#bottom!reader

Being an omega, that alone wasn’t an issue. An omega traveling without a pack however, was viewed much differently.

No one would sell you alone a weapon. They’d sell it to you if an alpha was breathing down your neck, but not to you alone. Hell, some cities wouldn’t even let omegas walk the street alone at night, no matter how well-armed they were. Even in the more relaxed cities you encountered on your travels, you knew no one would take you seriously if they realized your disposition.

That, and the whole Disease causing only omegas to go feral in the middle of the night. That was also a bit concerning.

So, you sharpened your teeth, and prayed the city guardsmen didn’t look at you too closely. They never did, but that never made the experience less nerve-wracking.

You stared back at your reflection, the mirror cloudy with a single crack on the side; its age starting to show. You opened your mouth wide, surveying your work.

That’ll do, you thought.

A stranger burst through the door, face bloodied and bruised as the noise swelled.

You recoiled, dropping the metal file and quickly grabbing the dagger off your belt. “Who the hell are you?”

The man was taller, with amber-colored skin, messy black hair down to his chin, and a thin beard on his face. He wore some type of robes and a hood, perhaps those of a priest or healer. At one point they might’ve been white. Now, they were discolored and weathered with time. He smelled strongly of tobacco; so much so you couldn’t discern if the scent came from his pheromones, or if he was just a heavy smoker.

One thing was immediately obvious; he was an alpha. Free to wander the world alone, and partake in all it had to offer.

The man let out a sigh, holding his hands up; a weak sign of surrender. “Just… give me a second,” he mumbled before walking further into the room, setting down a bag onto the bed.

Your bed. The one you had paid for, every single time you returned from a job.

You stood right in front of the bed, blocking his access to the bag he had so haphazardly set down. “I don’t care if you’re bleeding. Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my room?”

He sighed, the bleeding gash across his face appearing like nothing more than a minor inconvenience. “Lady out front told me they were outta rooms, said I could spend the night here. Said the person in here might need an extra hand with a job anyways.”

…what?

You scowled, saying nothing before sheathing your dagger and walking out the room, slamming the door behind you.

You couldn’t help but be enraged; not just the man in your room, but the innkeeper too.

Who does she think he is? We had a deal. I’ve worked hundreds of jobs damn well on my own, why would she think-

As you walked towards the stairs, the putrid scent of dozens of different pheromones flooded your nostrils, all sorts of scents blending together.

Fuck.

A wave of nausea hit you instantly, far more intense than usual. Typically, you could manage a trip downstairs despite the nighttime crowds, carefully weaving between patrons to avoid the most intense scents. Now, taking another step seemed impossible; the heightened sense of smell could only mean one thing.

Your heat was approaching.

No, no, no. I’m not dealing with this right now. No. Fuck this. Begrudgingly, you turned around and headed back to your room, defeated by your own biology.

You stormed inside, only to find the stranger’s bag was still on your bed. While blood still stained his face, the wound had already disappeared in the short time you were gone.

He looked over at you, a slight smile on his face. “Someone’s not happy.”

You frowned, his cocky attitude the last thing you wanted to deal with right now.

If he could fix that so quickly, then this should be fine.

You walked back up to him, balled up your fist, and struck him across the face.

The force of your blow staggered him back, the man wincing in pain as he held onto the bed-frame bannister for support. He slowly pulled his hand away, revealing a small trickle of blood leaking from his nose as he stared back at you in shock.

You wasted no time. “I don’t know who you think you are, but you can find someone else’s room to take over, because I am not-”

He wiped the blood away from his nose, his face making it clear you had broken it. He held his hands along each side of his nose, and with one swift crack, he shifted the bones back into place, letting out little more than a grunt.

…oh, shit. It was near impossible to hide your surprise.

He took a moment to catch his breath. “Alright, fine…I’ll cut the shit. Old lady downstairs has a new job for you up North she said, and with all this talk of a Disease going around just in omegas-”

You held your hand up to stop him, hoping he didn’t notice how much it was shaking. “Shut up.” You turned around, checking to make sure the door behind you was shut and locked. “She told you?”

“Yep.”

Your heart sank. For years, nearly a decade, the old innkeeper had helped you. She had supplied you with expensive suppressant spells, helped you conceal your status when your pack cast you out, helped you get a job (albeit a dangerous one), and most importantly, helped you learn to trust again after your entire world fell apart.

…Why? Why would she do this to me?

Denial was far easier than acceptance. “No, she…she wouldn’t do that. Please don’t tell anyone. Please, I’m sorry I hit you, I’m sorry I-”

“I’m not gonna’ tell nobody,” he spat, letting out an annoyed sigh. “Just, relax, alright? And don’t hit me again.”

“How can I? How can I relax when-”

“Our situations aren’t all that different, alright? Neither of us have a pack, you’re an omega, and I’ve got the Disease-”

You paused. “Wait, wait, stop. Stop. If you’ve got the Disease, then you’re also an omega?”

“No. But it was all the same symptoms, least from what I had heard. Suppose I’m one of a kind.”

The stories you had heard in passing sounded terrifying; omegas going feral, as if their Beastblood had overtaken them. They’d mindlessly attack everyone who wasn’t their mate or children, even other members of their pack. Their fangs would grow, their bodies shifting and contorting to take the form of a werewolf, before going on a chaotic killing spree.

In some stories you had heard, they’d attack anyone.

“…so you’re an alpha, then?”

He nodded. “That’s right.”

…he must be able to smell me. If I’m this close to my heat, he has to know.

Your worries were soon quelled as he continued. “But ever since I had my…outburst, I suppose we’ll call it, my sense of smell has been all fucked up. I can’t smell anything, at least not like how I used to.”

Oh. Well that’s convenient.

You slowly nodded your head, hoping he didn’t notice how relieved you were. “I see. I…I’m sorry about that. How could you have gotten the Disease, if you aren’t an omega?” No matter how convenient it was for you, losing their sense of smell might as well have been like losing a limb for someone with Beastblood.

He shrugged, “great question. No one knows. But, the lady downstairs says she knows someone who could help. Or at least, help me get my sense of smell back.”

“Really?” You hadn’t heard of any type of cure.

He nodded. “They say there’s a man up North studying it. He claims to be an omega who once had it. Course, all his studies are done under observation; everyone’s worried about when he’ll snap. But the lady downstairs got me in contact with him.”

North- where your job was. You still didn’t know what this job was, or even if it really existed, only hearing about it from this stranger.

