Toby

Michael always liked spending time at your place. In fact, he preferred it, relishing in the mundane tasks he got to participate in: cooking together, doing the dishes, helping you with laundry— all of it tethering him to the real world.

When he was away on tour he would dream about moments like this: back in your bedroom, lying lazily across your bed, matching socks while you folded towels. It was so simple. So normal. So domestic.

“I’ve missed you.” Your voice was soft, echoing gently against the quiet of your bedroom as you reached into the laundry basket perched on your duvet. You pulled out another towel, folding it neatly with a slight frown pulling at your lips.

You knew all too well how limited your time was together.

This was only a short break in his schedule. Next week he’d be halfway around the world on another leg of tour.

“Hey, stop that.”

He threw a rolled up pair of socks in your direction before starting on a new one. His long, dainty fingers digging through the laundry basket, moving fabric around until he found another set to roll together.

“I’ll be back before you know it.” He peered up at you with the sweetest smile playing on his lips, his hands still busy with the laundry.

You didn’t even realize you’d stopped folding the towel in your grasp— too busy staring at Michael’s fingers moving so delicately, the veins running through the tops of his hands growing more prominent with every fold.

You’d barely seen him in the last three months and now he was laid out on your bed— his hands taunting and teasing you over a pair of socks.

“You alright sweet girl?”

His words snapped against your ears like a rubber band, instantly bringing you out of your trance. You met his grin with a sheepish smile of your own as you thought about all the times you’d heard that nickname over the phone while he was away.

“how was your day sweet girl?”

“been thinkin’ bout you all day sweet girl.”

“I want you to touch yourself like I would. C’mon sweet girl let me hear ya.”

The last one was particularly memorable; the way his whisper rasped through your phone— all heavy and desperate.

It was a strange new form of intimacy for both of you— phone sex.

You’d tried so hard to use your fingers the same way he would. Straining to reach that spot he always could and panting into the phone while he whispered sweet nothings from the other end.

It was never the same. Each call ended with you more needy for his touch, dreaming about moments like this when he would be back home— in your bed.

“Just missed you that’s all.” You smiled down at him, hands still frozen, clinging to the cloth in your grasp.

“Missed me so bad you forgot how to do laundry?” Michael’s voice rang out in a gentle laugh, his hands reaching for the towel, taking it form you and finishing the job, stacking it alongside the others on your bed. All the while you couldn’t stop staring at his fingers.

“I missed your hands.” The confession slipped form you as you watched his touch brush over the soft cotton towels, wishing it was on your body instead.

“My hands?” The question giggled up from his chest as he looked down at his open palms.

You had to keep yourself from gliding your tongue across your lips as you watched him stretch and wiggle his fingers. He looked up to see the way your lids had gotten heavier— your stare locked in on his movements.

“What’d you miss about my hands?” The amusement fell away from his voice, his words now laced with a much lower hum of desire.

You reached out, holding them in your own, gliding your fingers over his knuckles.

“Everything.” You purred, rubbing gentle patterns into his palms.

“They’re just so pretty, and big.”

You line up your palms with his, noting how his fingers stretched far past yours.

“You’ve got pretty hands too baby.” His compliment was paired with a love-drunk smile— his pupils blown from the seductive tone of your voice.

“Mmm but yours always feel so good.” You trace each of his fingers, “Your fingers always fill me up so nice.”

Flustered but still smiling, he bit at his bottom lip, breaking eye contact to watch the way your hands pressed together.

“I can’t do it like you can. I try, but it’s just not the same.” There’s a performative pout on your lips and Michael’s having a hard time sitting still at the mention of you all frustrated and fucked-out with your fingers between your legs.

“Want me to show you baby?” His gaze meets yours again, the question is soft, dripping with genuine concern and chased with impatient desire.

You nod your head, teeth sharp against your bottom lip, biting down as you watch him shift his weight on your mattress. He sits at the edge of the bed, pulling your body closer until you’re standing between his legs.

His hands run up your body, resting heavy on your hips, toying with the waistband of your pajama shorts, “these need to come off.”

You don’t say a word. Working your shorts down your legs and letting the material pool at your feet.

“That’s good.” His praise melts into your body as his lips meet your skin. He places a kiss just above his thumb pressing against your hipbone.

“Missed you so much baby.” He’s cooing against your skin, breath hot and heavy at the waistband of your panties.

“My pretty girl.” His compliment is muffled as he brings a hand between your legs, running a single finger over the damp spot seeping through the cotton at your core.

“My sweet girl.” He hums against your hip, pushing your panties aside just enough to tease a finger at your entrance.

You’re already soaked. His breath huffs against your skin as he chuckles to himself, teasing his pointer finger at the pool of arousal threatening to drip down your thigh.

He pushes a single digit into you at a painfully slow pace, smiling against your skin at the little gasp you let out as it sinks into you.

“Mikey…” your hum of approval bleeds into the room and you have to grip his shoulders in an effort not to fall over when he slips another finger along with the first.

“This how you want it babygirl?” His words are sloppy against your skin, his teeth just barely nipping at your hipbone.

You nod, ready to reply but your words get stuck in your throat when he curls his fingers at just the right angle. Your mouth falls open wide enough for a strangled moan to escape.

He laughs.

His smug little giggle warm on your skin as his forehead rests against your bare stomach peeking through the raised hem of your T-shirt. The tickle of his curls only adding to the sensation building in your belly.

He hits the same spot again and again. His fingers fucking into you with precision— each movement carefully dedicated to your release. He was hungry for it, starving to feel your thighs clench and your body shake, and if he was lucky he’d get to hear his name on your lips— a melodic chant of sweet victory.

Profanities tumble out of your mouth as you squeeze his shoulders, gripping tighter with each twist of pleasure rippling through your abdomen.

“Fuck- that feels s’good” you’re mumbling into the air, voice floating somewhere between a whisper and a groan.

He hums against your skin in response. His curls still brushing back and forth along your stomach as his lips kiss along the waistband of your underwear.

You were already teetering on the edge of release, seconds away from unraveling at the mercy of his fingers, when he pushes his thumb against your clit, rubbing soft little circles and making your jaw go slack.

“Mike…” His name almost sounds like a warning as it fills the room. Your hands clutching at his shoulders as you struggle to stay still.

He’s in awe of the way his hand completely covers your pussy— his fingers curling into you and his thumb stroking your clit in tandem to push you over the edge. God he needs to hear you whine his name while you make a mess on his palm.

And you must be some kind of mind reader with the way you’re moaning his name over and over— the sweetest symphony he’s ever heard.

Your body is tense, fingers digging into his shirt as you grow more unsteady with every wave of pleasure washing through your body.

He’s kissing and sucking at your hip, his hand not letting up between your thighs despite the heaving of your chest and your legs wobbling beneath you.

Little gasps stutter past your lips as you come undone, pulsing and clenching around his fingers. You pull at his shirt in your hands, riding the wave of your high, and waiting for his movements to match the tempo of your descent.

But he keeps going— harder, deeper, faster— and all you can do is carefully dig your hands in his hair, tugging in the mess of curls at the nape of his neck.

Your composure is fleeting with every brush of his fingers against the sensitive ridges of your walls squeezing around him.

“Such a sweet girl.” His voice mumbled into your skin, teeth scraping against your body.

“Michael. I can’t.” You were panting— breathless— barely able to form a full sentence, his touch rendering you speechless.

“You can.” His eyes found yours between the slow blinks of his lashes— his gaze laced with devotion and dominance.

It wasn’t encouragement, it was a command.

His lips moved lower, licking and biting at the skin of your upper thigh, his face dangerously close to where his hand met your body— fingers still fucking into you obsessively.

The sensation building in your belly was overwhelming, pooling together and threatening to burst with each swipe of his fingers.

His thumb worked faster at your clit, as he moaned hushed praises into your skin— coaxing you into another orgasm.

You gave in— body melting into the bliss of his touch, pussy gripping and clenching and gushing around his unrelenting fingers. Your arousal coating his hand, dripping and leaking, making a mess down your thighs.

A guttural groan vibrated into your skin. Michael’s head was still buried against your leg, his lips moving lazily toward the soaked material of your panties— pushed aside and barely clinging to your body.

His hand fell from between your legs, and a whine bubbled up your throat at the loss of contact, suddenly feeling so empty without his touch on you— in you.

His fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, pulling the ruined material down your legs.

You were in a state of pure euphoria, hands still gently holding onto his hair, and little hums of satisfaction trembling from your chest. But you were quickly pulled back to earth when Michael’s tongue made contact with your center, lapping at your core and sending your fingers clutching at his curls.

“Mike…” your head snapped down, your eyes meeting his in a caution fueled daze.

“Uh uh I’m not done yet.” His words were polite, almost delighted, as he murmured against your bare cunt.

Albert, his family's butler, always said he often went through life wearing rose-colored glasses. And yes, you read that right. Y/N's family butler, Alfred Pennyworth, who works for his family, more specifically, his father, Bruce Wayne, the majority shareholder and heir to the multinational conglomerate Wayne Enterprises.

The Bruce Wayne, beloved by the public for his philanthropic ways and for being a leading voice for change in the world. An Alpha man with many titles to his name, but the most famous one being the "Billionaire Playboy." And while Y/N loved his dear old dad, even he had to admit that there was definitely truth to the nickname.

If you don't believe him, just ask his half-brother Damian. While their father is known for being a caring and benevolent man, and one of the few cisgender, white, and powerful men in the world to use his wealth and status for good, unlike many of his counterparts, he's also…well, let's just be blunt. He's a hoe.

He knows it; his children know it; the media knows it; Stevie Wonder can see it. Y/N once said it directly to his father's face, and it was reasonable to assume Bruce (while not denying it) wasn't impressed with the term, let alone it having it come from his son, and had scolded him. Alfred had scolded him as well—but had also conveniently waited until Bruce turned around to give a fist bump to the youngest Wayne.

However, being a Wayne wasn't all opulence, lavishness, and fun. Much of Y/N's life was in the spotlight and constantly up for public debate—something that grew old and tiresome very quickly. But it didn't start that way.

Bruce, with the help of his PR and security, managed to keep the pregnancy out of the public eye. And, at his Papa's request after he was born, Y/N stayed with him in Metropolis out of the spotlight, spending the summers and every other holiday with his father in Gotham in hopes that he could live a normal childhood that wasn't in the eyes of the world. Bruce agreed and complied, but always made sure his son and "baby-daddy" were financially supported.

Bruce hated that term, which is why his Papa constantly used it to amuse himself. Something else Alfred secretly lived for but didn't comment on. And Y/N certainly is his Papa's child.

So, Y/N spent his first ten years of life with his Papa in Metropolis, living an ordinary life, and would visit Gotham every other holiday and over the summer to spend time with his dad. And while with Bruce, he'd spend time with all his siblings. He didn't have too many friends outside of his family to help keep his identity private and out of the public eye.

Yet, everything changed when back home in Metropolis, while spending the evening with his Papa, who was working late, a swarm of reporters and paps—ironic when you think about it—swarmed around the doors of the Daily Planet, waiting to get a shot of Bruce Wayne's alleged "Bastard Offspring."

The stories were ruthless, to say the least, and his Papa had to take away his internet privileges for a time just to protect him from the awful things being spread not only about him, but also about both of them. Kids from school, some of whom he thought were his friends, made fun of him as well, calling him the "Wayne Bastard" and other cruel names. His Papa had to take a leave from the Daily Planet until things calmed down. Most critics, especially those with a grudge against one or both of his parents, were discussing how Y/N was another child from an unmarried union involving the Billionaire Playboy, and how the CEO should be a better example for those who look up to him, especially men and alphas—and that was just from the ones holding back.

Others —and quite a few of them, at that—had much to say, especially towards Y/N's Papa, who was getting massacred across the blogs. Being called a 'gold digger' could have been considered a compliment when compared to the different things people were saying. Things got so bad that their personal information was leaked online, and fearing for their safety, they had to relocate with Bruce's help to a more private and secure address.

As one can imagine, it didn't sit well with the billionaire to see his son and co-parent being ripped apart online for something that was no one's business but theirs, prompting him to give an exclusive interview to Lois Lane, a kick-ass journalist, reporter, and dear friend to Y/N's parents, along with her partner, Clark. In that sit-down discussion, he called out the hypocrisy & double standards, the fake moral outrage, and the hateful and dangerous acts people were targeting at a child. He wasn't married, sure. However, he was still a grown man who engaged in grown activities and took responsibility for said actions. As a father, he not only ensured that he provided more than enough but also maintained a consistent and active presence in his son's life. Something most of these trolls online, clutching at their pearls, couldn't say about themselves.

That, among other things, was enough to quell the public and give fire and validation to those who were speaking in defense of both Y/N and his parents. People loved it when a white man stood on business—the billionaire's message was very much "clocking" to them.

Although his parents and Lois could not initially discover the source of the leak, the dust had eventually settled. But, it was clear that there would be no returning to the previous life Y/N once had. It was mutually decided, even suggested by his Papa, that it'd be in Y/N's best interest, with his identity now exposed to the public, for him to move and stay with his dad permanently in Gotham. His Papa would stay in Metropolis, however, returning to his career at the Daily Planet, and Y/N would visit him bi-weekly, during the summer, and on holidays.

Now, one might wonder—how the hell does Conner Kent fit into all of this?

Well, long story short, not only did he use to be Y/N's closest friend in childhood once upon a time—he was also the reason for all that shit happening in the first place.

Him—and his ain't-shit daddy, Lex.

"Would it be wrong if I sent your father a 'Happy Birthday' text that ended with 'Fuck you'?"

Y/N held in the laugh that nearly slipped out as he pushed open the double doors to the lecture room, where the air smelled both stale and musty. He made his way down one of the aisles to the seat where his friend Zatanna was sitting, stylus pen out as she jotted down the bulleted notes she'd gotten from the class resource page.

"Is this about the paparazzi photo that leaked of him and Selina Kyle leaving his birthday gala together?" He claimed the seat to the right of the dark-haired woman, sending her a greeting smile as she moved her bags so he could sit down.

"I– well, no… but," the stuttering, soft voice over the phone line brought an amused smirk to the younger Omega's lips as he retrieved his laptop along with the case for his Bluetooth earbuds. "Why are you being nosy?"

Y/N let out a laugh while grabbing his phone from his pocket. "I get it from my daddy," he mocked his journalist father in a childish, sing-song tone. The college student could practically hear the eye roll from his parent—a common trait that many loved to point out, which the father-son pair shared.

It was amusing for the Omega to hear both his dads constantly act as if they still had nothing going on between them. Considering they were continually checking in and asking about the other, no one, especially their son, believed them when they said they weren't interested in each other on that level. Who would when both were guilty of using their child to spy on the other's dating life?

When Y/N mainly lived with his Papa, he'd be sent to Gotham for the summer and holidays with the responsibility of reporting back any person he didn't recognize to his parents. Then, when he moved to Gotham, it was always subtle questions and inquiries about who was who. And Bruce would do the same, asking about any Alphas he'd seen his Papa with and if Y/N liked them or not, whatever that was supposed to mean. His Papa could claim all day that his dad was not a man he'd be interested in, but Y/N's very existence testified against that.

Yes, they were brilliant. And, yes, they were his role models. But they also were the most oblivious idiots on the face of planet Earth. Multiple things could be true at once.

Thankfully, aside from their occasional and questionable jealous habits, there was never any animosity between the two parents—those mainly lived in the bedroom. Y/N and everyone else would be fools to pretend they weren't aware of his parents still getting it on with each other whenever they could. They had a very respectful partnership and dynamic, and any type of differences they may have had, they put their son above those disagreements. However, their "strictly co-parenting" relationship—his Papa's words, not his own nor anyone else's—was now practiced with higher caution to avoid another surprise bundle of joy.

"Whatever. I've got my sources checking in behind that one–"

"Stalker much?" Y/N quipped just as the professor made their way in from the side door, "Alright, Papa, I gotta go. I just made it to class," Y/N said, while giving a smile to his friend as he took the seat to her right.

"Alright, love ya stinkhead. Call me later."

Y/N hung up just as the double doors to the lecture hall opened again. The Omega didn't even have to turn around to know who it was—the sudden knot in his stomach told him at the sound of the heavy footsteps hitting the aisles. Not to mention the icy agitation chilling his skin to the point, it was prickling.

Zatanna paid the two muscle jocks no mind as they made their way down the aisles, one of them turning to give Y/N a flirty look while the other ignored him completely as they took their seats in the same row as him and Zatanna. The one Alpha who gave him the flirty wink was just some random jock on the school's football team who'd been trying to get in Y/N's pants since the semester started. The other…

The other who'd completely ignored him would be Conner Kent, aka, the source of his sudden and noticeable irritation. Y/N's jaw tightened at the bitter thought of that name on his tongue, even if it was just mental.

He'd never be able to understand, no matter the number of times it was explained, how his Uncle Clark—sweet and cuteness aggression levels of wholesome Uncle Clark—could have ended up in bed a vile specimen like Lex Luthor, and not even have thought to use any type of protection, at that! Clearly, both his dad and Uncle Clark.

Just the mental image of those two doing the dirty tango was enough fuel for nightmares that he could will to his great-grandchildren—generational trauma at its best. Truthfully, Y/N wouldn't have put it past someone like Lex to have manipulated that fateful night. Despite his conception being a result of the 0.01% chance, contraceptive companies intentionally don't advertise; at least there was some compatibility and tangible attraction between his parent.

Y/N couldn't think of one conceivable reality where his Uncle Clark would be attracted to Lex fucking Luthor of all people without some kind of date-rape drug being involved. The two were complete opposites in every imaginable way, and yet, somehow, from that questionable mess of events, they'd made Conner.

Conner, who may have shared physical traits from both his fathers, but acted more like his bitch-ass, baldheaded, ran-through ass daddy—not that he was judging Lex in any type of way. Sure, Conner had Clark's easy-to-get-lost-in blue eyes, strong jawline, dark and soft hair that you could spend hours playing in, and a build that could rival a comic-book superhero, but his attitude was something you'd expect from someone who was the spawn of a bug like Lex Luthor.

Conner, all stoic, mean, and brooding, who always acted as if people were below him because of who he came from. Cause, let's be clear, Y/N came from the same kind of people, and he didn't act anything like that. Damian, his most high-strung and proper acting older brother, would beat his ass if he ever even tried to act like Conner acted.

And another thing—

"Stop staring," Zatanna murmured, jabbing at his side, "You're not exactly being subtle."

He was not staring!

"I was not staring!"

Zatanna's single arched eyebrow spoke loudly enough, a cosmetics company would pay to copyright the look for their new line of eyebrow tweezers. Y/N just scoffed, not even bothering to reply, while he turned to his unopened laptop, muttering under his breath. Their professor had apparently been five minutes into his lecture, cuing his ever-diligent friend to wordlessly turn her tablet screen over a bit so he could copy down the few notes he missed. And still, throughout the lecture, he kept catching his glances moving to the side of him.

Conner sat slouched in his seat, broad shoulders sinking lazily into the chair, while his thick arms folded over that brawny chest, the fabric of his shirt stretched just enough to hint at the muscle underneath. His gaze stayed fixed on the front, that maddeningly stoic expression giving nothing away, like he couldn't care less about anything around him. He wasn't even taking notes on the lecture, probably counting on his daddy to buy his diploma in the end.

And even if he sat in the space as if he didn't care to be here, it was infuriating to see how the space seemed to revolve around him. Just the way his legs sprawled wide, long thighs eating up the row made it impossible not to notice him. Like, could he be any less considerate? He was acting as if he didn't need to make room for anyone, let alone the other Alpha sitting right next to him, who was just a little under his size and might also need room.

Which was also annoying in itself, because even if it wasn't directly affecting Y/N, it was indirectly affecting him, and that was a problem! Conner's lack of consideration for legroom meant Y/N was defending someone he also found annoying, considering that someone had been hitting on him since late August, despite his incessant batting him away like an annoying fly.

Conner didn’t spare Y/N a glance, either oblivious or pretending to be. But when his friend—Matt… Matthew, ugh, whatever—giving himself more breathing room, it just so happened to bring him one spot closer to Y/N. Close enough to have the Kent Alpha's attention, glancing at the small space between Y/N and his friend for the hottest of seconds.

The professor clapped his hands, grabbing Y/N's attention back to the front of the room. "Alright," the man announced while pulling up the slide with the project details on the projector, "…time for you to pick your partners. This project is meant for two, but if there's an odd number of people, I'll accept one group of three. I encourage you to pick someone you don't know or someone you know you'll easily get along with."

