#Gods Unique Plan

[beforetheamen]

Breaking Free from the Comparison Trap

Are you scrolling through social media feeling like everyone else has their life together while you're barely keeping your head above water?

Comparison has become the thief of joy in our digital age. With perfectly curated Instagram feeds, highlight reels on Facebook, and success stories on LinkedIn, it's easy to feel like you're falling behind in the race of life. But here's what those polished posts don't show: the struggles, the failures, the moments of doubt that every person faces. More importantly, God never intended for you to live your life measuring yourself against others.

The apostle Paul addresses this directly in 2 Corinthians 10:12: "We do not dare to classify or compare ourselves with some who commend themselves. When they measure themselves by themselves and compare themselves with themselves, they are not wise." Paul understood that comparison is not only unwise – it's spiritually destructive because it shifts our focus from God's unique plan for our lives to everyone else's journey.

Social media has amplified comparison to unprecedented levels. We see someone's vacation photos and feel inadequate about our staycation. We see another person's career milestone and question our own progress. We see perfect family photos and wonder why our kids were arguing five minutes before church. But remember: you're comparing your behind-the-scenes reality to everyone else's highlight reel.

The root of comparison often lies in insecurity about our identity and worth. When we're secure in who God says we are, other people's success doesn't threaten us – it inspires us. When we understand that God has a unique plan for each of us, we stop trying to live someone else's story and start embracing our own.

Galatians 6:4 offers a healthier perspective: "Each one should test their own actions. Then they can take pride in themselves alone, without comparing themselves to someone else." This isn't about pride in the arrogant sense – it's about finding satisfaction in being faithful to what God has called you to do, regardless of what others are accomplishing.

Consider how comparison affected biblical characters. Cain's jealousy of Abel's accepted sacrifice led to murder. Rachel's envy of her sister Leah's fertility caused family strife. The disciples argued about who would be greatest in the kingdom. Comparison has been destroying relationships and peace since the beginning of time.

The antidote to comparison is gratitude. When you focus on what God has given you rather than what He's given others, contentment begins to grow. Start a gratitude practice – write down three things you're thankful for each day. This simple habit rewires your brain to notice God's goodness in your own life rather than focusing on what you lack.

Remember that God's gifts and callings are distributed differently for a reason. First Corinthians 12 explains that the body of Christ has many parts, each with different functions. Your role isn't to be someone else – it's to be the best version of yourself that God created you to be. The world needs your unique contribution, not a copy of someone else.

When you catch yourself comparing, redirect your thoughts. Instead of "Why don't I have what they have?" ask "What is God teaching me in this season?" Instead of "I'm so behind," try "I'm exactly where God wants me to be." Instead of "They're so blessed," remember "God has blessed me too, just differently."

Finally, use others' success as inspiration rather than intimidation. When you see someone thriving in an area you'd like to grow in, learn from them. Ask questions, seek mentorship, celebrate their victories. Their success doesn't diminish your potential – it proves that growth and achievement are possible.

[arsenicflame]

steddyhands modern au inspired by this post:

(1828 words, themes of kink but nothing explicit, established blackhands & gentlebeard-centric. Happy Pride!)

Stede picks up leatherworking in the wake of his divorce. He's not exactly sure how it ended up being such an important hobby for him, only that he had always admired the intricate designs on his horse's best bridles, and with little else to do with his time, he decides to give it a go.

It's rocky going at first, but he's having fun working with his hands for the first time in his life, and there's a sense of satisfaction in seeing the design come to life as he works. With practice, his skills improve, and he learns how to make things that are truly one of a kind.

He starts off posting his pieces online, as a way to reach fellow enthusiasts, but quickly finds himself with a rather large audience. Stede’s style is unique, and, after many requests from his followers, Lucius encourages him to make some more basic pieces he can sell. It's not about making money for Stede, but another way to meet new people who share his interests- as Lucius keeps telling him, it's sad that his personal assistant is the main person he talks to these days. 

So Stede sets out on a new adventure, and has quite the time designing a new range of patterns for the market. He makes purses, belts, bracelets, and, most importantly, dog collars- all still with his unique designs embossed into them, of course. He rents a booth at his towns monthly craft fair, and very quickly finds himself with a new group of friends in the other regulars- Pete, his usual neighbour, who sells an array of wooden figures he carves, Roach, who runs a stand for his bakery, and Frenchie, who isn't actually a stallholder, but is almost always busking near his friend Wee John’s stand of knitted goods, bringing life to the market even in the pouring rain. There's also Buttons, another regular at the market. Nobody is exactly sure what he does there- he doesn't sell things, or seem to buy anything either, but rain or shine, he's there with the birds.

Stede’s been doing this a few months by the time June rolls around. As he's setting up his stand, he notices that the area is much busier than it’d normally be at this time of morning. Lucius, who got roped into helping run Stede’s stall somewhere down the line (despite his protests that this is not what personal assistant means… But hey, he got a boyfriend out of it, at least), reminds him that there's the parade today, too- not realising that Stede had no clue there was a parade today, and especially not that it was pride. Stede immediately jumps to fretting about the amount of stock he’s brought, and Lucius takes the cue to escape, saying he’ll go and grab them coffee (but really, he's off to flirt with Pete)

Lucius is still missing when Ed stumbles across the little leather stall. Stede’s just ran back to his car to fetch his last boxes of inventory, and by the time he returns, Ed’s already begun to narrow down his choices. Stede greets him, starting to tell him that they're not actually open yet, but before he gets more than a couple of words out, Ed’s exclaiming “You're a Kiwi!!!”

The two of them smile at the shared recognition, and Stede says he’ll make an exception, just for Ed, and asks him what exactly he was interested in. Ed tells him that he's looking for a collar “for his boy”, and points out the particular design he was looking at. It happens to be one of Stede’s favourites from this latest run of work, a fact he mentions to Ed. It leads them into a discussion about Stede’s craft, and Ed’s Izzy, and then everything in between. Ed’s listening intently to the things Stede’s telling him, completely drawn in by the process, and by Stede himself. He watches as Stede stamps Izzy's name into the collar, and Stede even lets him have a go at one of the stamps. 

Lucius reappears sometime in the middle of this- only to immediately retreat again, seeing Stede engrossed with Ed. He sets up camp at Pete's booth opposite, watching this man flirt intensely with his boss- and Stede flirt back just as hard. Does Stede even realise he’s doing it? Lucius had known Stede was gay since before Stede even admitted it to himself, but this is on a whole other level.

The pair stand there so long that Izzy comes to look for Ed- the two of them are manning a float on the parade with their crew, and it's past time for them to get geared up. He's already worked up, frustrated to have been left to set up everything alone, when Ed had just gone to see if he could get them both coffee. So maybe he's a bit of a prick, approaching with a brash “where the fuck have you been, Edward”, to which Stede brings the same energy, giving a bitchy “Ed! Do you know this guy?” Izzy tenses, ready to snap, but then Ed cuts in, excitedly telling Stede that this is “his Izzy!” Which confuses the hell out of Stede. 

Forgetting his earlier attitude, he asks Ed if he “really named his dog after his friend”, only to be met with confusion right back from Ed at where the hell Stede got the idea he had a dog from. Stede gestures at the bag with the collar in it, to which Ed has to tell him, “oh, no, that's for him.” Ed tells Stede that they're here to run a float for their local leather society, and while Stede is certainly shocked by what Ed’s saying, he's not finding himself… uninterested. It's simply that he’s never even considered any of this before, especially not that people would use the things that he made for this, but Ed sounds so enthusiastic about it all. He tells him about how his friends would love to see Stede’s work, about how classic leather gear is always so fucking boring- but not Stede’s stuff, no, Stede’s stuff is “fresh” and “fascinating” and unlike anything Ed’s ever seen before. 

Ed's enthusiasm is incredibly infectious, so when he invites Stede to come back to see their float, he readily agrees. It’s a concept Izzy’s less than enthusiastic about. He doesn’t really want to bring this man who’s dressed like he just walked out of a HOA board meeting to their kinky little corner of the world, but he is having a lot of fun watching Stede squirm, so decides not to raise a protest. He does demand he gets his long-overdue coffee first, though (Stede pays for it- as “compensation for him distracting Ed from his job”, he says, not giving Izzy a second to process before he's tapping his card)

By the time they return to the float, Fang, Ivan & Jim are waiting for them, all already geared up. Stede is stunned silent at the sight for about 5 seconds, before he starts actually looking at the quality of Jim’s harness, and proceeds to go off about the poor quality of the craftsmanship, about how the hardware is tacky and completely the wrong choice with this leather, how his “ten year old daughter could do a better job!!!” 

There's complete silence from the group, until Izzy, of all people, bursts into laughter at Stede’s audacity (and, the fact he was staring at Jim's tits completely unabashedly, like he hadn't even noticed them in the first place). Izzy's laughter sets Ed off as he tells the group about Stede’s misunderstanding- “you didn't say he was a person!” “I mean, he's my dog”- and soon everyone's having a friendly giggle at Stede’s mistake.

It's somewhere in the middle of the retelling that Ed remembers that this whole thing happened because he was buying Izzy a gift. After a moments fumbling, he presents Izzy with the collar-  It's a rich, deep black, embossed with a rolling pattern that resembles waves. It’s made from a firm enough leather to take the tooling, and to remind Izzy that he’s owned while he’s wearing it, yet still soft enough for long term comfort. Izzy's eyes immediately lock on to it, an unreadable expression coming over his face, and Ed turns it; first so he can really see the design and Izzy’s name embossed into it, and then so he can see the small “Ed ♥” on the inside of the collar, right over his swallow tattoo. 

“I did the heart,” Ed says to him softly, intended only for Izzy’s ears. Izzy's eyes flick up to Ed’s, and he raises his chin to give Ed the room to put it on. Ed buckles the collar around his neck almost reverently, a test of the tightness turning into a caress of Izzy's neck. It's a perfect fit.

It's as though something comes over Izzy; so twitchy and abrasive earlier, now silent, staring at Ed with a look akin to worship in his eyes. He obediently tilts his head for a kiss as Ed's fingers move to his chin- It's a sight to behold, and one that has Stede intrigued. He wants to know more about this lifestyle, and these men in particular. He wants to be the one to put that expression on Izzy's face.

The moment breaks as Ed and Izzy pull apart, and Ed calls for the crew to finish the last bits of set up. Izzy shakes himself a little before running off to bark orders again, but even still, there remains a softness to him that wasn't there before. 

Ed turns back to Stede with an apologetic smile, already obvious that he has to get going. Before he can speak, however, Stede jumps in -“My business numbers on the card in the box… I'll be around all day”- Ed’s smile turns more genuine at that, promising to stop by if he gets a moment, and that he’ll send his friend's Stede’s way- “if he wants that kind of business.” Stede says that he does, actually- that he's seen a whole new world already today, and, while he was a little taken aback at first, he can feel the passion Ed and his friends have for this life. If there's one thing that's ever mattered to Stede, it's other people's enthusiasm. Maybe he doesn't completely understand yet, but he would like to try.

One year later, Stede’s back at the market on pride weekend again, far better stocked for the crowds this time around. Lucius is finally free to spend the day flirting with Fang & Pete to his heart's content, now that Stede’s roped his own boyfriends into helping him run the stall- and into modelling the merchandise. Ed loves that part, while Izzy needs a lot more convincing, but the puppy eyes Stede & Ed weaponise against him make a very good argument.

[astralleywright]

a lot of posts right now seem to rely on the idea that what happened in Aeor is common knowledge throughout Exandria, but based on what we know I don't necessarily think that's the case? back in Bassuras, an 18 history check (which would be a very high roll for an "average" person) only got Imogen the names of Age of Arcanum cities and the vaguest of context. in the most recent Cooldown, Matt talked about how most people have a similarly broad understanding of the calamity, and didn't know the reason the gods were warring in the first place.

There are of course specificalists and experts, like Imahara Joe or the professor they met in Yios or many of the high-level clergy of Vasselheim, that likely already know what happened in some amount of detail. And of course, many people's opinions on the gods would not change one way or another upon learning the details. But I think there are a lot more people who don't know the gods decimated an entire city than people realize.

[heisenwhore]

My sister finally caught up with MHA so I’m back on my bs. VERY rough sketch bc I’m lazy and been focusing on writing rather than art lately

Yuna’s quirk has undergone some development lately (aka, it’s, like, almost entirely different). Blame my sister and both of our writer brains bouncing off each other. There’s also been a development for her relationships, bc my sister posed an idea and it unfortunately turned out super cute when I started writing. Sometimes our characters create themselves, I guess.

[lexalovesbooks]

I also really wish we could have seen the moments where everyone finally gets to talk to kihrin after his stunt at the end of the discord of gods and just read him (and presumably Janel and Teraeth and Thurvishar too since I’m sure they were all in on it) the riot act like Hey. what the fuck were you thinking? I know everyone’s reactions were priceless i know it

[nomsfaultau]

Absolutely in love with the lamb dark SBI au. It's so rare to find a Philza that actually actively fights back against the rest of the sbi so yours feels like a fresh breath of air.

Really looking forward to how Phil will have to navigate Tommy, Wilbur and Techno to find out what their weaknesses are without causing suspicion and to take back his actual children. Which I feel like might be long dead now tbh.

No matter the ending, I'm so excited for it. :D

I started The Lambs Wolves Wear after I realized I’d literally never seen a dark sbi where Philza is the vulnerable one…only to realize there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d take his kids being kidnapped lying down. Like hello??? Yeah he’s severely outclassed and one wrong move could get him ripped to shreds. But that’s PHILZA. MINECRAFT. He’s clever, and vindictive, and patient, and will obliterate those who hurt his children.

But also he’s a little too emphatic for his own good.

[sunflowervolum-6]

Just saw my friends hanging out without me in a restaurant and when they saw they all just went "we didnt think youd want to come out"

[todayisafridaynight]

you never realize how hard it is to find a specific shade of blue for a suit until you go to find a specific shade of blue for a suit

[235uranium]

for a character to be "of all time" they need to have smth that distinguishes them from the usual archetype they fulfill in an insane as fuck way. they need to leave you reeling with their every life choice. and those choices are always in character which increases the degree of insanity.

[d1stalker]

Blink Twice If You Need Help [Clark Kent]

SUMMARY: To some, your relationship with Superman could best be described as unique, but to you, it’s more like stay-away-from-me-and-mind-your-own-damn-business.

WARNINGS: enemies to lovers, fem!reader, canon-level violence, arguing/bickering, realizations & revelations, SMUT 18+ (oral f receiving, backshots lol, etc) WC: 12.7k - MASTERLIST - A/N: super sorry for the reupload i got the heebie jeebies

The body at your feet twitches once, then twice, before going still.

He’d been stronger than you expected—some sort of fire freak with a half-baked god complex and a plan to torch his house while the rest of his family slept inside: his wife, his children. Disgusting. Rolling your shoulder, you wince. Yeah, there will definitely be a bruise there tomorrow, but you’ve dealt with worse. You had gone a little easy on him at the start, let him kick you around a bit, burn the bottom of your mask off, and give a punch here and there. Probably filled him up with too much confidence before you struck, but hey, life isn’t always fair.

“That’s what I thought,” you mutter, resisting the urge to spit on his corpse. The air stinks of ash and scorched pavement. You step off the lawn and onto the sidewalk, already imagining the comfort of your bed. “Uggo.”

You're halfway down the block when:

“Hey!”

You freeze.

Well. That’s certainly one way to ruin your night.

A long, long, exhale slips from between your teeth and shut your eyes against the creeping flood of irritation. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you summon the voice from that online meditation webinar you half-watched last week. Breathe in. Breathe out. You try. You really do.

Your head tips back, neck stretching as you look up at the sky. The moon stares down at you, a silent witness to your misery. You don’t even believe in a higher power, but still, you beg for it to spare you from this colossal pain in the ass. 

Of course.

Of course, he’s here.

“What do you think you're doing?!”

Annoyance buzzes through your veins, and you slowly—very slowly—turn around. “Oh, hey, Supes!” you chirp, voice high and bright and obviously dripping with sincerity. You even throw in a little mock-wave for good measure. “Wow, look at you! Dropping in unannounced. What a treat.”

“ I thought you were in… what was it? Valdoro? Valstresia? Somewhere conveniently far away from Metropolis?”

He lands hard a few feet away from you, the pavement under his boots cracking from the force. His gaze flicks over to the lump of flesh for a brief second before settling onto you. “You killed him.”

Cue the fake, wide-eyed gasp and hand over your heart. “Really?! Are you sure it was me?” You flash him a peace sign and pivot back toward the street. “Anyway, nice chat, but I’ve got places to be and a long night ahead, sooo—”

“Oh, no you don’t.”

Suddenly, he’s right in front of you, way too close, and blocking your path forward in an (unsuccessful) attempt at intimidation. Narrowed eyes paired with a nostril flare is a guaranteed combo when it comes to being in your presence. “You don’t get to walk away after that.”

