeping figure in the bed in the corner, peaceful and vulnerable.

Five universes ago a variant of you had tried to arrest her for crimes against the multiverse, so this calmness was quite the bonus.

She quickly inspected the most recent memories before the deepest ones. This Wanda didn't know she loved you like that, not yet. Young and naive, this variant was rewarded with an entire childhood and adolescence by your side. Friends since kindergarten, the deep intimacy between you was beautiful to watch. Easy to envy.

It was a sadistic joke that in all the universes, she was the only one having a miserable life.

Controlling her own irritation, Wanda pushed those memories away and sighed deeply. You moved, searching for her warmth in the mattress and she wondered if your variant was already sure of what she knew many universes ago. You were made for each other.

She watched you with some curiosity. She still wasn't sure how she would do it. She hardly had a clear plan. She took very deliberate actions now, which was probably why she always ended up with some wizard on the way, close to some interdimensional prison.

But as you woke up, Wanda felt around that reality. There was magic like most, but it wasn't as strong even in the body she occupied now. This Wanda was a beginner witch, with simple levitation or tarot tricks that she could use to make you laugh in admiration.

Your sleepy figure finally opened its eyes, felt the bed, turned your face, and faced her standing in the middle of the room. Wanda felt so small, not at all like the great Scarlet Witch. She was almost like a child, eager to please. To be liked. When you frowned at her, she wondered if you were already able to tell she was a fraud, an impostor.

But your expression softened, and you chucked hoarsely.

 "Were you watching me sleep? Creep."

Oh, you had no idea.

Wanda swallowed, forcing a chuckle. "I wasn't." She lies quickly, pushing away emotional nausea as your tousled-haired, sleepy-eyed figure brings back similar memories of a life she doesn't know how to get back. She clears her throat and looks away so you don't see the tears welling up in her eyes. "I was just going to get breakfast. Do you want anything?"

"Yeah." You chuckle relaxedly, patting the mattress as you rest your elbows on the bed, your back against the headboard. "Come back to bed. It's too damn early."

She sees it then, when the sheet loses in your body and she catches a glimpse of your neck full of purple marks. The most recent memories are indeed different from what she searched for before. Peeking again, it's a bit overwhelming to be invaded by the sensations of your kisses and groping all at once, a night of steamy making out in that bed, after a college party that ended long after the time you and the variant returned to this dorm. Wanda sighs, realizing that this body misses your touch just as much as she does. So addictive for every single one of her, no matter the universe.

But her silence brings a hesitation to your face, and you settle better in bed. 

"Hey, if this is about last night..." You begin, a little awkwardly with a nervous giggle. One of your hands pushes your hair back in a nervous gesture, and Wanda gasps softly. The tattoo on her forearm has very familiar symbols. She searched every corner of the multiverse and ended up with a punk covered in protective runes. This was Strange's work, of course. He was probably going to as many worlds as she was. Protecting variants before Wanda could reach them. Take them for herself. You, oblivious to the whole thing, kept talking. "It's okay if you regret it. We don't even have to talk about it if it's weird. I mean, if you want we can even go back to being just friends, I definitely don't want to lose-"

"You're not." She cuts you off, taking steps towards the bed. You fall silent in surprise, but Wanda forces a smile. "Where did you get that tattoo again?"

You frown at the sudden change of subject, stammering a little as you try to remember and then finally laugh, looking at her with some confusion. "It's just reindeer, remember? That strange woman made it for us at the beach last week. It should go away soon."

Wanda searched a little more and found the memory you mentioned. Beach, friends, witches she didn't know, that this variant didn't know how to perceive yet. A witch using the opportunity to draw protective spells on your skin as if she could read the danger in your future.

She took a deep breath and walked closer until she felt her shins hit your bed.

"Maybe you should take it off now."

You hum absently, looking at the tattoo. "Why? I liked it. You also said it was pretty. Maybe I could even make it permanent-"

"No!" She snaps back through gritted teeth, startling you a little. Forcing a smile then, Wanda considers the options. She probably can't mess with your memory right now, maybe she can keep you calm, until she finds an appropriate solution. "I just... I think your first tattoo should be something more meaningful, sweetheart. And not some cheap art from a charlatan, huh?"

You frown, before your chucle again, looking at her with confusion. "Wanda, are you high?" We got our first tattoos together in high school. Have you really forgotten that?" You look upset. Wanda hates this. Hates it with all her might. Out of everything she’s ever done, hurting you is probably the most painful and stupid thing she ever did.

She shakes her head, forcing a giggle. She bends her knees and crawls towards you, which immediately wipes the frown off your face.

Young people and their hormones.

“Oh, babe, I just got confused. I’m sorry.” She begins, and you swallow hard as she takes her place on your lap. Your hands hesitate on the mattress until Wanda grabs them and moves to her waist. “Don’t be upset.”

With your mouth dry, you try, “I’m not.” but it comes out so hoarse that Wanda wouldn’t have heard it if she hadn’t been so close. Her hands close behind your head, and you wait for her to make the first move like the good girl you’ve always been no matter what universe.

Wanda shouldn’t risk it, but she can’t resist. You seem so eager for her to do it too that she doesn’t have the heart not to. The kiss starts out innocent, tentative. She wants to know the extent of the protection runes, and eventually, she realizes that you were right about the ink coming off. Wanda manages to turn you into a mess of breathless whispers as she slides her tongue against yours, and once your arms are tightening around her waist, invading beneath her shirt, she can feel the runes melting in your skin, until finally, she feels no magic resistance. You are all hers to play with.

But like everything else she’s done, Wanda didn’t quite calculate what kissing you would do to her. The effect on her body is ridiculously incapacitating and distracting. She knows she should be muttering spells, but all that comes out of her mouth are affected gasps. Your hands move down, grabbing her ass and grinding her against your lap and Wanda forgets what she came here to do.

"I cannot believe..." You groan suddenly, between one kiss and another. "That we've gone so long without doing this." Wanda bites your lip, pulling and making you whimper, the sound sending a sharp throb through her belly. Your dilated pupils stare at her with such adoration that Wanda needs a moment.

She remembers those looks. She remembers everything. And it's only fair that you remember too.

Coming closer, she kisses you more fervently now. Enough to make you squirm on the mattress, trying to pull her down, increase the friction between your hips. But Wanda knows the passion will turn, so she controls the kiss, controls everything.

One of her hands wraps around your hair, and she's still kissing you, taking the air from your lungs as the first memories dance in flashes behind your eyes.

You frown in confusion, trying to pull away, but Wanda kisses you again, and again until you gasp in shock and her magic goes deeper into your mind, invading you without you even realizing it.

Wanda's free hand suddenly goes inside your pants and you gasp against her mouth, surprised by the touch before surrendering completely to her.

Wanda pants into your mouth, and red irises glare at you when you break the kiss with a moan. She's not gentle, her fingers pushing your panties aside and not bothering to collect much of the surrounding moisture before sinking inside, filling you up all at once. She twists her hand, pushing deeper and you whimper into her mouth. Oh, how Wanda missed feeling you like this, coming undone against her fingers. 

There’s a flash of memories again, of a team of heroes and a battle, but Wanda adjusts her hand and her palm presses against your clit, and you break into a moan and throw your head forward on her shoulder. She hums in satisfaction, the hand that’s not inside your pants moving past your hair, to your back in an attempt to calm you. 

The memories will get worse, you’ll remember everything eventually. 

Wanda knows that sooner or later you will- Your hand wraps around her throat suddenly. She’s startled, of course, but the sound sounds much more like a moan than a protest of pain. Your eyes glow the same scarlet as hers, and the once-innocent expression carries a maturity that only memories of a lifetime could give you. Your hips are still moving—hard and fast against her hand, but Wanda feels much less in charge. You squeeze her neck as you come, and she feels so ridiculously turned on that she can barely move her fingers, being used up in the final waves of your climax. Not a second later, your hand pushes hers away, and her body is pushed next. Pressed against the bed with you on top, instead of holding her neck, you hold both your hands above her head.

"I don't know what the fuck is going on, but this is a very welcome way to bring someone back to life."

She chuckles affectedly, with emotion, with lust. A little - a lot - of both. But in the end, emotion wins. The tears in her eyes are indeed from longing.

"It's so good to see you again, darling." She says hoarsely, her hands still clasped on top of her head.

You sigh, loosening your grip without letting go of her. "Wanda, how..." But she looks like she'll start crying, for real, if you have to explain. You sigh again in defeat and soften your gaze. "How about that coffee? And you explain everything to me calmly."

She nods, smiling tearfully. "You'll have to get off of me first." She jokes, but you look at her mouth and get a little closer to her face. 

"Yeah, in a minute. I don't know how long it's been, honey, but you've managed to get even more stunning." 

She laughs shyly. "Good to know you're still a flirt." 

"Only with my girl." That's what you say before closing the distance. Wanda doesn't need to think about anything or worry as long as she has this. No multiverse, no possible dead variants. She has you, and that's all that matters.

[flutterlesbian]

Electrify Me ! ꙳ ໑ ᮫࣭ ꩜ ｡⋆༄

electro dildo w jinx

↯

cw: straight up jorkin it bdsm (electro kink), dildo (r! receiving), temperature play kind of, teeniest pain kink, ass slaps (r! receiving), established relationship, x female reader, top!jinx, self-indulgent asf ioncaree 😛, short as hell, modern!au

wc: ~580 + proofread

Friday nights were always a good time— wrists tied to your front, fists and body pressed up against the cold bedroom wall. awh awh awh— the sound of your dazy moans and wails filling the room. Jinx behind you, pumping a bright blue dildo in, and then out, at a ridiculously delicious pace; your legs might’ve given out if not for the wall supporting you. Your eyes roll back while Jinx props her head on your shoulder, stars in her eyes as she watches the pleasure take over your features. Your eyes roll to a bunch of Polaroids pinned to the wall— of the two of you at a carnival, heads touching, faces covered in glitter and candyfloss remnants.

“Fuck, baby, I love you-“

Jinx’s left hand roams over your thigh, cupping and squeeze your chest, rubs at your clit. Eyes full of adoration as you twitch in her hands.

Her right hands has the dildo, nudging that band in your stomach, getting tighter and tighter.

“Jinx- baby- I’m gonna- I’m gonna comefuckfuckfuck-“

“Not just yet, sweets. I got something for you,” the dildo is abruptly pulled out of you, and tears sting your eyes.

Her hand lightly slaps your ass, waving in the air as you wait to feel full again.

“Count.”

“One.” Jinx ruffles through the dresser. You can’t see with your face against the wall, but your cluelessness made the room hotter. And you wetter.

Another slap.

“Mh- two.”

More searching.

“Jinx, please-“

“Quiet,” her hands come back down to your ass, harsher than before, but no less loving.

“Three.”

“Here we go!” A toy, shaped different than the other— cool glass, smooth surface— pushes into your walls. Jinx’s cheshire grin doubles in size. Click!

You think you’re imagining it at first, the little cold zaps at your clit, bouncing between your thighs.

She pushes slowly, building you back up to your orgasm. The feeling intensifies quickly, the burn coiling in your stomach; click! a sharp tickle at your wet walls.

“J-jinx, what is that?” Your words are sloshing in your mouth, jaw slack against the wall.

“What’s what, baby?” Click! Your entire lower half was shaking now, your nerves bouncing that electric feeling down to the tips of your toes. That addictive electric feeling— it was mind-numbing, spasming deep inside you. You swore you could feel it in the pads of your fingers. Click!

“Jinx! Jinx- baby- fuckohmygodohmygodohmygod!”

You wanted to touch her so bad, fuck the ropes. Sweat lined your forehead, the thrill of the toy was getting hotter in you; you couldn’t help but bounce from foot to foot with each moan. Your skin felt alive, and against it was Jinx’s.

It felt so good, it almost hurt.

“You’ll come for me, won’t you, hon?” She whispers against your ear, low and rumbling. You nod frantically, unable to form words, hair flattening against the wall. Each zap stung and it was tipping you over the edge—

“I’m cumming, I’m cumming- fuck!”

You came with short, whiny breaths, riding out your high with a now switched-off dildo; stiffening and relaxing into Jinx’s frame.

She tosses the dildo onto the bed, both arms wrapping around your waist. She kissed up your neck, before nibbling on your ear. “Well done, sweets. Let’s get you in bed, shall we?”

The electricity still felt like it danced across your dripping thighs, light as a fairy pinpricking your skin. You moan weakly against Jinx’s mouth as she carries you to bed.

[ilovewomenfr]

just take your shit and go

click before reading

ex!abby, bottom!reader

men dni!!!! NSFW

cw: pretty vanilla, fingering (r!receiving), oral (r!receiving), praise kink, make up sex, idk what else

a/n: yall i thought i would be done this on tuesday. ive been so busy this week w work and life ive barely had time to write. this one’s a bit short but i had to get this idea down. i might improve it some time in the future. not proofreading and i kind of dont like it but thats ok. also requests are open as always. AND THANK YOU FOR SM SUPPORT ON YOU ARE SUCH A NERD! I GENUINELY WAS NOT EXPECTING THAT. xx.

you and your ex broke up two weeks ago, a huge fight blew up between the two of you which is why abby is at the door of your apartment, backpack slung over her shoulder, to collect the rest of her things. when you answer the door, you see abby’s gaze rake over your body.

“seriously abs?” you scoff at her, looking down at your abby’s baggy t-shirt, “do i get my shirt back?” she asks as she rolls her eyes at you, gesturing to the band tee. “oh. uh. yeah. i guess” you respond in a quiet tone.

“do you want a drink or something?” you offer and abby shakes her head, her blonde braid moving along with. the braid she would only take out at home when she was with you. the braid you used to tug on when she was drunk off your pussy to see her half-lidded blue eyes. you lick your bottom lip at the thought before shaking it away.

“are you gonna let me come in?” abby asks in a slightly annoyed tone. you get out of the doorway and allow her to come into the apartment. “most of your stuff is on the couch,” you mumble as you point over to the piles of things you threw onto the couch in a blind rage the night she left.

“aw how sweet of you to put everything on the couch for me.” abby says sarcastically, resulting in an eye roll from you. “just take your shit and go.” you grab a couple boxes and put them on the coffee table. you watch as she starts packing away her clothes into the boxes, standing awkwardly. “so this is it then?” you ask,

“what do you mean?”

“all it took was a fight.”

abby walks over to you, crossing her arms and resting her weight on her hip, “you were the one who told me to get out and never talk to you again, if i remember correctly.”