Oh, thank god, they got to choose. Y/N really didn't want to end up in a cliché scenario where he was paired with someone he didn't get along with. What a travesty.

"The real world won't always be as kind as I. Still choose wisely, as you will be working together for the next three weeks. I do already have some pairings submitted, so for those who have gotten their confirmation, you're free to go. The rest of you, once you have your chosen solidified, please come down to submit them to me, and you're free to go as well."

When the professor started the timer for everyone to choose their partners, Y/N automatically turned to his left, not even glancing at the Alpha to his right, who looked to already be preparing to spew some nonsensical offer that could be mistaken as sexual harassment, or Conner, who just started grabbing his things to stand.

"Hey, partner," He said with a relaxed smile. This project was going to be a breeze with the two of them working together. At least, that's what he thought until he saw the slightly guilty look on Zatanna's face when she looked up at him while closing her tablet.

"Sorry, Y/N, but Artemis and I already paired up."

Y/N's whole body seemed to scowl as she started packing her bags, "What? How. She's not even here," Y/N pointed out, unless she was testing out an invisible cloak she'd rented from the magic shop down the road.

"Yeah, but the project was announced two days ago, and Artemis asked me yesterday to partner up. Do you know not check the assignment alerts in your school email?"

No.

"Yes! I do… quite often, actually. Do you?" His tone was nothing but accusation, which, unfortunately, did nothing to help his argument.

Zatanna rolled her eyes and kept packing. "Just go and ask if you can join us as a third. Then we can be a group of three."

A shadow fell over him from behind, Y/N turning to see Matthias—or Mark, whatever—smiling in what he thought was an inviting way. "Or, you could partner with me," the Alpha suggested, his grin dipping into something deliberately suggestive as he leaned a little too far into Y/N's space. Where were COVID restrictions when you needed them?

"We'd make a good team… I can be very hands-on."

Y/N didn't even want to know what he was thinking in his head behind those words.

"Uh, thanks for the offer, but I'm good." Y/N turned sharply, slipping down the now-empty row Zatanna had vacated, making his escape before the conversation could kill any more of his brain cells. A faint scoff followed him, paired with a muttered, "Omegas, right?" He ignored it, knowing that if he responded, it could make things much worse.

He approached their professor, who had a couple of students already standing in front of the podium, giving their names and pairings to be checked off. When it was his turn, in his most polite voice, he asked to be placed in a group of three with Artemis and Zatanna, hoping no one else had yet taken the only spot available.

The professor's brows lifted. "There hasn't been a request for a group of three yet, so that should be fine. Let me just..." He began typing, searching through the class roster.

Relief loosened Y/N's shoulders until the professor's expression shifted.

"Wait, I'm sorry, looks like you're already in a pairing with… Conner Kent."

Those words, more accurately, that name, hit like a sucker punch.

For a second, Y/N was sure the lighting in the room dimmed, and he was two seconds from passing out. Or someone had vacuumed all of the air out of his lungs, which would explain the immense tightness in his chest. His skin prickled hot and cold at the same time, noting a faint trace of a scent that reminded him distantly of skinned warmed under the sun mixed with something leathery, knowing all too well who it belonged to in the back of his mind.

"I'm sorry, there must be a mistake," he said, working in overdrive to keep his voice even as he felt his pulse spike under his skin.

"No mistake," the professor replied, "I received an email this morning with your partner request from Mr. Kent himself."

The hair on the back of Y/N's neck stood straight as he felt the gaze on him like heat from the sun magnified on him through a car windshield. Suddenly, the shock and confusion he felt melted away and reformed into something hot and furious.

He turned around, spotting the very source of his rising ire, who stood next to Mason—Mark, no Marcus, oh, who fucking cares—as they chatted about something he sure was stupid and ignorant. Though even in conversation, Conner, with one hand holding his backpack strap and the other probably balled up in a fist in his pocket, met his narrowed gaze head-on, as if he was waiting for that very moment.

Y/N glared at the man even harder, as his own hands clenched into fists at his sides, while a small group of his classmates made their way past him to the professor.

"Hi, we'd like to be a group of three."

People just didn't get it. They didn't see things from Y/N's perspective, and therefore couldn't understand why he was not only incredibly pissed with the LexCorp heir, but also hopelessly confused. Correct him if he was wrong—he wasn't—the last time he checked, the feelings of dislike and contempt were mutual between him and Conner Kent. So where the hell did this sudden attitude change come from?

"Dude, seriously," Artemis groaned while stabbing at her salad, "I get you're upset, but could you chew that chicken sandwich with a little less malice? Some of us are actually trying to enjoy our meal."

Y/N froze mid-bite, fully prepared to defend himself, but considering the sting from where he'd bitten his tongue just a few minutes prior, he could admit he was being a little… over-zealous in his munching. Either that, or the chicken sandwich really was just that good. Two things can be true at once.

Zatanna covered her mouth while chewing her own food, "Be thankful it's only the sandwich he's taking it out on. Which, you're welcome, by the way." The pointed look he was receiving from between her index finger and thumb was more unsettling than one might imagine.

He scowled at her in return, but didn't argue back—mostly because she was right. She did, indeed, physically plant herself between him and Conner before he could do something he'd regret. And everyone should consider themselves lucky that she did, considering there wasn't much he would regret.

"I'd actually have enjoyed seeing the footage of Y/N tearing him to shreds." Zatanna directed her pointed look toward their blonde friend, who looked every type of unashamed at her words.

"Don't encourage him."

"No, please encourage me. I need the validation. I encourage these activities. Continue these endeavors, please," Y/N said in some accent neither girl could decipher. His impersonation skills were not as good as he liked to believe.

Despite the irritation it caused, most people on campus couldn't help being a little invested in the ongoing tension between the two males. Though in this case, "invested" was just a polite way of saying nosy. When you were the sons of the two wealthiest men in the country, people tended to pay attention to you. And nothing stirred gossip more than the heirs of rival empires acting out that rivalry themselves.

Not that it had always been that way.

"Honestly?" Artemis leaned back, voice as dry as sandpaper, as she crossed her arms over her chest with an amused look. "If you ask me, this is a perfect chance for you two to squash whatever this is—and finally put the rest of us out of our misery. You guys act like you wanna bang each other more than kill each other half the time anyway."

Y/N nearly choked on his spit. He pantomimed gagging and puking, making the most disturbing upchucking noise that once again had the two girls exchanging looks with each other.

"See, this is what I mean. A simple 'No, I don't want to screw Conner' would have sufficed. Now, it's just more obvious how bad you want him to crack you open. And I'll bet he wants the same, considering he's the one who requested you as a partner."

The indignation on Y/N's face was nearly comical, and Zatanna may or may not have shoved a bit more food in her mouth to hold in her laughs. She didn't outright agree with her blonde friend, but she definitely didn't disagree either.

"That's just all types of wrong and fucked up," Y/N scoffed.

"Is it, though?" The blonde countered, lips twitching. "Everyone loves a good enemies-to-lovers story."

The frown that carved across Y/N's face was so sharp, Artemis almost laughed. Even funnier that the frown reminded her of a certain someone who shall not be named, believing it best not to go too far."But, honestly, can I ask? What is your problem with him? I mean, sure, he's a typical meathead jock and spoiled rich kid—no offense—but what did he do that was so bad?"

The expression on Zatanna's face changed as she slid him a look, bracing herself for anything but a sweet fairy tale.

Y/N opened his mouth, prepared to bite back with a well-rehearsed insult into a soliloquy when his nose twitched. A scent wafted up his nose that was sharp and clean, and reminded you of ozone and leather, threaded with a maddening warmth the Omega could recognize anywhere in a crowd.

And, as if it were muscle memory, his head snapped toward the source of it. Conner Kent, with his picture-perfect masculine features, dark hair, and blue eyes that used to be a source of comfort and pleasure for the Omega, but now brought on other feelings… of resentment.

Y/N stiffened on instinct, his senses prickling even before his eyes found the broad-shouldered figure in his usual tight, black t-shirt paired with his brown jacket, cutting through the crowd. And, in typical cliché fashion, the Alpha's eyes had also locked onto the Omega's, both of them locked in a staring match as his friends claimed the booth on the other side of the sitting area they were in.

It wasn't a dramatic moment—no gasps, no cinematic soundtrack—but it wasn't nothing either. Something hot and nauseating twisted low in his gut, a familiar mixture of instincts and irritation.

The Omega tore his gaze away, shifting minutely as though the leather of the booth had grown uncomfortable. His hands stayed busy with his drink, ignoring the prickling feeling of his skin while crossing his legs together under the table. He gave his attention back to his friends as if nothing had happened and as if he still couldn't feel those piercing blue irises still watching for whatever reason, or the dull, hollow ache from down below.

"He ruined my life."

It was official. It was final, and there was nothing he could do… they let Jennifer Lopez on another stage with a mic, and it was on. Clearly a recession indicator.

Oh—and the professor wouldn't let Y/N switch partners from Conner. That too.

Truly, he had tried, sending multiple emails, attending office hours, practically begging and pleading, offering sacrifices to his dignity and sanity—maybe a bit of an exaggeration, but in this case, his mentality was more close to a 'fuck it, we ball' type scenario, so it didn't really matter. Yet, despite all his efforts, the professor remained unmoved. Which was quite infuriating, considering there were plenty of students eager to take his place. Because apparently, being partnered with Conner, one of the hottest Alphas on campus—not his words—was some kind of once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Y/N couldn't fathom it; in fact, he called bullshit. There's no way someone could have that type of reasoning—let alone belief—and not be on some type of psychedelics. You could not convince, nor trick him into believing it; it was propaganda he would not fall for. But to each their own, right?

Wrong!

"Can I work on my own?" No.

"Marcel is more than eager to switch. Can I trade with him, please?" Still no, and apparently his name was Dylan. Sounds fake if you ask him, but whatever.

No matter what way Y/N tried to offer, the professor would not budge, insisting all partner assignments were final, a smug academic authority being held that Y/N would be noting in his instructor review of the man at the end of the semester. He'd rue the day he crossed Y/N Wayne.

So now, he was stuck with the Alpha, much to Artemis's endless amusement.

On the bright side, it was only a two-week project—manageable. Y/N could grit his teeth, power through, and be rid of Conner for the rest of the semester, and hopefully the year and his entire college experience. In fact, he was prepared to handle the entire project himself. That way, he wouldn't have to spend more time with the Alpha than absolutely necessary. Easy, right?Something simple, and that would be very hard not to go according to plan.

"No."

Well, that didn't go according to plan.

"What do you mean 'no'?" Y/N hissed at the Alpha as they stood outside the lecture hall after their class a couple of days later. After pitching the idea to Conner, which Y/N thought was immaculate and would be an effortless yes, he was a little more than disappointed to see that wouldn't be exactly the case.

Conner stood just a step too close, muscled arms hidden under his brown jacket and folded across his chest, his expression maddeningly unbothered. "Exactly what I said. No."

Y/N gaped at him, the fucking nerve of the prick. "Are you fucking kidding me? Why are you making this so complicated? Just let me do the project on my own, and we can keep pretending neither of us exists to the other. Still don't understand why you picked me in the first place, but whatever. No need to subject ourselves to extra torture."

"I'm not letting you do all the work, take all the credit, and then run crying to the professor about how I didn't contribute so I tank the grade," Conner shot back, his voice dropping into that smooth Alpha timbre—calm on the surface, but with the coiled heat of a growl underneath.

Y/N scoffed at that, throwing his hands up in response. "Oh, please. If you actually thought I'd pull that, then why the hell did you ask to partner with me in the first place?"

Conner's jaw flexed, a crack in his calm facade forming that was eerily familiar like his daddy. That shiny dome-headed bastard…

"Can you, for once in your goddamn life, just grow up and act like an adult?"

Y/N let out a sharp laugh in response, but there was no humor to his tone whatsoever. "The irony of you—the same guy who's in tabloids every other week for throwing tantrums at the press—calling me immature? That's rich."

Conner rolled his eyes, but it wasn't casual; there was a rising tension brimming beneath it. His shoulders stiff and chest rising with a little too much restraint. "You're not doing the project alone."

"I am doing the project alone."

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am."

"I said, no, you're not." The last word cracked through clenched teeth, low and resonant, Conner shifting just a step, but one step that was enough. Close enough that Y/N noticed his personal space evaporating in the spacious hallway, just outside the lecture hall doors.

His spine stiffened as well at the rising smoky scent encircling him, the Alpha's broad frame standing in front of him as if daring the Omega to try and stand against him. His lungs felt caught against the sudden press of the scent surrounding him, but he forced his voice flat. "Back off, Conner. No one's impressed."

He met the Alpha's steely gaze, glaring him down as if challenging him to try and step around him. His mouth curled into something that wasn't quite a smile, with pride and indignation flickering in his eyes. Conner looked as if he wanted to say more, but instead, remained quiet, with the air too thick between them, too taut with something unspoken.

"Yo, Y/N, you alright over here?"

The tension cracked at the interruption, Roy Harper's voice cutting through like glass to the taut energy between the two. Y/N turned, still feeling the irritation bubbling in the center of his chest, and something else stirring lower. He gave the red-headed Alpha sauntering over with his backpack lazily strung across one shoulder a relieved smile.

"Buzz off, Harper," Conner snapped before Y/N could answer, his voice low and with an edge to it. Y/N turned back to give him a scolding look as Roy closed the gap between them.

Roy's smug expression widened, something taunting to the opposing dark-haired Alpha. "Or what, broody?" He leaned a little on the word, enjoying the way Conner's jaw tightened. His eyes flicked between Y/N and the brooding Alpha, lingering on the way Conner was all but crowding Y/N against the wall.

"I'm fine, Roy," Y/N said firmly, stepping sideways to put a bit of distance between himself and Conner. "Just going over project stuff. Stuff I'll be handling on my own." He threw Conner a pointed look and the Alpha glare that was trained solely on Roy only darkened in reply as it turned to him—scent pulsing hotter.

Amusement danced openly across Roy's face, even as his instincts urged him to push back against the Alpha who was clearly trying to dominate the space surrounding them with his posturing and scenting. He was surprised Y/N couldn't sense the jealousy flickering just beneath, even if it was blatantly obvious to him, but that could just be something Alphas recognize in each other.

The redhead whistled low under his breath, then tilted his head, redirecting his attention back to the Omega of his interest, seeing as he did his part in intervening on what clearly looked like someone being forced into an uncomfortable position. It could also just be because he's petty and didn't care for Conner. Two things could be true at once. "Alright. Well, I was gonna grab a bite at the café before my next class. Want to tag along?"

Y/N shot a short glance back to Conner, who looked constipated with something, and also like he was two seconds from trying to rip Roy's head off. Though it didn't make him hesitate one bit. "Sure, why not?"

As they turned to leave, Roy slung an arm around Y/N's shoulders in an easy, territorial drape. It looked casual enough, but the placement was anything but. His wrist skimmed the vulnerable line of Y/N's neck, dangerously close to the scent glands there. The intent was unmistakable, carved into every inch of the contact, and underscored when Roy glanced back at Conner, smug as sin. His grin carried all the words he didn't bother to say.

Conner stood rooted in place, teeth clenched hard enough that his jaw ached. He said nothing—didn't feel like he had the right to—but his silence carried more weight than any retort could have. His own scent still hung stubbornly in the hall. But beneath it was just a faint, maddeningly faint something curling through the air. Something that was hot and had the hairs on the back of his neck bristling at the sweetness of it.

Many wouldn't believe it—most couldn't even imagine—that once upon a time, Y/N and Conner hadn't despised each other. That once, they'd been friends, and their history ran long, tangled in ways that went far beyond the rivalry between their fathers' empires.

Before Y/N's existence had detonated into a national scandal overnight, back when he spent most of his time in Metropolis with his Papa, he'd known a very different Conner Kent than the world did. Not the temperamental, egotistical heir everyone gossiped about—the spoiled, rich Alpha son of Lex Luthor, poster child for power and arrogance. No, Y/N had known another version, one hidden from the public eye, a version that wasn't just his father's shadow.

When his parents reached a mutual agreement to keep Y/N out of the spotlight, only a few people were entrusted with the truth of his parentage. On Bruce's side, that was his siblings, Alfred, and a few carefully vetted within Wayne Enterprises—mainly lawyers tasked with weaving Y/N seamlessly into trusts, wills, and other legal jargon.

Give credit where credit's due: Y/N's Papa had done it right. If you're gonna get pregnant, make it count. Y/N was born into security, a luxury most around him could never dream of. And yes, there were perks to having Bruce Wayne as a father, but they also came with invisible strings that Y/N didn't always appreciate. Every friend he brought home was subjected to background checks that went three layers deeper than any average parent would bother with. It could've just been the journalist in his Papa, paranoid by profession, but the point still stood.

And, from the start, Y/N had been taught caution—to be careful with who he let in, because not everyone's intention would be pure. Bruce even went as far as to keep "Wayne" off every official document tied to Y/N, just to minimize the chance of leaks to the press. Still, people were nosy by nature. Colleagues at the Daily Planet, other parents at school, classmates—it didn't matter. The question always came up sooner or later: Who's his other parent? And each time, it scraped at his Papa's patience.

The only people from his Papa's side who were trusted with that information were Lois Lane and, by extension, her husband Clark Kent, who was Conner's other daddy. Nobody understands how something like that could've even been possible, yet it was, and it was reality, if Conner's existence was any testament.

Y/N and Conner weren't so different, really—their lives born out of passion-filled nights, though in Conner's case, "passion" might've been a generous word for whatever had transpired between Clark and Lex. Y/N wasn't ruling out anypossibilities there. And the big difference between them was that Bruce had always been an active part of Y/N's life, co-parenting on respectful, even if unconventional, terms with his Papa. Lex, meanwhile, could barely be bothered to acknowledge Conner's existence.

It hardly mattered, though. Clark had stepped up, taking responsibility for a child he hadn't expected, raising Conner on his own until Lois entered the picture. And because Y/N's Papa and Lois weren't just colleagues, but genuine friends, Y/N spent much of his childhood alongside Conner—and later Jon, Clark and Lois's bright-eyed son and Conner's younger half-brother.

The three of them grew up under the soft hum of newsroom chaos, Countless nights spent entertaining themselves while their parents chased down scoops, interviews, and city-shaking stories. In those early years, Conner and Y/N were inseparable—almost suspiciously so. Their bond carried a tenderness that had both Y/N's Papa and Lois exchanging knowing smiles, while Clark remained hopelessly oblivious. Y/N's instinctive care for Conner, matched by Conner's fierce protectiveness of Y/N, looked for all the world like the start of some storybook childhood romance.

That is, until Lex Luthor decided to interfere.

By the time boys turned ten, it was no secret that Y/N's Papa and Lois held little respect for LexCorp's CEO. They kept things professional, yes, but their disdain wasn't exactly subtle. And Lex, petty to his very core, couldn't stomach being on the outside looking in—especially not at the sight of his favorite old fling thriving in love, friendship, that didn't include him and with people he despised.

So he turned his attention toward Conner, suddenly becoming interested in his son, only for that "interest" to quickly reveal itself for what it was: a weapon. He leveraged Conner as a tool to wedge himself into the Kent household and make everyone's life miserable. It escalated all the way to Lex filing for full custody, blindsiding Clark, Lois, and even Y/N's Papa.

They fought back with everything they had—even Bruce's lawyers were brought into the fold—but in the end, Lex won. Conner was ripped away, leaving Y/N's world gutted, and the blows didn't stop there. Not long after, word of Y/N's existence leaked to the press, and suddenly, his quiet reality was gone as well.

No one—neither his parents, nor Lois and Clark—ever found the source of that leak. All Y/N knew was that within months, he'd been uprooted, leaving Metropolis behind to live full-time with his father in Gotham. It wasn't a bad life, not really. He got to see his siblings and Alfred more often. But sometimes, in the dark, he still missed the life he'd left behind.

A life left behind due to one—you guessed it—Lex Luthor. Taking Conner away had been the first blow, a calculated strike meant to hurt Lois and Clark. But Lex wasn't the type to stop at one wound; he had other fish to fry, namely Y/N's Papa. So when the billionaire stumbled onto the truth of Y/N's parentage—courtesy of a careless slip from his own unsuspecting son—Lex didn't waste a second. He dropped an anonymous tip to Metropolis's biggest gossip sites with no trace left behind.

Of course, Y/N didn't find this out until years later, when he and Conner had both grown up and been separated so long, they'd barely recognized each other at an important political gala hosted by a mutual friend of their fathers.