“But you let me last time. Remember? That thing at the docks? Three dead traffickers and not a single thank-you card in sight.” You can see him physically hold back an eye roll. 

“That’s because you—” He stops. Whatever moral high ground he was about to climb dies somewhere behind his clenched teeth. “Never mind. You can’t keep doing this. You don’t get to play god.”

Laughter bursts out of you. “Oh my god, you’re so right: you’re doing such a great job of that for me!”

You step to the side, aiming to brush past him, but unfortunately for you, Wannabe Tough Guy has different plans. Instead, his hand juts out from his side, wrapping around your throat, and the world yanks upwards faster than you can say kinky. 

Wind nips at your ears as he lifts off—just a few feet, then slams you backward, spine-first, and hard, against the fence of some poor neighbour’s front lawn. Wood cracks behind your shoulders, and the impact makes you grunt as your fingers grab instinctively at his wrist.

His face is right there, inches from yours. “I don’t kill,” he seethes (did he just spit on you??), “because that is never the right thing to do.”

“Erm, what about—” his grip tightens, and you know better than to try to continue speaking. So a smile pulls at the corners of your mouth. Maybe he’s blown away by the sight of your beautiful lips, or maybe he's confused as to the reason you’re smiling in the first place, but he pulls back a mere centimetre, blinks and—

You’re gone.

Air rushes in to fill the space where your body used to be, his hand snapping closed on nothing. You reappear several feet away, crouched on the roof of a garage like a smug little gargoyle. One leg dangling, the other propped beneath you. “Damn, you’re a grabby one, aren’t you?” His head whips over to the source of the sound, jaw clenching as his eyes land on your figure. “If all you wanted to do was choke me, I’m sure we could’ve chosen a better time and place.”

You swear you can see a new vein pop out on his forehead, but you don’t care, so just as he’s opening his mouth, you lift two fingers in a lazy salute. “See you later, Supes!”

Blink.

And just like that, you’ve disappeared again.

—

“Ouch,” you yelp, as your hip hits the corner of your dinner table. Usually, that doesn’t happen, but what can you say, the urgent need to get as far away as possible from Superman must have hindered your stability.  

Now, finally back at your apartment, your feet are killing you, and your eyelids are heavy from being awake for too long. You run to the washroom, stripping off your suit before you even enter, and jump into the shower. There's a vague plan in your head to find the time to clean your place up, but for now that’ll have to wait. 

Once you’ve finished washing yourself, you put on some pyjamas and crawl into bed, turning the light off, and getting into a comfortable position. You feel yourself about to enter dreamland when your eyes shoot open.

Shit. Your mask.

Specifically, the currently singed and half-melted bundle of fabric lying on your floor thanks to a little firebug with crazy mommy-adjacent issues. Actually, the worst night ever, you think. You drag a hand down your face with a long groan, swing your legs over your bed, blink to the kitchen, and pull open the drawer where you keep your “tools”: a sad collection of scrap fabric, thick thread, and a heavy-duty needle. You really should invest in something more professional, but it’s not like you get a stipend for your line of work.

Then you blink into the hallway, pick up your mask from the ground, and walk back to the kitchen table to start the slow process of repairing what got ruined.

You were born like this. Blinked out of your mother’s womb right after the first push, and for a second, the doctors thought your mom just had a really big bowel movement (her words, not yours!). They say the delivery room went into full panic mode when you suddenly disappeared from the table and reappeared in the hallway, still covered in bodily substances and screaming. 

When you were younger, it didn’t mean much. It was only something you used when it was convenient, like if the TV remote was too far away or if your friend was about to find you in a game of hide-and-seek. It had felt more like a trick back then. Like something small and silly and yours.  

The first time it actually mattered, you were sixteen. Late afternoon, walking home from school with headphones in, when a scream cut through your music. The sight of a man lunging for a girl, covering her mouth with his hand and muttering obscene words into her ear while holding her a gunpoint awakened something in you, and without thinking, you blinked across the street, grabbing the gun from his hands. 

His beady eyes drifted over to you, and a chill-inducing smile took over his face. In a panic, you shot him. You didn’t even realize you knew how to shoot a gun, but you did. And he died. 

You blinked out of sight so fast the police never caught on, but the guilt of killing someone made you sick for weeks. You didn’t sleep. Barely ate. Couldn’t look at yourself in the mirror. But it was that, or let God-knows-what happen to that little girl. And later, only when she saw you again and thanked you, did you stop wishing you’d done it differently.

You've learned since then. Learned to move faster, smarter. Learned not to hesitate. You don’t always kill, but sometimes there isn’t any other option.

There was a time when you made the mistake of believing someone when they said they’d change for the better. Spared their life, only for them to hunt you down and stab you in the back. Literally. The scar is still there, above your left hip. 

It’s jagged, long, and ugly. 

It’s the reason you wear a suit now, the reason you hide your identity. 

It’s a reminder stitched into your skin: mercy is a risk. One you don’t take anymore.

You thread the needle, slide it through the fabric of the mask, and frown. That’s what you don’t understand about that jackass. He thinks that justice always has a storybook ending. That the villain always comes around. Or that the world always rights itself if you just keep being good long enough. 

You remember when you met him for the first time, too. Well—"met" is generous. He nearly broke three of your ribs before you could get a single word out.

Two years ago, an imbecile thought he could break into your favourite bakery and try to threaten the owner for money. You’d left him breathing as long as you could. Long enough to watch him reach for the second gun in his waistband, but the Kryptonian arrived three seconds too late to see that part.

What he saw was a dead man and a masked figure standing over him, blood on her knuckles and no badge to back her. You blinked before he could grab you, across the room, out of reach, but you didn’t realize he had superspeed. He never even asked what happened. Just started throwing punches and shouting something about being a good person. About accountability. Which was ironic, given how quickly he jumped to a conclusion.

It took two days for the bakery owner to speak out, and for the security footage to be leaked. The next time he saw you, he apologized immediately, and you had the gall to think that maybe you could get along, or even better, work together. But he shot you down, glowering down at you as he claimed he didn’t associate with ‘merciless fools’. So yeah, clearly things haven’t exactly warmed up between you.

Superman doesn’t like you. You’re not sure he ever will. It’s almost as if he has made it his mission to try to make you feel bad for doing what you do. 

You think he hates that you get results. That your methods work. When you go after someone, they don’t crawl out of the rubble—or break out of prison—to try again the next week.

Pulling the thread out, you knot the end and clip it with your teeth. 

—

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fucckkkkk.

You’re late.

You slap the light switch on as you barrel through your apartment, nearly tripping over your newly-fixed suit and the bucket of laundry you swore you’d put away two nights ago. Your shirt is halfway over your head, twisted like a noose around your neck, and your other hand is trying to shove burnt toast into your mouth. 

Your hair’s a disaster, shoulders and back screaming from not only where Superman threw you into a fence last night, but that little fire idiot, too. The bruise is already blooming—deep and purple just beneath your collarbone. You catch a glimpse of it in the mirror and groan inwardly. It’s like everything bad that happens to you can somehow be traced back to Mr. Justice himself. 

Soon, you’re out the door with your bag half-zipped and your phone buzzing with six unread texts from Perry. “Motherfucker,” you mutter, sprinting toward the metro station.

The Daily Planet isn’t too far of a commute, but the ancient elevator in the building must add at least 5 minutes to your overall travel time. You catch your reflection in the blurry steel doors of the machine, and wow. Not looking too good. 

You swipe at your cheek and adjust your shirt just as the elevator chimes. The doors groan open, and oh—Clark is standing right there.

“Ah,” you say, like an idiot. 

“Morning,” he says bashfully, already stepping aside so you can squeeze past. “I was just heading out—uh, Midtown. New report. You coming?”

“Yeah—well, eventually. I’ve gotta, um. Set up. Convince Perry not to fire me. That whole song and dance,” you manage to get out, flustered, and dying inside.  

“Good luck,” he smiles. You make sure to give his arm a little pat (reassurance purposes, only. Definitely not to feel up his arms under his shirt), as you slip past him. 

“Catch you later,” he says, before stepping into the now-empty elevator and closing the doors.

A lovesick sigh leaves your lips. You’re so doomed.

Over at your desk, Jimmy is already swivelling in his chair like he’s been waiting all morning for your arrival. He rolls over, his coffee sloshing dangerously in its cup.

“Dude.”

“Not now, Jimmy,” you say, shrugging off your bag. 

The redhead ignores you completely. “You have to ask him out.”

Sputtering, “I’m sorry?”

“Clark. He’s literally head over heels for you. It’s kind of painful to witness.”

Are the sticky notes on your desk brighter all of a sudden? Or are you just staring at them intently to avoid blushing? “I don’t need you feeding into my delusion right now.”

“I’m not feeding into anything. I saw him smell the air after you left yesterday.”

….What?

“He thought no one was looking,” he adds, like that somehow makes it better. “But his eyes were closed and there was a small smile on his face and everything.”

“I—okay, that’s—”

“Very romantic,” he finishes. Fortunately, you’re spared the effort of coming up with a coherent response by a voice calling across the bullpen.

“He’s probably pouting right now without his partner-in-crime,” Lois says, not even looking up from her monitor. “Hurry up and get out there before he starts calling one of crying.”

You squint at her. “Not helpful.”

“I’m extremely helpful,” she replies, but you’ve already blocked out her voice, grabbing your notebook and heading over to Perry’s office. He doesn’t look up right away when you enter,  still typing something furiously into his desktop keyboard, when he speaks. 

“Well, well. Thought you might’ve quit on us.”

You offer a weak smile. “If only.”

He snorts, then jerks his chin at the chair in front of his desk, gesturing you to sit down, which you do. “Hostage situation,” he says unceremoniously. “Business tower in Midtown. The CEO lost his damn mind. Locked up a boardroom full of execs, apparently waving a gun around, demanding to speak to someone who doesn’t exist.”

“Superman already on site?” you ask, scribbling down notes, despite already knowing full well the answer.

“Probably,” the man in front of you grunts. “Radio chatter says he was spotted flying over a few minutes ago. You can try to get an interview, but don’t hold your breath.”

Like hell you’re willingly going to interview Superman. That would be some form of self-induced torture and you are not a masochist. “Nah. Clark can do that.”

“Nod a bad idea,” he says dryly. “He is oddly good at getting some quotes from the big guy.”

“Alright then,” you puff, “I’ll head over now."

—

You get off the metro three blocks south. Walk the rest.

When you arrive, the scene is already in motion—Cops are clustered around the front steps, radios crackling, tape sagging between barricades. People, other reporters, are packed in tight behind the line, pressed shoulder to shoulder with their phones raised. You scan the perimeter, but there’s no sign of Clark. 

Then, a shadow looms over you, and your eyes flit up to see the back of Superman as he enters through one of the windows near the top of the building. While you aren’t able to understand the word, you can hear him shouting at someone inside. After a while, he exits the window and touches down near a group of officers.  You edge closer.

“—said if anyone tries to breach, he’ll start shooting,” he says. One of the cops asks something low, and the caped man just shakes his head. 

“They caught him skimming company money,” he mutters. “Not just bonuses. Personal charges, hotels, sex toys. Thousands of dollars in latex and—well, I’m sure you get the point. He knows it’s public now, and he’s humiliated.”

Oof. That’s unfortunate. 

Despite feeling kind of bad for the guy, whatever shit he’s currently pulling is a gross overreaction. He’s not the first executive to get caught dealing with a midlife crisis the wrong way, and he won’t be the last. If he wanted to cry in the bathroom and get quietly fired like everyone else in corporate, fine. But taking a whole boardroom hostage over some receipts is… well, extreme. 

And where the fuck, is Clark? You thought he’d be here by now. You figured maybe he was talking to the police or stuck behind a barricade with the rest of the press. But now—now you’re not so sure. Maybe he already went inside. Slipped past before the building got shut down. Maybe he’s trying to talk the guy down himself. Knowing him, that is a very plausible option. 

Your stomach knots. If he’s in there…. Worry floods your body as you frantically rush up to the police tape, elbowing people out of the way. 

“Please let me in,” you plead, holding your badge out. “I’m a reporter. Daily Planet. And my friend might be in there too.”

The cop glances at your ID and offers a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “No can do, ma’am. It’s blocked off for a reason.”

“Can’t you check?” you press. “He might’ve—“

But he’s already speaking into his walkie-talkie, turning away and completely ignoring you.

You grind your teeth. Useless.

Is this really the state of Metropolis’ law enforcement? They aren’t doing shit. And if no one is going to do anything, then you guess you might have to. Slowly, you back away from the front of the group, walking around the street and behind a tall garbage bin, dropping to one knee and unzipping your bag. Your suit is folded neatly between your notebook and computer. 

Yes, you bring your suit to work. No, you don’t care how insane that makes you look. This city doesn’t exactly give you time to run home and change. You learned that the hard way—last winter… You shudder at the memory. 

After wrestling with the spandex, the suit is on, and you blink into the building, finding yourself in the lobby. Completely evacuated. You blink again—second floor, far side—and materialize in a narrow corridor lined with executive offices. The carpet muffles your boots. You hold your breath, waiting to see if you hear anything.

Nothing.

Again. This time, the third floor, west wing. 

Still quiet.

Finally, after blinking around so many times you’ve lost count, you hear voices coming through the walls. One of them is trembling. The other keeps cutting in—sharper, erratic. You can’t hear every word, but you catch:

“—you lied—” “I didn’t s-sir. They’re public documents.” “Shut up. One more word and I’ll shoot up this entire—”

You hear that last line, and the hallway around disappears and is replaced by the interior of the boardroom, where every head jerks in your direction. The CEO reels back, eyes going wide, gun swinging in your direction.

He’s balding, red in the face, sweat-soaked through the pits of his button-down. His tie’s half off, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in three days.

“How’d you get in here?!” he screeches.

You don’t react. “I’ll tell you if you put the gun down.”

“No! Don’t test me!” he yells, and points his gun toward the window, shooting at it three times. Glass explodes. Someone screams. One of the hostages ducks under the conference table. Before the last shard even hits the carpet, a blur of red and blue rushes up past the blown-out window.

Superman hovers just outside, wind in his cape. Then—

“What are you doing here?” he blurts when his eyes lock on you.

You don’t turn, still eyeing down the CEO. “What’s it look like, dimwit? I’m stopping this guy from killing people.”

There’s a pause. You can hear the irritation in his breath as he grits, “I was trying to de-escalate the situation.”

“Yeah, well,” you say, flatly. “He re-escalated it.”

The almost-bald man makes a wild noise, some combination of a groan and a sob, and turns the gun toward you. You don’t even have time to blink. Before the trigger clicks, arms close around you, and you’re all the way on the other side of the room. In Superman’s arms. 

Practically throwing yourself out of his grasp, you land on the ground with an oof. Then, “you really gotta start asking for consent before you touch me with your grubby paws.”

The Kryptonian stares, mouth gaping at your reaction. “I just saved your life.” 

That response warrants a middle finger, you decide, then blink back to where the CEO is, rearing your fist back and delivering a stern blow right across the face. Knuckles meet cheekbone with a satisfying crack. He yelps, folds like a lawn chair, hands scrambling to cradle his cheek as the gun skitters out of reach. 

“Keep him distracted,” you snap at the gaping metahuman without looking. “I’m getting the hostages out.”

Your eyes scan the room, and you notice the fact that Clark is, in fact, not in here. Literally, where is this man? You’ll worry about that after. Quickly, you grab the two nearest people to you and blink them to the front of the building where the police are. Again, and again, and again, until the whole room is empty.

By the time you make your final appearance, the fat businessman is screaming something incoherent, sputting words of hatred and nonsense. On him—not beside, not in front— on him is Superman. He’s crushing the other below him, sitting with elbow on perched knee, head resting on his chin.

You glance between them, then gesture lazily toward the crumpled man on the floor. “So. What’re we doing with him?”

“We aren’t going to kill him, that’s for sure.”

The CEO whimpers. “Honestly, I’d rather be dead at this point—”

You both ignore him. 

“Great idea,” you deadpan. “murder was not on the menu today anyway, I’ll have you know.”

“Well,” he starts, “I don’t plan on you taking him without causing him further pain.” He stands up, hauling the CEO, who sags in defeat, upright by his collar, then flies out the window. You follow, blinking back to the garbage bin, pulling your regular clothes on and rapidly fixing your appearance. 

On your way back, you spot Clark standing back near the press huddle, and you march straight toward him. “Where were you?” you hiss. “I thought you were inside.”

He turns, startled, blinking behind his glasses.”I —what? No, I got stuck. My train was delayed.” He gestures vaguely behind him. “Then the cops wouldn’t let me past the barricade. I only just got here.”

You narrow your eyes at him. Then, after a brief staring contest, you let out a long exhale. “I was worried about you. Scared you had snuck in or something.”

Clark’s eyes soften, and then, without much warning, he pulls you into his chest, giving you a small hug. “Don’t worry about me,” he murmurs near your ear and—

You lift your brows slightly against his frame, registering the way his nose seems to dip almost imperceptibly against your hair. He pulls back a moment later, far too casual.