“because i was mad. i didnt actually expect you to go.” you look up to her eyes, trying to find any trace of resentment, but you find none. instead you still find love, “why are you looking at me like that?” she puts her hands on your waist, instinctively your own arms wrap around her neck. “im not looking at you like anything.”

“you are.” you play with her braid, “you’re looking at me like you still care.” she leans in and kisses you, catching you by surprise. the kiss is full of longing and desire. the way she holds you makes you feel as though a fire is stirring within you. she pulls away and sighs, walking back to the couch and sitting down.

“youre so confusing. i mean you tell me to go then dont want me to go? then you dont even text me for two weeks and when you finally do its because you want my stuff out of the apartment.” you nod, knowing you’re in the wrong here. “but i still care about you y/n.” abby leans back on the couch, practically beckoning you to come and sit on her lap.

you make your way over to the couch, sitting in silence as the both of you look at each other, tension growing in the air. “im sorry. i shouldn’t have told you to go.” you apologize, breaking the silence. “i shouldn’t have left.” her voice is softer than before, her hand find its way to your knee and her thumb brushes soothingly along your skin. the apology hangs over the two of you, and once again your eyes meet. abby’s eyes have a look of desire in them, one you know all too well. that’s all it takes for you to climb over and straddle her.

her hands find your hips immediately, “i’ve missed you, ya know.” you say gently, “prove it.” your hands hold her face and you kiss her again, sensually and slowly. abby’s hands run up your back to your hair trying to deepen the kiss. you part you lips and your tongue meets hers. you almost moan at the familiar taste, but you pull away instead, “does that prove it?” she lowers you onto the couch so you’re below her, “haven’t proved it quite yet.” she murmurs as she captures your lips once more. her hands slide up under your shirt as your tongues dance together, palming and squeezing your breasts, the simple action resulting in arousal shooting down to your core. she captures your moans with her mouth, before planting kisses down your neck, suckling the sweet skin.

moments later both your clothes are on the floor as abby kisses your inner thighs, “abs please” you beg, “i need you.” she looks up at you, “mm look at you begging for me, so needy, huh?” she goes back to sucking and kissing your thighs and you push her head towards your soaked pussy, “abbyyyy please.” you beg, “hm? what do you need pretty girl? need me to eat your pussy?” she nudges your clit with her nose eliciting a needy whine from you. “fuck, just eat me out already! please!” your begs are desperate now, your aching cunt waiting for attention. she pulls your legs over her shoulders and laps your slick, the sensation drawing a shiver from you. your hands clutch her hair as she begins sucking your clit, “fuck abby yeah” the moan is involuntary and in response you feel the vibration of her own.

youre a complete mess under her by the time the knot in your stomach snaps, your release dripping out of you pussy and onto your thighs. abby just keeps going, lewd sounds leaving you and echoing around your living room. she slips her fingers into you and curls them, your back arches as she repeatedly hits your g-spot, “so fuckin pretty when you’re falling apart baby” she murmurs softly. she uses her thumb on your clit and it’s like you’re on top of the world, your cries are becoming pornographic at this point and it’s just egging her on, “yeah, you like my fingers filling you dont you?” she nips your hip, “mmhh yeahhh. fuck baby ‘m gonna cum!” she keeps hitting your g-spot and the pressure building up inside of you reaches its peak, you feel your legs shaking as you cum on her fingers, “youre doing so good for me baby.” she lets you ride out your high on her before sliding her fingers out, “fuck i missed you so much abby” you say, she kisses you, “i missed you too”

tags: @jamiesturniolo

[xxxdreamscapexxx]

Obedience

Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader

Word count: 1.7k (Oops? This started as a ficlet, but it sort of got away from me... Oh well)

Summary: Wanda has to teach you obedience and sometimes that means doing as Mommy tells you, even if you don't want to.

Warning: NSFW, 18+, lesbian relationship, obedience training, edging, ruined orgasm, praise, pussy spanking, use of vibrator, top!Wanda, Bottom!Reader, Mommy Kink;

Masterlist with all my works.

Cruel Mommy Wanda, who puts you through obedience training, because she wants her special girl to always listen to Mommy, no matter how hard, or unfair, or down right mean her commands are. “Take your panties off.” She’d say, almost off handedly, while the two of you are at the door, ready to go out. “But you said we’re leaving…” You’d protest and she’ll only give you a stern look. “Yes, and I want you with no panties on.” Wanda would explain, watching the hesitation flash across your face before you comply. She’d have to train you out of that, she thought to herself, opening the front door, while you were still holding your panties. “Give them to Mommy.” She’d offer you her outstretched hand, watching you try to hide what you have in your hand while you give the panties to her. Wanda only puts them in her purse and guides you to the car, opening the passenger door for you and helping you inside, before she takes her seat at the wheel.

She touches you teasingly and edges you all the way to the store as punishment for your hesitation, all the while she explains that Mommy always knows best and you should never question her. If she wanted you to do something, than you must trust that she knows what’s best. And if she wanted you to hand your panties over to her, you should simply do so, without any reservations. If someone was to see, then it was your Mommy’s wish and that was final. As you walked through the store, your bare pussy leaking juices that smeared across your thighs, you could only think of that lesson, desperate to go back home, so you can beg Wanda to take care of the ache between your legs. Or she’ll message you during class and order you to send her a picture of your pussy. It’s not a request, it’s an order, but you still hesitate. “Mommy, I’m in class.” You’ll send her a text back and from the quick “Now!” that you get, you know you made a mistake. You quickly make an excuse and leave, to do as you are told, and once she receives her picture, you think you’ll be done, but Wanda is adamant that you have to learn obedience. She makes you slap your own pussy, right there and then and she tells you that she wants another picture. “If that pussy isn’t red enough for my liking, little girl, Mommy will spank that pussy till it’s raw.” She sends quickly and you only stare at the message with wide eyes, but you know better than to disobey. You know her hand will be much crueller than yours can ever be. Over time you learn your lesson, each mistake, each hesitation was followed by cruel punishments, until you stopped thinking twice before you do as you’re told and Wanda couldn’t be prouder, but she still wants to test the limit of your obedience, so she makes you kneel on your shared bed, legs open and your hands behind your back, while she pulls out your favorite vibrator and lays it under you. She’s left you denied for a few days now, just to makes this all the more tempting and she watches your inner struggle while she switches the vibrator on.

“Go on, my love, lower yourself on it.” She tells you, her voice sweet and calm and so much kinder than her assessing eyes. You do as you are told, the vibrations so good against your needy clit. You want to grind on it, but you know better than to take more than is offered and Wanda practically beams with pride. “Look at you! You’ve come so far, my darling girl. Mommy trained you well.” She smiles, her gentle hand caressing your cheek. It makes you blush. “Thank you, Mommy.” You smile up at her making Wanda’s eyes sparkle, her heart swelling with love. She lets you stay that way, until you start to get close, offering you sweet kisses, her hands roaming your body and teasing your nipples. She marks your neck, sucks purple marks on your shoulders and collar bones, her steady hands groping your ass and squeezing the tender flesh. “Are you getting close, love?” She asks when your cute whimpers turn to moans of pleasure. You give her a nod, eyes pleading with her silently and Wanda smiles. Now the real test starts. “Get up.” She tells you calmly and she is impressed that you do as you are told instantly, even if it makes you whine at the loss of contact. “Was that mean, baby? Did you want to come?” She asks, her voice velvety. “Yes, Mommy. So mean. I want to come.” You admit shamelessly. “Hmmm…” She pretends to think. “Get back down on it, then.” She tells you, but she keeps her hands away now. She wants to see if you will obey her with no help from her at all. She wants to push your limits. And when you get close again, eyes closing in pleasure, chest starting to heave, her voice rings out again. “Up.” She demands and your body instantly follows even if you squirm restlessly. “Such a good listener, baby. Down.” She praises, letting you get back down on the vibrator.

You sigh in relief, a small sound instantly replaced by a moan as you feel that glorious feeling rise within you again. You’re so close and it makes you feel restless. You want to come so badly. You haven’t had a release in days and you’re desperate. Desperate to please her, to make her happy, to keep being her good girl. Desperate to earn your reward. “Get up.” Wanda commands when she feels you’re close, smiling when you once again do as you’re told. She’s so proud of you in this moment. Her perfect, obedient girl. “Please.” You let out a high-pitched whine, clenching your hands behind your back even tighter, resisting the urge to pull her close and beg while you leave sweet kisses on her face. Wanda loves that. Loves when you climb on top of her and start to kiss her all over, begging sweetly for whatever it is you need. Usually an orgasm. But today she doesn’t want you to beg. Not that she doesn’t like it. Quite the contrary actually, but it’s not the point. Today you just have to obey. “Do you want to come, darling?” She asks sweetly, almost cooing at how adorable you are. “Yes! Mommy, please? Please.” You beg again. “So you’re desperate?” Wanda questions, eyes narrowing to the spot between your legs, seeing your slick juices clinging to your folds. You’re soaked. Ready to be ravished and thoroughly ruined, just the way she likes you. “Yes, Mommy, please.” You nod at her, eyes wide and full of hope. “Lower yourself down then. Show me how badly you need to cum.” You do as you’re told, your body following her orders even before you’ve processed the words. Wanda can’t help but marvel at it. But she’s not satisfied just yet. She wants to see if you will do as told, even when you don’t like it. As your clit meets the vibrator again, you gasp. It feels so good. But before you know it, Wanda makes you remove yourself from the stimulation. She makes you edge yourself over and over again, each time letting you get a little closer, before she makes you pull away. “Up.” Wanda demands once more. You don’t know how many times you’ve done this now. This time you were a breath away from orgasming and she knows it, but you did as you were told. “Was that cruel, baby? Making you stop when you were so close?” She asks with a smile. “Yes.” You gasp, and she chuckles.

It doesn’t bother her that you admit to her cruelty. She can admit it too. She’s being mean to you right now, but then again, you like it. You like her little games, like it when she edges you, when she denies you sometimes, when she overstimulates you too. Honestly, you love everything she does to you, because at the end of the day, you love being hers. You were meant to be her submissive little girl and you will always stay that way. “One more time, baby. Put your clit on the vibrator.” Wanda instructs. Her eyes are so hungry now. You’ve done so well this far. You were magnificent. But she has one more test. The moan you let out when you feel the vibrator against your clit is mothing short of spectacular. So is the rising orgasm within you. You could feel it grow with each edge and now, you were ready to explode. The tidal wave of pleasure reaches its peak a few seconds later and you feel it start to tip over and you brace yourself for one of the most amazing orgasms of your life, when Wanda’s voice rings out again, loud and clear. “Up!” She commands sharply and you do so immediately, but it’s too late. The orgasm washes through you, ruined now, without the stimulation. You cry out in frustration, hips jerking pointlessly in the air, while your clit throbs without a single touch. “Did you cum, sweetheart?” Wanda asks, lifting your face up, so you would look at her. “Yes.” You nod sullenly. “Did you feel any pleasure?” She asks again, eyes inquisitive as she still holds your face. “No, Mommy.” You pout. You sound so whiny. “So there’s no way that you’re satisfied.” Wanda concludes and you shake your head. “Good.” She determines and she switches the vibrator off, pulling it from underneath you. “What do you say?” She asks expectantly. “Thank you, Mommy.” You say, still kneeling on the bed, arms pinned behind your back, just as she had ordered you when this started. “You did well, my love.” Wanda says more tenderly now. “You made me so proud.” She tells you as she strokes your hair gently. “You’re a good girl, baby.” She praises, watching as you start to calm. “My good girl deserves a treat for being so obedient for me” She continues, instantly bringing a smile to your face. “Lay down for me, love.” Wanda guides you. “Let Mommy take care of you. I’m sure an orgasm or two will make up for that ruin.” She purrs, descending your body with a smile. After all, obedient girls get rewarded.

[616ioi]

❛ #OFALLEYES! KAGURABACHI.

────────── of all people, you wish to be the apple of their eyes, doing whatever it takes to fill that sweet spot .ᐟ.ᐟ

⤿ pairings. kunishige rokuhira, togo shiba, kyora sazanami x afab reader, soshiro azami, moku, sumi, yoji uruha, seiichi samura, yura, kuguri, soujo genichi, hiruhiko, soya sazanami, chihiro rokuhira, kashima x gn reader

⤿ contents. twt links, you must have an x acc to access, dom and (mainly) sub characters, very few vids include afab. what you're about to read and watch includes mature content, proceed with caution.

⤿ thoughts. ykw shout out to kashima as well. enjoy.

─────── KUNISHIGE ROKUHIRA

[fem.bodied, sub top reader, manhandling]

A sweet guy. Your lovely husband, always so happy, always staring at you with a light in his eyes when he bares you down, but today?

Kuneshige's holding you down as he pounds into your tightening hole, hips thrusting at an unusual, surprising pace. You could only take, body bouncing helplessly in his lap. If you were to even try to grind your hips yourself, he's wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you down.

Those muscles from hammering a blade all day weren't for show, but he has no intention of hiding them after he finds out you liked how big he was — "Are you hearing yourself? Hmphh, you're so wet, and you've never moaned like this before... you really love when I handle you like a doll, don't you?"

─────── KYORA SAZANAMI

[bottom reader, breeding kink, piv, fem.bodied]

He's a breeder. Maybe amateurish of some sort, but nonetheless, it's impressive, really. He was still able to spurt out so much at his elderly age.

With the size of his fat cock and you're still managing to take him so well. He's got so many kids for a reason. Not because he needs to keep up the family name, no, that's just an excuse. His pull out game is weak, he thinks it's your fault for feeling like heaven.

But, with the way he groans into your chest as he watches his semen drip out of you and how his cock twitches at the sight... he knew it was all him.

"Sorry, my dear." He presses a chaste kiss to your temple, "I couldn't stop myself. Do you think you can handle another kid?"

─────── TOGO SHIBA

[fem.bodied, no exact dom/sub roles, piv, groping]

''Hah hahh,'' he huffs, taking his bottom lip in between his teeth, holding as still as possible. This is new. He's not allowed to move, no touching, no making noise. Only to move when you tell him to go.

You're using him to your hearts content, rocking your hips into his, whimpering when your clit grinds against the base of his cock.

He likes to pleasure you, touch you, make you sing praises for being so good. He can't help himself with how he gropes at your breasts, groaning into sex filled air. It's not like you hate it, if anything, you seem to want it.

─────── SOSHIRO AZAMI

[sub bottom character, prostate massage, vibrator]

He's slipping, body covered in hickeys and love bites from all your previous activities, and you're pushing a toy so deep inside him.