"Oh, sorry–"

"Hey, watch it–"

The words cut off as soon as the recognition hit. They hadn't seen each other in years, save for the stiff smiles and quick flashes caught of them in the press. Y/N had filled out well in his youth, but Conner's transformation? That was a whole other story, not that it should have been a shock, though. After all, underneath Clark Kent's glasses and wholesome, nerdy reporter vibe was anything but a skinny frame—growing up on a farm will do that—and clearly, his eldest had inherited every ounce of that build.

Broad shoulders, chiseled jaw, an immovable brick-wall stance—which Y/N just crashed into—and a lil' dump trunk action going on in the back. Listen, Omega as he may be, he was only a man. He could appreciate the sight of a good posterior like anyone else.

The real sucker punch, though, was the scent. No surprise that it smelled of Alpha, but Y/N wasn't prepared for the way it hit him—hard, dizzying. Smoky leather laced with sharp ozone, like the air right after a lightning strike. Earthy, damp wood layered underneath the kind of smell you'd catch deep in a forest after a storm had passed.

And now a storm was beginning to pass through his pan– HEY! Control it.

"Conner? Hi."

The scent in the air shifted, sharp and heady—something like rockrose— that left Y/N swaying more than would be appropriate to admit. Conner's eyes, still that impossible shade of blue that used to swallow him whole when they were younger, swept over his face, down his frame, then snapped back up with a tension that made Y/N's chest tighten before it hardened.

"Oh, it's you."

Well, that didn't sound pleasant.

Y/N blinked but kept his smile, caught off guard by the cool dismissal in his tone. It had been years since they'd seen each other—why ruin the moment? "How have you been? Are you here with your dad?"

Conner's expression didn't soften; if anything, his jaw locked harder. "Why do you care?"

Y/N stalled, lips parting. "Um—excuse me?" He heard the forced laugh from his lips more than he felt it, an irritation sparking, but he pushed it down. Surely, this was just…miscommunication. They'd grown up, weren't kids anymore, and so things were different. People changed, and maybe Conner didn't know how to act after so much time apart, needing a minute to warm up. "Am I missing something? Is this like when you used to get cranky past bedtime?"

The Alpha's glare sharpened. "Seriously? You're asking if I'm grumpy? Could you be any more childish?"

Alright, well fuck him (Y/N) then, and fuck the high road too.

"Okay, wow." His voice clipped, a heat sparking in his chest. "I was trying to be respectful since it's been forever, but you're really leaning into jerk territory." Y/N's voice sharpened to match his, layered with bite. "What's your deal? Last I checked, we were close. The only thing that's changed is time, so why are you acting like I kicked your puppy? I haven't done anything to you."

Conner's brow twitched, and he stepped forward with what he probably thought was menace. "You're doing something now—being an annoying little runt who can't take a hint."

Y/N spine snapped straight. Life in the spotlight had taught him how to build a thicker backbone than any Alpha temper could break, and they tried plenty of times. He wasn't gonna fold for something as petty as this. "Excuse me? Come closer and say that, so I can smack the shit out of you properly."

"Like you'd even try," Conner sneered, eye flashing. "You're too busy playing perfect son—daddy's little angel who can do no wrong. What, is he planning to marry you to another rich son so you can spread your legs and help him increase his wealth?"

Y/N's hand flew up before thought could catch it. "You son of a–"

"Conner."

Lex Luthor slid into view behind the Alpha, his smirk dripping with arrogance.

Bitch.

"I do hope what I just saw was a… spirited component of a heartfelt reunion," Lex drawled, the pause deliberate, designed to sting. "Surely, you weren't truly just insulting your old friend, the youngest Wayne son of all people." His gaze flicked toward Y/N, sharp and amused.

It always baffled people when they learned Lex Luthor was an Omega. Nothing in his posture, his voice, or the calculated gleam in his eye suggested softness. He moved like a man who never once bowed to instinct, his smug composure always three steps ahead of everyone in the room.

"My apologies," he went on, silky smooth. "For my son's… lapse in manners. I assure you, I raised him better than this."

Something about that felt like it should be ironic, and Y/N felt like he should laugh, if his pulse weren't still hammering in his ears. However, he didn't get the chance to dwell on it.

"Y/N."

His dad's voice spoke from behind him, helping to ground him a bit now that he didn't feel so… outmatched from Lex's presence. Bruce stepped up behind him, a firm hand finding his shoulder, the quiet weight of it easing the tension swimming in his chest. "Is everything alright?"

Y/N didn't need to turn to know his brothers and sister were likely standing by as well. He could practically picture Damian's distasteful scowl at both Lex and Conner in this very moment. Speaking of, said Alpha had barely moved an inch after getting the shit smacked out of him, which was unsurprising, given his physicality.

The slap had probably barely registered for the Alpha. He hadn't stumbled, shifted, nor even flinched; the only evidence was the faint red bloom on his cheek. His glare burned, and Y/N's skin prickled under the weight of it, instincts bristling like fur on end.

His scent had been clinging to the air like smoke in a closed room—dark, earthy, the faint rot of damp soil laced with that sharp giddiness of rockrose. Y/N was surprised no one else seemed to notice it, given how strong it seemed, like it was surrounding him. It had been almost as if Conner's very presence had carved the air around him and marked it as his.

A bit dangerous and reckless on his part, that kind of posturing, especially in a room thick with Alphas—one of them being his literal father. It wasn't going to fly well, yet no one else seemed to pay it any mind or even notice, for that matter.

For a moment, it was like the entire room narrowed down to just the two of them—his father’s steady hand the only tether keeping him grounded as Conner’s glowering threatened to burn straight through him. Yet, something about it felt… off. Y/N couldn't shake the nagging sense that the Alpha's stare wasn't just aimed entirely at him, but rather toward something else the Alpha must have found offensive. Who knows, the boy is weird and childish as hell, as Y/N has come to realize, just like his ain't-shit daddy.

"Y/N, is everything okay?" Bruce's tone was calm, monotone as always, but laced with that softness he reserved for his children—a note others would never recognize in the Billionaire Playboy unless they knew him well.

Y/N dragged his gaze away from Conner. "Yeah, Dad. I'm good."

He definitely wasn't—his chest still felt tight, palms clammy—whether that was leftover anger from Conner's earlier rudeness or something else entirely… it was a problem for future him to sort out.

"Oh, Bruce, don't fret over it. The boys were just catching up. Nothing too serious." Lex's smooth baritone carried just the right amount of dismissal. Y/N, meanwhile, couldn't fathom how his dad—or even Tim, who worked under him—tolerated snobs like Lex on a regular basis. The galas were torture enough.

"Thank you, Lex," Bruce replied evenly. "But, I'll still make sure my son is well, seeing as yours seems intent on posturing where he has no claim or right to." His grip on Y/N's shoulder firmed. "At his age, I'd imagine he understands proper social etiquette toward Omegas."

Oh, so his Dad could smell Conner scenting the air around them… awkward.

Wait, what did he mean by proper etiquette toward Omegas? What did he or Lex have to do with this? Well, besides apparently Lex not teaching him any manners.

Out of the corner of his eye, Y/N caught Lex's composure falter—just a hairline crack, indignation flashing before his smile snapped back into place. "Yes, well, we all have our lapses in judgment now and then, don't we?"

Behind Y/N, two sharp scoffs cut the air—Damian and Jason, without a doubt. His nerves only wound tighter since if his Dad could apparently snuff out Conner's blatant over-scenting, then his siblings almost sure as hell could, which would only spell impending disaster. Considering how those two had this pact deal of taking to an extreme level the concept of being"overprotective siblings," nearly making it an Olympic sport, which Bruce only encouraged. Hence, Y/N's non-existent dating life in high school.

Lex, of course, wasn't finished. "I imagine you did the same when you laid in bed with his bearer. Such a romantic little tale, Conner, you must tell me the story again like you did when you were younger."

It took a moment to register. Then Bruce's hand clenched almost imperceptibly on his shoulder, the scent around him now curdling over Conner's as hostility bled from all his siblings, not just Jason and Damian, but Dick, Tim, and Cass as well. Y/N knew he hadn't heard Lex wrong. One glance at Conner was enough to see the truth. His body stayed indifferent, but his eyes betrayed him. Guilty.

Of all the fuckery…

"He fucking snitched on me?!"

After their last conversation, Y/N had done exactly what he said he would: finished the entire project himself. A week of work, no Alpha input except slapping Conner's name on the header, and careful planning of ducking down hallways and skipping lecture to avoid him. It wasn't easy, though. Conner had been circling like a wolf, clearly hunting him down, but Y/N was determined. Stubborn may have been a better word.

Late that following Sunday evening, satisfied with his work, Y/N uploaded the project to the class portal a week early—freedom! And to celebrate, he treated himself to a greasy IHOP breakfast with Zatanna, Artemis, and Artemis's equally smug boyfriend, Wally.

The day was no less than perfect, at least until he checked his email.

Subject: Group Project Submission

From: Kaldur Ra-hm

Good morning Y/N,

I hope you're enjoying a good start to your week. I've received your completed project assignment and wanted to congratulate you on a job well done. However, it has come to our attention, including the professor, that it may not have been the 100% combined and honest work of both you and your assigned partner.

As you should be aware, as it was outlined in the class syllabus, it is considered a violation of the student code of conduct and academic integrity policy to submit work that is not your own, which includes work done on behalf of another student that they did not contribute to. While this is not a severe violation that would call for disciplinary action, it does disqualify this submission from a full grade, and if you do not want to be marked as a 0 for this project (which contributes to 40% of your final grade as a reminder), it will need to be resubmitted, with the combined work of both you and your assigned partner.

The professor has made me aware of your dissatisfaction with your pairing, and while I can understand your frustration, please keep in mind that the purpose of these partner/group assignments is to teach you how to collaborate with others that you may not always see eye-to-eye with. It is an essential skill you'll need to master if you want to be successful outside of college, as you will frequently find yourself in scenarios where you are working with people you don't get along with.

Of course, if matters between you and your partner reach certain unsafe and extreme circumstances, I'm sure the professor will consider alternative options, should matters reach that point. Until then, you will need to redo the entire assignment again, with the help and contribution of your assigned partner. And as a precautionary measure to ensure full authenticity, the professor instructs you to choose a different topic than what you've previously submitted, something both you and your partner agree on.

If you have any questions, feel free to email me or attend the posted office hours on the class portal. Enjoy the rest of your day, and see you in class!

Sincerely, Kaldur – Teaching Assistant

By the time he finished reading, Y/N's stomach had dropped straight through the sticky IHOP floor. His friends looked at him with concern until he wordlessly shoved his phone across the table.

Artemis read the email once, then wheezed into a full fit of laughter, while Zatanna's brows lifted, her smirk spelling out what she didn't bother saying aloud. "I told you so," she said anyway, twisting the knife.

Wally leaned over Artemis's shoulder, snorting. "Dude, I knew the guy was moody, but this? Petty and moody. That's hilarious."

"Oh, trust me, I knew," Artemis cut in, grinning like a cat that got the canary, "He was pissed last class when Y/N skipped—never mind it being twice in a row. I told you, he wants between those legs, and this just proved my theory. He's desperate."

Y/N ignored her, jaw tight, packing his untouched pancakes into a to-go box with short, furious movements. "See you guys later," he muttered, grabbing his wallet and storming off to pay.

He told himself he was going to his dorm to drop his food off, which he did. He told himself he wasn't going to let this get under his skin, which he also did, until thirty minutes later, when he somehow found himself entering the campus gym, seething.

Don't ask how he knew Conner would be there. Everyone knew Conner was a gym bro—antisocial or not—he practically lived in this place.

And no, the walk didn't cool him down. If anything, with each step, his fury boiled hotter. By the time he scanned his ID at the desk and mumbled a distracted thanks to the staff, he was seconds away from biting someone's head off. A particular someone, though, he wasn't going to chop off some innocent student's head because of his extremely pointed anger.

And there he was, bench pressing a frankly stupid amount of weight like it was supposed to impress somebody. Dressed head-to-toe in his standard black, Conner's compression shirt clung to him like a second skin, leaving little to the imagination. It stretched tight across his chest and arms, outlining every cut of muscle like he wanted people to stare, and Y/N did, but don't tell anyone that. It was against his better judgment and will—he's the victim in this scenario.

Broad chest, sculpted arms, the flex of his biceps as he pressed the bar skyward, Y/N's brain short-circuited for half a second, an involuntary flicker of appreciation for the sight that only served to piss him off more. That, and the same infuriating scent of smoky leather and a bit of musk clouding the ozone that slipped under Y/N's skin like a slow burn. There was a bit of heat prickling on the back of his neck and lower, in a place he'd rather not acknowledge. So don't ask… or wonder. Hey! Stop that!

If the hollow ache and faintest tell of slick forming in his insides from him clenching his thighs together, he'd chew glass before admitting Artemis's theory may have been right. It was managing to invade his mind, a curiosity forming of what it'd be like to be opened, filled, and pinned down by all that he was currently glaring at. But, he wasn't here to ogle. He was here because he was angry at the egotistic meathead, sitting there lifting weights like he hasn't done anything wrong.

Yeah, that's what he'd keep telling himself.

"You fucking snitched on me!" His voice rang sharp, carrying over the clank of iron and Zara Larsson playing in the speakers overhead. Like girl, now is not the time. Thankfully, the gym seemed devoid of others, minus one or two stragglers in and out, so it wasn't like they'd attract an audience.

Conner racked the bar with a heavy slam and sat up, chest heaving, sweat beading down the lines of his throat. He didn't even flinch at the accusation. "So?"

"So? Did you just fucking 'so' me? Why are you such a fucking dickhead?!"

"I told you not to do the project without me," Conner said flatly, wiping sweat from his brow with a towel. "You did it anyway, so I emailed the TA. You're smart enough to understand cause and effect. So again—what's your point?"

"My point, asshole," Y/N snapped, stalking closer to the sweaty Alpha whose eyes were traveling up and down his body with zero attempt at subtlety, "is that you went out of your way to make this shit harder than it has to be. The TA literally said the project was well done. We both could've gotten 'As' if you hadn't pulled that stunt. But no, because you felt the need to prove your point like the immature, fuck ass baby you are, here we are."

The flare of Conner's nostrils was immediate. His scent sharpened, spiking the air with a heavier wave of heat. His jaw flexed as he stood, all that sweat-dark muscle unfolding in one motion, shoulders broad enough to blot out the rest of the gym from his towering stance. The bench press clattered behind him as he stepped into Y/N's space, close enough that their chests nearly brushed.

"Any other guy," Y/N barreled on, voice mocking and not taking note of Conner's rising aggravation, "would've been over the moon to let me do the work alone."

"Any other guy, huh?” Conner’s voice dropped low, rough, almost a growl. “That what you’re saying?”

Y/N lifted his chin, pulse stuttering as the Alpha loomed over him. "Yeah, any other guy. Matter fact, your annoying friend Dylan—if that's even his real name—would've been thrilled as long as I gave him a little attention." He mocked in a sharp tone.

Feeling like an intangible bar had been crossed, Conner's eyes had narrowed, dark and sharp, his jaw ticking once before he moved closer into the Omega's space. Y/N barely had time to breathe or react before he was suddenly herded back against the mirror wall by the Alpha.

"Oh, so now you suddenly remember his name, and that just makes him better?" His voice was low while his gaze cut sharply over Y/N's face before dragging lower, lingering in a way that made the Omega's skin heat under the weight of it. "The only reason Dylan wanted you as a partner was to fuck you. At least I actually wanted to contribute."

Y/N scoffed, chin tilted up defiantly, though pulse kicked hard at the hollow in his throat. "Like you're any better? So you're admitting the only reason you chose me as your partner is some weird Alpha possessive bullshit?" He jabbed a finger into Conner's chest, though it barely moved against the wall of muscle. "Why? We're not friends, Conner. You've made damn sure of that. And now you're mad because I'd rather work with someone who actually wants to work with me rather than someone who only does it out of spite? Grow up."

Conner's eyes burned, his lips curling while his chest rose faster with every word. He leaned down, close enough that Y/N could feel the heat of his breath, scent wrapping around like it was trying to strangle him. "You'd rather be partnered with some asshole who only wants to use you than with someone who could actually provide—and I'm the immature one?"

Y/N swallowed, forcing a smirk. "Whether I wanted to fuck him or not, that's my business, not yours. You're not my friend, my parent, my doctor, the Lord Almighty, or—god forbid—my boyfriend. What goes on between my legs is, and hear me clearly when I say this, none of your fucking business.

Conner's teeth clicked audibly as his jaw tightened. His eyes raked over Y/N's face, an expression of something the Omega didn't want to name, impossible to miss no matter how hard he tried. His scent spiked with a hot and dark mood, his whole body taut with something hovering between fury and want.

"Doesn't matter," he bit out, voice rough. "You're with me, not him. You can't switch partners, and you're not allowed to do this alone. So why don't you suck it up and act like the fucking adult you claim to be for once."

Y/N's voice dropped to an icy octave, yet the smirk on his face sharpened into something else. "You want to talk about being an adult? Remind me who ran to the professor like a kindergartner who didn't get the toy he wanted at playtime." His lip curled. "And as much as I'd rather chew glass than admit this, Artemis was right. You don't give a damn about this project—you care about me. Or more specifically, me and who I let in my pants. Hopefully not for the reason she thinks, cause ew. But, tell me I'm wrong."

Conner's throat worked. "You—"

"Ah." Y/N raised a hand, cutting him off, smirk sharp and poisonous. "Don't even bother. I'm sick of this, and I'm sick of you. Last year, and every day since that fucking gala, you've acted like you wanted nothing to do with me, and I moved on. I adapted. Especially after finding out the truth about how the press found out about me." His eyes narrowed, venom lacing his voice. "So don't you dare come at me with this sudden territorial Alpha act. It's not cute, and it's not welcome. You want this project done now? Email the professor yourself for us to work separately, or do the damn thing by yourself, and I'll just take whatever grade comes with it. But I'm not working with. Point. Blank. Period."

Despite the hostility sharpening his words, his stomach was knotted tight, his pulse beating so fast, he felt like it was echoing in his ears. He hadn't lifted a single weight, yet sweat prickled along his skin, while his nose flooded with the sudden, cloying musk of rockrose that seemed to bloom off Conner's body and wrap around him like a net. The Alpha left him barely an inch of air to breathe, boxing him in so tightly that every inhale dragged more of that dominating scent down into his chest until it curled lower, settling with a dangerous thrum between his thighs.

Something wet stirred in his pants, faint and traitorous, a dampness gathering where he pressed his thighs tight together, the friction only making it worse. His underpants clung, uncomfortable and telling, and the hollow ache inside of him gave a small, answering pulse that left his breath hitching before he bit it down.

He could try to ignore it, but it was difficult with Conner's bulk pinning him against the glass, the smell of him crawling into his head, and the noticeable shift of muscle in his jaw and arms, which lit up something in Y/N that he refused to name.

It didn't mean anything; it couldn't. Any healthy, young Omega would react to this kind of situation. Any Omega's body would flinch, spark, and squirm if shoved into close quarters with an Alpha radiating heat and dominance like this. That was all it was—biology and instinct. It didn't matter that his heart lurched every time he caught a stronger hit of that smoky rockrose, or that his eyes kept dragging to the line of Conner's throat, the sharp set of his jaw, the ripple of muscle flexing when irritation crossed his face.

No, absolutely not. He wasn't giving in to this—wasn't giving in to him.

Couple of weeks earlier…

The semester had started slowly, just as every semester did. Classes, syllabi, introductions. The only real noise came from kids partying like they hadn't seen alcohol before, thrilled to be free of curfews and parents who actually cared whether they came home safely at night. Freshmen especially.

Conner couldn't bring himself to care. He didn't want any of it—the parties, the noise, the pretending. Lord knows he did enough of that already. The only thing he had in common with his classmates was the desire to get out from under their parents' thumbs. Though for him, it wasn't just about rules, cause he didn't just want to escape Lex's, he wanted to escape Lex. Period.

College hadn't seemed like much of a point, if he was honest. His future had always felt pre-scripted, set in stone before he could make choices of his own. Lex never outlined his plans, never spoke about inheritance or estates or what would happen after. But it felt a little unspoken, or maybe it was wishful thinking. It wasn't important to speak about, not in Lex's eyes, and Conner had long ago learned to stop asking. Still, the silence left an itch, a gnawing reminder that his life wasn't really his.