You let out a sigh. “Let me get this straight. The lady downstairs has a job for me up North, but they’re incredibly strict about omegas coming and going because of the Disease going around.”

“Yep.”

“And you need to go up North because you have that Disease, despite being an alpha.”

“Mmhmm.”

He was meant to accompany you. You let out a groan; you didn’t need a chaperone. You looked him up and down. You had killed men far larger than him before, time after time. If anything, he’d get in the way.

He easily sensed your frustration. “Look, all either of us need to do is get to the city, get out, then we go our separate ways. I get it, you usually work alone, or whatever.”

“And what does you need me for?” You asked, still skeptical. “What do you get out of this?”

“Protection.”

You let out a laugh. No sane alpha would willingly recruit an omega to be their protector. When his expression stayed the same, you realized he wasn’t joking. “…you’re serious?”

He nodded. “I’m told you’re good with a bow. I can defend myself, but it’s a long trip. I figure we can help each other.”

“Oh yeah?” You scoffed, “and what do you do?”

“I’m a healer,” he answered plainly. “Figured that was obvious from,” he vaguely gestured to his face, his earlier wounds gone. “You know.”

…that does make sense. But if the Disease makes omegas go feral, then how the Hell does it affect him? That gash must’ve come from somewhere…

“So…the Disease,” you hummed as you started to pace around the room. “What does it do to you, outside of your sense of smell being gone? Are you going feral?”

He let out an awkward laugh, “of course not.”

“Does it have anything to do with what happened earlier?”

The man was quiet, looking towards the door. “Uh…no. That’s different.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” you spat. “How do I know that you aren’t going to kill me in my sleep?! Hell, how do I know you’re not going to give it to me?”

“I can’t. At least, that’s what I’ve found in my own research. No one knows how it spreads-”

“Lovely,” you scoffed. “I get a chaperone, and you get a test subject,” you rolled your eyes.

“We know how it doesn’t spread through the air, and so far, no infected omega has given it to their mates, so that rules a few other things out. Could be blood, could be some curse from the Gods, could be some sort of insect, who knows? But I can confidently say traveling with me doesn’t carry any risk of infection. You have my word.”

You folded your arms, still unsatisfied with his answer. “You never told me your plan for not mauling me in my sleep.”

“That…” he sighed. “Earlier, down there, that wasn’t related to the Disease.”

“What was it, then?”

“Just me being an asshole.”

Unfortunately, he got a smile out of you, but it didn’t last long. “Still. If you go-”

“Then you’re capable of killing me. Least, that’s what the old lady says. Obviously it’s not ideal, but…But nothing close to that has happened. I didn’t even think alphas could get the Disease, so maybe it affects us differently.”

You weren’t willing to trust him so easily, crossing your arms. “Hmph. Is there really no other room available? Do you have to be here?”

“I can check, but…”

You grabbed his bag and set it on the wooden floor. You could’ve been much meaner, but managed to show restraint. “I paid for the room, so I get the bed.” You began rearranging the pillows and blankets to form a nest out of habit.

Wait. I can’t let him know I’m approaching my heat.

He didn’t seem to notice, paying you no mind as he walked towards the side of the bed, laying down and using the bag as a pillow. “Fair enough.”

You nodded your head, hiding your relief. “Good. Now I’m going to bed. Try not to kill me in your sleep.”

He smiled, “no promises.”

Ugh.

———————

As the night progressed, so did your impending heat.

Even in the early stages, you could feel tiny amounts of slick between your legs. You pulled the blanket over you, hoping your new companion to the right of you wouldn’t see.

Yet even if he couldn’t smell you…you could smell him.

It was a biological instinct, a desire you had no way of turning off. He had taken off the tobacco-scented robes, revealing a scent unlike any you had ever encountered; sweet, yet smoky, like caramel left for too long on a stove.

You kept your body turned away from him, clutching one of the many pillows in an attempt to keep yourself distracted.

No matter how long you shut your eyes, you just couldn’t fall asleep.

Ever so slowly, you turned towards him, watching him sleep beside the bed. He had taken off the mages robes he had worn initially, the clothing underneath a lightweight tunic and pants.

You watched as his chest rose and fell, a peaceful look on his face as he slept.

…he is nice to look at.

You looked him up and down, and you quickly wished you hadn’t, feeling your cock grow hard between your legs.

Strained against the cotton fabric of the man’s pants was the outline of his hard cock, fully erect. Even if the man’s mind wasn’t aware of your heat, his body knew exactly what was going on.

You stared at it for longer than you’d care to admit.

He’s asleep. Maybe if I just…maybe if I cum, I’ll be able to fall asleep. Just to clear my head.

You ensured your body was fully obscured by the blanket, beads of sweat rolling down your body. Your hand trailed down, and you slipped your pants down just far enough for your cock to spring free, precum staining the blanket.

Shit.

You continued, stroking yourself back and forth, biting your lip to hide ragged breaths.

You looked back at him, your mouth watering. If circumstances were different, then maybe…

No. You were approaching your heat. Hooking up with a stranger right now would be more than just foolish; it’d be downright idiotic.

You gripped your cock tighter, stroking even faster as more precum beaded at the tip. His robes were within your reach, surely they would contain more of his scent.

You turned onto your side, facing him as you practically fucked your own hand. The smell only brought you closer and closer to release, and it soon felt as if your body had overtaken your mind.

You grabbed the robes from off the floor, shoving your face into them and inhaling deeply. The scent was almost enough to bring you to orgasm, your face growing hot as the smell of his pheromones and sweat flooded your mind.

It didn’t matter that you had just met this man. It didn’t matter that he was right beside you. In that moment, you were nothing more than a helpless animal, desperate for release.

Yet all it took was a single creak of the floorboards to take you out of your fantasies. You gasped, dropping the robes onto the floor, frozen.

There, the man whose name you hadn’t even learned yet, was staring back at you.

You quickly moved to cover yourself.

It’s dark, maybe he didn’t-

“Don’t let me stop you,” said the man, his voice low. “Go on.”

The command sent a shiver down your spine, rendering you speechless. “I…” you stuttered, sweat forming at your brow. Never before had you felt so embarrassed.

“Would you rather I be offended?” The alpha asked with a smile, sitting up straighter. “Because I can be.”

I’m supposed to travel with this man tomorrow. And now he’s seen me pleasuring myself to him.

“I…” you trailed off. There was no hiding it. You weren’t just pleasuring yourself, you were pleasuring yourself to him.