He did not. (He did). He definitely sniffed you.

Maybe Jimmy was right, after all. Does Clark like you? The thought makes you nervous, and you lean back, staring up at him.  “We should head back to the office. Might as well get a head start on the article while it’s all still fresh.”

—

“Damn,” Jimmy exclaims when he sees the two of you walk in. “Did you see Blink today? She was insane. Like—bam, bam, bam—outta nowhere!” 

You suppress the grin tugging at your lips, doing your best to play it cool as you walk toward your desk. But the truth is—yeah. You did look cool today. The news has already flooded the internet with a dozen grainy stills of you mid-blink, captured in blurry motion. There’s one particularly good shot where you’re helping a hostage while the police are standing around looking especially stupid. And the interviews? One witness described you as “insanely efficient.” You’ll absolutely take it.

“Yeah,” Clark says beside you, loosening his tie as he heads toward his desk. “It was pretty cool.” 

“But also kind of impulsive,” he continues, unable to help himself. “I heard she punched the guy in the face while he still had the gun in his hands.”

Your smile drops. “Huh? It worked, no?”

“I dunno. Seemed like a reckless decision.” What is he talking about? He wasn’t there. He has no idea what the real situation was like. If you hadn’t laid one on him, then people could have died!

“Well, I think Superman needs to learn how to loosen up. Maybe try dealing with problems the real way for once.” That gets his attention. His head lifts slowly, and there’s something sharp and unmistakably offended in his eyes. For a fan, he sure does take things personally. 

“Oh, really?”

“Okay, but,” Jimmy cuts in, “You have to admit it was pretty cool seeing them work together as a team. Who knew they were friends!”

Both you and Clark choke.

“Friends?” you cough.

“Team?” he echoes, like the word physically pained him.

You stare at Jimmy. Then at Clark. Then back at Jimmy.

Because—friends? Team? Bitch, you did all the work. You blinked into a hostage situation, took out the guy with your own two hands, and personally evacuated every single employee while Superman lounged on the CEO like he was a couch. 

“I mean,” the young photojournalist adds, totally oblivious to the palpable tension growing in the room, “she got him disarmed, Superman backed her up, they split the work—come on, it was awesome! The people loved it. Like a buddy cop thing.”

“Right,” the words are slow as they leave your lips, which have morphed into a tight line. “Buddy cop.”

“It’s pretty much equivalent to what you and Clark are like, too, now that I think about it,” he ponders, deep in thought. 

“Anyway, I gotta run, I forgot to take my lunch break earlier.” Then he’s gone, like he didn’t just deliver a blow to your brain.

Horror washes over you. Did he just compare Blink and Superman to you and Clark? Impossible. Two completely different dynamics. Clark is so sweet, so honest and pure, while Supes is the exact opposite. You bet that if you died, he would breathe a sigh of relief.

Nothing—and you’re serious—nothing could convince you to work with Superman.

—

You’re pacing in tight, erratic circles in the middle of an empty street, arms crossed so tight your elbows hurt. Your brain is still buffering, trying to catch up to the audacity of the words you’ve just heard.

“You want me to… what?!”

“Look, you weren’t exactly my first choice either, but no one in the Justice Gang nor I, can sneak into places the way you can.”

Oh, you are so going to kill him. “All you need to do is blink into an underground facility. I’ve pinged unusual alien tech, and can’t let it get used.”

You stop pacing and glare at him, squinting. “So what, you want me to just teleport into some dark alien cave full of who-the-hell-knows-what, get zapped by a cosmic laser or whatever, and hope I make it out alive?”

“I’ll be close by, but yes.”

A strangled noise leaves you as you throw your hands up into the air. “Fuck.”

There’s a pause. Superman says nothing.

You chew your lip. Pace another half-circle. You don’t owe him anything. But… “If I do this, will you finally get off my ass?” 

He doesn’t answer right away. 

“I wouldn’t say I’m on your…ass,” he gets out eventually, with the awkward cadence of someone unfamiliar with swearing, which he is. “But sure.”

You scowl. You hate him.

Breathe in, breathe out. It takes every fibre of your being not to launch yourself at him just to make a point. You try to quiet the relentless chorus in your head yelling don’t do this!! You don’t know what you’re getting into!! This is a trap!! You don’t do Superman—

“This is a one-time thing, Supes.”

He nods. “Fine by me.”

And he takes off, lifting into the air and gesturing with two fingers, like keep up. You gawk at his retreating form in disbelief. This fucking guy. 

“Hey!” you yell, cupping your hands around your mouth (this is so embarrassing).  “Supes!”

He slows just enough to look over his shoulder at you, eyebrows raised. “I can’t blink into somewhere I’ve never seen, dumbass!” you shout. “I need a visual!”

His face flushes, and for once, he has a different expression on his face that isn't the usual glower. Hovering back over to you, “Get on.”

A moment of silence.

“Are you deaf? I said get–”

“I know what you said!,” You snap, exasperated. “I’m just trying to convince myself that I misheard it, is all.”

Why did you even agree to this? You want to punch your past self from a minute ago. And of course, he’s just floating there, his cape flowing even though there isn’t any wind. What you’d do to rip it off and strangle him with it. “I don’t do piggybacks,” you mutter, mostly to yourself.

Reluctantly, you reach out and grip his arms. Damn, they’re broad. And solid. “God, what is this suit made out of? Reinforced stone?” The words are a grumble, as you try to find the least awkward way to climb onto a man who is literally four feet off the ground. 

“Are you going to complain the whole time?” he asks, craning his neck back slightly to look at you. You snort, bracing your palms on his shoulders.

 “Honestly? That wasn’t even a complaint. It was more of an observation.” Your legs swing around him.  “I was alluding to the fact that you’re built as fuck.” 

A bit more uncomfortable shifting around, and you’re finally settled in, arms circling his neck, legs locking tightly around his waist. It feels weirdly... secure. Not comfortable, because nothing about this situation is, but you don’t feel like you’re in any immediate danger. Then, he shoots up into the night sky.

Your stomach swoops with the sudden vertical motion, and you reflexively tighten your hold around his neck. One of his hands drops for a second to steady you by your thigh. Oh. 

Below you, the city melts away. Skyscrapers give way to overpasses and industrial warehouses. Roads spiderweb and narrow, then vanish altogether. It’s kind of beautiful. The wind whips all around you, whistling in your ears and clouds touch the tip of your head. You unwrap one of your arms from his neck and lift it, your fingers slicing through the haze. 

It makes you laugh.

Not even on purpose, either. It just bubbles out of you, light and startled and  real. Superman tilts his head slightly to look at you. “Didn’t think you’d be enjoying this as much as you are,” he says, his voice raised just enough to carry back over the rushing wind.

You hum, still grinning, your cheek brushing lightly against his shoulder. “The view’s beautiful,” you admit. “And I feel… free. I hate to admit this but I’m almost jealous of you.”

There’s a pause, followed by a quiet chuckle. 

Did he… did he just laugh? At something you said?

It wasn’t even sarcastic. It was almost warm sounding. You edge forward a bit, stealing a the side of his face. Lo and behold, the corners of his mouth are twitched up into a smile. An actual smile. It’s honest. And—

Nope.

Nope.

You shut the door on that thought so fast it might as well slam in your head. 

Think Clark thoughts. Think glasses and coffee, and ties. Out of nowhere, Superman dips. 

“Ah—!” you yelp, gripping his shoulder so hard your nails are probably leaving marks through his suit, and he laughs again. Leaning down to his ear, “You did that on purpose!”

“Maybe,” he calls back, grinning now, actually grinning like this is fun. And it kind of is.

You're still recovering—trying to act unbothered but probably clinging a little too tightly—when he finally slows, levelling out again as the world comes into sharper focus. The glow of the city has faded behind you, and what’s ahead now is darker, flatter. No buildings, no people. Just a wide stretch of dense woods and brush, carved through with an old road that leads to… nothing.

He hovers above a clearing. “There,” he says, nodding toward the line of trees. “Through there is the access point.”

“Where?” Squinting your eyes and leaning forward isn’t getting you anywhere.

“There.” He points again. Same spot. Same nothing. You glance sideways at him. He’s probably using his X-Ray vision, you surmise. 

“So I just… blink into some random hole in the ground?”

“You’ll have to try to visualize it,” he responds. “Think… underground. Caves, maybe. Something old. Damp. Stone walls.” Ah, so you need to think of a dungeon. This shouldn’t be too bad. In and out. When you get down there, you’ll report what you see back to him. Wait a second.

“How are we going to communicate?” If you don’t have telepathy, then it would be impossible to talk to him in real-time. 

“I’ll be tracking you,” he says, adjusting his position slightly in the air. “I can see through most of the ground. If anything happens, I’ll come for you.”

With a roll of your shoulders, and a crack of your neck, your grip on the man loosens, and you let go. “See you soon.”

Blink.

—

You land with a soft thump, boots hitting something hard and so unnaturally smooth, you almost slip right on your ass, and your eyes snap open. Immediately, you have to squint against the assault of sterile, clinical light. Fluorescent panels line the ceiling in perfect symmetry, humming faintly above you. 

It’s definitely not the wet dungeon you were envisioning.

The walls are tiled in what looks like seamless ceramic, with occasional chrome panels embedded at shoulder height—sensors? Cameras? You're not sure. Everything smells faintly of disinfectant as well. Sort of like that one science lab from high school. 

Each step forward is careful, and you keep close to the wall as you inch farther and farther through the hallway. As you slip around a corner, you pause. In front of you lies a heavy metal door. Pretty important looking, you think. There’s no handle, only an ID scanner to the right.

Are you really about to do this? What if it was all a set-up? Maybe Supes really does hate you that much, and this was his grand plan to finally get rid of you once and for all. With one more breath, your eyes rake over your surroundings, and then you blink again. 

What you’re met with takes the breath right out of your lungs. Rows and rows of sealed containers, stretchers, lockboxes. Shelves lined with glowing canisters and devices you don’t recognize. You walk slowly through it, taking it all in. Your fingertips trail close to some kind of armoured gauntlet suspended in a gel-like field. To your left, a preserved alien body floats in a tank, and the sight makes your stomach turn.

What the fuck? 

So Superman was right. They are hoarding alien tech. But now what? How is he going to put a stop to this? You're lost in your thoughts when something catches your eye, and your heart drops upon the realization of what it is. In a crate, no bigger than a carry-on suitcase, sits a cluster of jagged green shards. Kryptonite. And it’s half covered by some packing foam like a school fair project. Your palms begin to sweat, like big time. If something goes sideways, and Superman comes down here, it’s over. “Shit,” you curse under your breath.

You take a step back, about to blink the hell out, when your shoulder bumps into something. A jar of slimy, neon-pink goo. It tips, teeters, and falls, shattering at your feet. Overhead, the lights flicker once. Then a dull, mechanical thunk reverberates through the walls. Suddenly, all the lights in the room turn red, and the sound of a siren starts echoing off the walls.

“Nonononono,” you panic. You brace, visualizing the hallway outside, but you don’t blink. Or more like, you can’t blink. Your heart rate spikes up and your breathing starts to resemble hyperventilating more. A sick feeling makes its home in the pits of your stomach, the urge to vomit hitting you.

You’re so screwed. You need to figure out an exit strategy before Superman realizes something is wrong and comes for you (one of the small voices in the back of your head is screaming: that’s not a bad idea!!! but you squash that thought). Think. Think. Think

There’s an unlimited supply of weapons here; there must be something you can—

The door slams open, and somehow, yet another bald guy is who you’re up against. He smirks when he sees you. “Well, well, well,” he says, spreading his arms in mock welcome. “Didn’t expect to catch a little stray tonight.”

You glower at him.

He continues, “You’re lucky, you know. Most don’t make it this far. But I’m curious—how does it feel, knowing your powers are useless the moment they matter most?” 

“What the hell did you do?” You growl. 

He stops in front of one of the specimen tanks—a preserved alien organ suspended in viscous green liquid—and smiles faintly at his own reflection. “This chamber,” he begins, tone lilting with theatricality, “is engineered to neutralize enhanced bioelectric signatures.” He turns his head slightly, gaze slicing back to you. “Metahuman nervous systems, energy fluctuations, the whole shebang, as they say.”

“Wide vocabulary you got there.” The sarcasm in your voice makes his nostrils flare. Menacingly, he starts walking forward, forcing you to backpedal further and further into the room. With every foot of ground he gains, his smile (if you could even call it that) grows.

“Which one should I choose for you, hm?” he muses aloud, admiring his collection. “Something poetic, perhaps. The restraint collar from Kahndaq? One of the Null Pods from Sector 68? Oh—maybe the Tamarin siphon ring. Cruel, but effective.”

Something between a snarl and a bark rips from your throat. “Get away from me!”

But it does nothing. The man only cackles evilly as his approach narrows. “Or what?,” He taunts, his voice syrupy with derision. “What are you gonna do?” 

He speaks to you like you’re a dog. A rabid thing that’s already leashed and muzzled.

“I wonder,” his gaze drags over your face, lingering at the line of your jaw. “What kind of beauty is hiding under that mask?”

Your breathing gets heavy again, speeding up faster and faster as his bony fingers reach up and tug off the only things protecting your identity. You flinch as the cool air hits your skin and bare your teeth. “You’re a psycho.”

The mask falls from his fingers onto the floor. “Maybe I am. But at least I’m not weak.”

You don’t have time to react. In one heaving motion, he throws you across the room like you weigh nothing. Your body slams into a rack of weaponry, metal and glass crashing down around you in a deafening cacophony. Sharp edges bite through the suit at your back. Something heavy thuds beside your ribs. 

There’s no time to breathe before he’s on you again.

A vicious kick pounds into your stomach, and your body spazzes with a sputtering gasp. Your fingers scrabble at the smooth tile, trying to brace for the next blow. “You creatures are the reason this planet is weak,” he spits above you. Another kick. You wheeze, coughing, tasting metal.

“No one learns to fight for themselves anymore.”

Another.

You try to crawl, eyes swimming, your voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t know anything—”

Another.

“You’re parasites. Symbols of dependency. You make them soft,” he hisses. “And it disgusts me.”

Fucking hell,  just doesn’t stop, does he?

Blood builds up in your throat, and you don’t have the strength to swallow it, so you spit it out. It lands on his shoe. A thick, dark smear along the polished leather. The bald devil stares down at it, and then, with a grunt, he wrenches you up off the floor. His fist is twisting the front of your suit so tightly, his knuckles are white. 

“Filthy little—”

But the insult doesn’t finish. Because something explodes in the hallway.

Two red boots plant themselves at the doorway, and fuck, the personification of power has arrived. There he is, standing strong, with his arms crossed over his chest. When he sees the other man in the room, he rolls his shoulders back. “Lex. I should have known.”

His gaze sweeps from Baldy—Lex—to you. Your face. Your maskless face,

And his expression shatters.

It’s anguish, like something has broken open in him, raw and violent. Yet, just as quickly as it came, the grief gives way to rage. His whole body tightens, and in a roar of movement, he lunges.

You scream. “No—wait! There’s—”

Within five steps into the room, you see it hit him. His momentum falters. His spine stiffens. A shudder travels down his limbs, and he drops. First to one knee, then the other, crumpling with a muffled cry as the Kryptonite takes hold. 

At this point, you’re thrashing around in Lex’s grip, limbs flailing, but he just smirks. “Aww, boohoo. He came for you, didn’t he? And now look.” His hand opens, and you fall back down to the ground. “This is just too easy.” He licks his lips like a predator smelling blood. “You know what? I’m hungry.”

He turns on his heel, stomping towards the entrance, and leaving you in his wake. “I’m gonna eat. See you later!”

The heavy door slams shut behind him with a reverberating boom. Left in the suffocating silence, you grit your teeth and force yourself up, your muscles screaming in protest. Crawling forward on bruised hands and knees, you make your way toward the fallen hero, whose skin is already paling, veins darkening to that sickly green.

Your voice is shaky, “Supes,” you place a trembling hand on his chest as you give him a nudge. “Get your ass up, we have to find a way out of here.”

His eyes flutter open, struggling to focus. When they meet yours, you're met with the same pain you saw earlier, when he first saw your face. Between ragged breaths, he mumbles, voice cracked and strained, “Of course… it’s you.”

“Shhh, don’t speak,” you whisper urgently. “Save your energy.”

Carefully, you slide your hands under his arms, trying to maneuver him into a sitting position. His weight is nearly dead, and because of his sheer size, moving him is almost out of the equation entirely. You need to think fast. You try to roll him over again, but you notice there’s tension in his cape, holding him back. Tracing your eyes along the red fabric, you find the source and realize it’s because the door has been shut on it. A sudden, sharp idea hits you: if you can wedge the door open and slip out of the room, then you can blink the two of you out of this nightmare. That’s it! 

However, you won’t be able to carry out this plan alone. The thought of making Superman do anything in this state (surprisingly) pains you, but you know it’s the only way you’ll succeed. “Hey,” you say, pulling his attention from his agonizing torture to you, “I know you’re weak, I know you’re tired, but I have a plan.”