And if there was a future that meant Conner would have to deal with his bearer more than he planned to; he had no interest in that. None whatsoever.

Seeing Y/N at that gala had only sharpened the resentment. It was the moment he knew, even if his actions and words didn't reflect it, that everything Lex told him—fed him—was a lie. Years had gone by since their last encounter, but the second Conner's eyes landed on him, everything came rushing back. The good memories—the warmth, the laughter, the ease—hit first, sharp enough to make him falter. And then the bitterness surged, just as Lex had trained into him, like poison waiting to be uncorked.

Conner had been ripped from everything that mattered. Torn from his dad's house, from the kind of home that offered more than just a roof over his head. food on the table, and clothes on his back—it offered care… attention. Someone who actually saw him and valued him.

With Lex, the house was bigger—more ways to avoid him—the rooms were colder, and the silence was thicker. Luxuries replaced affection. Endless material "upgrades" dangled in front of him like keys to a gilded cage. He could have anything, everything—except the one thing Lex refused to give: himself.

Conner had learned quick. He wasn't a son—he was a tool. A resource, a weapon Lex could wield against his dad, his stepmom, and anyone unlucky enough to land on his hit list. And when Lex discovered just how deeply Conner cared for the child of the reporter he hated more than his stepmom, that was it. Lex couldn't resist twisting the knife, using his son's affections as leverage, knowing it would cut deeper than anything else. Hurting Conner was just collateral, cause as long as it caused pain to the bastards Lex hated the most, it was worth it.

Because that's who Lex Luthor was, and that was who Conner had been left with.

But he hadn't realized the full scope of it until that night at the gala. The moment Lex revealed, with a smirk and a glass of champagne in hand, that he had been the one to leak Y/N's identity to the press. Conner had barely processed the words before everything fell apart. He saw the betrayal flash across Y/N's face, before Bruce whisked him away like a good, protective father would. Conner hadn't even gotten the chance to explain, to apologize, or even beg. And maybe it didn't matter. He wouldn't have known what to say anyway. His throat had locked, shame and anger choking him silent while all of Y/N's siblings—people he also once shared fond memories with—glared at him like with nothing but disdain.

So he let him walk away, and that's when he knew he couldn't do it anymore—be Lex's little puppet instead of his son. So, Conner turned toward the only relationship he thought he still had a chance of salvaging—his real father, that one that actually acted like it.

When he turned eighteen, he reconnected with Clark, seeing as Lex could no longer stand in the way. Moving in with his dad should have felt like a fresh start, and in many ways, it did. Clark, Lois, his little brother Jon, and even Y/N's Papa welcomed him back with more grace and understanding than he deserved.

Y/N's Papa in particular hadn't been surprised at the truth, not after years of reporting on Lex's corruption and pettiness. He'd known from the start what kind of man Lex was. But just because he understood didn't mean he excused what happened. He made it clear: the hurt between Conner and Y/N wasn't his to fix. It wasn't Clark's or Lois's or anyone else's either. If Conner wanted to repair what had been broken, that burden was his alone to carry.

Bruce, of course, hadn't been so diplomatic. Despite his usual charisma and tactfulness as a successful businessman, when it came to his youngest son, the billionaire had no reservations about making his disdain plain and obvious. And Conner couldn't even blame him, knowing he'd likely be the type to do the same.

That first year of college, Conner didn't know how to approach Y/N. Every instinct screamed at him to try, to explain, and make things right. But then he'd see him on campus—laughing with Artemis, throwing an arm around Wally, talking with Zatanna, or leaning in close to some Alpha who was all too eager to linger around him—and something ugly and raw would rear its head. It'd burn through his veins hotter than anger, hotter than shame, freezing his feet to the ground.

Because how could he step forward when it already looked like Y/N had moved on? Surrounded, admired, and wanted by people who clearly knew how to treat him better than Conner believed he was capable. Though it didn't stop the selfish desire for him to be the only Alpha allowed around Y/N. When they were younger, and the signs of Conner's Alpha designation began to make themselves clear, Clark had begun teaching him early on how to deal with and recognize certain things.

Lex continued these teachings, but not as healthily and constructively compared to Clark. He didn't even take the time to do it himself, just hired some people to do it for him. Either way, he could recognize possession and understood the way Alphas circled Omegas they desired. And every time he watched it happen around Y/N, it made him sick with something he didn't want to name. He'd lost the right to call Y/N his, but the idea of someone else filling that space—stealing those smiles, those scents, those soft sounds—was enough to make his hands curl into fists.

So he stayed back, watching and swallowing down apologies until they curdled into resentment. Y/N was too warm, too open, too magnetic, and it was too much for Conner to have to keep witnessing that. He couldn't stomach the thought of being just one of the many faces among dozens crowding for his attention. Yet, it was that same jealousy that'd make him snap sooner than later.

Being back with his family—his real family— meant being steeped in memories he hadn't realized anyone else still carried. It meant having to endure all the laughter-filled retellings of how protective Conner had been as a boy, and how he'd hover at Y/N's side with all the seriousness of a soldier guarding a prince. Jon even teased him about how he used to growl if anyone, especially bigger kids, got too close to Y/N. As embarrassing as they were, they all served as pleasant reminders of the boy he used to be before he'd been twisted by Lex's manipulations.

They'd even talked about Y/N's very urgent care and self-imposed duty to take care of Conner, something that had been as natural to him, apparently, as breathing. Whether scraped knees or scratched knuckles, it was always Y/N's hands that reached for him first—fussing, scolding, and tending to him with a gentleness that no one else seemed to have the patience for. When Conner sulked or retreated into silence, Y/N never left him to it. He'd sit there swinging his little legs back and forth, filling the quiet with soft chatter or simply existing close enough to remind Conner he wasn't alone. It was Y/N being steady and warm, intuitively protective in his own right.

What burned the most about these memories wasn't that his family remembered them in the first place—it was that they spoke of them fondly, while Y/N himself might not even think about them anymore. Hearing those stories served as a reminder. In a sense, it made Conner recognize that at one point, Y/N had been his in a way no one else could claim, planting a seed that couldn't rip out. No matter how much he tried to convince himself he had no right, the thought gnawed at him: I was his Alpha once, and I could be again.

Thus, when sophomore year rolled around, Conner had already decided—he wasn't going to sit back again and watch Y/N drift further out of his orbit. Not this time. One thing half a lifetime under Lex Luthor had taught him was resourcefulness: how to get what you wanted, no matter the obstacles. It didn't take much digging to figure out Y/N's schedule, and while most of his courses didn't fit anything Conner could justify, one elective was open enough for him to slip into.

The decision was sealed when Dylan came swaggering into their shared apartment, back from that very class during the first week of the semester, bragging about how Y/N was in it—and how he was finally going to "get lucky." Dylan said it with such casual arrogance of an Alpha who thought he was clever, tossing in crude hints about how partnering with Y/N for the first project of the semester would be the perfect chance for him to "slide in." Whatever that meant.

Conner didn't hear the rest because his vision had already gone red-hot, picturing a quite unpleasant image of Y/N and Dylan together, and Conner's mugshot that would follow promptly afterwards. It already took every ounce of control not to snap the guy's neck right there, and less than five minutes to fire off an email to the professor, requesting—no, insisting—that he and Y/N were partners.

Was Y/N aware of this? Of course not. Would he be happy about it? Absolutely not. But he'd deal with it, Conner would give him no other choice but to deal with it. He wasn't here to win popularity points; he was here to wedge his way back into Y/N's life in his own little convoluted way—he was more like Lex than he'd care to admit—even if it meant brute-forcing the door open.

The project was never the point; the point was proximity. The point was making sure that if Y/N was going to argue, laugh, scowl, roll his eyes at, or lean close to someone, it would be him. Not Dylan nor any of those other Alphas sniffing around him. Only Conner.

Conner told himself it was about an apology, which was true to an extent. It was about fixing what Lex had broken between them, but it was also something deeper than that. Because beneath that, under the shame, the anger, and the guilt, something was searing: the bone-deep certainty that Y/N was his. No one else soothed him like Y/N used to when they were kids; that attention, his gentleness, had been his, and his alone. He always had been, in ways no one else could touch, and Conner would be damned before he let anyone else take it away from him.

One way or another, he'd earn forgiveness. One way or another, he'd remind Y/N who had always protected him. And one way or another, he'd make Y/N his again—completely, irrevocably, and only his.

"Oh, fuck…"

Now, how Y/N ended up in this situation was a question only divine forces could answer.

Surely, it was a mistake; it had to be. It couldn't be anything else but a mistake.

There was no plausible universe in theory or reality where he would have intentionally let this happen. Obviously, there'd been some cosmic glitch, a rip in the fabric of space-time that had cruelly dropped him into this exact moment. Either that—or he was an idiot so deep in denial, he might as well choke on it.

He and Conner were full-blown arguing in the middle of the gym, with Y/N all but threatening the Alpha to email their professor requesting that they work separately or for a partner swap. Either that, or he could work on it by himself without the Omega's help. To no one's surprise, Conner wasn't pleased with that ultimatum.

So much so, that instead of them continuing their argument in the middle of the gym, Conner decided to continue it in the Male Alpha locker room, like civilized adults. Because, yes, a civilized adult will shove another civilized adult into a restroom, slam them back against the wall hard enough to rattle the tiles, and kiss them like he's trying to devour the man alive instead of talking and communicating their frustration. Nothing strange uncivilized or questionable about that.

And, yes, Y/N was indeed kissing him back. Wait, that was meant to say not kissing him back! Alright, who wrote this?

Conner's mouth was rough and insistent, his teeth scraping Y/N's bottom lip as if to silently state who was in control. His hand had already shoved past the waistband of Y/N's pants, his fly unceremoniously opened by aggressive hands. How Y/N went from cursing and insulting this man, to having his fingers working deep inside his slick, grasping heat was beyond him. He wanted to scream that this was crossing a line, that this was exactly why he hated the arrogant Alpha. But what came out instead were needy, broken noises as his hips arched down onto Conner's hand, shamelessly chasing each thrust of his fingers.

The air was heavy with sweat and musk, a raw spike of pheromones clouding the room from both males. In the past, Conner attempted to restrain himself, particularly when they were in public, but in this moment, he didn't care. He wanted every inch of the Omega trembling in his arms—as he should be—and marked in his scent. On the other end, Y/N was busying trying to wrap his mind around what was happening, feeling Conner's scent crawling all around him, under his skin, flooding his lungs, or feeling like every nerve inside him was sparking and tingling, akin to when you rub wood together and make fire from the friction. His stomach twisted, feeling nothing but a greedy, deep need to be filled where he had that fluttering ache.

Yeah, a cosmic mistake. That could be the only explanation.

He had tried to walk away, pushing off the wall, spitting something along the lines of not allowing himself to be forced to work with Conner, and that he'd rather fail the entire class than allow himself to be bullied into compliance. He even managed a sidestep, brushing past Conner's shoulder toward the gym exit.

That had been the mistake.

Something in Conner snapped at the sight of him slipping out of reach—slipping away. Before Y/N could take another step, a strong hand wrapped around his arm, not bruising nor cruel, but unbreakable. A grip that made it clear walking off was not an option. With a sharp yank, Conner hauled him back, steering him without pause across the gym floor and through the heavy door of the MA locker room.

Y/N had snarled at him to let the fuck go, his voice carrying a mix of outrage and something thinner and more frantic. He shoved at Conner's forearm, tried digging his heels against the tiled floor, but the Alpha didn't loosen his hold. Not even close.

Conner grounded out something about the conversation not being over, his jaw tight as steel, and then, Y/N found himself backed up against another wall, cornered. His next curse died on his tongue when Conner's hand came up and caught the back of his neck, dragging him forward. Their lips collided in a bruising crash, a kiss so raw and consuming, it nearly knocked the air out of Y.N. His protests dissolved into muffled sounds against Conner's mouth, sharp inhales and choked-off whimpers, every ounce of fury stolen by that taste, that force.

He could've fought harder—shoved him back, turned his head away—but the second their lips met, Y/N's own body betrayed him. His chest lurched against Conner's, fingers twitching where they'd braced to push him away, only to curl helplessly in the tight compression material of the Alpha's shirt instead. His mind went blank, giving in to the pull he'd spent years denying.

After that, Conner didn't waste a heartbeat. With a growl that rumbled deep in his chest, he bent his knees and grabbed Y/N by the thighs, hauling him up like he weighed nothing. The impact of his back slamming into the wall rattled through him as Conner spread his legs wide and shoved himself between them, forcing the Omega to wrap them around his waist. His palms claimed Y/N's ass instantly, gripping hard, massaging, grinding their bodies together with deliberate punishing friction.

Y/N gasped, hands pressed flat against the Alpha's chest, squirming and wiggling against him in a half-hearted struggle. But every grind of his hips and pelvis against Conner's abdomen only made the Alpha's growl deepen and his hold tighten, only serving to feed a growing fire. His hips rolled, grinding his thick cock through the barrier of his sweats against the Omega's trembling core.

And when Y/N twisted again, still struggling and trying to slip free, Conner snarled, over the Omega's bravado, and slid his hand down. Without warning, he'd roughly pulled open the button and fly of the Omega's pants, shoving past the waistband, fingers slipping under the thin stretch of underwear. It caused Y/N to jolt with a sharp gasp, warning the Alpha against even daring to attempt what he was about to, only to get told to shut up in response.

It was something deep, something that had his voice edged with more than just jealousy, something darker. A kind of fervent anger from multiple different things, but mainly in that moment that Y/N was still attempting to deny him. His fingers sank into the sultry heat waiting for him, becoming drenched immediately in slick that coated his skin as though Y/N's body had already been preparing for him. He plunged deep, curling two thick fingers inside with a force that made Y/N's back arch, his slick spreading in wet sounds every thrust.

Y/N had hissed, letting out a slew of broken curses that turned into sharp moans between clenched teeth. Conner watched, eyes blazing as he thrust harder with his fingers, thumbing the throbbing appendage directly above the wet orifice while crashing his lips back against Y/N's, tongue sweeping in as he fucked him with his fingers.

"You're so fucking annoying." Y/N snapped against his lips, though it came out choked and ragged.

"Yet, you're still here," Conner growled, a little too cocky and satisfied for Y/N's ego to thrive. His lips pulled away to drag down the Omega's jaw, biting hard enough to bruise, licking over the sting, then sucking at his throat until the skin darkened under his teeth, which rewarded him a whimpering noise that he greedily wanted more of. "You could've left when you wanted to. But, you didn't."

Y/N clawed at his shoulder, squirming. "I—ah—only because you forced me in here, asshole—" His nails scraped down the Alpha's biceps, trying to sound furious even as his hips arched helplessly.

"You don't sound like you want me to stop," Conner muttered against his skin, breath hot, dragging his tongue lazily over another bruise he'd just made. He'd matched every thrust of his fingers with the grind of his hips, his erection pressing firm against Y/N's pelvis, making the Omega feel how hard he was.

"F-fuck you—" Y/N tried to scoff at the Alpha's previous words, tried to keep the bite in his voice, but the sound cracked into a broken moan when those pesky fingers curled inside him, hitting deep, relentless strokes. "Th-this doesn't mean anything," Y/N gasped, his thighs trembling as if they didn't know whether to spread open or fight to close.

Conner decided for him, forcing them open wider as he wedged himself deeper between them. His possessive fixation was blatant, voice all command, heavy with both authority and smugness. "Then why are you holding me like that?"

Y/N tried to respond, but the words fell apart into a sharp cry as Conner shifted his angle, grinding his palm against Y/N's swollen penis, his fingers pushing against his sensitive insides. It didn't matter anyway, as the Alpha only wanted to hear his Omega crying for him more, his quivering body and moans louder than words. But who said he couldn't drive his point home a little harder?

"You're working on the project with me," Conner snarled, voice edged with command as he kept his pace punishing. "You're not getting another partner, and you're not working alone. You work with me and only me."

Y/N shook his head, his whimpers becoming pitiful as Conner's hips pinned him to the wall, his chest broad and heavy against his. "No—ngh—don't wanna–" His words strangled into a sob, his walls spasming tight around the Alpha's fingers.

Conner groaned low in satisfaction, feeling the contrast of their bodies that made him run hot even more than he already was. His own body like steel, sinewy with control, against Y/N, who was all softness, trembling, and wet, pliant against the wall. It made his chest swell with pride, surging even more as he felt the Omega clutch him tighter, rubbing against his body like he needed it.

"Don't care," Conner growled into his neck, his thrusts never faltering while he continued circling and rubbing the Omega's weeping dick. "You get me. You don't get anyone else. Just me."

Y/N wanted to bite at him, tell Conner how much he was full of himself, only that would be a bit self-defeating, considering it was quite the opposite considering his cavern—hot, wet, and tight—was clenching greedily around the thick digits inside him. Conner's nostrils flared, scenting the Omega's arousal as it coated his fingers and palm. This was a place no one else would ever touch, not as long as he was breathing. It was for him and him alone, something he'd fight and kill any man or Alpha for daring to intrude on.

"You're mine," he grated, voice rough with more growl than word. His fingers curled and drove deeper, stretching the Omega as if he was trying to brand him. He shoved his other free palm harder under Y/N's ass, hoisting him higher while covering his lips with his own again. He loved the sounds of Y/N's moans and whining cries, but they were getting too loud. He swallowed every beautiful noise down with his mouth, biting and licking, smothering those sounds so no one else could hear them. They were for his ears only.

The slick was obscene, dripping down Conner's wrists, sticky heat wet in lewd trails that glistened under the fluorescent lights. Every push of his fingers into that soaked core drew a filthy squelch, loud in the quiet of the locker room, echoing off tile like a chorus to Y/N's broken gasps.

Conner dragged his fingers out slowly, savoring the wet stretch, the quiver of resistance fluttering desperately to hold him in. Hr broke from Y/N's kiss only to lift his hand, eyes locked to the Omega's flushed face as he pressed slick-soaked fingers to his nose. He inhaled greedily, nearly feral, growl rolling off in his chest as he tasted with his tongue, lips closing over slick-coated knuckles, his gaze never breaking from Y/N's. But, he didn't stop there.

With deliberate slowness, he slid the same wet fingers across Y/N's lips, painting them with his own slick. "Taste," he grunted, voice shredded raw, a command more than a request. Whether Y/N's lips parted out of obedience, instinct, or for him to tell him off, Conner didn't care as he shoved them inside, pushing wetness past his tongue until the Omega shuddered and whimpered around the intrusion.

The act wasn't just filthy, it was intimate in a way that clawed at the deepest instincts of the Alpha. Smearing it across Y/N's lips, he sealed their mouths together in a hungry kiss, and in that mingling of heat and fluid, Conner felt a satisfaction that went beyond lust, a certainty that this was his Omega, his body, his taste, his to keep.

Even if it took some more time for said Omega to get it through his head.

Conner's pride flared like fire as Y/N swallowed down proof of his own surrender, his fingers moving back down to shove inside where they belonged, knuckles grinding against smooth walls that squeezed tight around him. Y/N cried out, nails digging hard into Conner's shoulder, nearly ripping at the material covering the muscles.

Conner's forehead pressed against his temple, his voice a guttural scrape. "Look at me." His free hand gripped Y/N's jaw, forcing his dazed eyes open, forcing them to lock on his. "Only me." His chest rumbled, seeing the glassy eye look flash with indignation, shock, awe, but most of all, submission. His thrusts grew sharper, wetter, louder, every squelch a declaration.

He groaned when he scented something sweeter, muskier beneath the Omega's whimpers. Y/N's body trembled as he felt his chest tingle, nipples tightening, with the faintest sensation of wetness seeping into his shirt. Conner caught it instantly, a guttural noise rumbling in his throat as he scented down the Omega's chest, inhaling the sweet, heady scent of his body's milky reward. More proof that everything this body gave off belonged to him. "Fuck," he groaned, reverent and hungry, grinding harder, fingering deeper like he was staking a flag in conquered land.

"Mine." His chest puffed as Y/N clung tighter, arms winding around his neck as his body started to go limp from all his squirming. His fingers tangled into the Alpha's dark hair, something that made Conner stand taller for, feeling accepted.

A rough sound broke from him as he bit hard into the Omega's sweaty neck, leaving a bright red mark that he'd smugly knew would take time to clear up. "Cum." The order was deep, leaving no room for refusal.