“I understand you paid for this room. That the circumstances are far from ideal. But…” he rested his arms on the side of the bed, “you seem like you could use some company.”

His body knows I’m in heat. But he doesn’t. So long as things don’t go too far…

Before you could give it anymore thought, you nodded your head.

He stood up, walking to your bedside and slipping in beside you. Even if he didn’t touch you, you could feel his warmth beside you.

The stranger let out a sigh that turned to a moan. You turned around, and there he was, flat on his back, stroking himself off. You were mesmerized by the sight of his cock, eyes tracing each vein as you watched his hand move back and forth.

“I thought I was dreaming,” he rasped. “Waking up to see someone jacking off to my clothes. You looked so desperate.”

Hesitantly, you started to touch yourself once more, mimicking his movements. “I don’t sleep with strangers,” you blurted out.

“Never said anything about that,” he smiled. “We’re just…blowing off steam before the trip ahead. That’s all.”

You nodded, unconsciously moving closer to him. You rested your head against his shoulder, the smell once again sending your mind in a haze. His cock left you in a trance, your hole wet with slick.

No. Just this. Just this, then I go to bed, and we never speak of it again.

Your breaths were in sync, moaning as you both pleasured yourselves. You bucked your hips back and forth, so lost in pleasure you didn’t realize how close you were to him, his beard scratching against your face.

He too turned onto his side, facing you. His cock was nearly touching yours. His hand snaked downward, grabbing your cock and pressing it against his own. He wrapped his hand around both cocks, thrusting forward.

You couldn’t help yourself, leaning into kiss him as he fucked against your cock, his balls pressing against you. His hands moved towards your back, grabbing your ass and pulling you closer.

Please don’t touch there, I won’t be able to handle it, you thought.

Yet he respected your wishes, your hole untouched as each other’s precum glided against both of your cocks. His tongue pushed against yours, both of you muffling the other’s moans as you embraced.

Your hole ached, you wanted nothing more to be filled. You felt yourself getting close, and when you looked down, you saw the alpha’s knot begin to swell.

Just the mere sight of it was enough to bring you to the edge before you came. He pulled away, stroking himself quickly before joining you, each of you painting the other’s cock with your cum.

You pulled apart from each other. You knew the relief would only be temporary, but it was welcomed nonetheless. That was at least, until you came to your senses.

“I…” the man sputtered between breaths. “I suppose I should tell you my name. Since we’ll be spending so much time together.”

Right. Fuck.

Part 2

i dont know what's gotten into me lately but I love writing readers who are just a little bit of assholes. its fun.

but yeah uhhhh ive been thinking abt high fantasy omegaverse for a bit now, esp after this oneshot, so i got an idea and decided to run with it! plus, this gives me a break from characters that started on this blog, then became my main project, because boy i am I. a little burnt out as i approach the end of the first draft. so something with new(ish) characters could be cool

there WILL be mpreg . like im going in with mpreg in mind. so theres also that. in my other stories, i kinda tried to shoehorn that plotline in and they fell apart, but here i have a PLAN so im feeling GOOD

but yea :D thanks for reading! also vote on this im indecisive. Like I know I already said hole but I didn’t say WHICH hole there could be a bonus hole who knows the world is our oyester . But yeah! THANK U FOR READING

♡ thinking about the first time you had a truly bad day for her to see, when you arrived at her home with the deepest frown she'd ever seen. your shoulders sloped downwards, matching the way your empty eyes bored into the ground. and grace didn't like that at all, pulling you inside without a word.

you could feel the typical light tremor in her hand as it slid up your arm and curled around your shoulder, pulling you close as she locked up the door with her free hand. smooth patchouli filled your senses as your face pressed against her shirt, and none of the hospitality she would try to offer you would be nearly as effective as her scent alone.

it was like the second grace brought you in, you were attached to her. and she could feel herself getting pinker and pinker the more this went on, the stammer she'd worked hard to ditch whenever she was around you slowly working its way back into her voice whenever she tried to ask what's wrong.

she underestimates her own importance sometimes, and now that she's got you settled on the couch beside her with a thick blanket and some mindless youtube video on the television, she's trying to remember that for you, her presence is enough. she sticks close, your hand stroking her hair in the way that numbs her brain a little, though she always remembers to keep checking in on you. if you don't want to talk about what's wrong, she won't press, but grace is still very conscious about the fact that you came to her place so frazzled and exhausted.

"h-hey, you still comfy?" she looks over to you, meeting your eyes when they flick over to her at the sound of her voice. she can't help but smile a little, vision focusing on your snuggly figure swallowed up by a chunky sweater. you seem more content now, but still, something's a little off.

you nod, thinking for a moment before grabbing her wrist and moving her arm over your shoulders. "jus’ wanna be closer. you make it all softer."

"i . . . make what softer?" grace asks, immediately taking to rubbing your arm. "your feelings?"

"mmhm," you hum, thinking carefully as you nod again. "the stress and the fear just . . . lulls. it falls into the background."

"oh, yeah—?"

"is that weird?"

"no." she does mean it, her rosy lips curled into the biggest smile you've ever seen, the corners of her eyes scrunching as she stumbles through a reassuring response. "no, no, no— not at all, not weird. actually, really one of the cutest things anyone's ever said to me."

you smile too then, nuzzling against the warmth of her hand that's now moving to cup your cheek. "awh, grace."

"y-you're so—" she cuts herself short with a small huff, thumb stroking over the high point of your cheek. her free hand pushes her glasses up her nose in a very pointed manner, and she leans forward to simply say what she's thinking without that stupid stutter involved — the stutter you find very cute, that is, but grace finds it to be nothing more than a nuisance.

it's no crash or collision, just her lips ever so delicately caressing yours.

"does that help, too? it makes everything softer?" she asks.

you place your hand over hers. "it does."

again, grace leans closer, her parted lips, soft like petals, sucking your bottom lip. it's heavy, doing more than just keeping your feelings faint, instead it's nullifying them completely; reminding you nothing else matters. there's a girl who loves you.

you sigh against her, the remaining tension in your body melting away finally. she revels in it — grace has always been extra fond of the ways you happen to fall into her grasp. you offer her power in just her hands and her lips, she doesn't need to speak a lot, which at times has been the hardest thing for her. you're easy to please.

you have all these little tells. hitched breaths, like you're trying to hold back some other inappropriate noise. subtle squirms, like the space between your thighs is throbbing. there's a certain look your eyes get when grace gets you needy.

and that doe look is staring right back at her now that she's pulled away, a thin string of spit connecting your mouths.

she finishes her thought from earlier. "you're so precious."

you whine her name so weakly, the syllable drawn out and high, and if grace takes any more time than she already has, you're going to start climbing on her — she knows this from past experience, and isn't completely opposed to it for obvious reasons, but it feels better to give you what you want without a battle.