Can't you see he's trying not to fall apart?

Oh, but it's so hard to focus on anything else. Your sadistic laugh rings in his head, and he tries to stop you from raising the vibration, but it's too late — a surprised cry escapes his sore throat, his soft voice dwindling down to shaky breaths.

He arches his back, panting roughly as you manage to hit his favorite spot. A violent shudder takes over his body like a possessed man.

"Urk! S-slow down..!!"

─────── MOKU 'MASUMI'

[sub bottom character, shibari, handjob, edging, yo i'm too obsessed with him help me]

He's always taking care of you. Why not return the favor? Take advantage of the fact that he can't deny you the right to make him feel good as his partner.

"Nghh!" Big boy can't handle a bit of teasing. "[N/n].. [name], please. 'can't take it!"

He's crying out, yanking at the rope, squirming under your hand. The fat of his chest jiggles as his breathing quickens. It's so tempting to just nip away at him. To steal a quick kiss and make him forget his own name.

"I.. think..." His body tenses when your palm rubs circles around the fat, swollen head. He can be so sensitive. "C-coming."

─────── SUMI 'MASUMI'

[masturbation, fem solo]

You're so adorable. So endearing with the way you think of her. She hugs the teddy bear you won for her as her fingers reach so deeply inside her. The pressure she feels is so heavy that she can't help the startled way her legs jump and kick out.

A wanton moan escapes her red stained lips. She eagerly pushes another finger inside, blatantly ignoring the sound of squelching, it's normal, she knows this, however, she hears the sound of you cooing in her ear, babbling about how pretty she looks.

Her slick coated thighs spread open, whimpering when she feels a gust of cold air hit her, it almost feels like your presence...

─────── YOJI URUHA

[sub bottom character, guided masturbation using a dildoʻ, slapping (twice, three)]

Smack! Your hand strikes at his inner thigh, stopping him in his tracks with a warning. "Watch carefully, cutie. Let's do it again, 'kay?"

"K-kay." he stumbles out. He squints his eyes, willing them not to roll back from the sheer need. Your fingers wrap around yourself, lightly, barely. He follows in suit with a ghost of a shudder, bucking his hip as he copies your movements.

Your wrist twists at the base, and so does his, but just as quickly as the movement came, it left. Uruha feels himself hesitate, and it earns him a sharp slap once again. He jolts up, alarmed as he chokes on a moan — "ungg, sorryy! Give me another chance, please, I'll do better this time."

He fails to do so.

Afterward, as you bathe together, he kisses you on the cheek, cheeky smirk plastered on his face. He liked it a lot.

─────── SEIICHI SAMURA

[sub bottom character, male solo, sensory blindness, vibrator]

"If you don't touch yourself, we'll do it raw." That was your proposal. Samara's cigarette nearly slips from his mouth from shock. The slimy condoms, he hated them, he struggled to put it on and, worst of all, when it slipped from his hands, the mood would quickly dampen because he'd (for some reason) really want to blindly find it.

He later smirked, accepting your challenge. As an older guy, he has a lot of resistance, both of you know so.

Poor old man.

Seiichi didn't expect the amount of blinding he was going under; no hearing, no hands on himself, your underwear stuffed in his mouth, and finally, no eyes.

He can't hear himself, but he knows he's struggling to hold in his noises — constantly curling into himself to hide away in his shame. He feels your sharp gaze on him, it feels so intimate compared to the lack of your touch running over his body. He smells your comforting scent. Oh, you smell so good.

His sturdy thighs clench around your pillow, huffing and wetting your clothing article with his spit and drool. He needs to touch himself. He wants to cum properly.

He needs to.

He doesn't think he can do it. Oh, gods.

─────── YURA

[sub bottom character, vibrator, handjob sorta, cock slapping]

You're laughing. Chuckling at him, and he's choking on his own spit, breath hitching as you raise the vibration.

He's feeling everything at max. There's no way he can keep it up. He brings his lip between his teeth, hissing.

This is revenge, isn't it? For his performances of submission. You want to see him stutter and cry, don't you?

Yura's abdomen flexes as he starts to pant heavily. He's coming. His eyes roll into the back of his head, thighs quivering.

He actually can't warn you.

You've actually caught his tongue. Can barely even speak by the end of it..

─────── KUGURI

[sub bottom character, cock polishing, sometimes i like to think that he slips a lot in the shower, don't know really]

"Can you be a little quieter, kuguri?" Grey eyes harden your way. He knows this. Can't you tell that he's trying? He's not even being loud — ah, wait, let's backtrack on that. He's shuffling around too much. Lean body twisting and turning as you drag the sheer white gauze against the feverishly red tip that oozes with precum.

He wants to fawn over you. Geek out at how calm you appear in this situation. A light blush coats his face.

Despite your apathetic expression, he knows very well that you're worried.

There are others outside of the bathroom. If one of them overhears, you'll never be able to live this down. "You've got to be quiet!" You shush him in a whisper. He huffs angrily. He knows. He knows already. He's trying.

"Then- ah, then quit moving!" What a whiner. He's seriously considering cutting his own tongue off.

You shift the gauze the slightest bit to the left.

His entire body shivers violently, grunting behind gritted teeth.

"Really?" You tilt your head. You shift to the right, "You really want me to stop?"

Over his dead body.

─────── SOUJO GENICHI

[sub bottom character, ball kicking/slapping, nipple play. play, the link might be a bit more hardcore than the others, hints of a threesome]

"Like this, [name]?" His favorite concubine calls out for your attention. She pinches at the tattooed man's perky buds, eliciting a gargled cry from him, his bounded arms yanking at the restrictions.

If he was freed, there was no way you wouldn't be dead. Maybe he'd spare his woman, she's good at following orders. But you? You like to see him crying from pleasure.

And it tends to screw him over (he enjoys it too much that it scares him).

"Just like that. Don't you see how he reacts? He's weeping." You put more of your body weight on his cock, your foot nearly slipping from all his fluids — sweat, cum, spit. You name it. "Hold him down. I'm not finished with him."

And when he starts to sob for a proper release, he starts to bite back out of humiliation, you slap his cock instead. The tips of your fingers scraping against his sensitive balls. He squirms helplessly.

"Soujo..." Calls out another concubine who watches from afar. He surely hears her — them. All of them are here. Observing. Watching as their master falls apart on the very tatami floors of his bedroom. "You're sick if you really like this..."

─────── SOYA SAZANAMI

[sub bottom character, impact play, degradation, arranged marriage]

He likes you so much: he wants to marry you, having already proposed the idea to your parents and his father. They've come to an agreement, and you hated him.

You refused to talk to him unless necessary. You can't look him in the eye, and worst of all, you won't let him feed him. Care for you.

Why? He only wants the best for you.

Give him a taste of his own medicine. That way, he can understand why you hate him. That way he can fix himself.

Spit curses at him as he kneels before you. For the first time since your marriage, you looked him in the eyes. And he reacts to your degrading words with a whimper and his hand shoots over his mouth, embarrassed of the sound that escaped him.

But you slapped him.

He reacts to it with scared eyes and a tightness in his pants.

"What did I tell you, sazanami?" Your foot nudges the outline of his boner then gasping when he cries out. He was barely able to reciprocate to your words, body twitching your way.

"Ahnn t-to be still ah!" You're the only one trying to make him a better man.

─────── HIRUHIKO

[sub bottom character, ruined orgasm, handjob]

While he may not have lots of experience, he doesn't want to be taken less serious. I'd say he cums a lot — that release being put on hold for hours now.

He really tried to hold it off, smiling with pleasure when you told him; "don't cum unless I say so." Of course.

He really did try, hips flexing as his chest heaves rapidly, he only wanted to hear those praises of yours so desperately but he couldn't do so well when you pulled away.

"I can do it." He tells you impatiently. A whine rips away from him, "You don't have to watch over me. I'm excited.."

But here he is, twisting, squirming uncontrollably as he arches his back, spurting all over himself. You click your tongue, oh, he doesn't want you to feel disappointed.

"Ngh..!!" He's sorry (not really), "couldn't hold it anymore.."

─────── CHIHIRO ROKUHIRA

[clothed dry humping, suit ngh, sub bottom character]

Since chihiro's new to this, extremely unexperienced, you decide to take things slow with him. Though, on some days, the overwhelming urge to tease and make him desire takes over, and you find yourself straddling him, hands running all over his body before rolling your hips tenderly.

"Feel good, chihiro?" You coo down at him.

Feel him wither beneath you at the unimaginable pleasure he receives with just a little weight pressing down on his clothed cock.

He can't even begin to process how he'll feel if you make skin to skin contact.

His red eyes widen, tears building up in his gaze, "uh-huh," he croaks, meeting your hips clumsily. The only way to silence him is with a kiss! Just try to ignore the way he throbs when your lips meet his.

─────── KASHIMA

[sub character, semi public, vibrator]

Ice cream date! Oh, he loves to see you happy with him. He's so excited to be played with, pupils dilated as he takes in your every story.

He licks his spoon of ice cream, noting it's sweet taste before his jolts — caught completely off guard. A vrrr noise sounds. And he gasps.

Here?

He tries to warn you to turn it off, at the very least lower the volume. This only eggs you on to heighten it.

"Quit being mean..." he whimpers in your ear. His shoulders trembling.

You've taken advantage of his weak spot for you. Never able to say no to you. He'll now suffer the consequences. Happily, dare he say.

He can't even finish his dessert without shaky hands!

[may-cii]

Cold nights

Cold nights vanish in the heat of Geralt's passionate hold.

Geralt of rivia x (sorceress) female reader

Genre: SMUT / fluff (minors DNI)

Wc: 1,320

A/N: hi guys I’m gonna make the smut longer next time negl it’s pretty short so this is mostly fluff but there is smut and thank you guys for the support on my last post!

—

Traveling with Geralt is a engery drainer. While he’s drawn to the chaos of monster hunts, you prefer the quiet precision of sorcery and trade. Yet, despite your differences, you find yourself pulled into his world time and time again. You tell yourself it’s out of necessity—someone has to patch him up after a fight—but deep down, you know it’s more than that. There’s something magnetic about the way he moves, his body coiled with tension, his every action deliberate. When he’s injured, it’s you who tends to him, your hands steady as you stitch his wounds. And yes, you’ve noticed the way his muscles ripple beneath his skin when he removes his shirt, though you’d never admit it. You’ve convinced yourself that Geralt doesn’t see you that way, that your bond is purely platonic. But sometimes, when his gaze lingers a moment too long, you wonder.

What you don’t realize is that Geralt admires you just as deeply. He values your presence on these journeys, your quiet strength and unwavering focus. To him, you’re a constant in a world that’s anything but. He’s drawn to the way you move, the way you think, the way you seem to understand him without needing words. But he’s hesitant to act on it, afraid that crossing that line might ruin what you already share. He’s not one for grand declarations, and the thought of losing you is more terrifying than any monster he’s faced.

“Geralt,” you call out, noticing he’s fallen a few steps behind. He catches up, his expression unreadable as always. “Let’s stop at this tavern. I could use a drink.” You reach for his hand, your fingers brushing against his calloused palm, and pull him along with a lightness that makes him smile despite himself.

The tavern is alive with the hum of drunken laughter and clinking mugs. Geralt steers you toward a corner table, away from the rowdier patrons. After a couple of drinks, he gently takes the cup from your hand. “That’s enough,” he says, his voice firm but soft. His eyes flicker to your face, then briefly lower before he looks away, hoping you didn’t catch the way his gaze lingered.

“And why’s that?” you protest, your words slightly slurred, a playful pout on your lips.

“Because you’re drunk,” he replies, his tone leaving no room for argument. He stands, tossing a few coins on the table before offering you his hand. “Let’s get you to bed, darling.” His arm slips around your waist, steadying you as you walk. Normally, you’d brush off such closeness, but tonight, your mind is too hazy to resist. You lean into him, savoring the warmth of his body against yours. When he removes his hand, you feel the absence acutely, a chill settling in its place.

“Here?” Geralt asks, gesturing to a clearing. You nod, wrapping your arms around yourself as the cold bites at your skin. “Help me set up. It’ll warm you up,” he suggests, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back as he guides you forward.

Once the tent is pitched, you shed your outer layers, leaving you in a simple nightgown. You grab your hairbrush, running it through your hair with slow, deliberate strokes. Geralt watches you from the corner of his eye, his admiration barely concealed. “I’ll be back soon,” he says softly before slipping out of the tent.

When he returns, you’re already in bed, the light dimmed. “What did you get?” you mumble, resting your head on the pillow.

“Some berries,” he replies, placing them on the table. He walks over to you and sits on the edge of the bed. “And this,” he adds, holding out a delicate white flower. “For the prettiest girl in the kingdom.”

You smile, taking the flower and inhaling its sweet scent. “Thank you,” you say, your voice warm. Everything he does makes you fall for him even more. If only he knew.

“You like it?” he asks, leaning back against the bed frame.

You nod and lean forward to hug him, pressing a kiss to his cheek before settling back into your spot. Geralt turns off the light as he lies down beside you. You both pull the covers over yourselves and drift off to sleep.

You wake in the middle of the night, shivering. “You cold, darling?” Geralt’s voice is low and gravelly with sleep.

“Yeah,” you whisper, trembling.

Geralt pulls you close, your back pressing against his chest. He wraps an arm around your waist, and you nuzzle into the crook of his neck, letting out a contented sigh. “Did I wake you?” you ask softly.

“No, you didn’t. I haven’t been sleeping well,” he admits, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear before resting his hand on your waist.

“Geralt?” you murmur.

“Yeah?” he breathes out.

“Do—do you love me?” you hesitate, curiosity getting the better of you.

Geralt lets out a low chuckle. “Yes, I do,” he pauses for a moment. “Do you love me, Y/N?”

You turn to face him, your breath mingling in the cool air. “I do love you. So much,” you smile before your lips meet his. The kiss deepens, becoming more urgent. The cool breeze drifts through the tent, making you shiver.

“I’m cold, Geralt,” you murmur against his lips.

He pulls you closer, your bodies pressed together. You can feel his hard length pressing against your core. You kiss him again, your fingers tangling in his hair as his hand slides down to grip your ass. You moan softly, grinding your hips against his. Geralt groans, his hand moving to your throat as the other slips between your thighs.

He tugs your panties aside and slides a finger into you. You gasp, your body tensing as he pumps his fingers in and out of you. “Geralt,” you whimper, and his cock throbs at the sound of your voice. He quickens his pace, adding a second finger and circling your clit with his thumb. The sensation is overwhelming, and you know he’s going to make you come undone.