He groans and grimaces, as if already anticipating your next words. “You need to use everything you’ve got—every bit of strength—and crawl away from this door. As hard as you can.”

You help him move onto his hands and knees. His muscles tremble beneath your touch, and for a second, you’re filled with fear that it won’t work, but just this once, you decide to trust him. You move beside the door. “Okay. Now.”

Grunts begin to fill the thick, stale air. His pallid hands dig and scrape at the floor, fingers splaying out wide as he tries to get leverage. It’s taking every last drop of strength he can muster just to push forward, even just an inch. You watch, heart pounding, as his cape, trapped and taut, starts to inch forward bit by bit. Every second feels like a minute, but then, a shudder in the red fabric, and the door creaks open, a small, narrow gap appearing. 

Seizing the moment, your fingers dive into the tiny crack now visible between the door and the frame. The cold metal bites into your skin as you wedge your nails inside and pull. At first, the door protests, heavy and reluctant, but it moves. Achingly, painfully slow, the seam splits wider as you throw your weight into it. Your fingers slip, then catch again. You can feel the tendons in your arms screaming, your ribs straining, until finally, finally, the gap is wide enough to breathe. Wide enough to escape.

You stumble through it first, chest heaving, blinking hard against the lights outside the containment room. Turning around, you snatch a fistful of Superman’s cape, dragging him out of the room behind you with all of your remaining strength. One foot is braced against the doorframe for support while you yank with everything you’ve got, your teeth clenched so tight your jaw throbs. “Come on, big guy,” you grunt. “You’re not dying in a fucking science exhibit.”

Then at last, his body crosses the threshold. The fabric slips through your fingers in a whisper of red as you collapse backward, landing in a boneless sprawl beside him. Limbs splayed, chest rising and falling in shallow, frantic bursts. You spread yourself out like a pancake on the tile, and whisper the first thought that comes to mind:

“Holy shit.”

Rolling over after a few more moments, you grab the man's hand and blink the two of you out of there, into your apartment. The two of you land on the worn carpet of your room. With cautious movements, you manage to get Superman’s limp form onto your bed. How gallant of you.

You step back, wiping the sweat from your brow, and start toward the living room couch, but abruptly, a hand shoots out from the bed and clamps gently on your wrist, making you stop. Despite still being weak, his grip is surprisingly strong. “Stay,” he murmurs hoarsely.

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion.”...What? Did the Kryptonite get to you or..?”

“Please,” there’s no room for you to say no. Whatever it is, he needs comfort right now, and you just happen to be in the wrong place at the right time. The tension drains from your shoulders, and you relent. 

“Okay, okay. I’m staying, but I need to clean up first. ”

So you shuffle to the bathroom, washing the grime and sweat off your skin. The water feels shockingly good against your nerve endings. When you finally return, you slip under the covers beside him, where he’s already asleep. His face is less pale and sunken in, but you can see the traces of kryptonite poisoning that remain in his veins. 

Your eyes finally start to flutter closed, exhaustion tugging you under like a tide. The weight of the night, the adrenaline, the fear—it all begins to fade into the background as your breath evens out, slow and steady.

Just as you surrender to sleep, a faint, unmistakable sniff.

You crack one eye open and glance sideways.

Superman’s head is tilted slightly, his nose buried against the pillow next to you. He’s... sniffing it? You blink, baffled.

First Clark, now Superman. Is there something wrong with the way you smell? A slow shake of your head betrays your disbelief as you look down at yourself. Do all men have a smelling kink? Insane. If neither of you were exhausted and practically dead, you’d probably question it more, but for now, the fatigue wins, and you fall asleep. 

—

The next morning, when you wake up, the bed is empty. Good, you think, letting your muscles melt into the mattress. He’s gone; you can move on with your day and pretend the traumatic events of last night never happened. 

And that’s exactly what you do. A week goes by, no Superman, no Lex jumpscares, nothing. Your life goes back to normal, except for one noticeable difference. Clark is obsessed with you.

Okay—maybe obsessed is a strong word. And if you asked Jimmy or Lois, they might shrug and say it’s not all that different than usual. But you know better, because you're obsessed with him, so you’ve gotten really, really good at reading his body language; hyper-analyzing the tiniest tilt of his head, the twitch of a smile, the angle of his hands when he types. You’ve built an entire thesis on the way he looks at people, and when you say he is staring, you mean it.

It’s gotten to the point that even Cat took notice.

“Ooh girl, he is whipped for you,” she’d whispered during a luncheon, sipping her cocktail with a smirk. “I swear to God, if he looks at you one more time like that, I’m gonna propose for him.”

You’re not sure what could have warranted this change in him, but you won’t tell him to stop. So, when you’re at your desk and he’s sitting extra close to you, you don’t complain. You’re listening to him tell you about one of his favourite punk rock bands when a bone-rattling blast shakes the building. 

Smoke and debris fill the air as a hairless figure saunters his way in. Lex Luthor. Through the dust, his eyes find yours and a manic grin spreads on his face. Clark sucks in a sharp breath beside you as terror floods your features. 

“Good afternoon, you Daily Planet peasants,” he calls out in a disgustingly cheerful manner. “Hope no one had lunch plans.” 

He claps his hands together once, like a game show host introducing the final round. “Now, I know what you’re thinking—‘Lex, what could you possibly want with a bunch of reporters and interns and sad little copywriters?’” He clicks his tongue, then points a finger in the air, mock-epiphany lighting up his face. “Well, I’ll tell you!”

People are beginning to scream. Others rush for the elevators, but the power’s been cut—emergency lights flicker uselessly as thick gray smoke rolls through the room. I have some news for you all,” he says, eyes still staring right at you. Your stomach churns.

Please no. Please don’t.

You would consider yourself a rather fearless person, but if anyone figures out your real identity, the implications of what that means for you or the people you care about terrify you.

“One of your employees is hiding a big, big secret.” His voice pitches up like he’s teasing a child. “So big, in fact, that if it got out, I imagine it would be very upsetting for them”

“Now, I wonder... what would happen if I revealed it for them?” He stops beside one of the desks and hums thoughtfully. Then, he tosses something small and round onto it. 

Clink.

Boom.

The desk explodes in a shower of wood and flame, the blast knocking over nearby chairs, and a new wave of smoke is emitted from the blast. Someone cries out. A man falls hard beside the printer station, clutching his arm. 

“Oops,” the psycho gasps, blinking wide-eyed. “Butterfingers.”

He raises his voice over the screams beginning to grow. “Let’s make this simple. If she doesn’t come forward in five minutes, I’ll blow this building sky-high. With all of you inside.” Raising his wrist, he presses start on a timer. 

You’re rooted to your seat, paralyzed with fear, unable to move. Suddenly, a warm, rough hand clamps around yours, pulling you up without waiting for permission. “Come with me.”

You stumble, barely steady on your feet, and let Clark drag you through the frenzy, weaving past panic-stricken coworkers, until he pushes open the door to an empty office and slams it behind you.

Each breath you take is ragged, uneven, your chest quivering. You clutch his hand like a lifeline. “Clark,” you rasp. “I need to go back out there. He’s here for me—”

“I know,” he interrupts, calmly. You shake your head, desparate.

“No, No, you don’t get it I’m—” But he puts an arm on your shoulder, silencing you.

“I need you to trust me.”

Confusion fills your mind, your face twisting. “Trust you? What—what do you mean?”

His grip tightens on your hand. “Do you trust me?”

“You–,” Your thoughts are going a thousand miles an hour. Everything is happening so fast, Lex is about to destroy the building, your identity is going to be revealed—, “What are you talking about?”

“I’ll explain later,” he says, another explosion rocking the building.“But for now, listen to me.”

You swallow hard and nod. “Good.” His eyes don’t leave yours. “I’m going to take off my glasses. You have to put them on—right away. Promise me.”

“But–”

“Promise me.” He shuts down any chance of debate, his tone final.

“I—okay, okay, I will—”

The moment he takes off his glasses, a thunderclap goes off in your mind. You can’t explain it, but something about the man in front of you changes, and you're now face-to-face with Superman. You blink—literally—and your powers stutter-react, popping you five feet away across the office. “You’re…”

Superman—Clark—takes a steady step forward, arm reaching out with his glasses on one of his palms. “You said you’d trust me,” he reminds. 

Through the translucent windows, you see a burst of light. Then Lex’s voice, “Two minutes!”

This is your only chance.

Hesitantly, you grab them, then slowly lift them and slip them onto your face. Clark’s eyes flicker, and for a heartbeat, there is no recognition clouding them. He blinks, steps back as if seeing you for the first time.

“Okay,” he says at last, “Now you need to leave this room.”

Your mouth opens to speak, but for the first time in your life, you’re truly speechless. All you can do is simply nod wordlessly and step back into the main room. 

Lex’s gaze sweeps the area, but when it passes over you, he doesn’t react. A triumphant smile forms as he’s convinced himself you’re too much of a coward to yourself.

“Well,” he purrs. “Let’s not waste any more time.” He lifts one hand and starts to count, drawing out each syllable.

“Ten... nine... eight…”

Just as he nears one, Superman slams into the window, barreling straight toward the bald man and knocking him clean off his feet, distracting him long enough to postpone the destruction of the building.

 “Everybody out!” he booms. “Now!”

The room clears fast. You spot Jimmy and Lois as they sprint toward the doors, and Cat as she follows, heels off and barefoot. But you stay, watching as Clark and Lex duke it out, the latter being no match for the from Krypton. He’s easily overpowered and tied to a chair with a twist mess of steel piping. 

You reach up and peel the glasses of your face, just as Lex’s head rolls lazily to the side and he spots you. His bloodied lip curls into a smirk the moment recognition dawns on him. “Oh,” he drawls. “Always gotta get Superman to save you, huh?”

In a blink, you’re in front of him. “I’ll kill you,” you snarl, your hand rising. But, before you can land a strike, you feel a firm grasp on your wrist. Behind you, Clark stands, restraining you softly. 

“You can’t.”

Your jaw clenches. “Why the hell not?”

“You know why.” He responds.

With a bitter scoff, you rip your arm free.” If we let him go, he’s going to keep doing this. You think a prison will hold him?”

Lex leans forward in his restraints, licking blood off his teeth. “Your girl’s got a point,” he wheezes. “I won’t stop until every last metahuman is wiped off the face of the planet.”

That makes you lunge at him so fast that this time, you successfully slam your foot into his chest, sending him back into a filing cabinet, and making him grunt loudly. You’re ready to beat the living daylights out of him, when Clark intercepts you fully, body-checking you away from the human with just enough force to stop, but not enough to hurt you.

“Enough.” And that’s an order.

“You heard him!” you argue. “He’s going to kill us and everyone else!”

The man you’re talking about lets out a choked giggle from his place by the cabinet. “Oooh,” he pants. “Front row seats to a divorce.”

Before you get the opportunity to say something snarky, Clark is already moving, pivoting and driving a punch square into his opponent's jaw. He slumps, finally unconscious. Then your coworker straightens up, hand flexing, glancing back at you. “He’ll go to a black site,” he says. “He won’t ever touch anyone again.” 

You don’t answer—you have nothing to say. Rather, you just wipe the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, and vanish.

—

How the fuck are Clark and Superman the same person?!

Superman, the man who has had it out for you for the past two years, is the same cutie who brings you coffee to work? You dig the heels of your palms into your eyes like that might somehow undo what you’ve seen. Your stomach is still twisted in knots, brain pulsing with the whiplash of the last hour. You don’t know whether you want to scream or cry or throw something heavy against the wall. Preferably all three, in quick succession.

This is Clark you're talking about.

Clark, who corrects your grammar when you’re tired. Clark, who listens to your rants like it’s the highlight of his day. Clark, who says corny jokes he knows no one else finds funny but you. Clark, who is Superman.

You’re halfway through pacing a trench into your floor when there’s a knock at the door.

You don’t even bother with the peephole. You already know who it is. 

“Take off the glasses,” you say flatly when Clark enters. He does. And just like before, something shifts. 

God damnit. You shove him. Hard. But, like you figured would happen, he doesn’t move. 

“How could you?!” you rage. “How could you put me in this position?!”

His brows pinch, his eyes flicker. “I—”

“Surely you know,” you’re laying all your cards on the table. “You have to know the way I feel about you—and the way I feel about him—is different.”

“We’re the same person,” he responds.

“Bullshit.”

Clark’s lips form into a tight line, before: “It’s the same for me! You think it’s been easy, knowing that the reason I show up to work every day is the same reason I’m going to go grey early?”

You still. “Don’t you dare—“

“You think this has been easy for me? You flirt with me as Clark but want to strangle me as Superman like you’re not driving me insane?”

“Do you even know how I felt seeing Lex threaten you in that room? I saw red,” He begins crowding in on you, voice low. “I didn’t even think it was possible for me to feel defensive over Blink, but the minute I realized it was you, it made sense.” He’s so close to you now, having you pushed up against the wall.

Your heart’s in your throat. “Yeah? Well maybe I should’ve clocked you as Supes when you started sniffing my pillow in your sleep!””

He freezes. “Excuse me?”

 “Jimmy told me,” you laugh to yourself. “Said you liked the way I smelled, and I just—Gah, I didn’t know it was that serious—”

But you don’t get the rest of the sentence out, because Clark dips his head and kisses you like a dam breaking. 

And It’s not sweet. It’s not soft. 

It’s a disaster of teeth and breath and months of buried need clawing its way to the surface. His hands come up—one curling into your waist, the other cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid you’ll blink away if he doesn’t hold tight enough. You gasp into his mouth and he swallows it like a dying man. 

Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer towards you, matching the force of his kiss with your own. He deepens it further, tongue sliding over yours with a groan that vibrates in your chest, and you whimper — actually whimper — as you wrap a leg around his thigh, and feel his hand move from your neck down to your ass, rubbing it softly before giving it a firm squeeze. 

His lips move like he’s trying to memorize you, like he could spend the rest of his life tracing the shape of you with tongue and teeth. It’s dizzying. Devastating. As if you’re falling off a rooftop and being caught an inch from the pavement.

When you finally break apart, you’re gasping for air, and your hands are still curled in the cotton at his chest—without the anchor, you might actually collapse. His forehead presses to yours, and he murmurs, “Tell me to stop. That you don’t want this.”

You gulp, still panting, lips swollen and fingertips trembling where they grip the fabric of his shirt. “...I can’t. I do.”

His eyes darken instantly, and he’s on you again. Your fingers tangle in his hair as he walks you backward, blindly, lips never leaving yours—and then you blink.

The room shifts around you with a ripple, and your back hits your mattress. He lands half on top of you, blinking down in dazed surprise. Then he lets out a low, disbelieving laugh that vibrates against your ribs.

“Did you just—.”

“I did.”

“God,” he mutters, dragging his mouth along your jaw, down the line of your throat. “I felt so guilty,” he confesses between kisses. “Liking you... and yet Blink, she—“

You groan over the rest of his confession, chest stuttering in funny patterns. “I kept telling myself I was a bastard,” he says. “Like I was betraying something that wasn’t even mine to begin with. I should’ve known,” he adds, lifting his head, staring down at you. “Of course it was you. It could only be you. There’s nobody else.”

Heat travels from your chest down to your core, and your thighs clench involuntarily. “Oh, Clark,” you moan. His breath catches at the sound of his name on your lips—low, aching, wanting. You can feel him trembling slightly where his hands bracket your shoulders, like he’s barely holding himself together.

Tilting your neck up, you give him a small peck on the nose. “I admire what you stand for, Supes,” you admit, not missing the shiver that runs through his body when hearing you call him that. “The whole world does. But not when you show up in my business, trying to change me in a way I don’t need changed.”

Clark says nothing, just lets out a breath—and then he leans back slightly, eyes searching your face, before reaching for the hem of your shirt, drawing it upwards. He waits for you to nod before lifting it over your head and casting it aside. When you turn slightly, and his eyes lower to your skin, you see the moment his gaze finds the scar on your back. 

“The people I’ve dealt with in the past… They’ve never given me a choice.”

You feel his hands travel up and down your sides, the warmth of his palms on your bare skin. “I don’t kill because I enjoy doing it,” you say. “I kill because sometimes one life gone is better than two. Or ten. Or a hundred.”

He kisses your collarbone, then his mouth trails lower, dragging along the curve of your neck. “I know it’s not the way you go about things,” you finish. “But I don’t have the same capabilities as you.”

Raising his head at that, Clark’s lips brush your cheeks. “I didn't like what you did because I never understood why,” he says softly. "but I never saw you as my enemy, we fight for the same good."

Your eyes roll gently, because there have definitely been times when you felt like his enemy. But when his mouth finds the tip of your ear, you bite your tongue.

Something hot and heavy takes over you, and it manifests by clawing at his still-clothed body. He pulls back just enough to strip his shirt over his head in one fluid motion. Holy shit. You knew, on some level, that he was built like a Roman statue. When you had to climb on his back, you felt it. But seeing it? An entirely different experience. 