"i know, i know— uh, l-let's fix you up."

one more kiss, more chaste, but lingering slightly, and then she's ripping her glasses off her face and pulling you on top of her lap.

the teeny tiny nightie you've got on beneath your sweater rides up just enough for grace to put her hands under and peel your matching panties down, you lifting yourself up to assist her. your thighs squishing her waist and the silky, warm, wet skin that's now exposed between them beckon grace, steering her thoughts into even dirtier places by her own standards.

she mutters a rough and wavered "c'mon—" as her back hits the couch cushion, her body behaving on its own accord. she guides you closer, and you falter upon realising what she wants — what she's doing.

"i'm going to kill you like that, grace, nuh-uh, stop it."

"awesome . . ." she smiles, a little laugh falling from her lips at your face. "then i won't have to start that third report dempsy dumped on me today."

"you're sick in the head."

she giggles more this time, cheeks blazing as she tries to paw at the undersides of your thighs and bring you closer. "no . . . don't be scared. see, it's— it's fine, i got you, right?"

you can't even look at her anymore, can't gaze down at her lying with that icy blonde hair splayed around her like a halo, brows lifted and lips pouty.

"you're so whipped," you mumble, like you can't believe it.

she just nods.

you lower yourself the slightest bit, only to jump when her mouth finally makes contact with your soaked skin. you grab the back of the couch for stability, a hoarse cry eliciting at her mere little kiss on your clit, and you let one out again, louder, at her suckling the swollen nub.

"ah, grace, jesus . . . "

and once you gain the courage to glance down at her, you whimper. grace is focused, her tongue working you open in a skilled manner, in big strokes from clit to fluttery hole.

"i needed this." her voice is muffled, but you gather pretty well what she's trying to say, especially as her eyes roll back. grace has never been so talkative in a moment like this, and isn't it funny that comes out when it's the most inconvenient time or . . . place, for her to speak? your hips buck, knocking the tip of her nose, pleasure practically gushing out of you and into her mouth. "oh, mmhm. i needed this so much. you taste so good, you're so wet for me."

"mm," you hum, trying to respond, trying to encourage her and keep this going. building her confidence has gone a long way so far in this relationship. she never would have asked you to sit on her face in the beginning. "it f-feels good."

her fingertips stroke up your stomach and you tense at the ticklish sensation, grace starting to push your clothes up. "hold them. hold them u-up i wanna see— wanna see those tits. please."

you cover a moan with your hand over your mouth, holding the hems of your clothing over your chest. soft cotton brushes your nipples and your hips move again, and then you can't stop, rolling your sensitive cunt against grace's tongue with the force that could do exactly as you feared earlier — suffocate her. but she's still here, groaning and mumbling nonsense, and bruising your thighs with her grip.

"fuck, you're pretty."

"graaace, ohmygod ohmygod!" you grab the couch again, gasping out when she laves right over your clit again. "please, please, there, m'so close, so fuckin' close, please don't stop."

she keeps it right there at your insistence and builds you into a high your body can't quite keep up with. it spills over quickly with you whimpering and cursing against the couch cushions, unable to hold yourself up.

"that's— holy shit, that's the hardest i've ever made you cum." grace scoops you into her lap, wiping your cream off her cheeks and chin with her sleeve. she misses the little bit that's shiny on the tip of her nose, which you get with your own sleeve before slumping over and burying into her neck.

and tension? none, none left in your body that she can feel. if anything, it's like your limbs have turned into jelly.

"next time, i wanna try and make you cum twice. or thrice. wh-whatever you can handle, obviously."

"oh, fuck," you whisper, holding onto her shoulder. "you're gonna kill me, babe."

how she can do that, say that, all with blushing cheeks and the most adorable, innocent looking smile? you don't know. grace ashcroft is incredibly unique.

pls tell me if this was ok, i'm pretty happy with how i portrayed her but lmk <3 writing a character u've never written before can be challenging!!! i didn't wanna neglect her social anxiety but, at the same time, i believe she'd be much more comfortable to be herself within an established relationship (i guess that's a given lol) and tried to get out some of that rare snark / attitude she has at some points in the game <3

🏷️ @eriiwaiii2 @windedpuppy @heyimrye @rhian88 @yoosohh @marvelwomenarehot0 @ssijht @mikaelii @lottiesultraviolence @dollirust

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 | ☀️

The bright lights of the stadium shone down on you. Staring down at the ice, you skate into your position at the center of the rink. Finally, you look up, coming face-to-face with him. Ilya Rozanov. It’s been three months since you saw him. Three months since your huge fight, where you broke things off. Three months since you’ve talked or even texted. But you thought about him every day, watched all of his games, tried drafting the perfect message over and over. 

You’re the one who ended things; you shouldn’t be wanting to reach out to him as much as you did, but here you are. Now wasn’t the time to think about Ilya or his stupid face that you’d always see in your dreams; you had a game to win. Shaking your head, you put your mind to the task at hand. Dropping your stick down, you brace yourself for the face-off that’d start the game, staring Ilya down with a determined look. He smirks but doesn’t say anything. 

You can tell he can see right through you, see that you missed him. What you couldn’t gather was whether he missed you. If he did, he didn’t let it show. That was the problem, you could never tell with him. He could read you like a book, and you never had any idea what he was thinking, what he was feeling. That was the crux of the fight you had months ago. You swallowed hard at the memory, 

“What do you want me to do? Say we are something? We are nothing, Y/N nothing!” Ilya threw his hands up, exasperated. 

“Nothing. We are nothing?”

“Yes. Nothing, we fuck, and that’s it.” He rubs his nose as he says it. He’s lying. 

You squint at him, staying quiet for a moment. You’re giving him an out, a chance to take it back. To say he didn’t mean it. 

He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t even look you in the eye. 

 Nodding quickly, you tried your best to keep the tears at bay. “Fine. We are nothing.” 

Gathering up your stuff, you move to leave his apartment quickly. 

The ref drops the puck onto the ice. The game was on. Quickly, you gain control of the puck and pass it to your teammate. No more thinking about Ilya unless it was about how you plan to beat him. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“Fuck!” 