Geralt kisses you gently before pulling his hand away. You let out a needy whine, and he chuckles, lifting your leg higher over his hip. Your hands fumble with his belt, freeing his aching cock. It’s thick and heavy, veins prominent and glistening with precum. You moan at the sight before he guides himself into you. Your walls clench around him, taking in his girth.

“Fuck,” he growls as you tighten around him, his hips beginning to move. He starts slow, the deliberate pace making your stomach flutter with anticipation. But soon, his thrusts become more urgent, more demanding. You moan and whimper, your lips seeking his in sloppy, desperate kisses. Geralt’s groans grow deeper, his thrusts harder, each one hitting that sweet spot inside you.

“Need to cum,” you whine, your voice trembling with need.

“Go on, darling,” he grunts, his own release close. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the tent, mingling with your moans. The air is thick with the scent of sex. Geralt hits that spot again, and you cry out, your orgasm crashing over you. You cling to him, riding the wave of pleasure as Geralt follows, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you. You come again, your walls clenching around him as you both moan, bodies pressed together in the throes of ecstasy.

Your movements slow, becoming lazy and unhurried until they still completely. Geralt presses a tender kiss to your lips and brushes a strand of hair from your face. “Are you still cold?” he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice.

You giggle softly. “No, I’m not.” He smiles and nods, wrapping his strong arms around you as you drift off to sleep.

[florencebirdsong]

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Marvel Kinktober 2024

Summary: Wanda wants to see just how good you can be.

Tags: breathplay, mommy wanda, sub reader, praise kink, obedience, implied subspace, soft wanda, oral (r receiving), fingers (r receiving), bondage without bondage

Words: 953 | AO3 | Masterlist

Authors note: this is a kink that isn’t written about as often so I super hope you enjoy!!

“Still,” Wanda murmurs against your skin and you obey instantly. She hums happily as she continues her gentle exploration, hands smoothing down skin while her lips gently caress the curve of your stomach. It’s a struggle not to move, to press insistently into her teasing hands, but you don’t twitch. Not even when she finally, finally, makes it down to where you want her the most.

The bold swipe her tongue makes surprises you but her nose nudging your clit is what truly does you in. Your hips twitch upwards and a small moan escapes your lips.

Wanda doesn’t reprimand you like you’re expecting. Her hands merely press your hips down as she dives in for more.

“So wet,” she murmurs. You want to point out that she’s been teasing you for forever but her command from earlier still holds so you settle for a whine. Her grin brushes your inner thigh, “Hold your breath while mommy cleans you up, baby.”

She waits patiently for you to take two deep, lung filling breaths and for you to hold the third before she puts her tongue back on you.

Torturous kitten licks swipe up your slit, teasingly dipping deeper but never up towards your clit. You get to breathe when the mess is gone but she’s just making more.

One heartbeat after that thought and she clearly commands, “Breathe.”

You let your breath out in a controlled rush and curl your fingers into the mattress. That hadn’t been long enough for the euphoria to go to your head, it only adds to the ache that her teasing has created.

“Good girl,” her thumb rubs gentle circles into your hip. You continue to take deep breaths. Evening out your breathing is important and you know Wanda won’t go again so early until you do so.

Wanda’s hands travel to your thighs as you do so and she parts them further. Her gaze hot enough that it’s almost a caress.

“Such a messy baby,” she flashes you grin, “I could spend all night cleaning you up.”

Wanda raises an eyebrow when you try to protest and your slam your mouth shut. You shake your head rapidly and give her your best pleading eyes. Her grin grows as she returns her eyes to your dripping pussy.

“We’ll just have to see, won’t we?” Her tongue starts just below your end trance and firmly travels all the way up over your clit, “Although, isn’t there a saying about needing to make a bigger mess to clean up a smaller one?” Wanda pauses like she expects an answer so you give her a desperate whine and buck your hips. “Don’t be naughty,” she tsks and you immediately lower your hips, “Mommy knows what you want.”

Wanda pushing your thighs apart is the only warning you get before she says, “In,” and pushes her tongue deep inside of you. You’d moan if you weren’t holding your breath.

The relief of having her finally inside of you is immeasurable and your muscles tense as you try to stay still. Wanda doesn’t let up, devouring you now that she has given herself permission to do so. It’s not until your lungs gives you a second insistent demand that she pulls back and tells you to breathe. Her fingers replace her tongue, teasing your entrance for a moment before starting long, deep strokes.

The release of air is much less controlled this time but you’re not at gasping stage quite yet. Wanda’s free hand taps your thigh twice and you tap the mattress twice back in confirmation. She’s biting her lip, her gaze focused entirely on her fingers. You’re squirming now but Wanda seems too entranced to care. Biting your hand doesn’t quiet the moans as much as you’d like but you don’t want Wanda to stop. Her thumb finds your clit and any subtlety is over. A loud moan rips from your lips and your hips’ search for more pressure is humiliatingly obvious. Wanda chuckles quietly and brings her mouth back to your clit.

“Mommy’s going to make you cum now. But only if you hold your breath like a good girl. You get one extra for behaving so well,” Wanda’s eyes never leave your clit. She doesn’t wait this time and you barely get a lung full of air in before she’s leaning down and sucking hard.

You throw your head back and cling to the sheets. Her fingers speed up and her tongue presses firmly against your clit and you’re starting to get lightheaded. Pleasure flood through you and builds fast, sending a flash up your spine with every swipe of Wanda’s tongue and press of her fingers.

You aren’t going to make it but Wanda gives that glorious permission, “One,” and you suck in a breath as fast as you can. It makes your head even lighter and sends a tingle straight to your clit. Three heartbeats later and you’re cumming over Wanda’s fingers. The feeling sharpening thanks to your lack of air.

Wanda begins cooing the second she feels you cum, “There we go, such a good girl for me. You did so well, my perfect girl. So good,” and on as you catch your breath. Her hands run firmly up and down your thighs to keep you grounded.

She crawls up your body to cover your face in soft kisses and whisper warm praises. The afterglow fills you and you reach up to pull her against you. Wanda goes happily, her weight reassuring as your head grows foggier. Your eyes slip shut as she runs her lips across your cheek and you bask in her attention as she slowly reassures you and brings you back to earth.

[megalomaniacz]

CAITLYN “KILLSHOT” KIRAMMAN 🏀 PT2

basketball caitlyn x cheerleader reader

pt 1

smut, top!cait x bottom!reader

“be my date to this party my friend is throwing?”

you couldn’t say no, not that you wanted to, but you really did owe her. plus, you had nothing to do this weekend but homework and sulking rewatching the same episodes of the same show while stuffing your face with popcorn, so you said yes.

she told you she’d pick you up at 9 and you were ready by 4:30. the anxiety of the night twisting your stomach into pretzel-like knots. you take a small breath as you leave your dorm and walk out to the front. it was 8:59 but it seemed like she’d been sitting there a while. you hurry to the car and get in her passenger’s seat, hands placed neatly in your lap.

“you excited?” she asks. eyes focused on the road ahead. you let out a small “yes” before she turns her music up and you both sit in silence on the way.

you show up to a house you’d never been to before. there were a couple parties you attended, but never one quite like this. the house was huge, it had the kind of staircase that was shaped like a spiral. there were free drinks everywhere, and the music was blowing from a huge set of speakers. you saw a group of people in the corner smoking weed, and even recognized your cheermates mingling in the kitchen.

caitlyn grabbed your hand and led you upstairs where it was a bit quieter. she opened the door to a room all the way down the hallway where two other people sat sharing a bottle. “hello everyone, let me introduce you to my new friend.”

“the cheer girl. i recognize you.” one of them says and it makes you wish you could melt into the floor. “be nice, vi, it wasn’t her fault.” caitlyn sits next to her, pawing for a drink. “whatever you say, cupcake.” vi responds, giving her the bottle. caitlyn then passes it to you, and you take a large drink, knowing this night will be long.

the night went on smoothly after a couple drinks. you’d left the room to go to the bathroom when you found yourself back downstairs dancing against another basketball player to an rnb song. you closed your eyes, feeling the music.

after thirty seconds you could feel someone pull you aside. the figure drags you to the bathroom before your vision clears and you realize it’s caitlyn. “what’s the matter kiramman?” you furrow your brows.

she seems angry, the type of angry people try their best to hide. you could see her face turning red and her knuckles turning white. she nearly talks between gritted teeth.

“why the fuck were you dancing with that witch?”

you take a very loud gulp. turning yourself around to face the mirror. her hands are at both of your sides so you can’t slip away, and you can feel the anxiety start to sober you up. “who was i dancing with? is there a problem with dancing?”

you can feel her growing angrier with you, her dress just above her knees. her heels making her tower over you. she turns you around and places a firm hand under your chin. “there’s a problem when you’re dancing with maddie and you came here as my date.”

suddenly you feel flush. your body growing weak under her gaze. that was caitlyn’s ex. how could you have not known? how embarrassing. you open your mouth to apologize, but instead, feel a push on your stomach. caitlyn steps back as you run over to the toilet and hack up a mixture of whatever you’d been snacking on to calm your nerves earlier today. she put a hand on the back of your head and began to shush you.

“i think it’s time for us to go.”

you couldn’t believe you were apologizing once again to caitlyn. how many mistakes were you gonna make to piss her off? she hushed you as she ushered you out of the house, sitting you in the passengers seat. five minutes into the ride you were fully sober, and realized you were not headed back to your dorm.

caitlyn pulled into the parking lot of her apartment, then opened the door to help you out of the car. you both silently walk up the stairs hand in hand until you reach her door. she unlocks it and you both walk in. all the lights are off except for a dim lamp in the living room and some leds in the hallway.

she slumps on the couch and you sit next to her. another apology falling from your lips.

“i’m so-“

“sorry? you’ve been incredibly sorry the last few days, but things don’t seem to change, huh? you keep embarrassing me.” caitlyn interrupts.

you feel your heart sink and your eyes begin to water. it was true, you just kept making mistakes. you were sure you’d be the topic of discussion tomorrow. caitlyn’s date dancing with her ex? how much messier can things get?

“i promise i’ll make it up to you.” you start as you notice her beginning to take her jewelry off. she unbuckles her belt and slips off her short black denim jacket. “oh yeah?” she asks, stretching her neck. you get closer to her, hands reaching out towards her face. “i’ll give you a massage. i’ll do your taxes. please…i’m so sorry.”

she leans in closer to you, a smirk on her face as she grabs yours and pulls you in for a kiss. you feel your heart beating faster, hands growing sweaty, as if the wind had been knocked out of you. her lips were so soft you melted into them. tasting hints of mint on her tongue.

when you pull away you catch a glint in her eyes. the way she’s looking at you now is far different than earlier. she bites her lip, pulling her hair out of her face. “you really wanna make it up to me?”

you nod your head, and she’s on top of you, straddling your waist as she kisses down your jaw to your neck leaving marks on your chest. you close your eyes, melting into her touch. the pleasure causing you to push your legs together. shallow breaths come out as she notices and begins to spread them apart with her knees.

“fuck.” you whine, feeling exposed. you were wearing an oversized shirt as a dress with nothing but tights underneath. she grabs at them, ripping a hole around your heat. when you open your mouth in defense of your tights, she shushes you. “i’ll buy you more.”

she then tugs your underwear to the side and latches her tongue onto your heat. mouth pushed into you as if you were running away. which you were, squirming under her stomach twisting pleasure. you could feel it in your thighs and your arms. the way her tongue twisted against you. her mouth sucking up your slick.

and as if that wasn’t enough, she inserted her middle finger, pulsing at your g spot. it causes you to cry out her name. “ca- caitlyn.” you whimper. she pulls away for a second to look up at you. beautiful blue eyes piercing through yours. as you open your mouth to say something else, she inserts another finger, cutting you off.

your back arches as you try to take it like a good girl. hands digging into her couch while you buck up into her mouth. her grip on you is tighter now. one hand fucking into you while the other wraps itself around your thigh pulling you in. you can’t help but cry out to her. feeling your climax approaching.

“fuck m’gonna.” you breath out. your hands tangle themselves in her hair, legs shaking as she has you seeing fucking stars.

you can feel the orgasm bubbling up when suddenly she pulls away from you, spitting on your cunt and sucking it back up before wiping her lips off with the back of her hand. she takes her fingers out, cleaning them with her tongue, and looks up at your poor pathetic face.

“now we’re even.”

[caffienemocha]

Ace from One Piece please

(oh boy oh boy I'm getting out of my hiatus for this one. BTW THIS IS A SHORT FAN FIC because I've been in a tight schedule and this was just a short ramble :0)

<WARNING: NSFW AHEAD so minors DNI >> any readers that doesn't identify as a male DNI!! >>

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ PORTGAS D. ACE X MALE READER ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖

˗ˏˋ 'lemme make it up to you ˎˊ˗

You asked yourself, how did you end up being the boyfriend of the infamous Portgas D. Ace? Although he seems like a cocky, cool, and composed fellow, he's actually pretty clumsy and a dumbass most of the time. You take care of his mess, cook food for him three times a day (not including his midnight snacks), the usual house husband type of stuff. Although he sails around the sea, embarking with the Whitebeard Pirates gathering treasures and casually causing chaos and annoyance to wandering Marine in the area, Ace still holds a fair share of help in the house that rested near the dock the two you live in by giving you an allowance to buy groceries and things you want and need. Ace isn't the perfect boyfriend and he knows it. The countless nights you've slept alone without Ace by your side from his sailings, and even when he returns, he'll either leave in a short while, a few days or even a day after. He tries to make it up to you, by trying to cheer you up with gifts, affection, or straight up session after session of love-making. That doesn't fill the emptiness in your heart though, you wanted Ace to stay for a bit longer, you wanted him to at least stay for a few weeks. You wanted him to take you on dates like the first weeks of you two being boyfriends, you wanted him to treat you like a prince and pamper you as much as he did those years ago. But it was a duty of a pirate to sail the blue oceans, cross the seas, hunt for treasures, and wipe those oppose them, only to come back for a short while before leaving again. Again, you asked yourself, how'd you ended up for someone who isn't there for you most of the time?