His chest rises and falls, muscles flexing with each breath, and your gaze rakes over the sculpted lines of him, down to the sharp cut of his abdomen and the softness in his eyes that shouldn’t coexist with a body like that.  “That’s unfair,” you mutter, half under your breath, voice gone hoarse.

He smiles like he knows exactly what you’re talking about—and he probably does—but he doesn’t get long to enjoy the moment, because you push him back. He lands against the mattress with a soft grunt, eyes wide as you climb on top of him, straddling his waist and landing on something hard.

You lean down, one hand braced beside his head, the other skimming down the hard line of his chest, and capture his lips again, while his hands grip your hips. Shifting your weight slightly, you roll your hips forward in a slow, teasing grind.

The sound that rips from his throat is completely involuntary.

“Oh?,” you notice, pulling back an inch. 

His jaw clenches, eyelids drooping down. “Don’t tease,” he warns—but his voice is wrecked and his hips are already arching up into you. You do it again, dragging your hips down harder, grinding against the hardness of him through both your clothes. He curses, head tipping back against the mattress, Adam’s apple bobbing as he groans deep in his chest.

“Gah,” he hisses. His hands are no longer just holding but moving, guiding the motion of your hips over his in rhythm with his own, the friction dizzying, maddening. You feel one inch lower, slipping below your pants, grabbing your bare ass. “You’re killing me.”

“I don’t think you’re exactly suffering,” you giggle. Clark’s grip tightens, and suddenly he sits up, chest pressed flush against yours as he kisses you hard, biting at your bottom lip just enough to make you gasp. “No,” his words dying as he reconnects your lips. “I am suffering. You have no idea what you do to me.”

You tug at the waistband of his pants. “Take these off, then.”

He obeys and god, if you weren’t drooling before then you are now. He’s scrumptious. The bed dips again as he rejoins you, his fingers trailing lightly over your skin, teasing along the waistband of your pants. Then, he slips a finger beneath the fabric and hooks it there, giving a subtle, inviting tug.

“It’s only fair,” he breathes. Using that same finger, he applies a bit more force, dragging your pants, underwear, and himself down your body all at the same time, to the edge of the bed. Then, he spreads your legs apart and pulls you closer, nestling himself perfectly between your legs. As his face dips lower, his nose brushes against your skin, and he inhales deeply, eyes shutting. 

“Let me taste you,” he begs. 

Except, you don’t—can’t—respond in words. Instead, your fingers thread through his dark hair, and being the smart man he is, Clark takes that as the go-ahead. He dives in, gliding his tongue up your cunt, nipping and sucking like a man eating his last meal. The slick, desperate sounds only serve to make you wetter. 

“Oh, god, Clark,” you moan. His hands slide from your thighs to your stomach, splaying wide as he presses down, pinning you to the mattress. You writhe beneath him, gasping as his tongue goes even deeper, your hands tangling tighter in his hair. 

“You—you taste so good,” he hums, his lips vibrating against you. 

Then his nose nudges your clit, and you nearly lose it, hands flying from his head onto the ones that are splayed across your abdomen and lacing your fingers together, needing something to anchor you in place as your mind turns to mush. 

The intimacy of the action has his gaze lift up to meet yours from his position, and you swear it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen in your whole existence. It’s almost too much, and soon, you start to feel a familiar tightness. Not wanting the pleasure to end, you start to unravel your fingers from his, pressing gently against his forehead. 

He understands, mouth leaving your pussy with a final kiss before he drapes his body over yours, chest to chest, his weight grounding you. His cock rests heavy against your stomach, hot and throbbing. You know for a fact that had you not been so wrecked with need, you’d have taken him in your mouth. Another time.

“Can I–,” he begins to ask. 

“Yes, yes please,” you babble. Then he’s reaching down between you, lining himself up. When you feel him press against you, you clutch at his biceps, holding onto something—anything—as your body adjusts around him. He’s thick, and it feels like too much and not enough all at once. You feel every inch of him, and still, somehow, want more.

His name on your lips is all it takes.

He exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time. Then he pulls back, just enough to make you whimper at the loss, before sinking back into you with a slow, shuddering thrust. His hips meet yours with a firm slap, and he groans—loudly—head dropping to the crook of your neck.

“Ah,” he gasps. “You feel—you're so tight. So warm. I can't—”

He breaks off with a ragged moan as you clench around him, and then he’s starts back up again, steady but more desperate now, every roll of his hips deeper than the last. Each thrust drags a new sound out of him— breathless moans, half-formed words that melt into your skin.

Your head falls back against the pillow as he fucks into you, and you can barely keep your eyes open, but when you do, you catch a glimpse of him above you.

Clark’s eyes are locked on yours, heavy-lidded and wild, mouth open, panting hard. And like he can’t wait another second, he lowers his head and crushes his mouth to yours in a fierce, possessive kiss. “I’ve been dreaming about this body since the first time I saw you.” his mouth hovers over yours. “Especially in that suit.”

Then he’s moving. He slides his hands down your sides and under you, shifting your body until you’re on all fours, back arched and waiting.  From behind you, he kneads your ass, spreading your cheeks apart, squeezing firmly. The rough heat of his palms sets your skin on fire. You can hear him pump himself for a moment before he leans in close, breath hot against your ear as he slides the head of his cock slowly, deliberately over your folds.

“You ready for this?” he murmurs.

You’re literally so horny you might explode. “Clark if you don’t put it in right now—”

He presses in, bottoming out in a single thrust, and you jerk forward, clutching at the bedsheets. The angle from this position makes you cry out, breath catching as a delicious ache curls tight in your belly. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room—the sharp slap of his thighs, the wet glide of his cock sliding in and out.

“You’re so perfect,” he says, and you want to keep this moment between you, to tell him how much you want him, but your brain can only rewind to when you called him—

“Supes, you’re—”

A sinful sound interrupts you. “Do not say that,” he pleads, his thrusts faltering just slightly, “or I’m going to cum right here, right now.”

You shiver at the threat, biting your lip to hold back your grin. Oh, this is going to be useful. “But you’re making me feel so good…Supes,” you add quickly at the end.

“Ah! I said don’t—oh my God,” his hips stutter and he picks up the pace. “I’m not going to last much longer. Are you close?”

“Yes,” you gasp, breath ragged, body trembling. “I… oh my God, you fill me up so well—”

He practically whimpers, “Baby I’m gonna–”

You cry out at the pet name, at the sound of his voice so wrecked and undone. His hand sneaks around you, fingers beginning to work your clit. Your whole body tenses, back arching even more as the pleasure slams into you—sudden and overwhelming and sharp around the edges. You clench around him as you come, pulsing hard, and he feels it. Moans it.

“Jesus fuck,” he chokes, and his rhythm falls apart entirely. You’re almost certain that was the first time you’ve ever heard him curse like that. He thrusts through it, chasing his own release, and when it hits him, he’s unable to stop the whine that comes out, his whole body seizing as he spills into you. 

Your body collapses, boneless and trembling, onto the mattress. Every muscle sings with exhaustion and satisfaction, your skin flushed. You’re still catching your breath when you feel him drop on top of you with a heavy exhale. He stays inside you, burying his face in your hair as his chest rises and falls against your back.

“You okay?” he asks, muffled by your shoulder. 

You hum something like a yes, too soft and dazed to speak. He shifts a little, propping himself on one elbow, the movement enough to make you twitch from overstimulation. But then his hand is brushing your hair away from your face, careful and tender, so he can lean in and kiss the curve of your cheek. Then the line of your jaw. The hollow beneath your ear.

He keeps going, trailing kisses over your sweat-damp skin. You turn your head to meet him, and your lips lock in a long, languid kiss. He tastes like everything you want to keep. Like warmth and strength and something that feels suspiciously close to love. And not just for Clark, but for the other guy, too. Because he’s right. They are the same person.

Only Clark would ask you if you trusted him before doing something reckless, and only Superman would do that reckless thing, sacrificing his identity to keep you safe.

“There’s nobody else, either,” you whisper. 

His brow furrows, confused. “What?”

You offer him a tired little smile. “Only you could be Superman.”

----

A/N: thank you for reading! feedback is greatly appreciated :)

[not-yuyu]

⸻ Whatever you say. Johnny Storm X Fem!reader.

SUMMARY ⸻ Johnny Storm never thought he'd end up like Reed—until his pregnant wife told him he wasn’t going on that mission. Superpowers? Useless. Against her? He never stood a chance.

PAIRING ⸻ Johnny Storm X Pregnant!Fem!Reader

WARNINGS⸻ Fluff, pregnancy, mood swings, Johnny being tamed. [English is not my first language].

Johnny never thought he'd have anything in common with Reed, beyond the political and professional bond that tied them together by obligation

He had married his sister. Johnny had watched him crawl after her out of love, like a loyal dog following its owner. He always found it pathetic... and yet, absolutely hilarious. He mocked him every chance he got, mercilessly and without filter.

Until you came along.

Oh God. When had his world turned upside down?

The first time he saw you, everything stopped. Not for dramatic effect, but because, honestly, he couldn’t breathe. You were beautiful, yes—but not that generic kind of beauty everyone fawned over. You were unique. With a light, easy smile that chipped away at his ego and a steady gaze that wasn’t the least bit impressed by fiery suits or intergalactic stunts.

You laughed at his jokes, but turned him down without hesitation every time he tried something more. You even placed your hand on his back once, gently guiding him to the door like a hostess politely trying to get rid of a persistent guest.

And that... that drove him absolutely crazy.

He couldn’t stand that you didn’t like him. Couldn’t bear that you didn’t care who he was. Johnny Storm, the Human Torch—loved by the media, idolized by fans. And you? You were immune. Immune to his ego, his fame, his game.

So he set out to win you over like his life depended on it.

He dedicated every heroic act with the Fantastic Four to you, shooting cocky glances at the cameras as if you were watching from the other side. He left flowers at your door every single day—white roses, your favorite, even though you never told him. (He’d asked your sister.)

He invited you to dinners at restaurants that made magazine covers, planned surprises, ran every errand you asked of him with a smile… even when you asked him to walk your neighbor’s dog because you were too busy.

And in the end... you fell for him, too.

Not overnight. It was slow, sweet, almost imperceptible. A full year of persistence and devotion. When you finally said yes, Johnny felt like his soul had caught fire.

And then you got married.

Johnny Storm had never been happier. He showed you off like you were his greatest accomplishment. He mentioned you in interviews, held your hand on the street, and kept you tucked against his side at every family dinner. Always with that ridiculous smile on his face.

He remembered perfectly the day Susan and Reed announced they were expecting. He celebrated like a proud uncle, full of hugs and jokes. But when you two got home, alone, he’d let out a malicious chuckle as he shrugged off his jacket.

" Reed finally put the collar on " he laughed. Now Susan can do whatever she wants with him.

You, standing in front of the mirror, let out a sharp breath that caught his attention.

" If I were you, I’d ease up on the jokes "you said calmly, taking off the gold earrings he had gifted you for your anniversary.

Johnny chuckled, lounging back against the headboard with his legs crossed and that smug smile on his face.

" Hey, if there’s one thing you love about me, it’s my jokes. "He winked. "Why so serious?"

You didn’t respond right away. You placed the jewelry on the wooden shelf with a faint click and let out a quiet sigh. Your back was still to him, but he noticed something in your posture. Something… different.

His smile slowly faded. His heartbeat quickened, a nervous thrum in his chest. You turned just slightly—enough for him to see your face.

" I didn’t want to tell you today "you said softly "I didn’t know about Reed and Susan, and I didn’t want to steal their moment. But...

Johnny sat up instantly, the blankets falling off as he leaned forward. His eyes widened in alarm.

You looked down at your belly. One hand moved gently to rest over it, protective, instinctive.

"We’re going to have a baby."

●●●

At the time, he didn’t fully understand it.

But now, with every step you took, with every mission that involved even the slightest risk to you, Johnny did unthinkable things. He acted before thinking, reacted with a kind of intensity he didn’t know he had. His protective instincts had kicked in so hard, he was almost unrecognizable.

And still, if you scolded him—if you so much as raised your voice or frowned in disapproval—he obeyed without argument. Every word that came from your mouth carried the weight of a divine command. It didn’t matter what he was doing—if you asked, he dropped everything.

So there he was now, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, frowning, touching his face like he expected to find an answer in his reflection.

"Am I still me?" he muttered to himself, unsure.

He still had the fire, the ego, the urge to fly at top speed through the skies. But there was something new now. Something that softened him every time he looked at you. Something that made his fingers tremble every time he thought of you—and of the small life growing inside you.

He left the bathroom with a distant look in his eyes. His feet carried him instinctively to the living room, where the family usually gathered at that time of day. The air was filled with soft conversation, the smell of fresh coffee, and a comforting domestic hum.

You and Susan were on the couch, flipping through maternity magazines, discussing crib brands, biodegradable diapers, and baby names that weren’t “ridiculous,” as you’d said. Ben was in the kitchen, back turned, stirring something in a pot with a wooden spoon that looked tiny in his massive hand.

But there was no sign of Reed.

"Where’s Reed?" Johnny asked, glancing around like he half-expected him to pop out from between the couch cushions.

Susan looked up for just a second.

"In the lab, you know that," she replied in a neutral tone.

"Again? What’s he working on now, teleportation?" Johnny smirked, remembering his brother-in-law’s latest failures with that tech. One of his prototypes had once sent a toaster to the Negative Zone.

"I think so... maybe," Susan replied, not looking up from the baby stroller catalog.

Johnny scoffed softly and began to move toward the stairs—but before he could take the first step, your voice stopped him.

"Johnny."

He turned instantly, like you’d summoned him. His eyebrows lifted with a mix of attention and tenderness. Then he smiled, remembering how you’d been especially sensitive that week. According to you, he was “too serious lately,” and it made you nervous.

"Yes, babe?"

You looked pleading, with a slight furrow in your brow and your hands resting on your belly.

"Could you bring me a glass of milk? I’m really craving it."

"Of course," he replied without a single complaint, his voice soft—like you’d asked for everything and nothing at once.

He walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and grabbed the milk carton. The quiet click of the cap closing was followed by a teasing huff. Johnny looked up—and there was Ben, leaning on the counter with a smirk he knew too well.

"What?" Johnny asked, frowning. "What are you laughing at?"

"You," Ben replied, not even trying to hide it.

Johnny poured the milk into a glass while watching him warily.

"I remember the stuff you used to say before we went into space… bragging about how you had thirty girls a week," Ben chuckled. "You swore you’d never serve anything to a woman unless she was wearing red lingerie and heels."

Johnny pressed his lips together, biting his cheek to keep from laughing. He rolled his eyes dramatically, grabbed the glass, and turned toward the living room, ignoring his friend’s cackling.

"People change, Ben."

"Oh, I can tell!" Ben shouted from the kitchen. "Now you’re warming up milk like Nanny of the Year!"

Johnny ignored the comment and gently heated the glass with his fingers, just enough to make it warm without cracking it. He returned to you with a determined stride, like he was carrying a sacred offering.

"What’s Ben laughing at?" you asked as you took the glass, raising a curious eyebrow.

Johnny shook his head, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

"You know Ben. He laughs at anything," he replied with the soft smile that lately, only you could bring out of him.

You turned back to Susan, who just shrugged without looking up from her magazine. Johnny took the moment to walk toward the window, but then you called him again.

"Johnny, wait…"

He turned back once more, patient, ready for anything.

"Look at this," you said, turning the magazine toward him. Your eyes sparkled with childlike excitement. "I want to buy this crib for our baby girl. Let’s go now!"

He let out a low, affectionate laugh, even as Ben’s voice still echoed in the back of his mind.

Johnny nodded, letting go of any other plans he might have had for the day. If you wanted to buy a crib, then that was the only thing that mattered.

"Then let’s go get that crib."

●●●

And despite everything, Johnny never thought he’d end up resembling his brother-in-law so much.

Not until that day.

The alert didn’t seem like a big deal. A minor threat in the city, they said. The villain wasn’t particularly strong or dangerous. Any other team would’ve sent a single member. If Ben went on his own, the matter would be resolved in minutes.

Everyone knew that. Everyone understood it.

Except Johnny… and Reed.

“We’ll finish faster if the three of us go,” said Reed in his usual rational tone, like he was discussing just another experiment.

Johnny didn’t reply immediately. He stayed silent, his gaze drifting ever so slightly toward you, sitting in the living room. He could feel the tension radiating from your body more intensely than his own flames. It surrounded you like a dense, silent, implacable atmosphere.

And he knew what was coming.

“No. You’re not going,” said Susan from her seat, not raising her voice, but with an authority that left no room for debate.

Johnny turned slightly toward her, just as Reed frowned.

“That guy’s weak, yeah. But he’s smart. He wants all of us there to make things complicated,” Susan added, crossing her legs with elegance. “Ben can knock him out in one hit. Can’t you, Ben?”