Your strong exclamation is quickly repeated, shorter this time in a whisper, as you hold your hand in pain from punching the locker in front of you. 

“Fuck.”

You lost. You fucking lost. You couldn’t get your head in the game, and you lost. All because you couldn’t stop thinking about that stupid Russian with the curly hair and the gorgeous eyes. By now, all your teammates had left. They invited you out for drinks with them, but you declined, and now you are alone in the locker room trying to blow off steam. 

Well, not completely alone. Speak of the devil. 

“Be careful, you would not want to injure your hand.” A strong russian voice spoke suddenly. 

It made you jump, and you quickly turned to see the culprit. Ilya Rozanov. You hadn’t even heard him come in. 

“What are you doing here, Rozanov?” 

“Since when am I Rozanov and not Ilya?”

“Since when were we nothing?” You shook your head and turned back to your locker, beginning to take off your gear. 

You heard him sigh, and it was silent for a long moment. Then you felt his presence next to you, you paid him no mind. Or at least you tried to. 

“Look at me.” 

You don't, you just continue to put your stuff away in your locker angrily. 

“Hey, look at me.” He says it more softly this time and places his hand on your chin, gently turning your face in his direction. 

You don't make eye contact. Not right away. Tears start to well in your eyes, not only from sadness but also from frustration. All of it is becoming too much for you. The fight, the game, letting your team down. It's all piling up. 

Ilya can see it, see the strain everything is taking on you. He presses his other hand firmly against the back of your neck, an attempt to ground you. 

“Take a breath.” 

You don’t obey at first, but the urgent look he sends you makes you comply. Closing your eyes, you let out a short, frustrated breath through your nose. 

“Okay?” 

“Okay.” You confirm. Keeping your eyes closed for a while longer, trying to keep the tears at bay. They end up slipping through anyway. 

“What are you thinking about?”

You weren’t stupid, and you were far from naive despite what Ilya might think. You know that he’s in denial. If you had nothing, you wondered what something meant to him. You weren’t just fuck buddies; you didn’t meet at a bar and decide to keep it going. You were genuine friends at first. Maybe adding sex to your relationship was a mistake, but even after everything, you don’t regret it.  

“I know we can never be something. Publicly at least. I know that-” Ilya wipes your tears away, and you let out a frustrated sigh, finally opening your eyes and looking at Ilya properly. 

“-but do you really have to act like this is… that I mean nothing to you?” 

“Ты для меня всё значишь.” You can’t understand him. But you don’t pry, you know it’s easier for him to express himself in Russian than in English. 

“Мне жаль, I'm sorry.” 

“What do you want from me, Ilya? Why are you here?” Your voice comes out more exhausted and exasperated than you intended. You were getting tired of this back-and-forth; you needed something tangible. Just something to 

“Я просто хочу тебя.” He says it so softly, so quietly, and so earnestly. You wish you could understand. You yearn to know every sweet nothing he’s whispered to you in his native language. Maybe that was the problem; he couldn’t be vulnerable with you. Not in a way that you could both share. 

You shake your head and take his hands off your face. You weren’t going to entertain this anymore. He couldn’t trust you, couldn’t talk to you, couldn’t give you a straight answer. Pushing yourself off the bench, you make a move to go past him. “I'm done with this, Ilya. Find someone else to string along.” 

He grabs onto your hips and presses you against the lockers. “Let me show you-” He leaned down and kissed you. Every thought left your brain as his lips met yours. You kissed him back just as eagerly; you always felt at home kissing Ilya. This is where you wanted to be. When you pulled away, you chased after him, but he put himself to work right away as he began kissing down your neck. It pained you that this couldn’t be forever. 

“-Show you everything I want to say.” His name slips through your teeth between whimpers as he nips and sucks at your neck. 

“Ilya, we shouldn’t do this here. What if-”

He cuts you off. “Everyone is gone. We’ll be quick, you have no idea how bad I need you.” He whispers those words right into your ear, and it makes you shudder. He turns you around, pressing your front against the lockers. Pulling your pants down, he drops to his knees. Spreading your cheeks, he spits against your hole. He continues, licking and kissing in an attempt to get you wet enough for him, savoring each one of the moans that leave your lips. He was always good with his tongue, and he knew exactly how to drive you crazy. Your hand slammed against the locker. “Stop! I'm gonna-” You warned him of your incoming release, and he immediately backed off, rising back up to his feet. He turned your face to his and kissed you. He pushes his shorts down, revealing the very thing you were craving right now.

  He spits on his cock, stroking himself before pushing the tip against your hole, moaning as he pushes it in. One hand gripping your hip, the other coming up next to yours on the lockers.  “Gonna make you come on my cock, y/n. ” You moan, letting him know how much you want it. 

And as he slips further inside you, he whispers these words as if you were his god-given solace, “Ебать, I missed you.”

The words make your knees weak. Ilya’s strong arm wraps around your front, helping you stand. Ilya pushes himself closer to you, using his body weight to keep you upright; it also moves him deeper into you, as if that were possible. His cock is thick, and it fills you up completely. With no condom, you feel all the parts of him you usually wouldn’t, and you love every second of it.  “I missed you, too, Ilya.” Your voice comes out breathless, and it’s like music to his ears. 

“Repeat it.” He says in between thrusts that are slow and deep, his cock hitting right where you need it. His lips are right against your ear. “Tell me again.” It’s a demand. Ilya urges you with another well-timed thrust that knocks the breath out of your lungs. 

“I missed you.” What you really mean is, I love you. But that’s a secret you keep to yourself. You grip the hand he has on your chest, dropping your head down onto the locker door in front of you. He buries his face into your shoulder, moaning against you as he picks up the pace. 

“Я тебя люблю-” Ilya says against your skin, like he’s breathing the words into you. Like he wants you to know that it’s true, like he wants the words to become a part of who you are. You don’t understand him, but you feel as though you’ve heard it before. 

“Как бы мне хотелось сказать тебе, как сильно я тебя люблю.” He chokes up as he says it, the hand that’s braced up against the locker clenches into a fist. His thrusts are picking up in pace; the sound of his hips slapping against your behind echoes off the walls of the empty locker room. 

He often speaks to you in Russian when you two sleep together. Nothing as long as that, though; usually it’s short, curt words that you can only assume are curses. The way he grabs at your chest and holds you so closely, like he doesn’t want to let you go. You allow yourself to get lost in the moment; you don’t want to think about what-ifs or the state of your relationship. You just want to keep the feeling of Ilya pressed up against your chest forever. His words help push you closer and closer to the edge. You reach behind you, grabbing at his thighs, wanting to feel every piece of him you can.