Y/N came apart violently, his entire body seizing against Conner's chest. His thighs clamped around the Alpha's hips, trembling uncontrollably, the muscles jerking with each wave that tore through him. A broken sob escaped his throat, muffled against Conner's mouth, as his core spasmed around the thick fingers buried inside him. Slick and cum mixed, gushed in hot bursts, splattering down Conner's wrist and dripping onto the tile floor with wet, obscene splashes that echoed in the small locker room. His opening quivered under the assault, every fluttering clench drawing out another gush while his dick spurted hot streak after streak of pure cum between his and Conner's abdomens.

Conner groaned into his mouth, chest swelling with pride at his triumph as if he'd just won a battle. He didn't ease up, fingers grinding deep as if coaxing every last drop from him, relishing the messy slick coating his hand, his arm, and the floor beneath them. When Y/N's body finally sagged against him, wrung out and shaking, Conner kissed him harder, greedily swallowing the wet, broken noises, and enjoying the subdued state.

He eased his hand free only to hold it up, slick and dripping in shining ropes, forcing Y/N's dazed eyes to follow the mess he'd made before pressing another searing kiss to his mouth, making him taste himself in the kiss.

"Stay right here while I grab my gym bag. I'm not done with you yet."

A clear dynamic shift occurred after that locker room encounter; his walk of shame said more than enough. The universe, by some miracle, spared him a complete humiliation; the gym was nearly empty, and the only two people at the front desk didn't so much as glance up. Either they were saints of discretion, or they'd heard everything and were giving him the dignity of silence.

Something for his late-night anxious thoughts to dwell on later.

Conner, naturally, carried not an ounce of shame. The smug bastard all but strutted beside him, satisfaction written in every line of his body. He didn't bother hiding it, not when Y/N's legs were still unsteady, not when the Omega was walking out wearing a pair of Conner's own boxer-briefs under his pants.

Y/N hadn't been so lucky in the aftermath with his clothes. His underwear had been ruined; stretched and drenched with slick in a way that made "salvageable" laughable. He'd tried to slip back into his pants without them, muttering curses under his breath, but Conner stopped him cold. Commando wasn't an option, not with the Omega's scent still wafting off him, thick and sweet, enough to draw in any Alpha within a mile who caught the faintest whiff of slick.

His solution had been simple: pulling one of the clean pairs of boxer-briefs from his gym bag and holding them out. Y/N had looked at him like he was crazy, while Conner returned his own look, showing that it wasn't a suggestion nor a request.

"Either you put these on, or I walk out there with my gym bag over one shoulder, and you over the other. Your choice."

The threat wasn't idle, and Y/N was aware of it. Every muscle in Conner's arm flexed like he was already preparing to make good on it, and Y/N knew very well what that would look like to anyone who witnessed it. Slung over the Alpha's shoulder, mussed hair, swollen lips, smelling of sex with slick still drying on his thighs.

No, if he wanted to keep whatever shred of dignity he had left and wanted to cling to his thin plan of avoiding Conner altogether after this, shutting this whole mess down before it spiraled into something else, then he knew which choice he had to make. His own pride hissed, but he sucked it up as he snatched the briefs from the smug Alpha.

He figured this was what Conner wanted. Not just to cover and protect him, but to mark him. The fabric wasn't just a shield against unwanted attention; it was a soft claim. Was there selfishness in it? Motivation beyond practicality?

Is 4 the sum of 2+2?

"Conner—jeez a-ah, fuck ... !"

Y/N's cry was muffled into his sheets as the Alpha pinned him forward over his bed, arms wrenched behind his back, wrists locked tight under the calloused, rough hand. Conner's other palm forced his thighs wide, spreading him open with brutal ease, baring his slick, pulsing core like it was his right to take. The area between his legs felt hot and ticklish as Conner's tongue plunged deep into his insides, lips sealing over the puckered opening. Every drag and suck pulled obscene squelches into the air, wet sounds filling the room as Conner devoured him like he'd never stop.

Y/N gasped, back arching despite himself, the sheets beneath him already soaked in a combination of slick and Conner's spit. His legs kicked weakly, but every movement just made the male press deeper, pushing his tongue as far as he could as if he was trying to suck out the Y/N's soul from between his legs.

"Stop squirming," Conner husked, gripping the cushy thigh with a tight jerk as he glared at the back of the Omega's head, hair damp with sweat. His tongue speared back in, lapping greedily at every clench and flutter, groaning low in his chest like he was starved for it. The vibrations shot up Y/N's spine, dragging a broken moan from his lips that he tried—and failed—to bury in the sheets.

"That's it," Conner muttered against him, pulling back just enough to suck hard at the swollen rim, wet pops echoing between them. His spit and Y/N's slick dripped down to his chin, a filthy mess he had no shame in making worse. "You'll learn better than to push me away."

Y/N fidgeted again, shame coloring every whimper, but Conner's hand in the small of his back shoved him deeper into he mattress, keeping him pinned where he wanted him. He manhandled Y/N easily, adjusting his hips higher, spreading him wider until there was no part of him hidden from view.

"That's right, keep dripping over me," Conner growled, licking a thick stripe through the mess before plunging his tongue back in, fucking him with rough, relentless strokes. "Keep making a mess for me. Show me who you belong to."

Y/N choked out something garbled, some mix of protest and plea, but his thighs were already shaking, body giving itself away. He tightened his grip on Y/N's wrists, hauling them higher up his back until the Omega's spine bowed.

The room filled with noise—wet, obscene squelches as Conner's tongue plunged and curled his hungry groans, trembling straight into Y/N's core. Every sloppy lap, every greedy suck echoed, the bed creaking in rhythm with his helpless writhing.

Conner didn't let up. His grip on Y/N's wrists wrenched tighter, holding him arched and open while his other hand pinned the trembling thigh hard into the mattress. The Omega bucked anyway, hips stuttering against the relentless heat of Conner's mouth, slick splashing audibly down his chin, dripping onto the sheets below.

A growl ripped from Conner's chest, muffled against Y/N's skin, almost feral in the way it rumbled through his insides. Y/N (though he'd never admit it willingly) sobbed into the sheet, voice breaking as the first orgasm wracked through his insides—legs seizing, hole clenching around Conner's tongue, slick and cum mixed gushing hot and fast. The wet squelch of it filled the air, obscene and loud.

But Conner didn't stop; his tongue drove deeper, cruel in its precision, dragging the climax out into shuddering waves. Every cry Y/N gave—high, broken, wrecked—was swallowed by Conner's growls, by the sloppy, ravenous sounds of him sucking greedily at the Omega's release.

Y/N tried to twist away, too sensitive, too raw, but Conner's chest pressed harder into the back of his thighs, forcing him still. "Stay," he snarled, low and sharp, before burying his face back between them with renewed hunger.

The overstimulation tore through Y/N's body, each stroke of Conner's tongue dragging another sob, another strangled wail from his lips. Slick splattered the sheets, soaking them, dripping to the floor.

Conner only growled louder, his naked chest dripping with the evidence of his claim on the Omega, trailing in shiny wet trails down his abdomen. The second orgasm hit like a thunderclap, Y/N's body convulsing, with his thigh jerking open wider as slick spurted messily out of him, splattering against Conner's face, his chin, the sheets below.

Y/N screamed into the mattress, body curling tight, chest dragging hard against the sheets. His nipples rubbed raw against the fabric, each brush sending white-hot sparks through him, the pressure making them leak until the sheets beneath his chest were damp with a sweet milky stain. The dual sensation—his chest tingling, his core spasming and gushing uncontrollably—was unbearable, too much, too good.

At last, Conner wrenched his mouth away with a guttural snarl, his face shining, his chest heaving like he'd just pulled breath after drowning. Y/N barely had a chance to inhale before his wrists were released and his whole body was flipped with a single, brutal motion. The world spun, then he was on his back, legs spread wide, Conner's weight bearing down on him.

A smug glint flashed across Conner's sweat-slick face as he pressed a knee into the mattress between Y/N's thighs, keeping him splayed. One big hand clamped over the Omega's chest, kneading hard, rough, like he had every right. The other shoved straight down between his legs, fingers forcing slick flesh apart, plunging into his drenched heat again without hesitation. The wet noise echoed sharply and loudly, dripping down Conner's wrist as he kept working him open.

Y/N's breath broke into mewls, hips arching helplessly into both sensations at once. Conner's mouth latched onto his chest, sucking at a leaking nipple with a greed that matched the mess between his legs. Tasty arousal spiked milk spilled onto his tongue, down his chin, his teeth scraping hard, leaving red marks in his wake as he pulled back to bite and mouth roughly at the swollen skin.

The Omega's thighs trembled, tears streaking his temples as pleasure spun out of control. "C-Conner, it's too much—" he gasped, voice raw and trembling as his weak arms pushed up against the Alpha's puffed out chest.

Conner only gave a sharp, dark chuckle against his torso, the sound cruel and boyish at once. He pulled off with a wet pop, lips curved into a smirk. "Too bad," he rasped, before diving back down, suckling harder at everything his Omega had to offer him. His fingers pumped rougher, curling sharply against the spot that made Y/N's whole body jolt off the mattress. Every thrust of his hand splashed slick down to the sheets, every hungry suck from his chest dragged another wail from Y/N's throat. Conner reveled at the sight of his Omega overstimulated, leaking, crying, but clinging desperately to him all the same.

The third orgasm ripped through Y/N like a lightning strike, his body seizing around Conner's fingers, walls milking, tightening as if trying to milk them with frantic pulses as more slick squirted out, splashing against Conner's wrist, running in sticky trails down his arms, soaking the sheets so thoroughly the mattress was also squelching beneath them.

Y/N sobbed through the mind-shattering sensation, voice high and broken, tears streaking his temples as he gasped for air. His chest heaved, nipple-aching and leaking under Conner's suckling lips, his hips jerking helplessly against the Alpha's unrelenting hand.

Conner didn't stop until every shudder ran its course, until Y/N lay trembling and soaked beneath him, ruined and open. Only then did he finally pull back, his fast, wet breath, his chest heaving, his mouth curved into a feral, boyish smirk that reminded Y/N of the boy he once knew in childhood.

He released Y/N's nipple with a final, wet pop, licking the creamy delicacy from his lips before looking down at the Omega, his hands still buried inside him. His voice came low, rough, a command and a claim all at once:

"Mine."

Y/N whimpered, eyes dazed and glassy, body clinging to Conner's despite himself. And Conner—his chest puffed full of pride, smug, and unyielding—looked every bit like an Alpha who'd just reduced their Omega to tears and knew he'd do it again. The Omega was drenched in him—fluid, scent, submission—and yet it still wasn't enough. Not until Y/N understood, without question, who he belonged to.

He stood, looming, and with a sharp tug yanked the drawstring of his sweats. The fabric dropped in one ruthless motion, pooling at his feet. Y/N's protests caught in his throat before they even formed. His hazy mind short-circuited at the sight before him.

The Alpha's body was a weapon—broad shoulders, tapering into a chest sculpted thick with muscle, his stomach ridged and hard like stone, built for force rather than vanity. Veins bulged down his forearms as he shoved his clothes aside, cock standing proud and flushed, heavy enough to make Y/N's mouth dry.

The Alpha's appendage stood thick and heavy, the flushed tip already leaking, veins ridging up the shaft like lines carved into stone. It wasn't just big—it was daunting, obscene, a weapon of flesh and hunger that made Y/N's stomach clench and his throat go dry. The kind of cock that didn't just stretch; it split, reshaped, claimed. The kind that made an Omega's body remember who'd been inside it, even after they were gone.

His insides fluttered, traitorous, still sloppy with slick. His brain supplied the image unbidden: that length buried to the hilt inside him, pushing against every spot deep and raw until there was nothing left but his Alpha's size and heat, pressing up into his belly, stealing his breath. He swore he could feel it already, phantom-deep, his walls twitching around like they were bracing for the inevitable.

Conner curled his hand around the thick shaft, giving it a slow pump, almost mocking, as if to show him just how much he was about to take. The Omega's lips parted on a soundless whimper, heat rushing to his face and just.

Y/N's lust-drunk staring shattered the second rough hands grabbed his thighs, hauling him to the edge of the bed. Before he could blink, he was scooped into the Alpha's arms, muscles like iron forcing his body to cling instinctively—legs curling tight around his waist, arms clutching his shoulders. Conner carried him with ease, like his Omega weighed nothing, before shoving him against the wall. The drywall groaning at the impact, Y/N pinned between stone and steel.

"Wait—Conner, I don't think I can handle any more…" Music to an Alpha's ears.

Conner's grin was sharp, predatory. His cock, thick and heavy, rubbed in long, slow drags across Y/N's soaked orifice, spreading slick and teasing the trembling rim. "You'll take it," he muttered, voice low and ragged, chest heaving against Y/N's. "Every inch."

Y/N tried to stall, clinging to reason. "Do you even have protection?"

"Are you close to your heat?" Conner shot back instantly.

"No. I'm on Sterilinex suppressants."

Y/N regretted the words the moment they left his mouth as Conner's eyes darkened, a dangerous gleam sparking. "Sterilinex works double as a birth control too, doesn't it?"

The Omega swallowed hard. "Yes, but—that doesn't matter—"

It mattered. Oh, it mattered. That thought slithered into Conner's head like temptation itself, curling, burning, demanding. He rolled his hips, the blunt head of his cock nudging insistently, as if demanding to be let into its property. He coated himself in the Omega's slick until his entire length glistened with it.

"Fine," Conner rumbled, voice dropping lower, possessive and sharp. "I won't fuck and knot you…if you admit you're my Omega."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." His cock pressed harder against the quivering rim, threatening to push. "Say it."

"And why the hell would I? What makes you deserve—hell, that you're even good enough—for that title?"

"Maybe because I already made you cum three times on your bed," Conner growled, jaw set tight, "and once more in the locker room. But I'll be happy to prove it again." His hips gave a sharp thrust, the swollen tip breaching just enough to sting.

"You can't be serious—"

"Dead."

Y/N's eyes narrowed, lips trembling as he steadied himself, knowing exactly what line he was about to cross. Like his Papa always taught him, if an Alpha truly deserves something, they'll damn sure work to prove it, and you shouldn't make it any easier for them. His spark of defiance won out, even as slick dripped freely between them.

"Hell. No."

That was the last thread snapping. Conner snarled, anger and hunger flaring all at once. "Wrong answer."

He slammed his hips forward. The stretch was brutal and immediate, even with all of Conner's fingering inside him from before. His walls strained wide, forced to yield around the obscene girth. Y/N's mouth fell open on a broken cry as Conner shoved in deeper, every inch spearing through muscle, pressing up into places that had never been touched so raw. His cock drove into him like a battering ram, thick veins dragging against hypersensitive flesh, the head pushing so deep that Y/N swore he felt it bulge up inside his belly.

Every thrust forward ground his spine into the wall, every retreat shallow before Conner plowed deeper still, chasing that suffocating fullness. The Omega's vision blurred, the world dimming at the edges as his body struggled to stretch fast enough, clenching and fluttering helplessly around the sheer size. He could feel himself molding around it, stuffed and swollen, the pressure unrelenting.

Conner groaned into his neck, voice guttural, smug, and savage all at once, before staring back into the Omega's sex-blown gaze, his head falling forward as he lost himself on the Alpha's cock. "Look at me while you take it."

Pinned high against the wall, legs locked tight around the dark-haired male's waist, Y/N could only choke out gasps and whimpers, every sound swallowed over by the lewd sound of slapping flesh from Conner's hips driving in between the Omega's quivering thighs. His nipples flared up once again, releasing a new wave of leaking milk as he was moved up and down, his milky arousal cream smearing his chest as his body exposed him further. His own untouched dick also leaked, drooling against his stomach from nothing but the invasion and stretch going on just beneath it.

Conner adjusted his grip, one palm squeezing cruelly into the plush of Y/N's ass as the other pressed tight between his shoulder blades, creeping closer around the Omega's sweaty neck. He felt like an undefeated conqueror, staking his claim on land that had rightfully belonged to him and always would.

"Say you can't take it," Conner growled in his ear, voice thick with arrogance as his knot already began to swell threateningly at the base. "And I'll make you prove yourself wrong again, and again, until you admit it."

"Fuck you," Y/N spat, though the words came out breathless, trembling, stripped of venom.

"Already am," Conner husked, tone dark but laced with boyish arrogance. His mouth brushed Y/N's ear, hot and cruel. "And I'll keep fucking you until you admit whose you are. Even if I have to keep you here, like this, all day."

"Not gonna happen."

Conner's grip on his throat tightened, thumb pressing just enough to tilt Y/N's chin, forcing his gaze forward as he snapped harder. The pace turned vicious, pounding in fast, brutal slams that ricocheted Y/N's body against the wall with every thrust. The impact rattled through his spine, his lungs knocked empty with the sheer force of it.

The Omega's cries cut through the room, sharp and desperate, tangled with the wet slap of flash and obscene squelches each time Conner buried himself to the hilt. Y/N tried to turn his face away, but the Alpha's grip kept him locked, forced to take every moment of it—every inch of cock carving him open, every brutal stretch that shaped his insides to fit nothing but Conner.

Inside, it was devastating. Y/N felt every vein drag against his walls, the swollen head battering mercilessly against his most private places—deep, untouched places—until he swore he could feel the blunt shape bulging inside his lower belly. His body fluttered helplessly, forced to mold around the Alpha's size, stuffed so full that each thrust ground his core wider, harder, unrelenting.

Conner's stamina was inhuman, his rhythm steady even as his pace ramped higher, like he had no end in sight. He fucked like a machine built for this—slamming Y/N open, pulling only halfway out before rutting back in, jackhammering into that tender core with ruthless precision. His breath rasped hot against Y/N's ear, punctuated by low grunts and the ragged growl that came with every drive of his hips.

Y/N's vision blurred. Each thrust pressed so high, he saw stars, his chest jolting, nipples dripping wet as he jerked up and down with his body, spreading droplets of arousing milk that smeared as his body rocked. His own cock drooled untouched, twitching uselessly against his stomach, as the Alpha's cock head bullied his insides over and over until Y/N couldn't tell if he was gasping from pleasure, pain, or the impossible mix of both.

"Keep running that mouth," Conner snarled, pace unyielding, slamming him harder. "I'll fuck the fight right out of you."

And, fuck he did. The words barely had time to register before the Alpha made good on the promise. His thrusts turned savage, rhythm relentless, every slam spearing Y/N's insides with merciless precision. The sound was scandalous—wet, sticky, the smack of hips against as and the squelching gush each time Conner bottomed out.

Y/N's cries cracked, his walls clamping down tight, fluttering around the thickness, battering inside, clenching helplessly as if trying to hold him in place. Slick overflowed, splattering down his thighs, dripping onto the floor in lewd trails.

"No—no, I can't—" Y/N's protests shattered into a strangled moan as his cock jerked, untouched, spilling over in hot spurts against his stomach. His whole body trembled, legs shaking, nipples tingling, leaking even more as his release pulsed out of him. He sobbed into the overstimulation, feeling it twice as hard as he did before as his core clenched around Conner like a fist.

The Alpha snarled, chest heaving with feral pride, fucking him through it without slowing, forcing the orgasm to wring itself out until Y/N was twitching and gasping, body sagging limp against the wall.

But Conner didn't stop. Not even close.

A rough hand released his throat only to grab the Omega's jaw, forcing his dazed, wet eyes up. Conner's expression was sharp, victorious even. "I'm not through with you yet.

He pulled out in one brutal stroke, slick dripping down Y/N's thighs, and manhandled him toward the bed. With no more patience for softness, Conner bent him over the mattress once again, shoving his leaking chest down into the sheets until Y/N's ass was presented open and spread. The Omega whined, still twitching from the last climax, but Conner only pressed a heavy palm between his shoulder blades, keeping him face down.

"Up," he growled, smacking his ass once for emphasis. "Keep it there."

Y/N's legs trembled as he obeyed, back arched, ass in the air, hole glistening and stretched wide, still dripping from everything Conner had already done. It was a picture of submission and ruin, and the Alpha's new favorite sight in the world.

He teased the head of his cock against the swollen entrance, smearing slick around it, dragging the stretch out while Y/N whined and kicked. Conner chuckled darkly at the sounds, savoring them. "Sensitive, huh? Good. Makes it better for me."

And with a sharp thrust, he pushed back inside, the angle deeper, crueler, his cock head grinding right into that raw spot that had Y/N screaming out instantly.

"Not fair," the Omega gasped, tears dampening the sheets.

Conner's laugh rumbled low and mean against his back as he bent over him, teeth grazing the nape of his neck. "Fair's for someone else. You belong to me, so I don't need to be fair. Especially if you can't follow a simple direction."