“I don’t know anything…” muttered Ben from the kitchen, shrugging while pretending to look inside the fridge.

“And that’s why we’re not all going,” declared Reed, like he’d just solved a math equation. “You’ll stay here with y/n”—he gestured briefly in your direction.

You still hadn’t spoken. Your eyes were fixed on Johnny, studying every muscle in his face. He avoided meeting your gaze, but he felt the weight of it like a chain around his neck. Because he knew if he looked at you directly, he’d surrender.

And he loved you as much as he feared you.

“You’re not going,” Susan repeated, more serious now. Reed scoffed in frustration, turning to her.

“Then Johnny and Ben can—”

The sentence died in the air.

Everyone went silent when they saw you getting up from the sofa with some effort, one hand resting on your round belly. The mere act of you standing was enough to make everyone—except your husband—turn to you with a mix of surprise and expectation.

Johnny swallowed hard as you walked toward him, step by step, until you stood in front of his tense body.

“Johnny…” you said softly, taking his forearm. He thought, naively, that you were going to give him permission. That you were going to say you trusted him, to go and come back quickly and safely.

But then he saw your expression. Your eyes were firm, your face serious, leaving no room for negotiation.

“Let’s go to our room.”

Johnny barely had time to glance at Reed before he felt your fingers tightening around his arm. Reed also tried to look at Susan, but she was already approaching, mimicking your gesture. She took her husband by the arm and dragged him toward the opposite hallway.

Ben burst out laughing.

“Could you be any more married?” he muttered between chuckles.

Johnny and Reed exchanged a confused glance, barely managing a resigned look before being literally dragged away by their pregnant wives.

As they walked down the hallway toward the bedroom, Johnny couldn’t stop thinking how ironic it all was. He, the eternal heartthrob, the golden bachelor, the superhero adored by thousands… being led by the hand like a scolded teenager.

And the worst part wasn’t even that.

The worst part was that he didn’t mind.

In fact… he liked it.

A lot.

He glanced sideways at you. You walked beside him with a determined stride, gripping his arm like you could physically stop him from escaping fate. Your face still wore a seriousness that both unsettled and aroused him.

“So… I can’t go?” he asked in a low voice, almost with a restrained smile.

“No,” you answered sharply. No nuance.

Johnny sighed in resignation. He wrapped his arm around your back, gently caressing the curve of your side, right where the baby bump was starting to show clearly.

“Whatever you say.”

I'm so down for this man omds

[ybklix]

𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐧 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫

summary: your swimming instructor is hot.

─ pairing: christopher bahng x fem reader ᛝ warnings: smut, pwp i guess, oral sex, cum eating, praise, boob play, cunnilingus, fingering, unprotected sex, pet names, semi-public sex, chris has a big heart (dick), fuckboy!chris (a little) ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ word count: 4.8k

masterlist ⭒ taglist

wen’s note: i’m ovulating (insert the freaky silver sonic gif) and him at the pool mmm, i had to pause my elaborated wips for a tiny commercial break and say this:

“For God’s sake, you’re pushing 30 and you don’t know how to swim!”

Your best friend teased you. You rolled your eyes. Only one part of what she said was true—you didn’t know how to swim.

“So? It’s not like I’m going to swim in the ocean,” you replied casually.

“Then why the hell are we going on this trip? There will be lots of pools, too.”

“Well, a lot of people can’t swim, Devon.”

“I’m just helping you out. It would be better if you knew how, don’t you think?”

“Well, what’s your solution? I can learn there. I’m sure there will be lots of instructors and safety measures.”

You licked your ice cream, feigning annoyance at being called out so suddenly. You and your best friend had been planning the perfect summer on this beautiful beach for a long time. You had worked hard to pay for your respective relaxation getaways... everything was well planned, but now it seemed that the only problem was that you didn’t know how to swim.

“Hmm, you know, my cousin Hyunjin knows the guy who works as a lifeguard at the country club pools. I don’t know if it’s his place, but I think so. I’ll ask him to teach you. I’ll go with you.”

He was hot. Incredibly hot.

They both were. Hyunjin, Devon’s cousin, and that guy whose name you still didn’t know. You felt your cheeks burn as soon as you saw the two men. You weren’t expecting any of this... two really attractive men, shirtless, looking like models.

You were relaxed, sure that you would learn to swim in no time, just in time for your trip. But with them as your instructors, you felt hotter than the strong summer sun itself. Luckily, you would soon be wet, with water, of course, to cool you down.

The two guys were standing in front of you. You were embarrassed to be wearing a one-piece swimsuit and not a bikini like Devon was wearing so freely. Both guys were a dream. You knew very little about Hyunjin, you had never seen him in person, but you always found him attractive. But right now, standing in front of you, he was a thousand times better than any random photo of Devon’s family you saw around. Slim but muscular body, short dark hair, thick eyebrows, and a truly unique and attractive face, the kind that took your breath away. His lips and eyes must be your favorite part of Hyunjin.

But all your attention and eyes were on the man to his left. Slightly paler than Hyunjin, longer, darker hair, thinner eyebrows, and an unforgettable face, not to mention his well-sculpted, muscular body. Big pecs and broader, stronger shoulders compared to the other guy. There was something about him... that made you nervous.

And the feeling, on that hot summer afternoon, was incredibly mutual. The intensity of his gaze on you was so... indiscreet, but you liked it.

“I’m Chris, nice to meet you... I’ll teach you how to swim...”

Chris. Now you knew his name.

“To Y/N!” Devon was quick to respond, pointing at you enthusiastically.

Chris knew. He knew from the moment Hyunjin suggested it, but at first he didn’t want to, especially since the country club belonged to their best friend, Seungmin, and his family. Chris was only there for a couple of weeks in the summer, helping out and watching over the exclusive—and wealthy—members of that club, most of whom were children swimming or unhappy wives who wanted to see him shirtless in the afternoons from time to time. But when he thought about it, two pretty girls, whom he would help learn to swim, wasn’t so bad. A little distraction. Girls in bikinis? Why not? He even accepted with joy and asked Seungmin to borrow the pool area after his work hours.

He knew it was you because Devon greeted his cousin enthusiastically. Chris looked at Devon for a second, licked his lips as he turned his eyes to you. Piercing you with his gaze again. He didn’t know what to expect either and was fascinated, especially by you, the shy girl next to her friend. You had that look. It was inevitable for Chris not to desire you, even if only a little. He blamed the heat wave.

“Alright, let’s get started,” Chris clapped his hands, encouraging everyone.

“Ah, not me. I’m going to get a little tan,” Devon interrupted, walking casually toward the chairs.

It was an indoor pool with large windows, perfectly sized for the sun’s rays to shine through.

You bit your lip nervously, approaching Chris, who was slowly walking toward the enormous pool, which looked terrifyingly deep, but the beautiful water and tiles made it appear a lovely blue.

“Hyunjin!” Devon called out to him. “Come here, you have to tell me what happened with Saetbyul.”

Hyunjin looked at you and Chris, confused, unsure if you needed more help and if he should get in the pool, until his cousin called him over for some gossip.

And so it became the perfect excuse, the moment you let him touch you, gently, almost uncertainly, teaching you how to swim. Touching your thighs discreetly, your arms, and your waist. It was magical. It felt so good, just you and Chris... and Devon not bothering you at all.

But it didn’t last long. According to your friend, you’d be ready in a week. You’d learn to swim, at least the basics. But it wasn’t enough, yet it was the only time you had left before your trip.

After the first session, feeling incredibly attracted to Chris and slightly and disturbingly aroused by his closeness, by his voice, by how good he looked wet, by how he gave you gentle instructions... Devon said, “He’s really hot.” But she never tried anything with him. You knew she wasn’t interested, and that put you in a very good mood. But still... You didn’t dare to ask her if maybe you could start going to the classes completely alone. You didn’t even know why—you knew exactly why, because all of him— you wanted to, it wasn’t like you were taking the first step, but alone, maybe, just maybe, you could let yourself go more...

Of course, you started wearing your bikinis right after the first class, hoping he would get the message.

And of course, he got it. You wanted it as much as he wanted you, even though you tried to hide it behind that shy look that drove him crazy.

So, you were ready. Apparently. At least you knew something decent. Like floating, losing your fear a little, moving in the water. But to really learn, it took more time, or at least that’s what Chris told you... And you became more shy, yet you dared to ask him flirtatiously if he could teach you better once you both had time, with a clear connotation of another meaning. You needed him, badly. The whole week was delicious torture, for both of you, in fact.

It was too short a time. You learned very little about each other. Like how professional and good Chris was at swimming. That he was a sweet 27 years old—which excited and thrilled you so much, it was such a beautiful age, just enough to teach you many things in another area... a dirtier one that didn’t let your thoughts rest. You knew he was good, at mostly... everything.

And just when it was the last day, when between sighs you had to say goodbye and modestly thank him for his help, head down and sad that you might never see him again and that you would miss having him around so much, he suddenly blurted out:

“We can meet tonight, alone... just to practice better.”

Your eyes widened with excitement as you nodded. Your heart raced, yes, of course, to practice. Both of you knew exactly what that meant.

And you were a nervous wreck.

He would be lying if he said he never did something like that. But he gets what he wants and who he wants. You were no exception. From the moment you both exchanged that look that spoke volumes, from the moment you trembled at his touch, he knew.

He wanted to destroy you. He wanted to rip that little bikini in two and devour you whole. And you were about to leave, to have more fun with a foreigner who didn’t deserve you. He wanted you for himself first.

And yet you… it was definitely not something you did. But your impulses to try won out. Leading you to the point of getting into his car, to take you to the well-known pool, which was faintly and almost romantically lit at night through the windows and the dim lights of the pool. It didn’t look dark or scary, but magical.

“So, c’mon, let’s get in the water.”

You blinked in disbelief at how quickly he began to act. Taking off his shoes, socks, shirt… and practically undressing himself.

You looked away, embarrassed and scandalized, when his attractive hand reached for his shorts to take them off. You had barely appreciated him in a full outfit, with a nice shirt covering his incredible abs and chest, his shorts… he looked just as good out of the ordinary as you knew him, shirtless and soaked. Also, you had barely enjoyed a pleasant chat in his car, and now… everything happened so fast.

Chris chuckled at your shy reaction. As if you hadn’t seen him like that before, in shorts and no shirt. Only this time it was slightly different, wearing his boxers.

“Come on, I’ll teach you better.”

You were blushing. You would have died to see how attractively he took off his clothes, one by one. But you didn’t. You turned slowly, uncertainly, to look at him, doing your best to meet his eyes. But you almost sighed when you saw his sculpted body in just boxers.

Fuck. It was happening. And it was turning you on too much.

“Mmm, sure, I’ll get chang-”

“No need for that, you can… just take your clothes off. There’s no one else here.”

He spoke to you, soft, slow, seductively, raising his eyebrows, almost alluring, challenging you.

You giggled nervously. But you obeyed him, just for the adrenaline rush of being spontaneous for once in your life. Chris’ smile widened as he watched you take off your clothes and realized how easily he had persuaded you…

Oh, he knew you were going to be delicious.

He admired you, as if he hadn’t already seen you like that before, half-naked, covering only your breasts and private parts... but this time you were more vulnerable, in a way, and he could see it in you.

He stepped forward, jumping into the pool unexpectedly, to break the tension between you at that moment. From your shy but penetrating gaze exploring his body, his abs, his delicious and subtly outlined cock in the fabric of his underwear... and for him it was exactly the same feeling—the curve of your breasts, your sweet mons pubis...

Chris got into the water, perhaps to calm down a little from how incredibly aroused and hot he was just from seeing you, having you close, and imagining a lot of not-so-nice things.

“Isn’t the water freezing?” you asked him.

He got out after submerging himself, looking so handsome, his hair slicked back, his manly face looking certainly so soft.

“Mmm... no, you have to get in.”

You bit your lip, hesitating to trust him. You stood with your arms crossed. You felt uncomfortable in your underwear, even though you knew it was absurd. And you slowly got in, letting out a squeal when your body floated on the cold water. You closed your eyes and shivered as every part of you bristled.

“You said it wouldn’t be cold!”

“Mmm, it’s not for me,” he said amused.

You laughed and submerged yourself completely to wet your head. Then you started swimming a little, gently, away from him.

“See? You’re doing great!” he exclaimed, losing track of how long he had been smiling just looking at you.

You turned to look at him, happy. You were at the deepest point of the pool, so you decided to play with him a little. As soon as you turned around, you pretended to sink, flapping your arms desperately and fearfully, alerting him instantly.

“Y/n? Oh, shit!”

Chris’ smile completely disappeared, and he swam quickly to you, grabbing your arms tightly and pulling you up to the surface so you could breathe. He looked at you with concern, scared, his eyes wide open.

“Are you okay?”

You looked at his expression and smiled amusedly. As soon as he saw your mocking look, he didn’t relax his face, but continued to frown, this time in annoyance.

“Fuck! Y/n, that wasn’t funny!”

You laughed in his face.

“Sorry, Chris. You should have seen your face! You owed me one for making me get into the cold water.”

Chris wasn’t entirely upset. Within seconds, your sweet laughter was contagious to him. He let go of you and swam out of the pool.

“What are you doing?” you asked, confused.

You almost drooled at the sight of his muscular body emerging from the water, then standing at the edge of the pool as the water dripped off his body and his boxers clung to his skin. You gulped. He certainly had a good bulge.

“I’m going to leave you there for being a bad girl with your instructor,” he joked.

“Come on, you can’t leave me here...”

“Why not? It seems you’ve learned so much that you’re even joking around.”

“I’m sorry, Chris.”

You both knew he was just playing around. But the truth was that you were still afraid to move on your own at the deepest point of the pool. Looking down still made you dizzy, especially at night when the tiles played tricks on your mind and made it look dark and endless. You needed him to guide you.

“Mmm, I’ll consider your apology. Now get out of there on your own.”

He looked at you, expectantly. His gaze made you tremble. You were somewhere between scared, amused, and turned on.

“Please,” you almost whined, “you know I can’t swim here.”

“Then why did you go there in the first place?”

“Chris, please...”

The way you asked tickled a very specific part of him. From the moment he invited you, he knew he was going to fuck you. You both knew it, and he couldn’t put it off any longer. He needed you.

“Mmm, say it again.”

“What?”

“Beg some more, and maybe I’ll rescue you.”

This time he spoke more seriously, more deeply. Now you were so curious about what might happen if he approached you again.

“Chris...” you spoke more slowly, giving him almost bedroom eyes, “Please. Come here. Help me. Isn’t-not helping me against your lifesaving rules?”

You were like a helpless little whore—you had to confess, looking boldly at his cock, and asking for something else entirely...

Chris sighed and discreetly adjusted his growing erection. He was beginning to feel overwhelmed by desire and eroticism, so he quickly entered the water, gently took you by the arm, and placed you right in the middle of the large pool, at a depth where you felt comfortable.

You noticed how he avoided eye contact with you and suddenly became abrupt. He got out of the pool again, sitting on the edge and dipping his feet in the water. He was beginning to wonder... should he really start something sexual with you? Wouldn’t it be too soon? You were so sweet that he almost didn’t want to corrupt you.

“Is something wrong?” you asked softly.

You positioned yourself directly in front of his legs, in a strategic spot, right between his thighs. You tilted your head, waiting for an answer.

He got nervous. You, on the other hand, thought he would really do it. That he would kiss you as soon as he got close to you. But nothing, you got nothing but strange behavior all of a sudden, so you decided to act on your own... giving him those subtle signals of how much you needed and wanted him. Right now.

“Mmm, nothing, keep swimming. I’ll supervise you from here,” he cleared his throat. Your gaze was killing him.

As soon as you put your hands on his knees, he almost lost control.

“Why did you act like that all of a sudden?” you pouted.

Chris sighed again, thinking of all the things he could do to that pretty little face of yours. Right now. Fill you with his cum, make you cry, rub his cock on your lips, fuck, he was so hard. And his growing erection didn’t help; it was more than obvious, it was there, right in front of you.

“Like what?”

“Something... distant... cold...”

You didn’t know what you were talking about. Your gaze drifted away, slowly lowering, making the sweet journey from his eyes, his lips, his wet abs... to his noticeable cock. Was he hard? Or why did it look even bigger than before? Your mouth salivated. You confirmed it as soon as you saw his cock throbbing. All because Chris reacted to your intense gaze.

“Babygirl, my eyes are up here,” he said, with a cocky grin.

He felt flattered. If only you could see your expression right now... your bright eyes, the impression on your face.

You looked him in the eyes, quickly, your cheeks red. “I’m sor...”

Chris leaned in, leaving you speechless and placing his fingers gently on your chin. Now that he knew how badly you wanted him too, there was no turning back. You looked into each other’s eyes, and he whispered in a slightly hoarse, demanding voice:

“Go ahead, taste me. See how fucking hard you got me, princess.”

You swallowed nervously. Your heart raced faster, and without wasting any more time, you settled yourself better between his legs once he opened them wider for you. You looked at him and then at his large erection. You had never experienced being aroused underwater before, the wetness of your pussy lost in the pool water, throbbing hard in an almost weightless, relaxed sensation.