..."I'm home." The door creaked open as the salty breeze of the sea nearby went inside the house as Ace took off his shoes and placed it right by the door before closing it and locking it. Holding a small box of treasure full of gold, jewels, and other gems, Ace took off his hat as he went inside the cozy abode, placing the box on the center table. "Welcome back, Ace." You greeted your taller boyfriend with a warm smile as you came out the kitchen, the aroma coming from the room behind you smelled magically and comforting for Ace, he hadn't eaten for a while. "There's my baby. C'mere." He softly chuckled as you took steps forward to his muscular figure who had his arms open wide, wanting to hug you after a few weeks apart. With a sigh of amusement, you hugged him back as your rugged clothes rubbed against his exposed torso. "I missed you so bad, why do you have to be gone for so long..." You said in a whiny tone, as if begging him to stay more longer than usual. Ace's instinct immediately had his arms wrapped around your smaller frame, his muscled arms comforting you. "I know, babe, I know...we already had this conversation before. The seas are big." Ace sighed as if wanting to stay like this forever but his stomach gurgled in response, betraying his thoughts as he let out a nervous laugh, "Quite hungry." "Obviously, you knucklehead." You replied sarcastically. "What're you cooking? Smells delicious." Ace asked with the familiar smile you've been wanting to see after the past few days. "You'll see, c'mon." As you grabbed his arm, you immediately lead him to the kitchen with a pot placed atop a stove, releasing steams of flavorful aroma that lingered around the room. "How about you take a seat while I prepare your food?" Ace only nodded at your words before going out of the kitchen, sitting in the living room as he whistled. Grabbing the pot cover, you grabbed a bowl as you used your ladle to scoop up the delicious stew you've cooked and tenderized ever since this morning. Serving it atop of freshly, cooked rice, you stepped out of the kitchen holding a bowl and a spoon for Ace to use to chow down. Placing it in front of him, the aroma hit Ace's nose as the delicious bowl of protein and rice laid before him. "Looks delicious, babe. Thanks." He said before grabbing it and chowing it all down spoon after spoon.

"So, what have you been up to while I was gone?" Ace asked in between bites and chewing. The question caught you off-guard, why so sudden? Yet you answered. "The usual. Clean the house, walk around the dock, watch the sea, buy groceries..." Your voice faded with a mutter as you scratched the back of your head. Ace knew something was wrong, something that signaled him that you truly need him. That he'll stay longer than what he usually does so. Ace didn't replied back until he was finished with his bowl of food, drinking water to wash it all down. Without warning, Ace then pinned you to the chair you're sitting on, his eyes nonchalant yet a glimmer of care and worry shining on his pupils. "Tell me what's wrong. You've missed me so much than usual, huh? Is that right?" He interrogated you as he continued pressing your wrist down the rails of the chair, his face mere inches away from yours. You let out a blush of flustered feelings and a scoff. "You're always gone, of course I've missed you..." You replied in a muttered voice, Ace let out a smirk as he got closer to your face, his freckles adoring his already handsome complexion. "'Lemme make it up to you then, babe." Without warning, he carried you on his shoulders as he went to the bedroom, locking it just after he, and along you on his shoulders, came in and throwing you to bed. "I always remembered you like it rough, you little masochist."

Out of his back revealed a rope, placing it roughly beside your body as the taller male ripped you out of your clothes, placing the torn linen to the floor. Your cute little body obviously turned him on, seeing how his noticeable, massive bulge on his crotch. "I'm gonna make it up to you- I'll go rougher than usual ... so better say yes or no before I ravage your entire body and leave it sore."

[🔥] like for part 2

[solar-wing]

⚣ Conner Kent: NSFW Alphabet 🟥

⚣ 🟥 A/N → Something to hold y'all over until the next story is up 😉. Funny enough, I knew I had done these headcanons before, but couldn't find the document, so I just started fresh... only for me to find my original headcanons right as I was exporting the document💀 my fucking life... I swear. Anyway, ENJOY! 😁

⚣ 🟥 Word Count → 10.0K

REBLOGS & replies are greatly appreciated, please! 💛

⚣ ENJOY 🟥

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Attentive and clingy.

To consider what Conner is like after sex is also to consider his half-human Kryptonian nature. As will be mentioned further down, Conner is someone with higher-than-average stamina compared to most other humans and meta-humans alike. So, his aftercare is a combination of various elements.

Despite a gruff and emotionally reserved exterior that Conner likes to maintain, he is someone attentive and considerate in his vulnerable moments. Especially in the early stages of his freedom/life, he’s still learning his strength and how far he can go without irreversible effects. In those rare moments when he allows his walls to drop, he may not always be skilled with his words, but his actions convey someone who wants their partner to feel safe, understood, and comfortable—both physically and emotionally.

He’ll clean up if that is what’s preferred, but expect a tendency to hover, especially if it was a rougher session. He may check for bruises and wounds he may have accidentally inflicted, help carry to the bathroom or wherever is needed, etc. His main thing, however, is to just embrace and cuddle in the aftermath, especially if he’s in a more possessive mood. With his origins and abilities, he will, without thought, wrap his body around his partner like a shield; bonus points if he’s still inside.

It’s a vulnerable move, but it’s an assurance for him. It surprised him how much he cares, considering his initial purpose. An intense need for intimacy and closeness that he doesn’t realize is there, but which becomes completely apparent in those tender after moments. So when he kisses your shoulder or murmurs a gravelly “you okay?” into your neck, know it’s his silent way of saying “you matter.”But, also don’t be surprised if a particular pride shows through, especially if it was one of those sessions. You will find out very quickly how smug that man can be when he's flexing himself inside of you or giving a slight, forceful nudge against you as a reminder of who you just let wreck your insides, and why it will only be him.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

On himself: Considering Conner was quite literally engineered to be perfect—or at least, the ideal copy of Superman, he doesn’t think about his body in terms of vanity, since he knows it’s already the standard and most desired in society’s eyes. It haunts him a bit, though, the knowledge that who he is and how he comes across to the world might not be fully authentic. But if there’s one part he takes subconscious pride in, it’s his arms.

Not just for how strong they are (though they are ridiculous—ropey veins, thick forearms, biceps that stretch seams), but for what they can hold. Something that will be a recurring topic is how Conner unconsciously values intimacy. Whether he realizes it or not, much of his reasoning for his arms being his favorite part of himself is less to do with him being built like a weapon and more to do with using that body to cradle someone without hurting them. The contrast gets to him, and he loves the little things. When you slap his arm in scolding, and the immediate flushed and turned on expression, no matter how subtle, follows afterward, it is at the strength and size of his arm. How you grip his arms in the middle of the act, especially when you’re overwhelmed as he’s rocking your bodies together, back and forth. How his arms look against you when carrying or holding you against him—that one’s a favorite—every time.

On his partner: Conner loves the look and feel of a pair of good-looking thighs, especially when they're straddling him, squeezing around his hips, trembling under his hands as he parts them. It makes him lose his composure fast when he has a view of powerful, plush, or quivering thighs locked against him—he’s obsessed with them. His touch there will often—almost always—linger, with his fingers spreading across the soft give, gripping tighter than he may mean to, and sometimes spacing and tracing his thumbs lightly across the skin to see them quiver and jiggle from the tickling sensation.

They’re a go-to comfort spot pre-sex, during sex, and post sex. Don’t exactly know how that middle one works out, but it works for him. Whether he’s resting his head there using the natural warmth or coolness as a pillow, burying his face between them in the most titillating of ways, nudging his hips and body between them as he buries himself inside you, or even as something as simple as carrying you over his shoulder and getting to hold and press your thighs under his arms—bonus points! A thought to keep in mind, though: exercise caution when selecting your bottomwear. Conner’s not overtly pervy, but his eyes always drop, and his palms will wander as if your thighs are some kind of gravitational force his hands can’t escape.

In addition to that, know that Conner is 100% an ass man. A man who is obsessed with lower limbs, it doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure out the man likes a good pair of jiggly booty cheeks! But, don’t get him wrong, he likes a good chest just as much as the next person, especially if it's pressed up against him in the dark, warm, and soft against his own sturdy frame, but ass is where his hands naturally go, as if on instinct. Again, be careful with the choice of pants or shorts, as Conner does not have it in him to even pretend he’s not staring, let alone hide it. There’s a control aspect to it as well; a satisfying element in how he can grip your ass to pull himself deeper onto you, grind you against his thigh or front, or fondle you while you're bent helplessly over his shoulder. It’s his favorite handle, whether he's fucking rough or holding you close during slower, messier sessions.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Conner has a visceral relationship with cum, one that’s considered equally primal, possessive, and dangerously addictive once he allows himself to lean into it more. In the beginning, when he’s learning about intimacy and sex as a whole, the sensation of ejaculation is obviously one of the ones that takes a bit getting used to for the half-human. But there’s something gleeful that happens in his brain and chest when he watches it happen, especially when his partner is involved. Whether it’s him unloading across your stomach, painting your lips in slow, hot strokes, or feeling and knowing his spunk sits inside you. He can’t explain it, not in clear words, but it does something to him to see you messy because of him. It’s akin to the feeling a child may get when playing with a toy that another kid has to watch them play with, but he got to it first, and therefore, it’s his.

And Conner cums a lot. That Kryptonian hybrid biology delivers in multiple ways. Thick, hot spurts—the kind that rope across your body in heavy streaks or flood deep inside you and leave you gasping at just how full you feel afterward. Even if you shower, you may still feel it hours later. The weight, the stretch, the stickiness — especially if he didn’t pull out. Which, being honest, is experiencing the feeling of release inside of you, which is a feeling he will not give up without a fight, meaning you beg and demand him to pull out. Even then, he still might not do it if he doesn’t feel it’s a good enough reason, but only if the trust is there.

He also becomes more needy the more he gets into it. He isn’t verbal—more of a growler, low and deep in your ear—but right before he finishes, there’s an unhinged desperation that cuts through his stoicness. His voice goes gravel-thick, his grip will tighten like he needs to anchor himself, and when he finally releases? He shudders through it, as if experiencing massive body chills, and the feeling of release is short-circuiting his brain. His entire body will be flexed and tense, his teeth gritted and mouth half open while he’s panting against your neck.

If you're lucky (or unlucky, depending on how many orgasms you've been put through), he might not even pull out when he's done. Might just stay there, hard or soft (depending on the round) and twitching, while you clench around him and the mess he’s made.

And don’t even get started on the experience of watching you swallow. That shuts off Conner’s higher brain function completely—well, except for the thought of another round. He’s a menace.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Conner has jerked off to surveillance footage of you.

There was a time, early on in the new life of freedom, living in Mount Justice, when he didn’t understand the concept of boundaries or shame. His body felt unfamiliar, and he didn’t understand completely the urges and sensations he felt, and self-control was something that barely existed—both on the battlefield and off. He’d linger too long in the monitor room when someone like Wally left the cams running after training. Or when a specific teammate was shirtless and sweaty in the Cave gym, watching him stretch in ways that weren’t intended to be sexual, but his eyes always stuck anyway.

The guilt eventually hit… after. But not before he’d unzip behind closed doors and jerk himself off to grainy feed in the dead of night, biting down groans with the heel of his hand, getting off to you who would never know how he watched you like prey.

He has long since deleted the footage and records of him downloading it to a personal drive, which he keeps locked away and may forget about. But the memory still burns.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Conner started not knowing anything about sex outside of its meaning, purpose, and definition that would be described in a textbook, thanks to his programming, but it didn’t last long.

After coming out of Cadmus, it was one thing to know the reasoning behind why his appendage would get so hard and stiff, erect in his pants; another thing entirely to experience it, particularly around specific individuals whom he’d stare a second too long at whether it their bare shoulders, collarbones, sweat-glossed muscles, thighs and asses, etc.. He didn’t know how to name it, but he felt it, and once he started exploring that feeling and touching himself, he became determined to figure it all out.

He’s not a flirt, he’s not exactly smooth, and he doesn’t know how to dirty talk worth a damn, especially if he’s too far gone to think. But what he lacks in finesse, he makes up for in raw, physical instinct. Impatient and impulsive as he may be, he takes the time to learn about you. The way you breathe when he hits a specific spot, or how you squirm when he teases you while restraining and holding you down. He learns what triggers you, like how fast your heartbeat will jump when he pins your wrists and growls into your neck, grinding into you like he owns your body.

And once he not only learns you, inside and out, but also himself, he’s as much of a force to be dealt with in the bedroom just as he is in a fight. The way he holds your body, the tight grip on your hips has that sultry thrill of feeling manhandled, while his rhythm is something he’s learned and developed to a devastating precision. He learns to it’s okay, more than OK, to fuck you through your orgasm, especially when he has a point to prove, making sure you’re shaking and leaking by the time he’s done. Yeah, now he knows what he’s doing. He figured it out by watching, by testing, by listening to the different ways you moan his name and what causes each type.

It’s an obsession he has with proving himself, showing he’s the only one who can and will do the things to your body in the way that elicits the most euphoria and pleasure no other could hope to achieve. He still gets flustered, though, by things that may catch him off guard—especially if it’s you trying to turn the tables. Give him a minute to learn and adjust, something he’s learned from Dick, and now, when you challenge him, he‘s prepared. Something will drop behind those blue eyes, and you’ll get the side of him that grabs you by the throat, shoves you into the mattress, and fucks you like it’s the one true thing he was made for.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Face-Down, Ass-Up – Brutally intimate, this position gives Conner complete access to you, watching your back flex, your hole stretch, your ass tremble with every punishing thrust, watching you be helpless in the best way. You’re his, so every time he’s buried inside you, pressing you down into the mattress, chasing that deep rhythm that makes your legs twitch and your moans go ragged, he feels worthy. His grunts are rough, hot against your skin as he leans in, all weighty and dominant, hips snapping into yours while your thighs quake and your body jerks forward with every impact.

And if you try to crawl away, he will drag your ass back with one arm under your waist, lifting your hips higher, forcing you to take all of him. There will be no mercy nor escape, just the heavy sound of his groans and the obscene slap of skin. And when he finishes inside you, he won’t pull out, not until it drips down your thighs and he’s made it clear exactly who you belong to.

Standing Carry – Conner uses this position when he both needs closeness & intimacy, and also to prove a point. It’s when the jealousy’s been boiling for hours, and the fear creeps in that someone else might ever see you like this, trembling, moaning, walls squeezing around him. He’ll lift you like it’s nothing, pushing your back against the wall, making you lock your legs around his waist, and forcing you to cling to him like he’s oxygen. He likes seeing your body open instinctively to him, giving him everything and inviting him in without a single word. He’ll take it slow at first, grinding deep into you while your ass is gripped in the palms of his hands as he’s burying his face into your neck like he needs to inhale you to survive. It’s his arms, his strength holding you suspended, as if gravity obeys him now. He has your entire being in his grip, making you vulnerable here with your chest exposed, face open, and neck defenseless.