“Ily-” You cut yourself off with a whimper, but he knows what you want. You're close, and he’s right there with you. 

“I got you, I got you.” He kisses underneath your ear, continuing his thrusts right up into your prostate. 

“You’re mine.” He says it under his breath, but it’s loud enough for you to hear.

 The second the words leave his lips, you’re done for, ropes of cum, and as you squeeze around Ilya’s cock in ecstasy, he follows soon after, the warm feeling of his release fills you up instantly. Your breath shudders as he continues with his thrusts until he’s completely spent. 

Ilya pulls out, and immediately, it’s like your legs turn to jello. He chuckles and helps you stand. Placing a kiss on your temple, before taking a towel from his bag and beginning to clean you up. 

“I’m yours?” You ask after he helps you sit down. 

“You were always mine.” He says as he kisses you silly, you smile against his lips like a dope. Savoring the attention you were getting from him. You could only hope you weren’t making a mistake. 

enjoyed? consider reblogging!

translations:

Ты для меня всё значишь - you mean everything to me

Мне жаль - im sorry

Я просто хочу тебя. - i just want you

Ебать - fuck

Я тебя люблю - i love you

It had started as a little comment, as it almost always does with Emma. You were all three in the gym, and Emma just had to say something about Jean's stamina. One time. One time Jean was super worked up after a rough mission and had lasted less than a minute inside you and Emma had been just waiting for the oppourtunity to bring it up again.

And Jean, couldn't let that go unanswered. She bit back, challenging Emma and Emma, never one to back down, agreed. You had little to no say in the matter as they ushered you from the gym to your shared bedroom.

You shiver in anticipation as they both take off their clothes. They're both already hard, cocks springing from the confines of their underwear. "Already leaking, I can practically taste my victory already."

Jean frowns and wipes away the pre cum from her tip with one finger. "We didn't even bet anything."

"Well, we should. Loser has to bottom for the winner." Emma says, too quickly.

Jean raises an eyebrow. "Oh, Em," Jean says mockingly, "if you want me to fuck your ass again, you can just ask."

"That's-" Emma scoffs. "That was one time-"

"And you loved it." Jean interrupts and finally crawls on the bed. "You came more than I've ever seen you."

"Fine." Emma huffs and climbs on the bed on the other side of you. "It doesn't matter anyway, because there's no way you last longer than me."

"Roll over for me, baby." Jean ignores Emma's remark and nudges you over onto your stomach. "Up." She hooks her fingers under your hips and pulls them up.

"Come on, you can arch better than that." Emma chastises as she grabs your shoulders. Together they manhandle you into position. Emma leans against the headboard, positioning your head into her lap. As Jean kneels behind your hips, you take Emma's instructions, arching your back to position for her.

"You're so good for me, lovely." Jean murmurs her appreciation as she drags two long fingers through your slick. She hums and maneuvers her fingers to your clit. She rubs your clit, urging you to relax as she positions herself and slowly eases into you. "Oh, fuck." Jean groans as she sinks her length into you.

"If you're already moaning like that, you don't stand a chance." Emma smirks and shifts, positioning your head better between her legs. Your face is essentially shoved in her crotch, just as Emma wanted. "Open." She taps the head of her cock against your mouth and you part your lips obediently.

"Suck her." Jean groans, impatient with Emma's under stimulation. "Make her cum for me." You hollow your cheeks, sucking Emma eagerly. The salty tang of her precum fills your mouth. "Deeper." Jean's hand pushes your head forward, forcing more of Emma's cock into your mouth. You gag, as Emma's cock presses against the back of your throat.

Jean's cock sits inside you, not moving as she focuses on guiding your head up and down Emma's shaft. "Hey, we're not cockwarming." Emma smacks Jeans hand away and tangles her perfect nails in your hair. "Start fucking."

You can practically her Jeans eye roll but her hips start moving a second later. You moan around Emma's cock as Jean ruts into you. Emma sets a harsher pace than Jean, mercilessly dragging your mouth up and down her cock. You brace your hands on her perfect thighs as you choke and gag on her length.

You try to focus, keeping the suction on Emma, but Jean's making it incredibly hard to focus. Her hips slam against yours, her balls slapping against you with every thrust. Her fingers still work on your clit and you teeter on the edge of orgasm. Normally you have to ask, but with Emma's cock lodged deep in your mouth that's out of the question at the moment.

"Cum on my cock, baby." Jean leans over you, nipples pressing into your back. She kisses the back of your shoulder. Your moan turns into another gag on Emma's cock as you cum. Your eyes roll back in your head. Pleasure surges through you as your cunt clenches wildly around Jeans cock. You can practically feel her steeling herself. The walls of your pussy are massages her perfectly and it takes almost every fiber of her being not to cum inside you. "Fuck."

You shiver as your orgasm fades, and Jean all but rips her cock out of you. "Your turn." Jean's voice is harsher than usual as she snaps at Emma.

"Is it already getting to you? It's okay if you want to cum already Jean. Isn't it?" Emma finally yanks you off her cock and grabs your chin, she tilts your head back and makes you look at her. "Tell Jean you want her to cum in you right now."

"Shut it, Emma." Jean snaps and presses your hips, urging you to spin. You spin around on the bed, presenting your ass for Emma. She of course, smacks it and then wastes no time positioning herself and thrusting into you.

You moan as she roughly fucks into you. Her fingers aren't as gentle as Jean's, she presses against your clit harshly. Making you quiver around her length. "Suck." Emma grunts.

"Balls first." Jean interrupts your attempt to engulf her length and redirects your mouth lower. You stick your tongue out, licking the underside of her sac. You can taste her sweat from the gym earlier, but it only spurs you on. Her salty musk fills your mouth as you gently suck on her balls, switching between the two evenly.

When both her balls are dripping with spit, Jean redirects you to her tip. She slowly guides it into your mouth, letting you take your time sucking down her length. "Worthless." Emma growls and her sharp nails bite into your scalp as she pushes you down on Jean's cock. "Stick your tongue out." She orders as you choke.

Emma makes you bury Jean in your throat. You gag and slobber on Jean, but stick your tongue out on Emma's orders. Your nose bumps Jean's abs, the deep position allowing you to lick her balls. Jean groans at the feeling and her hips jerk forward. She slowly draws back and thrusts forward again, setting a slow pace to fuck your throat.