You never thought that the first thing your lips would taste and touch would be his cock, but there you were, trembling with excitement and pulling down his underwear to reveal something even bigger that he had kept well hidden.

You appreciated his fully erect cock for a moment, its slight curve, its intimidating presence on its own, and its prominent vein running along its entire length. His cock was big. And if he fucked you, you could fantasize about how much it would overwhelm you and make you whimper. The visual image filled you with even more desire. You were so lost, almost drooling at the thought of having him.

You made a small effort to raise your body higher, to position your mouth at just the right height, gently resting your arms on his thighs, and you began to caress him. His cock throbbed in your hand, and at your touch, Chris let out an exquisite moan from his lips. He was so needy. You could see it, his cock so pink and aroused, and just of thinking about everything that could happen. Everything that is happening right now, filling every one of his senses.

You licked his pink glans, continuing to stroke and gently pull his rigid length, which aroused him even more, to the point of making him bite his lip and pant in desperation. He responded very well to every little thing you did to him.

You circled his tip with your tongue, savoring the taste of his flesh as you took more and more into your mouth while looking him in the eyes. Your mouth opened wider and wider, trying to accommodate the thickness of his cock. Chris whimpered, suddenly feeling the warmth of your mouth. He admired with some difficulty, as he was letting himself be carried away by the pleasure, your wet eyelashes, your body under the water... your sweet expression distorting into something obscene, taking his cock in your mouth, your eyes wanting to cry little by little, your lips surrounding his rigid manhood.

Chris held on tightly, letting his body fall onto his hands pressed against the floor, marking his veiny arms, letting you do almost all the work, allowing you to please him at your own pace.

You began to suck him, to manipulate his cock to your liking, leaving him whimpering, breathless, and so close to orgasm. You sucked and licked consistently until you tasted his precum, until you took his big cock to the back of your mouth, teasing your throat. His throbbing, large sex filled your cavity and drove you crazy in many ways—making you extremely aroused, making your poor pussy restless, begging for more and more, and, as you choked and drooled on his hard dick, it was messy and hot. The sound of your heart beating intensely echoed in your ears, the obscene sounds of your mouth satisfying his sexual desire and stimulating his genitals, but above all, Chris’s sweet whimpers filled the room.

“Fuck, it feels so, so good.”

You continued, taking breaths from time to time, staining your hand with your saliva and his sticky fluids every time you pulled away and pretended to be brave again, giving him oral sex once more. There was something so exquisite about Chris, besides his gasps and his hot, throbbing cock stimulating your mouth. You were being used so badly, your legs moving desperately under the water, but you couldn’t stop, not until you achieved exactly what you both wanted. Chris came in your mouth, whimpering loudly, breathing deeply as his well-satisfied cock spilled its hot, exquisite semen. It filled your mouth as his penis and him continued to collapse in orgasm inside your cavity, going straight to your throat, making a mess and dripping from the corner of your lips.

You took his cock out of your mouth and drank as much semen as you could. He took his cock and rubbed his large manhood, still covered in his white cum, over your lips, gently slapping your face. You smiled, licking every last bit of him around your mouth. This was exactly what you wanted from the moment you met him... But you were still so turned on.

“Good girl, you drank all my cum? Look at you. Now it’s my turn. Come here, get out of the water, please.”

His words excited you, and you obeyed him. The summer fun was still going strong. So, you sat down on the edge of the pool too, and Chris adjusted his cock again and came closer to you, gently wiping your mouth and erotically inserting his thumb into your mouth, making him moan at the sensation of your warm tongue touching his finger. Then he pulled it away from you and finally kissed you, slowly but desperately, with an intensity that left you wanting more. His tongue made its presence felt, playing with yours, making the act dirty enough to then move his lips to your neck, while one of his hands quickly unhooked your bra and tossed it aside.

His mouth played and reveled mercilessly in your breasts, in your wet skin, while one hand squeezed your other breast, pinching your nipples... and the other sucked hard, making you whimper. It was slightly painful pleasure, the kind that only stimulated you to the limit, but the action softened once his fingers pulled aside the fabric of your panties to caress and attend to your clit. You squealed in response, almost wanting to close your legs as a reflex. You were so wet that Chris had to slide his fingers over your entire pussy just to differentiate between the soft, slightly sticky moisture of your arousal and the simple water from the pool.

And suddenly, he slid inside two of his fingers, working harder and harder on you, thrusting into you and overwhelming you with the sensation of his mischievous tongue using and stimulating your nipples, to the point of leaving them sensitive.

His fingers were long, moving, and working exquisitely on you, and if he continued at that pace, you could come for him. But he had other plans, sweet plans to eat you out completely.

His lips moved down your abdomen. He smiled when he saw you shudder and when he reached your navel, he moved away from you a little, removing his fingers from you, which he was only using to stimulate your entrance, and slowly slid your panties down to leave you completely naked.

Chris moaned and his cock throbbed again in desperation—even though he was still so sensitive there—at the sight of your mons pubis looking tenderly soft and appetizing to his libido and insatiable desire for you.

He got back into the pool, controlled your body to position himself in the same way you were, with his face in front of your intimacy, placing your legs on his broad shoulders, and finally began to satisfy you.

He first gave a warm and sizzling lick all over your vulva, raising his gaze lasciviously, inviting you to witness and pay close attention to how crazy he was to turn you on with his skills.

Then Chris finally sucked your clit, licked it, gently pushing it with his strong tongue just to tease you, and then sucked it hard, pressing his swollen lips against your pussy. And that’s how your wildness unfolded. At first, he licked you all over, patiently teasing you while his hands squeezed your thighs and he panted over your pussy, reveling in your taste and soft sensation:

“Mmm, fuck, yessss.”

Then he began to suck you with a voracious hunger, leaving you on the edge, stimulated, trembling, so overwhelmed by the new sensations—his tongue licked and stimulated the right places, his lips and nose pushed into your pussy right on the softest of spots, and even his teeth gently nibbling you were paradise. He knew exactly what he was doing. You had never experienced anything like it, making your pussy throb almost his name alone, so wonderful that you even rolled your eyes gently.

Chris didn’t hesitate to delight in you, he wanted to do it ever since he put his hand on your abdomen and guided you to teach you how to float. He knew that your little pussy was going to be a delight, so he didn’t waste an inch of you. He sucked your clit, tangled his tongue in your labia, pushed your entrance with it; he made you tremble, whimper, stimulating you as your moans of pleasure were a soft melody to him, until he finally tasted your sweet orgasm. You were as sweet as a warm summer evenning, he could have you every damn day.

“Mmm, fuck, I need to fuck you, now. Okay, babygirl?”

You nodded, breathless, still trembling and processing the intense sensation of orgasm.

Chris quickly got out of the pool, sat down, took out his cock, and guided your body to position yourself on top of him, holding you by the waist. You bit your lip, understanding perfectly that you were going to ride him. You sighed, preparing to take his cock.

“Take all the time you need, baby,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“It’s okay. It’s just—that you’re so big,” you replied breathlessly.

Chris smiled, and you finally gathered the courage to position his cock at your entrance and slowly slide down onto it. You both gasped. You had taken in just over half of his length and were already whimpering, feeling it push against your insides, but you wanted to be braver and let yourself fall onto it, letting out an almost hot cry. His cock throbbed inside you, hitting right against your cervix. And Chris wasn’t far behind; the feeling of his cock feeling practically crushed and compacted in such a tight, warm pussy made him see stars.

You were about to move, completely ready. Both of you could taste the sweetest, panting, hot sex. But the sudden lighting of the entire place interrupted and scared you.

Shit. Chris could already guess what it was, but he didn’t even have time to hide you. His cock was buried deep inside you.

“Chris... are you...? What the fuck?!”

Yes. The owner and his friend, Seungmin, had just entered the room, backing away and closing his eyes in terror at the sudden pornographic image.

“Are you fucking in my pool?!!”

You saw the unknown guy in terror and surprise, and then at Chris... but you had to admit that it was kind of funny, thinking that at least you both tasted each other deliciously.

𐙚 general taglist: @rylea08 @hann1bee @iovecb97 @armystay89 @lolareadsimagines @ayyonoona @do-you-remember-summer-127 @wildtokay @korthbum @hyune-sssne @oddracha @choso4u @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @bokkiesluv @thvsuga @myrkhive

⊹ chris taglist: @cherricola-star @biscuitthefirst @vernorica124

[madamechrissy]

Escort! Satoru- part five

Pairings- Escort Satoru Gojo x shy CEO F! reader

Warnings- mutual pining like a mf, obsessed ass/whipped ass Gojo, mutual pining, lots of yearninggg, kissing (I KNOW YAYYY) dry humping, teasing, fingering, public play, fluffy and cute- there will be a part six! (final) pretty woman vibes 🤭

<<<Part Four - Final Part>>>

Escort! Satoru finally does it, he asks you on that date, watching the shock in your eyes, the trembling of your lips as you step back, and Satoru feels it then, the hammering of his heart. Is it too late? Should he have reached out again to you after the first night, when you didn't answer? His blue eyes peer at you over those glasses, as the sunlight beats down on your skin, making his cheeks just a little reddened, striking across his pale skin.

Escort! Satoru eases his hands gently off your face, when you swallow nervously - he hurt you so badly that night, the embarrassment of asking him to hold you, dying for a mere kiss on the lips. How could you be so foolish, truly, you had to try to forget him in any way you could, after sleeping with him and knowing he would never be yours, always sharing him, he was just there because of your money and maybe he enjoyed it. But it wasn't more.

Escort! Satoru realizes how much he fucking missed you now, as if some void is filled by your presence, but you lower his hands gently, holding them for a moment. 'I was so...' stupid, you were stupid 'I'm very sorry I asked you for things you never do,' you sigh, looking around, seeing people walk by. 'I should have respected your-' Satoru stops you then, tilting your chin up, your gaze focused on him. 'I should have held you, okay? I'm sorry...' you feel your eyes fill with the tears, as words you've dreamed of are spoken, and they feel just like that- a dream. 'I want a real date, could we?'

Escort! Satoru eyes you when your phone rings, and you look down nervously. 'I have a date tonight, the first in... years' Satoru steps back now, glaring at you. 'With who?' you blink in surprise. 'Why does it matter to you? Do you think after months I wouldn't ever wanna try?' Satoru grips your wrist, thumb brushing against the veins gently, sending shivers down your spine, as he tries to compose himself, he has no right to be so mad, so jealous. 'Fine, then give me a date after' he murmurs, desperate for you, how can he see you and not try? After everything he's been yearning for appears before him, and he knows how badly he fucked up. 'I don't know...' you want to, god you do, but you also know how badly Satoru can hurt you, uniquely. 'Please just, give me a chance to explain myself, to be myself and not...' he trails off, the wind blows gently and a little blossom lands on your hair, which he sweetly brushes away. 'One chance'

Escort! Satoru is furious thinking about anyone touching you, though it's toxic and unrealistic in every aspect. His job was to touch, though he'd throw it all away if you asked, god he would, because he doesn't find joy in any of it. No amount of money fills this emptiness, but he never thought he'd have a chance with you - only to ruin it. 'I'll go out with you this weekend, but you pick the place, and pick me up' you say softly, his heart thuds as he nods eagerly, desperate and pathetic for you - something he's never been until you ruined him with just your energy, your body, that laugh he'd love to have back. Memories of your night fill him then, as he aches to touch you, to know you, to kiss you.

Escort! Satoru plans the date to a tee, but the whole time he's wondering - where are you going, and with who? Would you prefer them over him? Meanwhile you're trying to get through that date, mind wandering, you just tried to open up for the first time since Satoru broke your heart - even if it was your own fault. You try to smile, and enjoy him, a handsome man that surely was perfect on paper, and interested in you. As the night goes on and the drinks pour, you think to yourself, you should try, letting him kiss you at the end of the evening, wondering what you'll feel. It's nice, but it's nothing like just being near Satoru. Frustrated almost to tears, you're laying in bed that night, as the man in your head that you almost pushed down enough, is back front and center.

Escort! Satoru can't stand it, knowing you're on a date, he almost texts you so many times before he caves - 'ready for our date?'- he smirks, hoping your with whoever it was. But you don't answer him for hours, until you finally write him - yes - and that's it, no sweet banter like the two of you had. It's different, had you really already moved on? He trembles as he texts you - 'how was the date?' - and you write - 'it was fine, any jobs tonight? - and that's when he realizes you're mad. The sweetest girl he met is so clearly mad. He hadn't taken a job tonight, and he's cancelled his week, but he gets it clearly. - 'no job tonight, I'm excited to see you' - He's never said that to anyone. You heart the message, emotions catching, excitement but apprehension in equal parts, you just don't know if he's serious, you're so scared to let go again.

Escort! Satoru picks you up that night in his car, some little Maserati sports car that looks like it goes way too fast. You can't act like he's not sexy as fuck as he steps out of it, opening your door and grinning at you, but you try to hold back, smiling with a 'thank you' as you slide in next to him. Satoru's hand craves to press on your thigh, but fuck if he's not nervous, he hasn't had a date since he started this career despite his job being to go on dates, not a real one, not with someone he asked. He's damn near shaking with his nerves, trying to play it off, as he drives through the quiet streets, smiling over at you with a quirk of his lips. 'You look beautiful' his words make you flustered, nervously tugging a bit on the gorgeous dress you're wearing, glittering like the stars in the sky - fuck your very skin itself glitters. 'you're saying it truly this time?'

Escort! Satoru glares now, foot on his break, scowling at you. 'what do you mean truly? you think I didn't mean any of it?' you blink back unexpected tears, looking out the dark tinted window as he drives once more. 'It was your job, that's all, and I told you I took it too far, you shouldn't feel bad that happened. I - ah!' he skids to a stop suddenly, pulling off the side of the road, and unbuckling your seatbelt so fast you can barely register. He's got you on his lap so fast, as cars whirl by, shaking the fucking car and shocking you further, as he handles you like it's nothing. You brace your hands on his chest, so nervous now, hands clenching the black jacket of his tux, breaths faster and faster. 'You are beautiful, I never said that because of a job' he swipes away your tears, lips hovering over yours, as he exhales, breath tickling your lips. 'What are you doing, Satoru?' your whisper is weak, as he drags you even closer, and his eyes dart to your lips. 'What I should have done that night'

Escort! Satoru slams his lips on yours then and there, you feel it like hot, electric shots going through your body when he does, when he's pressing those plush, glossy lips on yours, and you're shattering over him, lost in his kiss. Satoru has never felt anything like it, like finally kissing you, his tongue slipping in your mouth, drinking up your every cry, every gasp, as you roll your hips just right, and he feels the heat he's been dying for against his aching cock. 'Fuck...' his hushed words are met with your little cry, which just has him dragging you down harder, ready to devour every sweet inch of you, but barely being able to drag himself from your lips, gasping as he pulls back, eyes meeting yours, glimmering now. 'Satoru you... kissed me...' you're close to crying now, trembling as he sighs, cupping your pretty face, the one that's haunted him. 'I've wanted to since I first saw you'

Escort! Satoru keeps kissing you, over and over, desperate and messy, you almost cum just from that friction against you, his teeth sinking into your lower lip, as his huge hands press into your skin. 'I need you, fuck I need you sweetheart- god you have no clue' you're easing back, struggling to compose yourself. 'Am I so VIP?' you tease softly, and he feels it then, the soft way you're asking - not judging, but scared. He exhales, resting his head on yours, shaking his head and pulling you down again. 'I'll gladly delete my whole fucking profile, for a chance with you' his words sink in fully. Your cheeks are hot under his gentle touch. 'I just don't... Satoru, you don't have to do this for me. I understand...' He kisses you once more, before your phone rings.

Escort! Satoru glares, and you can't help but giggle. 'Are you jealous?' he just sets his jaw, as you look over and see it, holding the phone with a shaky hand, and he pulls you harder on his cock, having your eyes roll back in your skull. 'Tell him you're on a date' he whispers, gripping you so tight, before easing you to sit back in your seat, kissing you over and over. 'Let's get there, okay?' you're trying to compose yourself, seeing him shift and wince while he drives once more, pouting. 'You enjoying my pain, sweets?' you can't help but giggle again. The date is pretty and serene, the restaraunt on the roof top, swathed in moonlight. Satoru feeds you carefully, the two of you sharing dessert, talking and laughing like the first time he fucking met you - when he knew then, something was so special about you, something he could never pin fully, but he sees it, with how the candle light hits your face, your sweet blush as his hand slips up your thigh.