If your moans echo in the space a little too loudly, you’ll quickly find a hand over your mouth as he’s still rutting. It’s not to be cruel, though, only to protect what’s his. Conner wants no one else to witness any part of this experience that should be and is exclusive to him. No one gets to feel how your nails would dig into their back like they do for him, or how your cock leaks between your bodies and legs quiver against him as he pushes himself inside more and more. Getting to watch your head fall back, and being the one who gets to grab your jaw, forcing your mouth open just enough for him to kiss you through the overstimulation. He’ll cum with a full-body tremor that’s mostly silent, except for the deep, guttural groans into your throat. And he won’t put you down, at least not immediately.

Folded in Half — You want to show him he matters and that he’s the only one who can have you like this? Let him fold you like a prayer and rut into you with a single-minded intensity that has you squirming and crying, trying to get away, but you can’t because he has you pinned under him, your knees bent back to your chest with his body flush to yours. Both your chests (yours more than his) will be slick with sweat and rising with every panting breath. And as he fucks you like this,  fully pressed in, buried deep, there’s nowhere to run. You’re defenseless and wide open, his for the taking.

He’ll watch you as you break apart under him, only allowing your hands the freedom to rub and claw at his back, grip onto his arm, or inside his hair as he continues to pillage and wreck you for himself. But if even once, he feels you try to push against him, now those same arms will be restrained, pinned against the bed as he continues to show you his strength and worth. His mouth will stay busy as well, whether it’s latching onto your neck, your collarbone, or your jaw as tears pool in the corners of your eyes from him hitting that sweet spot too many times in a row. And when you reach the point of no return, he’ll grab your wrists (once again) and pin them down while increasing his speed and intensity, fucking you harder through your own orgasm while chasing his own finish like he’s branding you from the inside.

Bent Over a Surface – This is more for when something has pissed him off, whether it’s you or someone/something else. Conner will find a private place and a surface, any surface to bend you over whether it be over the counter, a dresser, or even public ones as long as he knows no one is around like the kitchen table, or the back of the couch, any flat surface that lets him watch your spine curve and your thighs shake. In these moments, he craves submission and affirmation—he wants to see you begging, writhing, and reaching back for him. Even when he’s being rough—especially when he is—he wants to see your fingers clawing at his hip, or hooking around his arm, silently begging for more. He needs to see you offering yourself even when your body is barely keeping up.

That’s when he’ll get filthy, hands gripping your waist, slamming into you with punishing force, low animalistic growls rising from his chest, and his teeth nipping the back of your neck. If he thinks someone could hear, he’ll cover your mouth, and not for your sake, but for his. No one else gets your whines, your gasps, your broken little pleas. He’ll fuck you until your knees buckle and your body spasms around him, and only then will he bury himself one last time and cum so deep you feel it hours later. Pregnant.

Lap Dance 180/Kneeling Cradle – Propped up on his lap, body limp against his chest, impaled and whimpering into his neck. This one is less about dominance and more about proof. You on top, his cock buried deep, fully seated inside you while he holds you there, arms around your waist, face buried in your shoulder. In a post sex haze, whimpering, overstimulated, your bodies sweat-slick, and hearts racing in sync. Conner’s voice is barely audible, just the occasional breathy “mine” as his hands roam your body. You shift and tremble every time he twitches inside you, but you don’t move to pull off—not that he’ll even let you—and neither does he. It’s the aftermath of a possessive rut where he’s already cum inside you once, maybe twice—even thrice—but doesn’t want to leave the warmth yet, doesn’t want to let go. Placing small, but biting kisses to your flesh, staring hard either at you or into space, notably a mirror to watch your body cling and convulse over him while he subtly shifts himself inside you. You’ll kiss his temple, let out a soft whine from the tip of your tongue, shiver, and cling to him while digging your fingers in his hair, and he’ll growl low, hips thrusting up again, slow and deep. For Conner, it’s both an intimate moment and the most proud and validating moment, seeing and feeling you spent against him, entirely at his whim and control, accepting and affirming him as your one and only. Smug and prideful.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Conner is serious — almost painfully so — in the bedroom.

Not because he’s humorless or doesn’t get teasing, but because sex, to him, isn’t casual. It’s intimate and personal. You’re giving him something no one else sees: your body, your sounds, your trust. That shit means something to him—grounds him and makes him feel real. It makes it something he feels like he can’t joke about.

When he’s deep inside you, gripping your thighs while your eyes roll back and your body spasms under his? The guy is locked in and focused, breathing like he’s fighting a war, an internal one.

But, there are rare, human moments—vulnerable cracks in the tension. Like when Conner fumbles a button because he’s too worked up and grunts in frustration, only for you to laugh and kiss him, and he gives this quiet, low chuckle that almost sounds surprised. Or when he pretends he doesn’t find your sex puns the least bit amusing, but you catch that slight chuckle disguised as a scoff. He won’t banter, and he won’t make jokes during foreplay. But if you whisper something dumb in his ear, asking something like if he’ll break the bed again right before he starts driving into you senseless, you might get a rare smirk. A half-laugh even, low and huffed, followed by a possessive growl and an even harder thrust that proves he definitely is.

Most of his “playfulness” is physical. Holding you down when you get bratty. Pulling out just before you cum and watching you squirm. Locking eyes while slowly pushing back in and watching the overstimulating panic cross your features, and nipping at your shoulder when you try to tease him, grinding deeper as punishment. It’s a domineering mischief, made personal.

But every once in a while, when the post-sex glow is warm and you're both spent, you’ll get the rare, boyish side of him, the side that forgets he was made in a lab. The side that laughs, not because anything’s funny, but because he feels safe.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Conner keeps it low-maintenance and straightforward, but always clean, partly due to his half-Kryptonian DNA, which doesn’t allow him to grow a lot of hair, so he doesn’t have to obsess over grooming. His body is naturally smooth in some places and lightly dusted in others, the mix of his human half of DNA contributing to the latter.

Head hair: Dark, thick, tousled — doesn’t try to style it, but it always ends up looking good, especially post-sex, sweat-mussed and curled at the edges.

Facial hair: Virtually none. If it tries, it’s gone the next morning. Either his hybrid DNA burns it off fast, or he shaves out of habit with near-military precision. You won’t catch him with a scruffy chin unless it’s been a long day.

Body hair: Minimal. Just a faint trail from his belly button downward, and a subtle dusting on his pecs and arms — enough to feel masculine when you run your palms over him, but not sufficient to tangle your fingers in.

Pubic hair: Yes, dark and short, trimmed but not bare. Definitely matches the drapes. He doesn’t style it, but it’s tidy, primarily for your sake. He likes it when your face is down there, and he wants to keep you there.

He doesn't ask about your preferences outright, but he notices what you like. If you lick a particular trail on his stomach? Expect that area to be extra-clean next time.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

The thing about Conner is you’d expect him to be loud, overly verbal, and cocky with his words and actions, but it couldn’t be more of the opposite. He’s quiet, barely uses any kind of dialect that’s not some animalistic sound or him uttering the word “mine”, and he doesn’t always know how to say what he’s feeling. All his communication is felt in his actions, which is the core of intimacy. You feel and understand his desires and feelings through every touch, every thrust, every tremor in his breath. For him, sex is never just physical. It’s both a physical and a territorial, emotional, and sacred act.

He makes love like he’s starving, not for pleasure, but for closeness. His hands will be everywhere, whether it’s one on your hip, the other behind your neck, or one caressing your thigh and ass while the other gropes your chest. What’s almost certain is how he’ll lock you against his body like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. He groans against your skin, mouth dragging open across your shoulder, nipping, sucking, tasting you like you’re his favorite treat.

And when you wrap around him, clench down, whimper in his ear? He’ll slow down, push deeper, linger in the sensation. Not because he’s teasing — but because he’s trying to feel everything. He looks at you like you’re fragile and precious and also his. Even when he’s fucking you rough—when the thrusts are hard and the sweat’s dripping down his back—there’s a reverence to it, like worship.

Afterwards, he’ll hold you tight like you might disappear. Breath pressed to your neck, arms locked around you, fingers smoothing sweat off your spine as your heartbeats sync up. He won’t say much, might not say anything at all. But if he kisses your hairline, or rubs circles on your back, or tucks your leg over his waist, that is the I love you. To Conner, intimacy is everything he doesn’t trust the world with, but gives to you.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Conner doesn’t jerk off often, and not because he doesn’t need to, because he absolutely does. Something not typically considered in Kryptonian biology is a naturally higher libido. Conner and Clark have a lot of energy from feeding off the light of the sun, and all that extra energy they don’t burn off from fights and the use of their powers (which is barely anything) goes either to their energy reserves or their sex drive. After Conner learned what he was doing with the security cameras was wrong, he stopped masturbating, but that didn’t help anyone. He went weeks with no type of release or relief, walking around with a hair-trigger temper, fists clenched and jaw tight, ready for a fight at the drop of a dime. Until one day, the dam broke after he was triggered by who knows what.

So, due to this innate high drive, Conner is frequently in the mood for sex, but that doesn’t mean you always are. Plus, he’s not the easiest to get along with always, so there are times he will do something that pisses his partner off, and they’ll refuse sex or any type of play with him for who knows how long, which again, creates problems for everyone. A sexually frustrated Conner might as well be a synonym for an angry Conner, and jacking off is the only reprieve he can get, no matter how slight the reprieve is.

He’s not gentle with it either. Grunts and snarls echo through his room as he jerks rough and fast, hips pumping up into his hand, abs clenching, spine bowing when he squeezes the base to hold off just a few seconds more. And when he cums, he shoots across his stomach or his hand, hot and heavy, often with a bite mark on his lower lip or a red flush across his chest. If he’s in a particularly possessive headspace, he’ll jerk off with one of your shirts, your underwear, or something that reminds him of you, pressing it to his face while he spills all over himself. Then he lies there, panting, arm flung over his eyes like he’s disgusted at how badly he needs you. Because no matter how hard he jerks it, how much cum he wrings out of himself, it never compares to the way he gets off inside you. Which only happens when you both inevitably make amends, usually with Conner finally admitting his wrongs and apologizing, the sex that follows afterwards is a sure enough guarantee you won’t be walking straight when he’s done.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Possessive/Territorial Behavior (Jealousy)

Conner isn’t loud about it—but his jealousy runs deep. There’s something about the idea of anyone other than him laying a hand on or even looking at what’s his that flips a switch in him. It’s not always verbal—sometimes it’s the way he tightens his grip around your waist; whether in public as he presses you against him, and especially in the bedroom, mid-thrust that has you clinging to him, which he internally celebrates. Sex becomes not just an exchange, but a declaration: you’re his, and he'll brand it into your body with his mouth, his cock, and his scent until there's no doubt about it.

Rough & Consensual Non-Consent

Conner has an addictive, almost compulsive need to let go—but only with someone he knows wants him to take control. The line between aggression and affection blurs when he’s riled up. He thrives off the fantasy of overwhelming his partner, dragging them against the wall, flipping them over the couch, pinning their wrists until they’re squirming. But it’s always anchored in deep trust—his softness shows after, but in the moment, he’s all teeth, sweat, and power. And the sound of you begging for him to slow down? Only makes him go harder.

Bondage/Restraints/Muffled Gag

Conner likes control—visually, physically, and emotionally. Something about seeing his partner tied down, wrists stretched above their head, legs spread open for him and only him, makes his own restraint snap. Gags especially? They’re not just about muffling sound—they’re about the intimacy of making someone moan so shamelessly they need to be silenced. And that sound, stifled behind cloth, tape, even just the palm of his hand, gets him harder than anything else. He sees you like that—helpless, gorgeous, pliant—and it hits that deep, dark part of him that needs to own.

Multiple Orgasms/Orgasm Control

He’s a slow-burn sadist, even if he doesn’t admit it. Conner has a fixation with watching his partner unravel over and over again, writhing and overstimulated, begging for mercy he’s not ready to give. If you’re twitching beneath him and unable to stop gasping, he’s doing his job right. On the flip side, if he says you’re not allowed to come yet, you won’t—not until he lets you. There’s nothing he loves more than seeing you trembling, desperate, on edge—because he put you there.

Praise Kink

For someone built to be used, giving praise is deeply therapeutic for Conner—and receiving it is even more potent. He doesn’t need empty compliments; he needs confirmation that he's enough. That you want him, not just physically, but entirely. During sex, praise given to him is raw and reverent: “You feel so good.” “I only want you.” “All yours, always.” Even when you just so much as whimper, moan, or gasp—it feeds something vital inside him. Makes him feel like a man, not a weapon.

Breathplay (Choking)

There’s something dangerous and intimate about Conner’s hand on your throat. He doesn’t overdo it—he’s too careful—but when the moment calls for it, he wraps his fingers around your neck and watches your eyes widen, lips parting in a gasp. Not to dominate for the sake of it, but because it amplifies that control, that connection. The grip reminds you that he could ruin you, but chooses not to. That duality is what turns him on the most, the way your breath hitches when he tightens just a little? Unforgettable.

Breeding

Conner’s obsession with ownership manifests heavily here. It’s not about actual reproduction (unless we’re talking Omegaverse)—it’s about marking, about leaving a part of himself inside you. The idea of finishing deep, of his cum leaking out while you tremble and collapse around him, scratches an itch nothing else does. He wants you to feel him long after he’s pulled out, ruined, filled, and branded from the inside, even if it’s messy. Actually, especially if it’s messy, that’s how he knows it was real.

Manhandling

Your favorite thing? The way Conner doesn’t even realize how easily he lifts, flips, or pins you. He manhandles you without a second thought—hoisting you by the thighs, slamming you against a wall, pushing your back into the bed until it creaks—because it’s instinct. But you love it, and he notices. The flushed look on your face, the breathless whimper when he throws you around like a ragdoll. It makes his chest puff with pride, because if he was made to do anything… maybe it was this.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Conner tends to gravitate toward places that tap into something more profound: instinct, control, and intensity. Impulsive as he is, he doesn’t just choose the first empty room he finds (unless it’s after an argument and he hasn’t been able to feel your body in forever—two days). He needs both privacy and pressure, environments where he can feel everything: his strength, your surrender, the weight of what he can’t say out loud but can show with his body. Plus, there is a bit of an egotistical part that likes having to travel to his destination for sex, especially if he’s dragging you along, whether pulling you by your arm or just hauling you over his shoulder and bringing you there himself like a barbarian. It’s not just about getting off; it’s about asserting, feeling you clench around him somewhere he decides, and no one else gets to see. Some of those places include:

The Training Room (Sparring Mat, or Pinned Against a Wall)

This is Conner’s domain. It's where he’s honed control over his body, where tension builds during physical contact, and where he can unleash aggression without apology. But when the wrong look or a cocky smile lingers too long during a spar, suddenly he’s flipping you to the mat—not for a pin, but for a grind. Sweaty, panting, growling between kisses. He’ll fuck you right there, your limbs tangled, bruised in the best way. The walls are soundproof anyway, right?