"Just like that." Jean groans. Satisfied, Emma releases your head, digging her nails into your hips instead. She rewards your obedience by using one hand to play with your clit. You shiver at the stimulation, still a little sensitive from your orgasm on Jean's cock. It takes her less than a minute to make you cum on her length. Emma groans as your walls contract around her.

"See." Emma grunts as she continues fucking you through your orgasm. "I'm letting my baby actually enjoy an orgasm. You had to pull your little dick out at the first wave."

"Little?" Jean pulls out of your mouth, letting you catch your breath in the aftershocks of pleasure. "Do we need to get the measuring tape again, Emma?" You look past Jean's heaving chest to the smirk she's shooting at Emma. "Because your ego is still bruised from last time we compared."

"Shut it." Emma snaps as her thrusts slow. She ignores Jean's look and instead focuses on watching as her thick cock slowly eases in and out. "Look at how their cunt stretches around me."

"Yes, yes." Jean says sweetly. "Your dick is very big, my love." Emma huffs and you feel her cock withdrawal from you. You whine softly as the action leaves you feeling empty, but take the opportunity to collapse on the mattress and roll onto your back.

"Don't patronize me." Emma growls. "Take your turn already." Emma turns her head away and mutters, "quick shot," under her breath. Jean chuckles. If you were Emma, you'd feel a shot of fear, but Emma merely smiles back at the redhead.

A sheen of sweat covers your skin. Jean must sense your exhaustion because she doesn't make you move. She shifts around on the bed and nudges your knees apart. You flinch as the head of her cock brushes your clit. The stimulation is entirely too much but Jean pushes inside you anyway.

She's rougher this time, she won't admit it but Emma's jabs are getting to her. She slams her cock into you repeatedly. You pant heavily and Emma takes that as a sign you're not capable of providing orally at the moment. She guides your hand to her cock instead and you do your best to jerk her in the way she likes.

Jean either can't hear your soft whimpers or doesn't care, because her pace doesn't falter as she pounds into you mercilessly. You can't keep track of how long she fucks you but eventually she draws out and Emma takes her place. Emma is just as rough, they're trapped in a cycle of one upping each other now.

They ask for very little of you, just force your legs back open every time you try to close from the stimulation. With their treatment, you're surely going to be in pain tomorrow. You've lost track of how many times they're switched places and made you cum. Jean's between your legs right now, her hips drilling into you.

Your cunt feels thoroughly abused. Every thrust makes you wince. The two women have been at for what feels like hours. It's entirely too much but Emma and Jean seem content to keep going at each other. Their comments keep coming- urging each other on.

"You're doing so good." Jean praises as she angles her head, getting at your neck. She kisses gently , then suckles. You gasp at the sharp nip of her teeth.

"Jean." You whine as you arch into the sensation. A sharp pain shoots through you as the movement makes her cock shift inside you. Soft hands cup your cheeks. Jean pulls back, pressing her forehead against yours. She looks at your hooded eyes.

The gentle nudge of her psyche pushes against yours. She can read your mind without you knowing of course, but you like that she lets you know anyway. "Almost done." Jean pecks your lips when she's done, finally attuned to your condition.

"Emma, your turn." Jean pulls out slowly.

Emma wastes no time, taking Jean's spot and pressing inside you. Her blue eyes watch your face carefully, noting how you wince as her cock pushing inside you. Her thrusts are much gentler this time, she buries her length fully inside you before pulling back and doing it again.

Jean presses against her back. Jean wraps her arms around Emma's body, cupping her chest in each hand. Emma groans as Jean pinches her nipples, rolling the hardened buds between her fingertips. Her eyes are squeezed shut in concentration and you feel her cock twitch inside you.

"Fuck." Emma moans as you squeeze around her. You feel her twitch again and her face contorts as she tries to draw her hips back. Her hips slam back forward a moment later, shoving her full length back into you. "No." Emma whines. It takes a moment for you to register what happened.

"Good girl." Jean purrs in Emma's ear as she using her hips to keep Emma locked inside you. Emma struggles to pull back but Jean uses her leverage to keep Emma in place.

"Cheating." Emma grimaces and then you feel the first pulse of her cum shoot inside you. Emma collapses then. She falls on top of you, hips jerking into you weakly. Jean smirks in victory as Emma cums inside you. After hours of fucking without orgasm, Emma's cum is endless. Her hips spasm into you as her orgasm rolls over her.

Eventually, she stills, shivering as her spent cock slowly softens inside you. "Oh and you almost had me too." Jean pats Emma's back affectionately. "Move over."

Emma rolls off you, scowling at the ceiling. Jean instantly takes her place, thrusting her cock into you. She lasts all of one second. As soon as the head of her cock presses against your cervix, she cums. Her cum floods your cunt, mixing with Emma's. She grinds into you, head falling back as she drains her balls. "Fuck." Jean groans as you cum again around her twitching cock. "So good."

When she's satisfied, Jean collapses on the other side of you. "Cheat." Emma grunts.

"We never established rules, so I can't have cheated." Jean pants. "You came first, you lose." Jean says with finality, ending Emma's rebuttal. She'll surely have more to say later but for now they turn their attention to you.

"You did so good, baby." Emma drags two fingers through the mess of cum between your legs and pushes it back into you. You whimper, squirming away from her long fingers.

"So sensitive, I'm sorry baby." Jean coos and softly strokes your cheek.

"So, sensitive." Emma repeats, a slightly mocking tone, but she takes her fingers away. "Think you can go again?" Emma smiles and kisses your cheek.

"You think you can hard again?" Jean questions her girlfriend.

You and Zanka had been dating for a while, almost two whole years. Your relationship wasn't the most scandalous.. you went on simple, traditional Japanese tea dates, studied together and talked for hours in your room about the most random shit. You adored the innocent, simplicity of your relationship but there was one thing missing, one tiny thing you've wanted since you first hung out in Zanka's room for the first time.

Sex.

It was almost embarrassing how much you thought about it.

It got so bad to the point where you had multiple wet dreams about him and nearly cried out of frustration when you woke up and realized they weren't true. The worst about it all? You were completely inexperienced not to mention too shy so you had no idea how to ask him for it. Your sexual frustration was slowly eating away at you and it showed. You started avoiding Zanka like the plague and instead ranted about your dilemma to your best friend Neil.

"Ok so why not just ask him?" Neil questioned with a look of disappointment as he sat on your bed with you.