The Alpha set a brutal rhythm, hips driving in with pounding force that rattled the bed frame. His cock hit deep, right against that raw, swollen spot inside that made Y/N jolt and cry out each time, the kind of relentless pace that didn't allow room to breathe, let alone recover. The wet slap of skin and the obscene squelching of slick filled the air, drowning out everything but Y/N's broken moans and sobs.

Conner's arms snaked under him, rough hands gripping his chest, kneading the leaking mounds until slick milk smeared down his stomach and across the sheets. The friction against his nipples only added to the storm ripping through him, every squeeze sparking fresh shudders that had his body convulsing uncontrollably around the Alpha's cock.

"Conner—a-ah, fuck ... ! I can't—" Y/N sobbed, words muffled into the sheets as his body seized in another overwhelming release, spilling nothing now but a weak dribble while his walls clenched in rhythmic spasms.

The Alpha snarled in satisfaction, fucking him through it without mercy, pace never faltering. His stamina was monstrous, each thrust steady, driving, unrelenting. He grinded in deeper, smearing slick over his own thighs, his breath hot and harsh against Y/N's ear.

"Don't stop now," Conner growled, biting at his neck as his hands kneaded rougher at his chest. "You'll take every last one I give you."

The Omega's body betrayed him, jerking from the raw overstimulation. His cock twitched uselessly, balls aching, the sensation so sharp it turned to tears streaking down his face. Every shudder wracked him harder than the last, little broken cries spilling no matter how he tried to bite them back.

Conner only leaned into it, cruel and intimate, pressing his lips against Y/N's temple, panting hot against his skin. "Say it," he demanded, voice rough with heat and pride. "Say I'm your Alpha. Submit to me, and I'll let you go."

Y/N shook his head desperately, voice cracking. "I-In your dreams—"

The Alpha chuckled darkly, chest swelling with pride at his brat's defiance even as his body trembled and wept against him. "Then I'll just keep going," Conner promised, rolling his hips with punishing precision, cock sawing against his swollen sweet spot again and again until Y/N shrieked, his body clamping down so hard it milked every inch.

The Alpha's pace stayed steady, merciless, his stamina making it clear he wouldn't break before Y/N did. Every thrust dragged another twitch, another convulsion, another ruined orgasm until the Omega's body was quaking with exhaustion, his tears soaking the sheets beneath his face.

"Good boy," Conner praised low in his ear, voice all gravel and possessive heat as his hand slid from Y/N's chest to his throat again, holding him steady as he sobbed. "That's it. Take it all. You're mine, and only mine."

With fluid strength, he pulled out slowly, savoring the Omega's whine at the sudden emptiness, then shifted them. Strong hands caught under Y/N's thighs, lifting him like he weighed nothing, flipping him into Conner's lap.

The new position swallowed him whole. Facing away, Y/N was forced to straddle the Alpha, thighs stretched wide over corded muscle, chest pressed against Conner's hard body. Conner's cock slid back in deep from below, the angle obscene, splitting him open all over again while his ass sank against Conner's lap.

"Fuck—!" Y/N sobbed, clutching at Conner's biceps, much to the Alpha's smug delight. Those same arms wrapped tight around him, caging him in. One broad hand gripped his chest, kneading the sensitive mounds, slick milk spilling against his palm; the other held one of his ass cheeks tight, forcing every thrust to rock him down harder.

"Look at you," Conner's voice was ragged, a low heat as his lips dragged over Y/N's collarbone. His blue eyes lifted to meet the Omega's—sharp, hungry, almost reverent—watching the way pleasure had stolen his senses, how his limbs went slack and his breath came in ragged pulls as Conner guided him up and down that thick, relentless shaft.

Y/N's arms curled around Conner's shoulders, clinging like a child to a lifeline; his body slumped forward, forehead pressed into the hollow of the Alpha's neck, too spent to keep upright or to keep fighting the wash of sensation. He was drunk on it—on the way Conner moved, the press and drag of flesh, the way every roll of his hips teased new tremors from his core.

"You'd make things so much easier on yourself," Conner murmured against his skin, voice low and amorous, "if you'd just admit it. If you'd just say the words." His hands tighten slightly to steady the tremor under him; the motion was gentle and owning all at once. "Who do you belong to?"

The intimacy of it all was suffocating. Each grind forced Y/N to feel the sheer thickness inside him, rubbing every raw nerve until his head dropped back onto Conner's shoulder, his cries spilling uncontrolled. His body betrayed him, trembling harder with each roll, every orgasm weaker and wetter until he felt like he couldn't hold himself up anymore without the support of the Alpha, fingers digging into his skin like anchors.

Y/N could feel how the Alpha's chest was puffed with what had to be a shit-eating satisfaction, even more as Conner kissed the tears streaking down his cheek as he kept him steady. "Say it," he murmured, low, commanding, the sound trembling straight through him. "Let me hear it. Give me what's mine."

Y/N sagged in Conner's arms, his body shuddering and wet, every inch of him molded against the Alpha's chest. Conner kept him there, pinned in his lap, cock buried to the hilt, throbbing inside that molten, slick heat. It was overwhelming—like being hugged from the inside, a warm, wet grip that pulsed around him in needy rhythm. Every squeeze, every flutter of muscle told him what Y/N's refused.

He felt Y/N's smaller frame pressed into his, milk-stained chest smearing wetness across his sternum, thighs shaking as they clung around his waist. The contrast was intoxicating—the broad bulk of his own sinewy frame holding the Omega tight, steadying every weak shiver and convulsion, as if proving over and over that he was built to hold him, to own him.

He buried his face in the damp crown of Y/N's hair, inhaling, his growl vibrating deep as his knot began to swell at the base of his cock. The thought of sealing him—locking them together, making sure no one could ever pull him free—ignited a raw, primal fire in his chest.

Conner's smirk curved against his temple. "Say it," he demanded, low and guttural, every thrust punctuated by the grind of his swelling knot. "Say who I am. Say who you belong to."

Y/N whimered, shaking his head again, but his voice cracked, breaking apart on a sob. "N-no… I can't—"

"You can," Conner growled, thrusting up harder, filling him until his stomach tightened with the pressure. His arms crushed Y/N tighter, one hand kneading the leaking mounds of his chest while the other braced his stomach, forcing every convulsion to roll down onto his cock. "You will."

The Omega broke with a cry, tears streaking his face as he clung tighter, forehead dropping back against Conner's shoulder. His lips trembled, then parted, and the words spilled out ruined and wet.

"M-my Alpha…"

Conner's heart slammed against his ribs, a victorious snarl tearing from his throat. His hips snapped up brutally, pounding into the wet heat like he could carve the truth deeper, bury it inside Y/N's very bones. "Again," he demanded, feverish.

"My Alpha!" Y/N cried, voice high and broken, body convulsing around him, milking him.

That was it. Conner's pride, his hunger, his need—all of it combusted. He drove in deep, grinding his knot against Y/N's entrance until it broke past, locking them tight. The Omega screamed his name, body trembling as another orgasm shattered through him, and Conner's head fell back with a guttural roar.

Heat spilled inside him in thick waves, his cock throbbing as he pumped Y/N full, cum flooding deep until it overflowed around the knot, dripping hot and sticky down their thighs. The Omega clung like a lifeline, still twitching, still sobbing his title into Conner's skin, while the Alpha's chest puffed broad with triumph.

Y/N would be very surprised if he still managed to beat the teen pregnancy statistics after this.

Conner got what he wanted; he finally had him, tied, marked, and claimed. He made him his Omega in every way that mattered, and as his pulse slowed, still locked inside that wet, trembling heat, he pressed a reverent kiss to Y/N's damp temple, voice ragged but certain.

"Mine. Always mine."

When the haze of that last knot finally broke, Conner didn't peel away. He stayed locked in, one massive hand rubbing circles along Y/N's thigh, the other cradling his head to his chest as the Omega twitched weakly in his lap. His breathing was rough but steady, heat radiating from him like a furnace, and the sound of his heartbeat thudded steadily against Y/N's ear.

"Easy," Conner murmured, thumb brushing sweat from Y/N's temple. He was gruff in taking care of the Omega afterwards, but undeniable in all his frustrating ways. He steadied Y/N's trembling body, easing the ache with grounding touches. His knot sat swollen and buried deep inside, every pulse of his cock heavy and deliberate, proclaiming to Y/N exactly where he belonged.

And yet, when the knot softened, it didn't end. Conner's libido was a cruel thing. He went again, then again. Each round harder, greedier, his thrusts carving their way into Y/N's body like he meant to rewrite him from the inside out. Every time Y/N thought he'd wrung Conner dry, the Alpha's cock would swell and flood him again, with him clinging onto those hard, sweaty back muscles for dear life, fingers tangled in the damp, dark strands of the Alpha's hair while said man kissed and growled into his neck, knock locking them tight with his cum gushing hot and thick until Y/N's belly felt heavy with it.

By the third round, his legs barely obeyed him. They quivered like dead weight, thighs sore and stretched to the bone. His body felt too full, the overwhelming sensation of Conner's size still throbbing inside even in the pauses between. His hole leaked and twitched around him, muscle worn raw and pliant, thighs sticky with everything Conner had spilled. At some point, a spade needed to be called a spade, cause Conner was acting no better than a dog pissing on a fire hydrant to mark its territory, only the piss was Alpha sperm and Y/N was the fire hydrant.

Of course, the smug bastard savored it. He looked down at Y/N like a man surveying his conquest, chest rising proud as if the exhaustion in Y/N's body was a crown he'd earned. He had that pompous Alpha air now, almost boyishly arrogant, like a child getting the cookie out of the cookie jar before dinner. He felt he'd proven himself beyond a doubt, and maybe he had.

It was in the soft after-hours, when Conner had finally—finally—let fatigue creep into his bones, despite the twitch in him that still wanted another go at the Omega's insides. Y/N was this close to taking him to get neutered.

They lay in his bed—clean sheets that Y/N made the dark-haired male put on because he wasn't sleeping in that mess—and Conner hadn't complained once as he stripped them off and tossed them in the corner. The Alpha had even padded across the room in nothing but his birthday suit—Y/N was definitely not checking out the package in the back or those wide shoulders and back muscles his hands had just been clawing at—grabbed a bottle of water, and pressed it into Y/N's hand like he was afraid he'd collapse without it. Hydration, wiping him down with a warm cloth, rubbing his thighs to ease the ache, Conner's care came gruff and quiet, but it was thorough.

The least he could fucking do after everything he'd wrung out of him.

Now, Y/N was cocooned between the rock-solid, firm wall on his left and the actual wall on his right, the Alpha acting unconsciously like a barrier, a living bulkhead keeping the world away. One arm was thrown heavily over his waist, the other spread beneath his pillow, and the slow rise of Conner's chest against his back lulled Y/N toward sleep.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of the dark mop of Conner's hair, damp and tousled from the workout they'd put each other through. Y/N didn't dare admit how unfairly sexy the Alpha looked after sex—flushed skin, dark eyes, soft around the edges, but still glittering with hunger, body radiating the kind of satisfied arrogance only an Alpha could muster. Would it be worse than admitting that, under all his defiance, there was a giddy, boyish happiness rolling around inside him at being wanted so absolutely by the object of his childhood affections? He'd long buried the softness he held for the boy currently holding him after the gala incident, though, and he wasn't about to dig them up again just because of a few rounds of—amazing—sex.

He'd never let the bastard know. Not when Conner was already smug enough with the way he refused to leave even a breath of space between them, his big hands tracing slow, lazy paths over Y/N's skin, sparking heat everywhere they touched. And definitely not when Y/N could feel a very familiar hardness pressed against the small of his back, stubborn and insistent even now.

The Omega huffed, torn between rolling his eyes and throwing himself out the window. Conner's palm drifted lower, cupping the curve and dip at his hips like it belonged there, and Y/N realized with a start that the Alpha wasn't just being lewd, he was checking him, fingers kneading over tender muscle, gauging soreness, making sure nothing felt wrong after taking him so rough. It was careful, clinical almost, except for the way Conner's cock gave a proud twitch every time Y/N flinched.

With a groan, Y/N shifted, turning onto his other side, and with a grunt in return at the movement, Conner loosened his hold only long enough to let him roll, then immediately hauled him back in, fitting their bodies together chest to chest. Their legs tangled—Y/N's leaking chest brushing against Conner's firm torso, and the Alpha growled low in his throat at the contact. His rough hands immediately found ass cheeks, squeezing, pulling him flush until that thick hardness nudged his entrance, insistent and hot.

"Easy there, big fella," Y/N muttered, lips twitching despite himself. "I'd like to keep my limbs functional, so either calm down or take a cold shower."

Conner's answer was a playful growl, equal parts irritation and smugness, the sound vibrating against Y/N's lips as his hips jerked forward in a sharp nudge. He kneaded the globes with greedy hands, cock prodding against his used, throbbing hole like a bad child trying to push their way into a space they were kicked out of.

"Bad," Y/N deadpanned, voice cracking at the same time his legs twitched from oversensitivity. "Down, boy."

Conner's chuckle rumbled deep in his chest, lips brushing over Y/N's temple in something too close to tender, before he sank his teeth lightly into his shoulder, warning the Omega that this "dog" wouldn't stay down for long. His hand flexed hard against Y/N's ass, but then—softly—he kissed his temple. A kiss, not a bite, Y/N froze for half a second at how gentle it was.

And just like that, the weight of everything that had transpired pressed down on him.

The silence between them stretched, and with it, Y/N felt the haze of heat fade into something heavier. The elephant in the room had been circling them too long for Y/N's comfort, and if he didn't say it now, he might never.

"Conner," he started, voice rough, throat dry. "We need to talk."

Conner stiffened—just barely—but Y/N felt it in the way his arms cinched tighter, like his body had caught the words before his mind had. The Alpha buried his face briefly against Y/N's neck, inhaling deep, and then dragged his nose across his skin like he could ward the conversation off with scent-marking alone.

Y/N put a hand to his chest, pushing gently until Conner lifted his head, their eyes meeting in the low light. "You can't just…" Y/N swallowed, searching. "You can't just throw me against walls, crawl into my bed, and act like you've got some claim on me without even asking. I'm not a prize, Conner, certainly not yours. And I won't be some toy you play and toddle with whenever you feel like it. You've fucked with my emotions enough for the last three years; I won't count the six before that because what happened wasn't your fault. But, I won't be played with anymore."

Conner's jaw flexed, his grip tightening almost imperceptibly at Y/N's hip. For once, he didn't interrupt, didn't snarl or growl, didn't deflect with cocky arrogance. He just held on, breathing hard through his nose, like a dog bracing for a blow.

Y/N could feel a clinginess weaving in, and this time, it wasn't from him. The way Conner's thumbs stroked against his side unconsciously, like he needed the contact to anchor himself. The way his forehead dropped against Y/N's, eyes squeezed shut, so big and strong, and yet looking like a cornered, wounded pup forced to sit still for scolding.

"I'm sorry…"

The words landed like a foreign sound in Y/N's ears. His body went rigid in Conner's arms, and his eyes went wide, blinking hard as though they hadn't translated right. The Alpha's tone was so raw, it scraped him open, and the worst part was—he could tell Conner saw his shock. The faint flicker of hurt in his gaze made Y/N's chest tighten. Because Conner wasn't used to Y/N being surprised, he could apologize. Once, long ago, it hadn't been like this.

"I never meant to hurt you," Conner continued, voice low, rough, thick with a weight Y/N wasn't used to hearing. His hand tightened reflexively at Y/N's hip, grounding himself there. "I'd sooner hurt myself than do something that stupid. But my father—Lex—" His jaw ticked, venom spitting in just the way he said the name, "—lied to me. He pulled me away from the only family I had, from my actual dad, who gave a damn, and used me as a pawn to hurt not just him, but yours too."

Y/N's throat worked, but no words came. His body, pinned against Conner's warmth, still hummed with sensitivity; every breath of the Alpha pressed his broad chest against Y/N's, every flex of those huge hands reminding him just how caught he was. He hated how much he noticed.

"And I didn't mean to tell him about you." Conner's gaze flickered down, almost ashamed, though his thumb never stopped stroking slow, desperate circles into Y/N's side. "It slipped one day. Something about Bruce, something that Lex put two and two together from, and I didn't realize what I'd done until years later. By then… he'd fed me enough poison about you and your dads to make me hate you. To make me… play right into his game."

The admission was a soft tremor, and it made Conner press tighter—hips jerking forward unconsciously. The heavy head of his shaft, already nudging between Y/N's thighs, slipped where his body was still raw and pliant, spreading him with one deep, slow glide.

Y/N breath hitched, a piquant gasp cracking the air. His body betrayed him instantly, clenching down around the intrusion, stretching wide around Conner's thickness as if opening itself eagerly to let him in. "Conner—" he hissed, meant to be a warning, but his nails dug into the Alpha's biceps instead of pushing him away.

Conner groaned, forehead pressing to Y/N's shoulder as though he couldn't stop. His hips rocked deeper, tender, devoted. "I didn't mean to hurt you," he repeated, the apology spilling against Y/N's skin while his cock spilled heat inside him. Conner's grip twitched on his waist, his voice breaking softer. "Got damn it, I'd never mean to. But that night at the gala—when I first saw you, it was like—like old times. All I wanted was to pull you in and hold you. But Lex's words were still in my head, and instead of fighting them, I pushed you away. Hard, too hard. And even then, I couldn't stand the thought of someone else near you, couldn't stand anyone's scent on you but mine."

While Y/N fought to keep his mind rational—not to drown in the molten bliss of that blunt, flared head, dragging across every tender ridge inside him with its maddening upward curve—his eyes snagged on the mirror across the room. The sight knocked the breath from his lungs.

Conner loomed over him in the reflection, a broad wall of muscle blotting out the world, his wide back flexing with every rut of his hips. Even beneath the tangled sheets, Y/N could see the Alpha's ass working, driving him deeper, branding every inch of space between Y/N's legs as his, and his alone.

And the Omega hated—hated—that it looked so right.

His own reflection betrayed him: hair a wile halo, strands sticking in all directions from Conner's relentless grip and his own desperate fingers clawing at the stupidly thick neck. His arms curled tight over Conner's shoulders, clinging, hooking around him like instinct had taken over. In the mirror, the Alpha's dark head was buried in the crook of his throat, utterly consumed, as if the rest of the world didn't exist.

'Good.' A thought echoed deep in the back of his mind.

The sight carved something raw and guttural into Y/N's gut. A truth he couldn't run from, no matter how hard he wanted to deny it.

Conner wasn't just focused on him—he was obsessed. He wasn't just rutting into him—he was worshipping him, with every ragged thrust, every shudder that rippled through his hulking frame. And Y/N, damn him, wanted it—wanted all of it. He wanted this mountain of an idiot Alpha lost in no one else, tethered to no one else, devoted like this to no one else.

The thought of Conner like this—sweating, snarling, rutting—anywhere else sent a bitter, violent flare of heat down Y/N's spine. Another Omega beneath him? In his arms? In their bed? His chest squeezed so tight, it bordered on rage. The idea was unfathomable, unacceptable!

If anyone even dared to try, he very well might kill them.

But that didn't mean Conner got off scot-free. No, he'd make this smug bastard work for it. Work for his forgiveness and his true devotion. If Conner really wanted to claim him, then Y/N would damn well make sure he was worthy of it and that it was mutual. If he truly wanted Y/N's attention, relationship, submission, he'd have to understand the price to pay to earn something like it, and the bigger price he'd pay if he lost it.

"Hmm. Is that why you were over-scenting me like some dog pissing on a hydrant?" Y/N's gritted, breath shaky, body trembling around the thick length filling him so intimately. "You know, Jason and Damian both wanted to beat the shit out of you for that? You're lucky my dad's the rational one. Sort of."

Conner's chest rumbled against him, but his hips kept their soft, steady thrusts, like he couldn't bear to stop. His mouth dragged hot over Y/N's jaw, words vibrating low while his arms tightened like steel bands. "Guess in the back of my mind, you were still… mine. Still, the one I wanted to protect. To keep. When Lex brought up your parents, and I saw your face—saw how hurt and shocked you looked—it hit me what he'd done, what I had done. I looked up the stories and articles that night, the first time I had ever read them fully, and I realized it was him all along. Realized he used me to hurt you, and I hated both him and myself for it." His jaw flexed, and then he dragged his mouth over Y/N's jaw like he needed contact, needed to taste him just to keep speaking.