His Room at Mount Justice (especially the bed, the floor, or up against the window)

His bedroom is the only space that’s his. It’s quiet, it’s controlled, and it’s where he lets go the most. Sex here is raw but intimate—slow kisses with frantic thrusts, a fist tangled in your shirt as he bites down on your shoulder, whispering things he’d never say aloud anywhere else. If you end up spread on the floor, ass-up, or shoved face-first into the mattress while he pounds into you with his voice breaking? That’s how he says I need you without the words.

Out in the Woods, Isolated and Wild

Conner's instincts crave isolation. Out here, he doesn’t have to think. No team, no cameras, no pretending. He’ll bend you over a rock, a fallen log, even the hood of a parked vehicle, or hold you up, pressing you against a tree or the same parked vehicle—panting, snarling, cock buried deep while birds scatter from the growls ripping from his throat. He likes the way sound carries. The way you squirm when there’s nowhere to hide, and every whimper echoes. There’s no pretending here—it’s just the two of you, and he’s feral.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Quiet Acts of Loyalty (Domestic Turn-Ons) – It’s not just the way you look—it’s how you show up. Helping him with his laundry, sticking up for him in disagreements against others, and wearing his clothes to bed, checking if he’s eaten (even if, as a half-Kryptonian, food is not 100% necessary for him), and sliding him the last slice of pizza without a thought. These unspoken acts of loyalty hit Conner in a place that goes straight to his cock. Because to him, that’s not routine, it’s choosing—you’re choosing him. And it makes him want to pin you down and return the favor, complex and slow.

Anger & Denial (Arguing) – Nothing wrecks his control more than when you two argue and you don’t give in. Conner’s temper flares quickly—especially when he feels challenged—but that sharp line of your jaw, that look in your eye when you shut him out and deny him sex, it lights a fuse. Even if he’s the one who stomped off first, he’ll end up restless, hard, and furious that you're withholding something he feels is his. Denial doesn’t turn him off—it gets him hot. Also, tread lightly when choosing the silent treatment route and ignoring him. That’s a huge trigger for him.

Casual Physical Contact (Tension-Building Touch) – You don’t even have to be trying. Just brushing past him on your way to the fridge, resting your hand on his chest for balance, sitting between his legs with your back to him while watching TV, rubbing your hands through his hair while he lies on your chest, is enough to get him going. All that casual contact riles him up more than full-on seduction. It’s the subtle stuff—your trust, your nearness, your comfort—that makes his body thrum with need. If he shifts in his seat and you pretend not to notice, it only makes it worse.

Jealousy & Competition (Signs of Possession) – Whether it's you smiling too long at someone else or laughing harder than you need to at something that’s really not that funny (at least to Conner it’s not). Even if it’s harmless, even if he knows you love him—Conner feels that fire start in his gut. That loutish edge to his personality doesn’t just fade when he’s in a relationship; it sharpens. Sometimes, it’s all the excuse he needs to drag you away and remind you who you’ve chosen and why you won’t be choosing anyone else.

Your Confidence – You don’t always give in, and you challenge him. You roll your eyes when he flexes, or you call him on his broody bullshit, and that friction is hot. It reminds him you’re not intimidated—but you still want him. When you hold eye contact and don’t flinch, or press your finger to his chest without a single trace of fear? He’s hooked. Conner’s more than willing to take the lead—but your fire keeps his lit.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs)

Conner Kent definitely has limits, whether rooted in his origin story or his developing values. A  zero tolerance for degradation and humiliation, and it goes both ways, whether from him or directed at him—it clashes with his pride. It brushes too close to old insecurities about being something not human or just a person. And if he won’t allow other people to degrade him or his partner, he’s not gonna turn around and participate in that himself. Another thing is he refuses to do any type of public sex in openly risky or inappropriate places, like crowded venues and densely populated areas; the idea of being watched without consent or putting others at risk violates his protective instincts. He’s not against doing things in public, but rather where some type of privacy is guaranteed, and he can actively control the situation. And he may enjoy rough play and variants of CNC, but he draws a hard line at anything that blurs the lines of actual consent without clear, pre-negotiated boundaries—he has to know his partner wants it.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Conner has a strong preference for receiving, not out of selfishness, but because the act directly feeds into his need for validation and dominance. When he first experienced receiving head, it was very overwhelming. He’d gone from only using his hands to having someone else use their hands, and then their mouth, and he fell off the edge. The act itself of someone, willingly submitting, eyes locked on his, mouth stuffed full of him—it rewired something in his brain. He didn’t realize how badly he needed to feel wanted like that until it happened. So now, having his partner on their knees, lips stretched around him, eyes watering from the size and pace—it lights an intense fire in him. He’s not quiet about it either: deep, ragged grunts, low groans, and the way his hand finds the back of a neck to keep them there when he’s close.

That being said, he’ll also give head himself, but only when he’s feeling a specific mood and energy, particularly the possessive or teasing kind—tongue slow, purposeful, dragging through slick like he owns it, because he does. And if his partner’s a moaner? Even better! He’ll hold them open and eat/suck like he’s starving, just to hear the sweet, wet payoff. But either way, he’s in control.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Conner’s pace is something psychologically rooted, no question about it. When things feel uncertain for him, his emotions become chaotic, or his sense of identity starts to slip, he regains control in one of the few ways he knows how, through the physical power of his body.

That fast, relentless pace? It’s him drowning out doubt and silencing insecurity with every harsh thrust, gripping his partner like they’re the only thing grounding him. He fucks like he’s fighting for something, whether it be ownership, reassurance, proof that he’s wanted, that he matters, that he’s not just some half-baked clone—and many times, it’s all three. Fast, rough, and relentless is typically his default mode, the kind that you down, leaves bruises, and makes the bed creak with every deep, punishing thrust. He fucks like he’s got something to prove—because half the time, he does. It’s not just about release; it’s about staking a claim, about chasing that feral need to own every gasp and tremble.

But when he slows down, that’s a bit more dangerous territory. Slower thrusts mean letting feelings catch up, letting someone see him. His own vulnerability scares the hell out of him, so in easing up, there’s tension behind it—something careful and calculated meant to keep him in control even when he’s on the edge of falling off. There’s typically never any randomness to his pace, always an intent behind it—it’s a confession he doesn’t know how to voice. And when he slows down, it’s not gentle, it’s taunting. Slow, grinding rolls of his hips meant to pull every moan and cry from you until you’re begging him to move faster. Whether he’s slamming or dragging it out, he’s in charge, and he’ll make damn well make sure you feel every inch of it.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Conner’s all for quickies—especially if he’s pent-up, frustrated, or just needs his partner right then and there. His quickies are almost always sparked by something simmering underneath—jealousy, possessiveness, or straight-up frustration. He saw someone flirting with you, or you two are currently in an argument, and now you’re ignoring him (he hates being ignored), or maybe you’re just walking around in his shirt and acting oblivious to what you’re doing to him. Whatever it may be, just know the half-Kyptonian is not above dragging you into the nearest utility closet at the Cave, bending you over the nearest surface he can find, or just straight up taking off with you over his shoulder in the middle of a mission to sort out your differences. For him, it’s less about strategy and more about you having him fucked up, and now he’s got to show his ass… well, your ass to be more accurate.

He fucks hard and fast in those moments, all teeth at your neck, with his fingers digging into your hips. There’s no time for finesse, just the brutal rhythm of someone who’s been exercising a lot of patience (the patience in question was nowhere to be found). And when he finishes inside you, don’t be surprised at his smugness—grabbing your chin and muttering some low, possessive shit like “Mine. Don’t forget it.” Quickies don’t replace proper sex for him, but they’re a damn good way to shut down jealousy, blow off steam, or prove a point.

He’s impatient, intense, and has a quick fuse, especially when he feels like something’s slipping out of his control. That’s when he’ll corner you, grab a handful of shirt or arm, and make it 20/20 vision clear you don’t walk away from him, tease him, or disobey him and expect to get away with it. It’s not always rational—it’s instinct, reactive, and a little (very) unhinged. But it’s honest—he just needs to reassert that connection again for his own sake, in a fast and raw and undeniable way.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Conner’s relationship to risk is less about thrill-seeking and more about exploration within boundaries, as he had to learn intimacy from scratch. Most of his early experiences were built on experimentation—testing sensations, reactions, and emotional responses without a roadmap. It’s made him more open to trying new things, especially with a partner he trusts, but only after he’s developed a strong foundation of what he likes, what he hates, and where he draws the line.

He’s very deliberate with what he chooses to engage in. He wants to know why something turns him on before he lets it into his sexual vocabulary. Still, if you bring it up, especially in a way that affirms Conner and showcases your submission in new ways, it’s hard for him to say no. He likes discovering new layers to his desires, particularly when they’re framed as things he gets to master or claim. What turns into a “maybe” for others becomes a “let me learn how to do that right” with him.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Conner’s stamina is absolutely fucking insane—and it shows. His half-Kryptonian biology gives him a supercharged libido and the kind of stamina that makes most humans look laughably underpowered by comparison. He’s not on Superman’s level—thank god—but he’s close enough to put his partner through three or four orgasms before he even thinks about finishing. He can go for multiple rounds without even needing to recover, not just fucking until his partner’s legs are shaking, but until he’s worn them out. That’s not just indulgence; that’s restraint. When he’s in that intense, hungry mood, it becomes a low, growling thrill to hold himself back, to keep fucking, keep working them over until they’re whimpering and overstimulated—until he decides they’re done. The first orgasm is just the fuse; what follows is pure combustion. Extended sessions, short breaks, round after round until they’re breathless, fucked dumb, and clinging to him? That’s exactly his idea of satisfaction.

It doesn’t help that he can already last a reasonable amount of time in each round, especially now that he’s gotten more experience under his belt. Even when he’s wound tight, Conner knows how to hold off, edge himself for the sake of drawing out his partner’s pleasure—or just proving he can. He gets off on making them come first (again and again), especially when they're begging him to let go finally. The gag is, even if he does, there’s usually another round already loading in the chamber.

But beneath that raw physicality is something much more personal. Conner’s stamina isn't just about endurance—it's about intention. He’s not a selfish lover. In fact, he might be the exact opposite. That relentless, almost desperate need to prove himself bleeds into every touch, every thrust, every moment of sex. He wants to be the one—your one—the only person who can get you off this good, thoroughly, and consistently. When others fall short in their relationships, Conner rises, laser-focused on your pleasure as if it were a mission he needed to complete. Because if he can make you come undone in his arms, if he can leave you trembling, satisfied, and gasping his name… then maybe, just maybe, he’s worthy of being yours.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Toys weren’t something Conner was immediately introduced to in his early experiences with learning sex. Truthfully, he didn’t even know about them; he had to learn everything the hard way, through observation, trial, and a little too much awkward Googling. But once he found out what was out there, a deep-seated curiosity quickly developed. The toys that could be more used on him didn’t interest him too much, but the ones he could use to enhance pleasure for you, and by extension, himself? Anal plugs he can use to keep his load inside you after he’s finally decided to release have entered the chat. Restraints, blindfolds, gags, and floggers he can use to practice sensory and impact play when you piss him off have entered the chat. Cock rings that help not only make him more complicated, but delay his orgasm even longer than usual (that’s just criminal), which all adds to how he can better fuck you… have entered the chat.

A doggie style strap??? Not only has it entered the chat, it’s been added to the cart. With these new additions, he’s got even more in his arsenal to wreck you just right. It’ll take some experimentation, but he lives for the power of it—of knowing it’s him doing this to you, even if it’s just a toy between your legs.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Conner doesn’t start as a tease—he’s too blunt, too direct, too used to wanting something and going for it. He’s not the kind of guy who flirts with delay for the fun of it—but he learns fast, and once he figures out that teasing can break you open better than brute force, once he realizes how badly you squirm under his gaze, he uses it with a mean streak. When you're bratty, defiant, or pushing his buttons,  that’s when the sadist comes out. He’ll pin you down with his full body weight, forcing your legs open with his hips while holding you down against whatever surface he has you on by your arms, grinding into your hips while dragging his cock in slow, shallow thrusts that barely satisfy. And he won’t say much, but the message is clear in his expression and movements—he’s waiting to hear you beg. He wants verbal surrender, affirmations laced with need, praise pouring from your mouth with every twitch of his hips. If he’s in that mood, your orgasm’s his toy—he’ll overload you until you’re limp and shaking, or deny it altogether until he’s had his fill and finished first. Who knows when that will come? In tighter scenarios, he’ll once again restrain you while tossing you around, flipping you over his shoulder, handling you like property. That’s his kind of tease—a lesson, not a game. And when you inevitably give in, he takes everything.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Conner’s not loud by nature, but when it comes to sex, quiet doesn’t mean silent. He’s a heavy breather, a growler, a low-throated groaner whose noises carry weight—dominance, frustration, hunger. You feel them more than you hear them, rumbling up from his chest and against your skin, especially when he’s deep inside or grinding slow to drag every twitch out of you. His voice only sharpens, saying what he needs to say and nothing more—every syllable edged with tension, control, and possessive heat. His words, when they come, are clipped and commanding: “Stay there.” “Stop moving.” “Open your legs.” “Cum.” He won’t whine or cry out—not unless you break him down first. But if you really get him there? You might hear something raw slip out—his name, your name, something primal—and then it’s over.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He gets off on being watched—but only if it’s someone who wants you. Jealous and possessive, ass Conner? Allowing someone else to see and hear you in your most vulnerable, fucked-out state is a 100% absolute fuck no. Unless it’s him. The one who's been testing Conner’s patience for weeks—flirting with you, sweet-talking you, pretending like the half-Kryptonian standing next to you doesn’t exist. Worse, mocking him behind a smile: a half-breed clone, trying to play boyfriend? Please.

That’s all it takes to snap the thread. Conner’s done keeping your moans to himself. He picks the location carefully—public enough for risk, controlled enough to make sure only he decides who witnesses this act. And when you protest? When you squirm and beg for somewhere more private? He just throws you against the nearest surface and presses—deep, slow, mean thrusts that slap your ass with every push of his hips, muffling your cries with his palm or a stretch of your own sleeve. “Nah. They wanna see what I can’t offer you? Let ‘em watch you take it.”