"It's not that easy! Zanka's.." you contemplated your words for a second. "disciplined and traditional! He'd probably just think I'm weird or something."

"I'm telling dude, you're overthinking this entire thing." He again deadpanned.

"What do you want me to do? Just call him and say 'hey babe wanna get freaky?'" you said sarcastically.

The ringing of your phone caught both of your attention. You peered over at the screen to see lovely zanka 🩵 in bold. You groaned as Neil laughed at the comical timing. You purposely hung up the call, genuinely not wanting to deal with your emotions at the moment. Neil looked at you with this 'really bro?' look right before snatching the phone and texting zanka himself while keeping you at arm's length (literally).

Zanka: Where are you?

Neil (as you): She's at home with me big bro.

As soon as Zanka read the message, Neil handed you back your phone. You looked at what he sent and nearly lost it.

"Neil!" You yelled at him while pulling your hair.

"What? I did you a solid. Besides, it's not like he's gonna barge in here-"

The door slammed open to reveal a fuming Zanka in the doorway.

He was pissed.

"You," Zanka turned to Neil. "Out. Now." He ordered.

"Don't gotta tell me twice. Have fun (name)." Neil laughed with both his arms in the air in fake surrender.

Now it was just you and Zanka.

Dear God.

You got off your bed and began to explain yourself.

"Look Zanka, I-"

"Why?" Was all he said.

You went quiet, not knowing what to say.

"You-you don't tell me where you are, you hang up my calls- did I.. do somethin' wrong?" He questioned with the saddest puppy dog eyes known to man.

It broke your heart in two.

"No, no! You didn't do anything wrong! It's my fault. I.. wanted to ask you something but couldn't find the courage.." You explained.

Zanka looked almost relieved to know he didn't do anything but now was confused.

"Ask me what? My hand in marriage?" He joked.

You held a brief state of shock before the wave of comfort and familiarity washed over you. He knew that was your weakness, his dry sense of humour. A good laugh could reset your whole mood in a flash.

Feeling more comfortable, you finally confess what you've been holding back from him.

"No dummy. I," you took a deep breath in, this was harder than you thought. "wanted to ask if we could.. y'know.."

"Come on, spit it out." He urged.

"I wanted to ask if we could have sex! There I said it!" You grumbled like the whole ordeal was a chore.

Zanka eyes widened in surprise before quite literally laughing in your face.

"Wha- I- fuck you!" You whined.

"I'm sorry- really it's just- that's it?" He spluttered.

"Shut up." You mumbled as you covered your blushing face in shame.

The room fell silent before Zanka broke it with a sigh of content.

"All that trouble just for that? Come 'ere." He muttered as he pulled your hands away from your face and brought you against him.

You instinctively put your hands on his surprisingly hard chest, having done this before- you and Zanka weren't completely inexperienced, you made out a couple of times but that was it. This would be the first time you went.. beyond that.

After making fun of you a bit more he went silent again- gazing into your eyes for longer than necessary. You did the same, admiring his deep navy blue eyes with quickened breath. Zanka leaned in slowly- as if asking for permission. He really didn't need to but the sentiment made your heart flutter.

Finally, he planted his lips on yours. They were a little chapped but soft as they moved along yours in a smooth rhythm. He turned his head slightly and swiped his tongue at your bottom as a warning right before inviting himself into your mouth and you gladly let him in.

Suddenly he broke the kiss and it left you breathing heavily. You felt a tiny tug at the hem of your shirt.

"Can I take this off?" He whispered against your lips.

"Mhm." Was all you could muster.

He waited one more painful second before pulling it off slowly. You raised your arms for him as the shirt went over your head. You found him just staring at your breasts with widened pupils, you were both flattered and embarrassed at the same time.

"Uh.. Zanka?" You queried.

"Huh? Oh, sorry (name)- I just.. your body's beautiful. You're beautiful. How'd an average joe like me end up with you?"

"Zanka.. I'm the one that doesn't deserve you. You're handsome, hard-working, honest, you're not afraid to-"

Zanka covered your mouth while blushing profusely.

"Don't. I.. don't wanna cum yet- not when we haven't even started." He whispered as he released your mouth.

Sensing you were getting restless, he groped and grabbed at your breasts to his heart's content- which was a lot. You didn't realize he liked them so much.. noted.

When he was finally satisfied he moved onto your skirt and took it off without trouble, your blue laced panties on full display. He hooked his index and middle fingers into the waistband.

"This for me?" He asked.

You nodded.

"Ya didn't have to do that.." He remarked before kissing you again and dipping his fingers inside.

His finger grazed your clit before sliding down through your slit all the way to your entrance, just barely ghosting over it before going back up to your clit as he began rubbing slow circles into it.

Your moans of pleasure were muffled by the deep kiss you were sharing. Zanka released your lips from his possessive hold and whispered against them.

"God you're..so wet." He commented in between breaths. "Think you're ready for a finger?" He inquired.

You nodded again- however this time, Zanka didn't seem all too pleased with that answer.

"Come on (name), use your words." He insisted.

"Y-Yeah um.. I think I'm ready."

"Good. Now, breathe in for me."

He very slowly inserted his middle finger into your entrance, watching your expression to see if he should go deeper or not. Once he was all the way in, he began to pump his finger in you- the action making you gasp.

"Too much?" He asked.

"Come on Zanka.. I'm not fragile. I can take it.."

Zanka chuckled lowly. "I know you can big girl, but let's save that talk for when I'm stuffing you with my cock."

You froze in shock. You didn't expect your seemingly serious, up tight boyfriend to say such.. lewd things. You kinda liked it.

Zanka, being the strategist he is- took the opportunity of your surprised state to use his thumb to play and rub circles into your clit while fingering your hole with two fingers this time.

You never felt this way before. You rarely touched yourself and when you did it was never like.. this. Never this calm yet precise- and most important of all it never felt this fucking good.

You were about to reach your release when you felt Zanka's fingers come (no pun intended) out of you and his thumb off your clit.

You made an embarrassingly whiny noise- already missing the feeling of his fingers in you.

"Relax beautiful, I'll give you exactly what you want.. go lie on the bed for me."

You immediately obeyed and down on the bed. Although it was a little awkward since you didn't really know what you were doing.

While approaching you in an irritatingly slow motion, Zanka began stripping. Heavy breathing and the sound of his zipper going down cut through the silence of the room.

First his jacket came off, then his shirt- revealing a set of gorgeous abs, v-line and pink nipples for you to play with.