"But I didn't know how to come to you. Didn't know how to apologize. Then I saw you laughing with other guys, other Alphas, ignoring me, and it—" His breath snarled out hot against Y/N's cheek. "It fucking killed me."

Y/N shuddered at the words, a whimper caught in his throat as another slow push of the Alpha's curved shaft stroked deep against his tender walls. "So instead of manning up and owning your mess, you decided to be a territorial prick? That's your excuse? Is that the only reason you picked me as your partner?"

"No!" Conner growled, the word grating against his throat, hips jerking sharper. His cock buried deeper, the head grinding right against Y/N's sweet spot until he gasped. "Well… partly, yeah. It pushed me to move. But it wasn't the only reason."

"So if your friend hadn't wanted to partner with me, hadn't wanted to fuck me—" Y/N's lips twisted into a smirk as he felt the Alpha immediately tense, his words teasing against his ears even as his voice cracked from the stimulation, "I'd be in his bed right now with him, instead of you."

That made him snap.

A feral snarl ripped from Conner's chest, his thrusts no longer soft, but urgent, near frantic. He rolled them hard, pinning Y/N beneath his hulking weight, wrists caught in one massive hand. His cock shoved in to the hilt, grinding deep enough, Y/N's body molded around him with no space left unclaimed.

"Are you trying to piss me off?" Conner's voice was wild, his eyes burning down into him. His chest heaved, his whole body trembling with the effort not to lose control. "I'm trying to apologize, and you're gonna sit here and talk about other Alphas?" His hips drove in again, a deep, punishing grind that made Y/N arch involuntarily. "Say it again, and I'll remind you—" his teeth grazed Y/N's throat, dangerous, "—exactly whose Omega you are."

Conner's grip once again turned brutal, his hips slamming forward with a ragged snarl that rattled in his chest. The force of it shoved Y/N flat into the mattress, wrists pinned above his head in one massive hand while the Alpha drove in to the root, grinding deep, not giving an inch of space to breathe.

For a moment, his thrusts stuttered, not losing their depth, but trembling with restraint. "I don't—" His forehead pressed hard against Y/N's voice, breaking open with something raw, unguarded. "I don't know how to stop wanting you. I tried. Lex tried to make me hate you, made me push you away, but I swear—I swear—I never meant to hurt you." His grip on Y/N's wrists shook, his breath hot and frantic. "You're mine. I want you to always be mine."

And with that, he bottomed out and stayed there, knot swelling fast, locking them together with a hot, brutal stretch. Y/N gasped, his body convulsing around him, every nerve ending alight as Conner spilled again, messy and overwhelming. Thick heat surged into him in heavy waves, the Alpha's cock pulsing endlessly, so much that it leaked back out, streaking down his thighs despite the knot trying to hold it all in. His belly ached with fullness, an obscene weight that left him shaking, trembling, clenching down involuntarily to milk every drop.

Y/N's eyes moved to the mirror once more, the reflection in it sealing a truth—Conner trembling, groaning through gritted teeth, emptying himself like he'd never stop. And Y/N, face twisted in ecstasy, clinging to the very Alpha he'd just sworn he wouldn't give in to just earlier that day.

By the time the last spurt left him, Conner was shaking, arms still caging Y/N in. His lips pressed against the Omega's jaw, breathless, words spilling without polish. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I'd never mean to hurt you. Anyone but you. There has to be a part of you that still believes that." He sounded wrecked, like the admission carved something out of him.

Y/N swallowed hard, chest heaving, but didn't answer… yet. More like he couldn't answer. His body was too busy throbbing, twitching, filled beyond reason. All he could do was cling weakly as Conner softened around the edges, lowering himself onto the Omega gently, their bodies still bound tight.

The knot pulsed faintly, but Conner's urgency had burned itself out, leaving him sprawled heavy over Y/N, chest pressed flush to his, arms cinched tight like he thought letting go might undo everything. His breath was ragged against Y/N's neck, not the growl of a rut-drunk Alpha anymore, but something quieter, almost fragile.

"I don't expect you to forgive me tonight," he murmured, words rumbling against Y/N's skin. His voice was rough, cracked from use, but stripped of that arrogant edge. "But I need you to know—I never stopped wanting you. Never stopped caring about you, despite how much Lex tried to get me to. I don't think I could, even if I tried."

Y/N stayed still, staring up at the ceiling, throat tight. His body ached, stretched sore around the knot still holding him open, belly heavy with the load Conner had dumped in him, and yet—his heart was a different kind of sore.

"I believe you," he muttered, voice brittle. "But wanting someone isn't the same as treating them like they matter. I understand a lot of it wasn't your fault, and it was just your dad being the shady, manipulative bald bastard he's always been—no offense."

He felt Conner's chuckle against his body, and whether or not he acknowledged it, a growing part of him, something he hadn't felt for some time but never forgot about, was starting to re-emerge in this soft moment with the Alpha. "However, you can't think that just because you fuck me stupid, it undoes the past three years."

Conner stiffened above him. His hands, which had been rubbing lazy, grounding circles into Y/N's sides, faltered for a heartbeat—then resumed, gentler this time, as though afraid to let go. His forehead dropped into the crook of Y/N's shoulder, and the Omega felt it: the tremor in that massive frame, the subtle quake of a man who had spent the whole night proving himself with brute strength, only to unravel at a few simple words.

Y/N sighed, his own arms shifting despite the ache that ran through them. His wrists were free now, no longer bound above his head, and he used them—sliding soft fingers across the broad expanse of Conner's back, tracing the ridges of muscle, smoothing over the sweat-slick lines as though he could iron out the tension there. The difference in their stature was almost laughable: his smaller hands dwarfed by shoulders too wide to hold, his body pliant against a wall of solid Alpha muscle. And yet, Conner clung to him like a drowning man, crushing him into the mattress with his weight, needing the contact, needing his touch.

It was almost unfair, Y/N thought, how soft he felt—outside and in—compared to Conner. His fingers trailed slowly over the strong spine, rubbing with careful pressure, nails occasionally grazing. The Alpha shuddered each time, unconsciously pressing closer, burying his face deeper into Y/N's throat like the tenderness undid him more than any orgasm ever could.

His other fixations didn't stop, without him even realizing it. His hands wandered again, cupping Y/N's ass like it belonged there, thumb pressing into the soft dip of his hip—his favorite part, always unconsciously groped, even now. His cock twitched, still thick and heavy, locked deep inside, his knot stubbornly swollen, and Y/N could feel the faint, slow pulses of cum still dripping out of him, each lazy throb forcing more into an already aching belly and womb.

The thought sent a shiver down Y/N's spine. He could feel him, every inch of the Alpha's cock still lodged inside, stretching him wide, nudging tender spots with every faint shift of their bodies. Even worse, he could feel the sheer volume of it—the sticky heat inside his gut, a mess so excessive, it started leaking past the seal of the knot earlier, streaking out and between his thighs in thick rivulets before Conner had lazily fingered it back into him with a grunt.

'This idiot,' Y/N thought to himself. It was like Conner didn't understand the reckless reality of what they had done, and all he could think about was his possessive thoughts and Alpha mumbo-jumbo. They didn't use protection, not once. And Conner had not once pulled up on him, didn't even consider it. Knot after knot, load after load, the Alpha had bred him over and over until his body felt branded with it. Even if he weren't in heat and on suppressants, with the sheer amount still sitting thick and hot inside him, coupled with the copious amounts he took earlier, he'd be surprised if he wasn't pushing out triplets in the next nine months. Y/N's heart twisted with the thought, his mind anxious and half-panicking with something he didn't dare to name.

And yet, all he could do in the moment was lie there still, rubbing Conner's back harder, grounding himself. His soft touch worked up to the Alpha's neck, slipping into the damp strands of dark hair, combing through slowly. He hated how natural it felt, how easy it was to soothe this mountain of a man with something so small, so simple.

Conner groaned into his throat, the sound thick and guttural, and had a slow grind of his hips, pushing deeper like he couldn't help himself. His words spilled against Y/N's neck, raw and thoughtless, more instinct than reason.

"Fuck—it feels so good inside you. Tight and soft, everywhere I need you to be, like you were made for me." His cock throbbed hard, a twitch punctuating every word as his breath dragged heavy across Y/N's skin. "Can't get enough of it. Can't stop stuffing you full. You're perfect just like this—my hole, my Omega, mine to fill."

Y/N's face burned, but his body betrayed him, clenching down on the knot reflexively. The thought came unbidden—God, I'm never walking again.

"You thick-headed oaf," he muttered, fingers still stroking his hair, even as his chest fluttered at the rawness in Conner's voice.

Conner's answer was another rough groan, muffled against his skin, big hands skimming over hot skin to massage the still trembling thighs he was splitting, kneading the sore muscles while his knot throbbed deep inside its rightful place.

"I'll prove it to you, however long it takes," he said hoarsely. "Don't want you with anyone else. Won't let you be with anyone else."

Silence stretched between them, thick with everything unsaid. Conner shifted only enough to wipe the sweat from Y/N's temple with his thumb, then pressed a kiss there—quiet, reverent, too tender for the mess he'd just made of him.

"You're still an ass," Y/N muttered, voice muffled into Conner's damp hair.

The Alpha's chest rumbled with a low laugh, shaky but real. "Yeah," he admitted, brushing another kiss against his temple. "But I'm your ass."

Y/N's lips twitched despite himself. He didn't let Conner see the almost-smile.

The Alpha's knot eased, softening at least, but Conner didn't move right away. Instead, he cupped Y/N's hips with wide hands, testing the soreness, rubbing him down like he could knead the ache out of him. When he finally pulled free, he was quick to grab the warm cloth again, wiping Y/N with slow, uncharacteristic care, even as his cock twitched at the sight of him dripping full with his seed. He didn't comment, didn't gloat—just tucked him against his chest afterward, dragging the blanket over them both like a wall against the world.

Y/N let him. Just this once.

Tomorrow, he'd figure out what the hell to do with the idiot Alpha in his bed. It'd probably start with making some clear rules and boundaries, some easy to follow, others not so much. He could already feel the storm ahead when he told the Alpha there'd be no more sex, at least not like what they'd just done. He may have gotten his submission today, but he still had a long road to go down before he could say confidently it was his for good. He still had to earn his full forgiveness.

But that could all wait. Well, after they woke up and he forced the Alpha to go to CVS to pick up at least three Plan B's. But tonight, he let himself surrender, too damn tired to fight the way Conner's heartbeat steadied him.

Artemis was going to get a kick out of this.

The following day, Y/N seriously considered skipping class—for what would've been the third time in a row. He was half-buried under the covers, phone in hand, staring at the absence tracker on the university portal when his stomach sank. Attendance counted toward the final grade, and he only got four freebies before his score started bleeding points.

He was just about ready to groan, shove the blanket back over his head, and resign himself to a self-pity nap—when the irritating Alpha beside him yanked the sheets away and forced him upright.

Annoying bastard.

With all their physical activity yesterday, Y/N's body felt like it had been run through a meat grinder and glued back together. His legs were twigs, his thighs burned, and the constant, nagging ache between them reminded him exactly why. He swore he could still feel the slow stretch, the heavy fullness, every time he shifted in bed.

Conner, of course, was insufferably proud of it. His smug grin every time Y/N winced was enough to make him want to throw a shoe at his stupidly broad chest.

He'd be in for it later, though, once Y/N dropped the new house rule: no sex. No exceptions. Cue evil cackling.

The energy between them had calmed, feeling almost disturbingly domestic even, with the two of them getting ready together in his dorm. Showering together—at Conner's annoying persistence—brushing teeth in the mirror. Y/N wanted to scoff at the normalcy, at the ridiculousness of an Alpha that big and stupidly built maneuvering around his tiny bathroom like he belonged there. And yet… it was difficult to ignore the way it felt, watching Conner move about his space like it was natural.

More difficult was the sight itself: damp hair, wide shoulders, and only a pair of dark boxer briefs riding low on his hips, pulled from his gym bag that he kept handy, along with a spare change of clothes and personal grooming tools. The guy may act like a muscle-headed oaf sometimes (a lot of times), but at least he's resourceful. Conner stretched as he dried off, his muscles flexing in ways Y/N's traitorous brain catalogued all too easily.

If he didn't rein himself in, he'd break his own damn rule before it was even established.

Conner knew it, too. Every time Y/N's gaze slipped, the bastard smirked like he'd won something, all slow and satisfied, radiating that thick, swaggering machismo that made it feel less like a look and more like a claim. He didn't just stare—he was devouring. His eyes dragged boldly and unashamedly over Y/N's frame, but always circled back to the same places: the curve of the ass he'd bruised with his grip, the slope of the hips he'd held down, the thighs he'd spread wide until they shook. He ogled as if Y/N was already his for the taking.

When Y/N caught him gawking back, Conner didn't even pretend to be embarrassed. He wanted to be caught—leaning in the doorway half-naked, arms crossed over that broad wall of a chest, cocky and smug, his stare slow and deliberate, as if Y/N was already stripping bare again, bent over or pinned beneath him, right where Conner thought—knew—he belonged.

"You keep looking at me like that," Conner drawled, voice thick with arrogance, "and I won't be letting you leave this room."

Y/N snorted, grabbing his backpack and shoving past him with a deliberate brush of shoulders. "Let me? Please. Like I'd ever allow you that kind of authority. Then again, I doubt you could handle it."

The Alpha's hand shot out, firm around his waist, pulling him back long enough just to murmur at his ear. "I handled you just fine last night." His thumb pressed into Y/N's hipbone, claiming, proprietary, before letting him go again. "And I'll handle you again. Sooner or later."

Y/N rolled his eyes enough to ache, but his pulse betrayed him, kicking up hot under his skin. He refused to give Conner the satisfaction of seeing it.

Like he made clear last night and would repeat, if the bastard wanted him, he was going to have to work for it.

By the time they got to the building, they still had ten minutes to spare before class. Conner, ever the picture of a doting gentleman, insisted on carrying Y/N's bag for him, like Y/N couldn't possibly handle the weight himself. He beat him to every door, too—shoulders squared, jaw cocky, striding ahead with the kind of easy machismo that made it less about manners and more about showing off. It was almost like when they were kids, except now, Conner filled doorways with his size, holding them open like a man staking territory.

Y/N had a vivid flash of Clark, bumbling and lovesick in his clumsy courtship of Lois, and for a moment, the resemblance was almost laughable. Different personalities, same pattern. Like father, like son, down to the instinct to bulldoze their way into someone's space, calling it affection. Could only play the nerdy innocence card, unlike his brooding son.

Before they made it to the lecture hall, Conner veered toward the café tucked inside the building. Neither of them had eaten since yesterday, and he wasn't about to risk Y/N going nuclear on an empty stomach. Better to spare the world that fate. He pressed a heavy hand to Y/N's shoulder, steering him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Wait here," Conner ordered, already squaring his broad frame toward the counter.

Naturally, that rankled. Already set in his morning crankiness, Y/N ignored him, slipping past the crowd, phone in hand, aiming for the lecture hall. If he could snag a seat between Zatanna and Artemis, it would piss Conner off royally—and honestly, wasn't that worth the risk of whatever payback he'd get coming for him later?

His thumbs flew across his screen as he drafted a text, half-grinning at the thought of Conner's scowl—right up until his shoulder slammed hard into another chest. The impact jolted him, his phone nearly slipping from his hands as he stumbled back.

"Oh, excuse me. My fault," Y/N muttered, glancing up, only to find himself looking into the eyes of none other than Roy Harper.

The redhead steadied him by the arms with an easy grin. "Do you always not pay attention to where you're going?"

Y/N gave a sheepish huff, stuffing his phone back into his pocket. "Given my track record, I wouldn't be doing myself any favors if I tried to say no."

Roy's smile tilted slyly, his blue eyes dancing as Y/N met them head-on. They weren't nearly as easy to drown in as others, but there was a teasing spark there, bold and deliberate. "What are you even doing? Don't you have class in this same building?"

"Got cancelled," Roy shrugged, dragging a hand through his hair with practiced ease. "So I'm heading to the dining hall to grab a late breakfast since I skipped this morning. Wanna come with?"

Y/N cocked a brow, already edging toward the doors of his lecture. "Oh, well, how lucky for you. Unfortunately, my class is not of the same fate, so I'm going to have to respectfully decline."

"Ah, come on." Roy walked backward a few steps, rolling his head up playfully before locking his eyes back on the Omega. "You're telling me you've never skipped a class before?"

"Oh, I have," Y/N admitted, lips quirking despite himself. "Skipped both lectures last week."

Roy chuckled, leaning one shoulder against the nearby wall like he had all the time in the world. "So, you can't skip one more time for me?"

"And just why would I do that?" Y/N asked, folding his arms, both amused and wary.

"'Cause I heard I'm great company," Roy answered smoothly, lowering his voice just enough to make it sound like an offer rather than a joke,

Y/N blinked at him, unimpressed, though the corners of his mouth twitched. "Oh, really? Hmm. Well, sorry. That's not a great enough incentive for me. My standards are a bit higher than that."

Roy's laugh was easy, unbothered, eyes glinting with mischief. "Hmm, alright. I like a challenge anyway. Well, why don't you let me take you out after your class?"

The words hung between them, light on the surface but edged with intent. That was when Y/N felt it—the subtle prick of a stare, familiar, heavy, and hot on the back of his neck. It wasn't aimed at him so much as at the Alpha standing in front. of him, bold enough to ask him out.

"He already has plans."

Conner stood a few feet away, beverage tray in one hand, Y/N's bag slung over his other shoulder like it weighed nothing. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes told a different story—locked on Roy, keen and firm.

He didn't raise his voice; he didn't need to. The simple statement was laced with certainty, heavy enough to make the air between them thrum: Y/N was his, and Roy had just stepped into marked territory.

Roy's brow furrowed, his easy grin faltering only slightly as his gaze flicked between Y/N and Conner. He straightened from the wall, crossing his arms over his chest in a show of confidence that didn't quite hide the tension in his jaw.

"Plans, huh?" he drawled, sizing Conner up. "Didn't realize you were the scheduling type, Kent." His tone wasn't confrontational, not yet, but there was an undercurrent of challenge, a subtle flex of his own macho pride.

Conner didn't do so much as blink. He shifted the beverage tray into one hand and let the other settle heavy on Y/N's shoulder, fingers spreading like he was planting a flag. "Yeah," he said evenly, his voice pitched low, steady, firm. "He's with me."

The possessiveness in those three words wasn't subtle. It was the kind of claim that left no room for interpretation.

Roy's eyes narrowed just enough to show he caught it. His grin tilted sharp, like he wanted to push back, just to see how far he could get. "With you, huh? Didn't think you were the type to—" He let the sentence hang, sly as ever. Conner's arm tensed around Y/N's shoulder, pulling him a little closer into his side, and his stare hardened with that quiet Alpha weight. "Don't think, Harper. It's not a good look on you."

For a beat, the two of them locked eyes, a silent pissing contest in the middle of the hallway. Roy held, but only for a second too long before his smirk softened into something more resigned. He lifted both hands in a mock surrender, chuckling under his breath.

"Alright, alright. Message received, big guy." He gave Y/N a last, pointed look—half amusement, half warning—before pushing off the wall and strolling away. "Catch you later, sweetheart."

Y/N rolled his eyes at the nickname, but before he could retort, Roy was already gone. Which left him squarely under the weight of one very smug Alpha.

Conner arched a brow at him, lips tugged into that self-satisfied smirk that made Y/N want to simultaneously kiss him and smack him. "Sweetheart, huh?" Conner muttered, tilting his head, looking every inch like the cocky bastard he was. "He's lucky I didn't put him through a wall."

Y/N bristled, shoving lightly at his chest but getting nowhere—Conner didn't budge an inch. "Don't start. You don't get to act like you own me just because you scared Roy off. I'm the one who decides where I stand, got it? You don't call the shots here."

Conner's grin only widened, more wolfish now, like Y/N's pushback was gasoline on the fire. "Oh, I hear you," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. Then, in one smooth move, he caught Y/N's chin in his hand, tilting his face up while his other palm slammed against the wall by his head, drinks set onto the bench next to him. The solid bulk of him crowded closer, chest pressed flush, cutting off every escape route with sheer size and weight.

"Thing is," he murmured, eyes burning down into him, "you can talk all you want, but I can feel it. Right here." His thumb stroked along Y/N's jaw, deliberate, possessive. "The way you don't really push me away. You like this fight. You like when I push. You like it when I don't back down."