The footsteps come closer. Conner smirks, right on cue.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. He starts fucking you harder, louder, bouncing you on his cock like he’s tuning your body to the sound of dominance itself. And when your voice cracks—when your legs tremble and your breath hitches and all you can do is whimper his name? That’s when Conner meets the bastard’s eyes. Doesn’t say a word. Just owns you with every stroke.

It’s not about being watched. It’s about being witnessed about proving, without words, that no one—no sweet-talker, no smooth bastard, no human—could ever fuck you like this.

He’s obsessed with the contrast of control—especially when you cry for him. Not from pain. From desperation. From being strung along, teased until your whole body aches, until you're clenching around nothing, slick and trembling, your legs refusing to stay still. He lives for the sound of your voice cracking when you beg—when that proud little tone you typically carry melts into breathless pleas, like, "Please, Conner, I can’t—please, I need it—”

That’s the fucking switch. That’s when it stops being about restraint and starts being about wrecking you. That’s when he stops teasing and starts snarling. All that held-back power, the measured pace, the forced patience—gone in a flash. He grabs your hips with bruising force and slams into you like he’s trying to fuck the breath out of your lungs. And when you choke on your moan or sob his name as your body spasms around him, he loses his goddamn mind.

He’ll curse low against your skin, panting, "More." The further undone you get, the more unhinged he gets. Because to Conner, those tears? That trembling voice? That helpless whimper that only he can pull out of you? That’s proof—proof that no one else can touch you like this. That only he can reduce you to this level of need. That he’s the only one you’ll ever come undone for. And the moment you give him that surrender, body and voice and all? He’ll take it. Every drop of it. And he’ll fuck you so deep and hard, you forget how to ask for anything else.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Conner’s cock is more girth than length, sitting at a weighty 8.5 inches fully hard, which is still above average (the dude’s half Kryptonian…come on now), but it’s the sheer thickness that steals the show. The kind that stretches your lips on the first lick and burns deliciously on the first push in. A grower and a show-er, his base is heavy and girthy, tapering only slightly up the shaft, which has a slight upward curve that helps reaching your spot all the easier. Conner is definitely built for performance, to put it mildly.

His tip is blunt and flushed deep red when aroused, framed by a prominent ridge and just sensitive enough to make your teasing feel like sweet torment for him. Veiny, but not ropey—Kryptonian circulation keeps him pumped and engorged longer than any human standard. It’s the kind of dick that leaves your jaw sore after sucking it, your hole gaping after taking it, and your spine arching from the way it hits every time he slams deep.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Conner’s sex drive is only comparable to that of the other person with whom he shares his DNA. His half-Kryptonian blood fuels a relentless, carnal yearning that never quite quits—like a campfire with an endless amount of firewood to keep it going, creating a need and hunger that’s impossible to satisfy fully. It’s why Conner basically craves some type of sexual release on a near-constant basis, with a raw, animal urgency that edges on desperate at times. Masturbation is slowly but surely becoming useless in that regard, which doesn’t help the building aggression and temper when Conner doesn’t properly let loose. Because now, the only other effective way he can handle his pent-up energy without sex is fighting… go figure.

RAH RAH RAH, HE BIG STRONG MASCULINE MAN! RAH!!!

When he’s around you, that desire twists into an almost obsessive fixation: every glance, every brush of skin, every quiet moment between fights becomes a spark igniting the fire hotter. His need isn’t just physical—it’s a constant ache for validation, sensual reverence, and the unmistakable proof that you want him just as badly.

He’s the kind of guy who can’t wait to tear your clothes off the moment you’re alone, who’s always chasing the next surge of heat, the next whimper or tremble that confirms you’re his. And when he’s denied—whether by circumstance or defiance—that yearning turns razor-sharp, feeding his possessiveness and his insatiable drive to fuck and claim you harder and deeper than before. An unrealistic goal of his is that he’ll fuck you so good, even in an argument, you’ll never deny him because of how good he makes you feel. That hasn’t happened yet, so all he can do is keep trying. He’s nothing if not stubborn—a stubborn, horny bastard.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Conner doesn’t crash right after sex—he winds down. Half-Kryptonian stamina means even after he’s left you gasping, shaking, and entirely spent, his body still hums with power and adrenaline. He’s not one to roll over and start snoring; instead, he lingers—still buried deep, refusing to pull out. That knot of warmth, that connection, is too satisfying to lose. You’re full of him, wrapped in his arms, and he’s staying there. Sometimes, he just lies right on top of you, heavy and grounding, face tucked into your neck, with his arms locked around your waist like a protective vice, his breath still heavy against your ear. It’s not just possessiveness—it’s instinct. You’re his, and post-sex is when that hits the hardest.

Other times, he’ll plant himself against your chest, resting his head between your pecs, arms locked around your waist, while your limbs end up draped over his broad shoulders and back—exactly where he wants them. It’s a silent command for you to stroke his hair, dig your fingers into his scalp, give him the gentle attention he doesn’t know how to ask for with words. And once the afterglow fades and you’re soft against his chest, Conner does let go, finally letting that hypersensitive, overstimulated heat lull him to rest. That’s when he finally slips into sleep—warm, spent, and curled against you like he never plans to leave. It’s deep and heavy, the kind of knock-out that leaves him slack-jawed and dead to the world for hours. Just don’t expect to escape—his grip doesn’t loosen. You’re trapped under that musclebound heater of a body until he wakes up again…and judging by his morning wood and always-hungry libido, you’re not getting out of bed anytime soon.

☀️ | Conner Kent/Superboy | ☀️

☀️ | Masterlists | ☀️

[madsxyins]

Say it Again

pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

word count: 1.3k

warnings: Sexual content, Possessiveness, Rough sex, Emotional distress, Language (lmk if i missed something!!)

synopsis: After a girl flirts with you at the gym, Paige’s jealousy boils over—leading to a heated, emotional night where she reminds you exactly who you belong to.

‼️MDNI‼️

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

It had started at the gym.

The girl with the ponytail and too-eager smile. The one who always seemed to hover a little too close when Paige wasn't around. Today, she'd been bolder-lingering at your side between sets, touching your arm when she laughed, asking if you were "seeing anyone serious." Paige had seen it all.

She hadn't said a word. Not then.

Now she was speaking with her body.

Your voice was a trembling mess, words spilling out between gasps and hiccupping sobs.

"F—fuck, Paige, I'm—I'm sorry, I didn't—I wasn't—"

You couldn't get a full sentence out.

Could barely think.

Paige's grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging deep into your flesh as she slammed into you, her strap stretching you to your limit. Her control was unwavering, but her breath was ragged-like she was holding something back, some fire she didn't want to fully unleash.

"You let her flirt with you," she growled, her voice low and cutting, the heat of it pouring over your skin.

"Right in front of me. You smiled at her."

You cried out as her hips snapped forward again, the sound of skin on skin sharp and unrelenting. Your hands scrambled for her shoulders, for something, but she was relentless.

"She was touching you," Paige went on, eyes dark and focused. "Looking at you like she could fucking have you."

You shook your head, tears rolling freely now. "I—I didn't mean to—Paige, I swear-"

But it didn't matter. Not now.

She shifted, hooking your legs over her shoulders, her grip tightening as she drove into you deeper, harder. The new angle stole your breath and pushed you even further to the edge, pleasure crashing against guilt like waves against a cliff.

Paige leaned down, her chest brushing yours, her breath hot and heavy against your cheek.

"You didn't stop her," she snarled, her words punctuated by a hard thrust that left you gasping. "You didn't say no.

You let her think she had a chance."

"I—I didn't—"

You tried to speak, but it came out as a broken sob, your body arching beneath her involuntarily, chasing every punishing thrust.

Her hand slid up to your jaw, tilting your face until you had no choice but to meet her gaze.

"I saw the way you looked at her," she whispered, eyes burning with something between fury and desperation.

"And now you're gonna look at me.

While I remind you who you belong to."

Your breath caught as her thumb grazed your lower lip, then pressed against it, silencing the protest you didn't even have the strength to make.

"You're mine," she murmured, and you swore your whole body responded to the words-tightening around the strap, heat coiling low in your belly. "Say it."

"I'm yours," you gasped, voice shaking.

"Paige, I'm yours, I swear."

Her smirk was sharp, satisfied-but it didn't soften her pace. If anything, it made her move harder, faster, her free hand bracing against the headboard for leverage. The wood creaked under the force of it, the room filled with the rhythm of your bodies colliding, your breathless cries, and her low groans.

"You're gonna stop talking to her," she hissed. "You're gonna block her number. Delete the messages. And if she even looks at you again, you're going to tell her to fuck off."

Her hand slid down to your throat-not squeezing, just resting there, a silent reminder of her control.

"Or I swear, I'll make you regret it."

You nodded frantically, more tears spilling over-this time from the pressure building in your core, from the heat and the high that threatened to break you open.

"Y—yes, Paige," you gasped. "I—I'll do it. I promise."

She smirked, a flash of triumph glinting in her eyes-but she didn't stop.

She pressed her forehead to yours again, her voice soft and sharp all at once.

"Good girl."

The praise made your body burn, shame and pleasure coiling tightly in your stomach.

"Now take it. Take all of me."

And you did.

You took her anger, her jealousy, her fear-the unspoken truth that underneath all of it, she just wanted to keep you. Wanted you to choose her, only her. Your climax shattered through you like a storm, your voice breaking into a scream as Paige held you through it, never letting up, never letting go.

Even when it was over, when you were limp and trembling beneath her, Paige didn't move right away. She hovered there, forehead pressed to yours, her hand still gently cupping your jaw.

"You're mine," she whispered again.

This time, softer. A little broken. A little afraid.

You kissed her-salt and sweat and everything you couldn't say.

"I've always been yours."

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶

author’s note: it’s my first time writing smut pls bare with me😭 i think i did pretty okay… i took a lot of inspiration from the previous fics i’ve read! thank you for reading!!!:)

[l0s3rd0wnt0wn]

Delinquent! reader is a bottom; all those rough, rushed words and angry face hide a bottom waiting to be dominated. He gets really embarrassed when Conner starts complementing him; he can barely think and gets all shy around Jaime. He refuses to get any closer to them. People think he's good with girls, but he is genuinely so scared of them that it hurts. He can barely form a sentence around a pretty girl. Once, he started blabbing to Rose about motorcycles because he didn't know what else to talk about. This man is getting dominated in the bedroom; he has hardly any backbone.

[47lake]

asleep

synopsis: billie has an eventful dream about you, becoming so eager for you that she can't wait please you, even when you're asleep.

‼️: sub!top!billie (hardly tho), somnophilia, oral, “mommy”, finger sucking, hair grabbing/pulling idk, not that much tbh mostly just the somno thing w/c: 711

note: CONSENT FOR THIS WAS OBVIOUSLY ESTABLISHED DONT THINK BILLIE JUST UP AND DECIDED TO DO THIS THEY TALKED ABOUT IT YALL ANYWAYS JUST READ IT

you both laid in bed fast asleep, clinging to each others skin even in your shared dream-like state. billie had always been the early riser, she began to stir, eventually waking up.

groggily, she rubbed her eyes and raked her fingers through her hair to get it out of her face. she turned to you, met with the sight of you sleeping so soundly, she leaned down to kiss your cheek.

she planted her kiss ever so gently, as not to wake you. once she pulled away she saw your soft smile, so sweet even like this. she ran her hand across your thigh, admiring the sweet sight in front of her.

your bodies were tangled together, the two of you unable to sleep unless you were as close as possible. billie was currently recollecting her dream, it was having quite the effect on her, she began to squirm as she remembered the explicit details.

she ran her hands over your body, so careful as to not interrupt your peaceful slumber. she couldn't keep her hands off of you after dreaming of touching you in all the right places.

untangling herself from your grasp, she pulled the sheets away from the both of you. she rolled you over onto your back, spreading your legs open and pulling down your boxers. she'd wanted to do this for so long, today she just couldn't wait anymore.

her arms found home wrapped around your thighs, kissing along each of them with such care. you sighed softly, she was surprised you hadn't woken up yet.

she watched as you only got wetter with each kiss against your skin, she was practically drooling at the sight.

she gingerly ran her tongue through your slick, a breathy and sleepy moan seeping from your lips. she darted her tongue inside you, so eager for more.

you gasped and sat up suddenly, her tongue still worked perfectly, your leaking center tightened around her.

"bill- fuck! what are you-?"

your moans cutting off your words, she always knew just how to please you. you grabbed a handful of her hair, pulling her away from your heat to answer your question.

"i'm sorry, mommy, i just couldn't wait for you to wake up."

her plump lips and chin shiny with your arousal coating them. she never looked more perfect, her sweet pleading eyes and pouty lips made you give in with such ease.

you let your grip on her hair go, granting her permission to continue. she worked furiously, always trying to get your next moan louder than the last.

your sleepy haze only intensified the satisfaction she was giving you, always so eager for your approval.

"does it feel good? do you like it?"

she mumbled against your flesh, obviously in need of your praise. you smiled and picked your head back up, previously it lolled back, waves of pleasure too intense to stay up.

"you're so fucking good, my love."

you felt her smile into you, her gained confidence only making her more determined. your jaw hung down, breath hitched in your throat as you felt her two fingers sliding inside of you, her lips now focusing on your sensitive clit.

your grip on her hair resumed, thighs closing around her head, your release building quickly. her tongue swirled in perfect circles around your pulsing bud, sharp blue eyes meeting your own, she couldn't help but watch you like this.

simultaneously, her fingers curled up into you as her lips wrapped around your bundle of nerves, sucking intensely, sending shocks coursing through your nerves. your eyes squeezed shut as your breath caught in your throat, your wave of release threatening to spill over.

she hummed happily, clit still tucked between her lips as you began to shake, the pleasure now all too much to contain. waves crashing over you as you unwound against her. her pace slowing as she made sure to ease you fully through your orgasm.

her fingers slid out of you, her tongue making quick work of collecting your warm bliss. she brought herself up from between your legs, guiding her fingers to her parted lips. she slipped them into her mouth, moaning at the taste.

“so sweet, even when you’re asleep.”

hope you guys like thisss🧟‍♀️

i have so many more subillie fics otw prepare to be sick of me! 😇

send any requests to my inbox ! 📥

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[marvelobsessed134]

I notice on Wattpad us bottoms get so left out when it comes to reader insert fics 😭

Like tell me why the only options are freaking g!p reader and top!reader likeeeee that’s not me bro