Before Y/N could snap back, Conner's mouth crashed against his, rough and insistent. It wasn't a gentle, sweet kiss, but a claiming one. His lips sealed hard, his tongue pushing past with shameless demand, his chest a wall that pinned Y/N immovably against the cold surface. One hand cupped his jaw, tilting, owning the kiss; the other slid to grip his hip, anchoring him as he could physically remind him who held him, who filled his insides just the night before. Y/N was left gasping against the unyielding press of his chest.

Conner broke just enough to murmur against his lips, breath ragged, a growl threaded through every word. "Told you—I'll prove myself. Over and over, until you can't doubt me anymore. And when I do, you won't just admit you're mine, you'll be proud of it." His teeth caught Y/N's lower lip, biting just enough to sting before soothing it with another hot, bruising kiss.

Y/N shoved at him again, flushed and breathless, scowling through the heat still curling low in his belly. "Cocky bastard."

Conner's chuckle rumbled into his mouth, smug and low. "Confident, assured bastard."

"Well, well, well."

The voice made them both snap their heads to the side. Standing a few feet away, wide-eyed and more than a little entertained, were Zatanna and Artemis—books in hand, mouths curled into knowing smirks.

Zatanna arched a brow, clearly amused. Artemis, on the other hand, looked seconds away from bursting out laughing. Her smirk was pure predator, eyes glinting like Christmas had come early.

"Called it," Artemis said, crossing her arms with a smug grin so wide it could've split her face. "Pay up, Z."

"Oh, fuck me," Y/N groaned, burying his burning face into Conner's chest, who could only laugh at his Omega's embarrassed distress.

"Already did, babe. Happy to do it again later, though."

"Ah! I knew it!"

"Oh, would you two shut it already!"

☀️ | Conner Kent/Superboy | ☀️

☀️ | Masterlists | ☀️

-

The only time he’s acknowledged you directly came two weeks later.

You’d missed a FedEx delivery—slept through the buzzer, left your phone on silent, and returned home to find a slim cardboard box leaning neatly against your apartment door.

And on top of it? A sticky note. Your name, written in rushed block letters—broad strokes, all-caps, slightly slanted. Not a flourish in sight. Just functional.

Didn’t want it sitting in the hall. - 3B

That was it. No greeting. No explanation. But something about it stuck with you.

Maybe it was the fact that he’d signed it at all. That he’d taken the time. That he’d written your name like it mattered.

You peeled the note off carefully and tucked it into the top drawer of your desk without really thinking. It’s still there—pressed flat between a coupon for takeout and a birthday card from your sister.

You’ve never told anyone you kept it.

-

It’s not much. Not really. Not enough to call a connection. Not enough to mean anything concrete.

But still—you feel it. In the way he always looks like he’s on the verge of speaking. In the way his hand sometimes flexes at his side like he wants to reach for something. In the way he seems tuned in to your presence—like he knows exactly where you are, but doesn’t know what to do with it.

You haven’t heard him say your name. Not yet. But it’s there. Waiting.

Like the rest of him.

Just out of reach.

-

It’s late. The hallway is dim, lit only by the flicker of the stairwell bulb and the glow of the streetlight outside. You’re standing just outside your door, fingers tight around the knob, stomach still fluttering from the surprise of finding him there—Steve, 3B, hoodie pulled low, grocery bag in one hand, the other curled awkwardly at his side.

You weren’t supposed to run into him tonight. You definitely weren’t supposed to talk.

But when the lock jammed—of course it jammed—and you sighed, tugging uselessly at the knob, he’d paused at the end of the hallway. Silhouetted in the light. Watching you.

You’d felt his eyes before you turned. And now you’re both just… standing there. Still. Unsure.

He clears his throat first. “You alright?”

You glance down at your keys. “Yeah. Just—this one’s tricky sometimes.”

He nods. Shifts his weight. Looks like he wants to say something else, but doesn’t.

You hesitate. Then, quietly, you add, “You’re out late.”

That earns the smallest smile. “Got hungry.” His voice is lower than you remember. Not deep, exactly, but weighted. Gentle. Like he’s trying not to scare anything off.

Another pause. Then you offer, just barely, “Thanks, by the way. For the package.”

His eyes flick up—surprised.

You shrug. Try not to look too flustered. “I recognized your unit number.”

Something about that makes him shift again, the plastic bag in his hand creaking. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want me to touch it,” he says after a moment. “Didn’t want to overstep.”

You blink. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He looks at you then. Really looks. And for the first time in what feels like forever, you see it—behind the guarded posture, behind the shyness, behind the half-smiles and early elevator exits. Nerves. Real, earnest nerves.

“I thought you didn’t like me,” he says softly.

You laugh—short and surprised. “You thought I didn’t like you?”

He nods, earnest and a little sheepish. “You didn’t say anything when I introduced myself. That first day.”

You stare.

“I had headphones in.”

“Oh.”

There’s a pause. His ears flush pink. “I thought… I don’t know. Maybe I was being too friendly. Or not friendly enough. Or—” He cuts himself off with a quiet exhale. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

The warmth that spills through your chest is unexpected. Slow. You didn’t know someone like him could be shy like this—awkward and careful and trying so hard to do the right thing it came out sideways.

You smile, gently. “You didn’t.”

His shoulders ease just the smallest bit. Then quietly, carefully, almost like he’s afraid to say it wrong, he says,“…Can I ask you something?”

You nod.

He shifts the bag in his hand. Licks his lips. Then asks, “Is it okay if I call you by your name?”

You blink. A little stunned. You whisper, “Yeah. Of course.”

He nods once. Looks down. And then he says it. Your name, softly, hesitantly. Like he’s been thinking it for weeks but only just let himself speak it. It sounds different in his voice. Full. Round. Carried carefully, like something fragile. And when he looks up at you again, he’s smiling. Small. Honest. Like he’s finally been let in.

It’s quiet for a beat after that. His eyes drop to the bag in his hand, then back to you. He lifts it slightly.

“I, uh… bought too much soup,” he says, almost shy. “Thought I’d heat some up. If you’re not busy.”

Your stomach flips. You’re not busy. You’ve never been less busy than you are in this moment—brain spinning, heart hammering, hands suddenly cold.

“I could eat.” You offer with a smile.

He smiles again—small and sweet—and steps aside to let you follow him down the hall.

-

Steve’s apartment is… warm. Not just temperature-wise, though that too. There’s something about the air that feels lived-in, cozy in a way that makes your shoulders drop the moment you step inside. The lights are dim, mostly lamps, casting soft golden pools across wooden floors. A folded newspaper rests on the coffee table. There’s a single navy hoodie draped over the back of a worn armchair.

The place smells like cedar, a little like old books, and faintly—warmly—like him.

“You can sit wherever,” he says, nudging the door shut behind you. “I’ll, uh—I’ll heat this up.”

You nod, stepping into the living room as he disappears into the kitchen. There’s art on the walls—black-and-white sketches, war-era prints, a charcoal portrait of a city skyline. Some of it looks old. Some of it looks personal.

You sit on the edge of the couch. He reappears a few minutes later holding two mismatched mugs and a steaming bowl of soup.

“Didn’t have matching bowls,” he says, half-apologetic.

You smile. “I think that’s part of your charm.”

That earns a small huff of laughter. He sits beside you—close, but not too close—and hands you a mug. The warmth of it sinks into your palms, grounding.

For a while, you just sip. The soup is simple but good—hearty, real. You’re halfway through your cup when he finally speaks again.

“I’m sorry.”

You look up. He’s not looking at you—eyes trained on the rim of his mug, thumb tapping lightly against the handle.

“For what?”

“For… avoiding you,” he says quietly. “That wasn’t fair.”

You don’t say anything right away. “I thought you didn’t like me.”

His brow furrows, and that makes him look up. “No. I—I did. I do. I just thought you didn’t want to be bothered.”

You blink. “Why would I not want to be bothered by you?”

He shifts a little. His thigh brushes yours. “I’ve been out of step for a long time,” he admits. “I still feel like I’m catching up to everything. What’s changed. What hasn’t. It’s… hard to know where I fit.”

You study him. He’s not tense. Not guarded. Just honest. Open in a way you haven’t seen before. You set your mug down gently. “You fit just fine. You’re good to people. You’re quiet, but thoughtful. Kind.”

He shrugs. “Doesn’t mean I know how to talk to them.”

You smile. “You’re talking to me.”

He glances at you, and for the first time in the whole conversation, his gaze holds. Really holds. It’s warm. Blue. Intent.

“I’m trying,” he says softly. “I wanted to. For a while now.”

“Then keep trying,” you whisper. “I’m right here.”

Something shifts in him. You can feel it. The next breath he takes is slower. His hand sets his mug down beside yours, fingers brushing yours as he leans back into the couch—just enough that your knees touch. Just enough that you feel the heat of him along your side.

You don’t move away. Neither does he. And in the quiet that follows, your name hangs softly between you like a promise. Not a misunderstanding. Not a mistake. Just… the beginning.

The silence that settles over the room isn’t awkward. It’s full. Dense with things neither of you have said yet—thick with the hum of awareness that’s finally spilled into the open. The quiet isn’t heavy. It thrums. Like a live wire between your knees.

Steve leans back into the cushions, his body just a little closer than it was a moment ago. Your legs are pressed together now, barely, but it feels blinding.

His arm rests along the back of the couch, fingers relaxed, calloused fingertips nearly brushing your shoulder. The warmth of him radiates through your sleeve. You try not to lean into it. You fail.

“You’re cold,” he murmurs after a while.

You look over at him. His profile is soft in the lamplight—sharp cheekbones, long lashes, brows drawn slightly. He’s still watching the far wall, but his hand drifts down—slow, deliberate—and settles on your knee.

You freeze. Not in fear. In something heavier. Warmer. It’s not possessive. Not fast. Just present. His hand, large and warm, rests like he’s grounding you. Thumb rubbing once over the top of your kneecap before going still.

Your breath catches.

Steve glances at you then—just a flick of his gaze, and then he’s looking fully, face turned, eyes locked on yours. His thumb strokes again. Slower this time.

“You’re really something,” he says quietly.

Your throat tightens. “So are you.”

His eyes drop to your mouth. You see it. Feel it. He doesn’t hide it this time.

“I thought about this,” he murmurs. “What it’d be like to talk to you. What you’d say. If you’d… smile like that.”

You blink. “Like what?”

He shifts a little closer. His thumb grazes your knee again, then trails inward—up along your thigh, barely an inch. “Like you mean it.”

You don’t realize he’s moved until you feel his fingers—gentle, hesitant—brush a strand of hair from your face.

You go still again. Lips parting. Skin buzzing beneath his touch. His hand lingers by your cheek. Not touching. Just hovering. Waiting.

“Can I…?” The words barely leave his mouth before you nod. And then he kisses you. No warning. No buildup. Just him—soft and sure and right there, mouth pressed to yours with every ounce of emotion he’s been carrying in silence.

It’s not rushed. It’s not careful, either. It’s intentional.

His hand cups the side of your face like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. His other presses just a little firmer to your thigh, anchoring you there beneath him. He kisses like a man who thinks he might not get to again—but hopes to.

Your hand slides up his chest, slow and trembling, fingers curling into the front of his hoodie. He makes a sound in the back of his throat—something deep and low—and kisses you deeper.

The room is still warm. Still golden. But nothing’s still anymore. You shift forward, mouth opening under his, and he exhales like it breaks something loose in him. His lips are soft. His stubble is rough. He tastes like soup and something sweeter.

He pulls back slowly, reluctantly, his forehead resting against yours. “Been wanting to do that for a while,” he says, voice rough.

You laugh, breathless. “Took you long enough.”

His thumb traces your cheek. “I’ll be quicker next time.”

And you believe him. Because the next time? His hands are already moving again—gently guiding you closer. And your name is still warm in the space between kisses. This time, whispered like a promise.

Your breath is still shallow when he leans back in. That first kiss left you wrecked in the quietest way—your lips tingling, your heart pounding, your hands still curled into the front of his hoodie like you’ve forgotten how to let go.

Steve pauses—forehead resting against yours, eyes closed—and takes a long, shaky breath. “You okay?” he asks, voice low, hushed, like you’re sharing a secret.

You nod.

“Good,” he murmurs, and then he’s kissing you again.

This one’s deeper. It starts slow—his mouth soft and searching—but it builds fast, like a rising tide. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair with the lightest pressure. He pulls you closer, lips parting to taste you properly, and you melt.

Your fingers tug at the hem of his hoodie. You feel him smile—just a little—against your mouth.

“Eager,” he whispers.

“Quiet,” you breathe, tugging again. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

“I’m trying to go slow.” He groans, low and rough, like you’ve knocked the wind out of him.

“Then stop kissing me like that.”

“I can’t.”

And then he’s on you. Not rough. Not rushed. But everywhere. You barely feel the shift until you’re under him—your back pressing into the cushions, his body braced over yours with one knee wedged between your thighs. He kisses you like he’s making up for lost time, like he’s starving for this, like it’s been killing him not to touch you.

His hands—God, his hands—are big and steady, one cradling your jaw while the other presses against your hip like he’s holding you in place. You arch into him without meaning to, and he grips you there, breath stuttering as your body curves into his.

The kiss turns messy—open-mouthed, wet, desperate. He licks into you like he needs to know every part of your taste, like it’s the only way he’ll believe this is real.

Your hands slide up beneath his hoodie, and he gasps—hips jerking forward, lips dragging down your jaw.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs against your throat, “you’ve gotta stop doing that if you want me to behave.”

You don’t want him to behave. Not really. You tilt your head back. “I think you’re doing great but….”

He laughs—short, breathless—and kisses just below your ear. “But?”

“You could do better.”

“Oh, fuck.” His mouth finds yours again, hungry now, all teeth and tongue and heat. His hand moves from your hip to your thigh, squeezing just once before dragging upward, slow and steady, not quite going where you want him to—but close. “You’re not helping,” he mutters.

“You’re not trying that hard to stop me.”

“Because I don’t want to,” he says, voice hoarse. “I’ve never wanted to.”

The kiss deepens again—slower this time, but no less intense. His weight settles more fully against you, chest to chest, one of your legs hooked loosely around his waist. You can feel him everywhere—his breath, his heartbeat, the heat of his skin beneath the hoodie.

And when you tug him down again—fisting the fabric at the back of his neck, dragging him back to your mouth—he goes willingly. He kisses you like you matter. Like he can’t not.

And when he finally breaks for air, panting softly, his lips pink and swollen, his hand still gripping your thigh, he presses his forehead to yours again.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs.

Your hoodie is the first thing to go. Steve peels it off you gently, mouth never straying far from yours, hands moving with quiet reverence. He watches the fabric fall to the floor like he’s committing the sound to memory.

His breath hitches when he sees you in just your bra—simple, cotton, nothing fancy—and it doesn’t matter. Because his eyes go soft, hungry, devotional.

“God,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb beneath the strap on your shoulder. “You’re so…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just kisses you again, slower this time. Mouth warm and searching. His hands splay over your waist, fingertips dipping beneath the band of your leggings.

You hum into his mouth, fingers curling around the hem of his hoodie. “Off.”

He pulls back long enough to strip it over his head in one smooth motion. Underneath, he’s warm and golden and all muscle—scarred and strong and soft in the places that matter.

You slide your hands up his stomach, feeling the give of his skin over muscle, the heat of him beneath your palms. He shudders.

“Touch me,” he breathes.

“I am.”

He huffs a laugh—but it dies the second your thumbs graze the waistband of his sweats. He leans into your touch like it grounds him. Like he’s been starving for this kind of contact and doesn’t know how to survive it now that it’s here.

The rest of your clothes come off slowly. Thoughtfully. No rush. Just pauses for kisses, for soft laughter, for the quiet gasps when fingers graze bare skin for the first time.

You end up in his lap—naked, straddling him on the couch, your knees on either side of his thighs, his hands everywhere. His mouth trails from your lips to your throat, down across your collarbone. He doesn’t go lower. Not yet.

He seems content just to feel you. To kiss the curve of your shoulder. To press his forehead to your chest like he needs to catch his breath.

“You okay?” you whisper, cupping his jaw.

He nods, slow. “Just—don’t want to rush this. Don’t want to miss it.”

“You’re not.”

He exhales, then kisses you again—long. Deep. His hands grip your hips and pull you forward, grinding you down onto him in a slow, deliberate motion that has both of you gasping.

You feel everything—the length of him hot and hard between your thighs, the messy friction of bare skin, the desperate flex of his fingers as he rocks you forward again.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, mouth dragging down your jaw. “You feel—Jesus.”

You grind again, slower this time, and his hips twitch beneath you. His hands slide up your back, fingers tracing your spine like he wants to memorize it.

Your forehead presses to his. You both pant into the space between you, flushed and trembling and so close. “Steve,” you whisper.

His eyes snap open. Blue and wide, full of something deep and breaking. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs, hand sliding between your legs to guide you into another slow roll of your hips. “Go slow. Just like that.”

You nod. Breathe. Move again. It’s not perfect—your rhythm stutters, your legs shake, you can barely focus—but it doesn’t matter. He’s there, everywhere. Kissing your jaw, your neck, your shoulder. Whispering praise. Holding you steady as you grind against him, bare and trembling and seen.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, his voice wrecked. “Been dreaming of this. Of you.”

“Steve!”

He cups the back of your neck, pulls your forehead to his. You keep moving, slow and sweet and messy, until your thighs ache and his grip gets tight and neither of you can form real words anymore.

Just gasps. Groans. Desperate sounds punched out between kisses.

You come first—grinding down on him just right, your breath breaking against his cheek as you whimper and shake, thighs clenching around his hips.

He holds you through it, whispering your name like it’s the only word he knows.

And when he comes—hot and sudden, cock twitching against your stomach as he buries his face in your neck—it’s with you still in his lap, still wrapped around him, still kissing his temple like you never want to stop.

Later, he presses his lips to your bare shoulder and mumbles, “Still trying to go slow.”

You smile. Pull the blanket up around both of you. “We’ve got time.”

And when he kisses you again—soft, unhurried—you believe it.

-

You’re still in his lap. Blanket draped over both of you, chests pressed together, limbs tangled lazily. Your forehead rests against his collarbone, your breath slowly syncing to his. His hand strokes softly down your back—barely-there touches, like he’s tracing constellations only he can see.

Every time you shift, he adjusts with you. A warm palm against your thigh. A gentle kiss to your shoulder. Eventually, he murmurs, “You okay?”

You nod into his skin. “Mhm. Just… sleepy.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. You feel the sound more than you hear it. “Think we might’ve worn each other out.”

You lift your head, cheek still squished against his chest, and smile. “You say that like I didn’t do most of the work.”

His brows lift. “You?”

You arch a brow. “I was on top, Rogers.”

He chuckles, low and sweet, pulling you tighter. “Pretty sure I did my share.”

You snort. “Sure, sure. Go ahead and take credit for how hot I am.”

That earns you a kiss—right to your flushed, grinning cheek. “You are,” he murmurs. “Hot. Perfect. Completely unfair.”

You giggle. Actually giggle. He leans back, just enough to look at you properly, eyes soft and heavy-lidded. You blink at him. “We should probably get to bed.”

His hand squeezes your thigh. “You’re already there.”

“I meant the real bed.”

Another kiss—this time to your temple. “Mm. Too far.”

You stretch dramatically across the couch and groan. “I need water. And maybe three pillows.”

“Pillows I can’t help with,” he says. “But water?”

He kisses your forehead, stands slowly, and sets you gently down on the cushions. You watch, dazed and naked beneath the blanket, as he pads into the kitchen, all golden skin and soft sweatpants and big, barefoot steps.

He comes back with a glass and kneels beside the couch to hand it to you.

“You’re staring,” he teases.

“You’re shirtless,” you counter, sipping.

He smiles around a yawn. Watches you drink like it’s the most important thing in the world. You set the glass down and whisper, “Carry me?”

He doesn’t hesitate. Just smiles, kisses the top of your head, and scoops you up like it’s nothing—like you weigh less than the grocery bag he brought in earlier. One arm under your knees, the other wrapped securely around your back, blanket still tucked around you.

You bury your face in his neck and sigh. “You’re warm.”

“I’ll take that as a thank-you.”

“For what?”

“For not making me ask you to stay.”

You blink sleepily. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know.” He presses his lips to your hair. He lays you down gently. Pulls the covers over your legs. Crawls in beside you and wraps his arms around your waist like he needs to.

You fall asleep to the rhythm of his breath against your neck. Safe. Held. Home.