Escort! Satoru is not happy to learn you've had a kiss, and your amused little smile is quickly lost, when he slips his fingers between your thighs, and you wildly look around, as he smirks at you. 'That's cute, you kissed? did you like that?' he's taunting now, possessive gaze, that you can't get enough of, fuck you want all of him, even though you're scared, so scared to be hurt again. He's pressing his fingers against your panties, which are soaked, watching as your eyes get lidded, hand gripping the thick white cloth, and he slips under then, feeling the heat he'd been dying for, leaning in close. 'Asked you a question, hmm?' you lean closer, hips shifting, jerking as he thumbs your twitchy little clit, making you gush. 'Would you be mad if I liked it, Satoru?' he sighs, slipping two fingers in your slick hole, making you almost moan in the fucking restaurant now. 'You're wet for me, aren't you, all me?' He's curling them now, acting so casual as a waitress refills your wine, and you pray no one hears the squishing noises your juices are making.

Escort! Satoru can't help but suck you off his fingers, right before he makes you cum, and you're throbbing around nothing, wanting. You're clenching your teeth as you watch, as if he's finishing his dessert- and when he tastes you again!? He can barely control himself, eyes dilated while you sink into his tastebuds, ready to finally give you what you want, and need, and deserve, fuck you so good you can't function, and hold and kiss you. Satoru slips his lips on yours in front of the restaurant, and you taste yourself, whining into his lips. Suddenly a girl sees him, a frequent client who'd gotten too obsessed, and walks right up to him, crossing her arms. He eases back in the seat, as you look down shyly, unsure of who she is. 'I'm on a date' his words make your heart flutter now, as she glares. 'ah, so you do kiss? was this some special package, do you know how expensive you are?' you bite back a smile, and Satoru just grins, shaking his head like a little shit. 'It's different, she's my girlfriend.'

Escort! Satoru blushes when you whisper 'your girlfriend, huh?' in his ear moments later, as a very angry client stomps off, and he brushes back your hair, hard body against yours, studying your face. 'Would you... be my girlfriend?'

taglist 1 @shydroid3000 @aducksmokingquack @miya4life @ravenbc @yenayaps @nezukuwu @etsuniiru @ieathairs @kenqki @princess-bblgm @belovedxiao @ninikrumbs @ieathairs @myahfig4 @theelegantpotato @vvaoo @aldebrana @celestep004 @whoisteona @ladyneisa @lililovely78 @gamerhere @wstaley2 @allthesqueaks @slut4donghyuck @maisiefrancesca @yittten @femaholicc @jjknanamin @that-b-word-lol @devastyle @mat-mat-mat @jkslaugh97 @ovela @mxgnolia @rikiswifeyyy @kaayyhunnyy @gojos1wife1 @arabellasolstice @01ve3rz @jud3thedude @firemoonlightfly @vyluvs @artist1936 @kyelikesanime @alygator77 @seternic @qlucoise @mysticranger575 @undermegumisbed

[loveeruri]

what pervy childhoodbsf!bllkmen would do when they have a crush on you

part 2 ♡ part 3 ♡ part 4

characters included: isagi, bachira, kunigami, raichi, barou, nagi, reo, tsurugi, rin.

!! mdni, nsfw themes, various bllk characters, pervy!bllkmen, panty stealing, spying, porn watching, f!reader, reader has a boyfriend, cheating, a bit of yearning, aged up characters.

he knew from the millisecond he saw you. then when you talked to him?! wanted to be his friend?! that warm, fuzzy feeling beating in his chest wouldn't leave. it's a unique infatuation, one he didn't have for anyone but you. for years on end.

it started as adoration. then when he got older, it'd be him fucking into his own hand nearly every night, pretending it was you bouncing up and down on his cock and whispering into his ear how much you love him.

he'd pull up a selfie of you from your social media page, his favorite. the one where your top is low, showcasing your perky tits sitting pretty. he believed you took it just for him. he'd imagine himself in the photo, leaving a kiss on your cheek. accompanied by the post's caption with his tag and a small paragraph thanking him for the date.

with how much he thought about it, it felt like it had relatively materialized in the world in front of him. that was until you got a boyfriend. reality woke him from his stupid, irrational little fantasy.

he didn't stop though. in fact, he saw it as a challenge. you knew him for much longer and he knew that you'd always choose him. you'd come crawling back to him when that boy broke your heart. just like you always did.

rin itoshi, yoichi isagi, jingo raichi.

you and him were incredibly close. the closest platonic friends could get. although, he never saw it as platonic at all. he wanted more.

when you two would get shipped together in school because of how much you hung out, you'd laugh and say "ew god no! he's my best friend!." he'd just stand there, staring off into the distance with his soul crushed.

when you got a boyfriend, nothing changed. you'd occasionally cancel plans with your lover to spend time with your bestie at his place. the place where you had spent so many other nights at, where he'd stare at you over his shoulder while you'd get dressed in the corner of the room.

he didn't give a shit about your boyfriend. so when you told him you had never kissed a boy before and that you were nervous, he offered to teach you. when you actually agreed to do so, his brain short circuited.

while your tongues were fighting for dominance, he popped the fattest boner. luckily for him though, you never noticed.

he savored the flavor of your lips the whole time, because he knew he'd never get the chance to do it again. for years to come he'll replay that evening in his mind over and over.

rensuke kunigami, shoei barou, seishiro nagi.

this man thinks of you when he jerks off to faceless porn. he can't stand the way his mind tricks him into believing her moans sound like what yours would.

he always picks the videos where the girl's body type is similar to yours, wishing it was really a video of him filling your pussy.

the day that you accidentally left your pair of panties in his room after sleeping over, is the day his obsession got worse. he felt a little guilty for immediately smelling your scent on them, licking at the lingering taste of you. keeping them safe in his closet.

now he's always encouraging you to stay at his house when you have fights with your boyfriend. which, you do just that.

how sweet he is to be an emotional support buddy...

and to watch you shower through the door crack.

meguru bachira, reo mikage, zantetsu tsurugi.

[hobi-side]

for morale | myg

— pairing: min yoongi x f!reader

— playlist: moment's silence (common tongue) - hozier, love me harder - ariana grande, honey - kehlani, adorn - miguel, don't - crush, waves - dean

—  summary: After two weeks apart, you come home from Bali sun-kissed and full of stories—except none of them compare to the warmth of Yoongi’s arms. He wrote you a song. You brought back tequila, a TikTok trick he has no idea about, and a plan you executed after a terrible week strictly for morale.

Yoongi never stood a chance.

—  word count: 9.9k

—  warnings: lovey dovey couple, they're so in love, little fluffly at the beginning but they're always horny (i get them), established relationship, tequila shots?, yoongi missing oc, oc missing yoongi, unprotected sex, dirty talk?, cunnilingus, little rough, multiple orgasms, jealous yoongi if you squint.

—  note: HELL YEAH! so this was fun to write because it was born, like most of the things i write, from a personal experience with tequila shots. wanna thank miss salma hayek for letting us know The Trick to get a man like that. i miss you yoongi (thank god he'll be back soon). FIRST YOONGI ONE SHOT BTW CROWD CHEERED.

Yoongi has always been sure of two things. Well—always is a strong word. Maybe lately is more honest. Certainty doesn’t come easy to him; it’s something he’s had to fight for, inch by inch, thought by thought. But here, in this quiet moment—his fingers idle on the keys, a half-finished verse echoing in his mind—he knows these things like he knows his own name.

One: he loves music. Not in the cliché way people throw around the word love, but in the way it threads through the cracks in his chest and holds the broken parts together. It’s been his anchor, his escape, his language when he couldn’t find the right words. Music has never asked him to be more than what he is. It just lets him be.

Two: he really, truly, fucking loves you. It’s terrifying, how real that is. How permanent it feels. Like it’s carved into him somewhere deep. You came into his life without warning, without fanfare—and now you’re in the pauses between his breaths, in the silence between his notes. He doesn’t know when it happened, but loving you feels inevitable now. Like it always would’ve come to this, no matter the path.

Three—was there a three? Yeah because now, standing here at the airport, watching you walk toward him, duffel slung over your shoulder, smile cracking through the jetlag—he knows something else, too.

He’s really fucking glad you’re home.

You nudge him gently, your fingers brushing against the fabric of his hoodie sleeve as he sits hunched over his laptop, headphones around his neck, the room bathed in dim yellow light and the faint scent of coffee and something else uniquely him.

“Yoongi,” you say, voice soft with that teasing affection only he ever gets to hear.

He glances over, the corner of his lips twitching into a tired smile—one of those barely-there ones that still makes your chest warm. His eyes, though, tell a different story: they flicker with something like relief. Like seeing you in front of him makes the past two weeks fall away.

“I wanna hear the full song?” you ask, and then you hesitate just a beat, voice quieter, more vulnerable: “Missed you.”

That’s when he turns fully, shutting the laptop with a quiet click. His eyes don’t leave yours.

“I missed you, too,” he says, and it’s not just words—he means it. His voice carries that low, slow sincerity you know he only lets out when he’s too tired to hide anything. “House felt empty. Bed felt colder.”

You laugh softly, settling down beside him on the couch, your thigh pressing lightly against his. “You could’ve texted more, you know.”

“I know,” he murmurs, and his hand finds yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Didn’t want to bother you. You were having fun.”

“I was,” you admit, leaning your head on his shoulder. “But it didn’t feel right without you. Kept looking over like I was gonna see you sitting next to me.”

He lets out a breath, quiet and shaky. “I kept hearing your voice in my head when I was working. Thought I was losing it.”

You grin. “Maybe you are.”

He finally laughs—low and real. Then he squeezes your hand and says, “Let me play you the song. I finished it... the night before you came back. It’s about you.”

Your heart skips, just a little. “Of course it is.”

And in the soft silence that follows, he slips the headphones over your ears and presses play, watching your face as if every beat and lyric matters more now, because you’re home. And so is he.

The music washes over you like a wave—warm, layered, intentional. It’s him in every note: the way he composes with feeling first and logic second, the subtle textures, the pause right before the chorus that somehow says more than words.

And the lyrics? God. They’re not even overly romantic, but they are him—honest and understated and impossibly vulnerable. There’s a line in the second verse that pulls something tight in your chest. Something about “empty spaces filled by the weight of a laugh I forgot I needed.” And another one, quiet, tucked into the bridge, that just says: “You made room where I didn’t know I had any left.”

When it ends, you don’t say anything for a moment. You just breathe. His hands are resting on his thighs now, and you can tell from the way he’s chewing the inside of his cheek that he’s nervous.

You blink a few times, then take off the headphones slowly, setting them aside. “Yoongi,” you say, voice soft, caught somewhere between awe and teasing, “are you trying to kill me? Be honest.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Emotionally or musically?”

You snort, nudging him with your shoulder. “Both, obviously. That was… wow. I don’t even have the words.”

“That’s ironic, coming from someone who works with words all day,” he says, smirking just slightly, but his eyes are searching—worried.

You look at him. “I’m serious. That was beautiful. It felt like…” You pause, pressing your lips together before letting the truth out: “Like you cracked open your chest and just—let me see everything.”

Yoongi shrugs, but it’s the kind of shrug he does when he’s trying to be chill and failing. “Yeah, well. Took me long enough to say all that. Figured I’d just put it in a track before I chickened out.”

You lean in, forehead touching his. “You’re still such a coward sometimes,” you whisper, smiling against his skin.

“I know,” he murmurs. “But you waited for me anyway.”

You both go quiet for a second. The kind of silence that doesn’t ask to be filled. The kind you only get with someone who knows you inside out.

“I was gonna say,” you continue, pulling back just enough to look at him, “funny how this all started with you awkwardly avoiding eye contact that night we met at Hobi’s thing.”

Yoongi groans. “Don’t remind me. I was not avoiding eye contact.”

“You literally stared at the floor the whole time.”

“I was tired.”

“You were shy.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat behind it. “And you were so annoyingly composed. Sitting there with your editor brain probably judging my entire existence.”

“I was not judging,” you say, laughing now. “I was intrigued. You were the only one in the room who looked like they wanted to be somewhere else.”

He smiles again—smaller this time, realer. “Yeah. Then you sat next to me and started talking about existentialism and short stories and somehow I didn’t want to leave.”

You grin. “And then we spent the next year pretending we weren’t falling in love during every 3 a.m. conversation.”

Yoongi’s hand finds yours again, and this time he lifts it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “You didn’t pretend very well, by the way.”

“Oh?” you tease.

He nods. “You kept looking at me like you were already writing a story about us.”

You shrug. “Maybe I was.”

Then, quieter, you add: “But I like your version better.”

You and Yoongi have been together for over two years now. That’s not even counting the year before—when you both clung to the idea of just friends like it was some kind of lifeline, even as everything between you said otherwise. Late-night calls, shared silences, too-long stares, the kind of conversations that felt like peeling each other open, layer by layer.

Everyone saw it. Except, apparently, you and him.

Or maybe you did see it. Maybe you were just scared to name it.

Either way, it all came to a head one night—tangled sheets, hearts racing, a confession slipping out in the dark like it had been waiting all that time just to be said out loud. And after that, well… the rest unraveled beautifully.

“It was bound to happen,” Hoseok had said with a grin so wide it felt smug. “Honestly, I was just waiting for one of you to crack. You were already acting like a married couple and you hadn’t even kissed yet.”

Seokjin, ever the dramatist, had clapped a hand on Yoongi’s shoulder and told you both, “You don’t understand. This guy? He doesn’t react to people. He nods at introductions and moves on. But you? You walked into the room at that party and he looked up. That’s practically a love letter coming from him.”

Namjoon had agreed, of course—more calm, more analytical, but just as insistent. “We’ve seen him hear a song he loves and still just blink. But when you spoke for the first time, he tilted his head, like he was trying to figure out a melody he didn’t want to forget.”

It sounds dramatic. Overblown. But you’ve lived with Yoongi long enough to know that his reactions aren’t always loud—but they’re deep. And real.

And now, two years in, you still catch him looking at you the same way he did back then—like he’s studying you, memorizing you, writing lyrics in his head that only you’ll ever get to hear.

You joke that he’s soft for you. He just shrugs and says, “Yeah. And?”

But there’s this quiet steadiness to it, too. Like after all the slow burn, the long talks, the almosts and maybes, you both found something solid. Something that doesn’t need to burn wildly all the time because it stays.

So yeah—Hoseok was right. It was bound to happen.

And now you both took a break.

Well—technically, you didn’t take a break. Let’s rewind. That makes it sound way more dramatic than it was.

You just went on a trip.

A girls’ trip. Bali. Sun-soaked beaches, endless laughter, fruity drinks with names you couldn't pronounce, and the kind of easy joy that only comes when you’re surrounded by women who love you like sisters. It was good. No—wonderful, even. It was the kind of trip you talk about for years after, the kind that feels like a pause from real life in the best possible way.

But still… you missed him.

You didn’t say it at first. You told yourself it was healthy—good, even—to have space. That it was nice not to be The Couple for once. You didn’t need to be that clingy type, right?

Right?

Except… it hit faster than you expected. Maybe on the second morning, when your coffee didn’t taste quite the same without his weirdly specific milk-to-coffee ratio. Maybe when someone cracked a joke and your instinct was to turn, to catch his eye across the table and share that look you always did when something was exactly your brand of funny. Maybe when you fell asleep without the weight of his arm slung around your waist and woke up reaching for someone who wasn’t there.

It was the first time you’d spent more than 48 hours apart since becoming officially, capital-B Boyfriend and capital-G Girlfriend—a title that felt funny on your tongue at first, but quickly became second nature. You weren’t all over each other all the time.

(Okay, you were. But like, in a wholesome, “I’d follow you into the kitchen just to steal a grape from your hand” kind of way.)

But it wasn’t just physical. That wasn’t it. You liked him. Genuinely. You liked being with him—liked how he made space for your chaos, how he listened like every word mattered, how he challenged you without ever making you feel small. You liked the quiet hours and the loud laughter and the strange little routines that made your life feel stitched together in all the right ways.

So yeah, Bali was gorgeous. Your girls were radiant. The food was incredible. But there was this quiet, persistent pull in your chest the whole time—a whisper that said, I wish he was seeing this too.

And now you’re back. Sitting beside him, knees brushing, headphones still warm from when he played you that song. And it hits you all over again:

You missed him. Not in a dramatic, world-ending way.

Just in the way you always miss home when you’ve been gone too long.

You’re still barefoot, half sunk into the old couch in the corner of the studio, hair a little messy from the flight, face flushed with excitement instead of exhaustion. You just listened to the song—his song—and you swear your ribcage is still vibrating from the last chord. But your mind’s already off, burning through memory, hands moving animatedly as you talk.

“Oh, babe,” you say, practically bouncing in your seat, “Bali was insane. I mean, the kind of beauty that doesn’t even feel real half the time. You’re walking down a street and suddenly there’s a temple just... there. No gates. No warning. Just stone and incense and a woman with silver hair weaving flower offerings like it’s the most normal Tuesday in the world.”

Yoongi hums from the swivel chair, eyes on you, chin in hand. You’re not even looking at him—you’re too wrapped up in everything you're trying to say at once. And god, you’re glowing.

“And the air?” you go on, laughing breathlessly, “Yoongi—it’s like the whole island is perfumed. Salt, frangipani, smoke, clove cigarettes—it gets in your clothes, in your hair. You become part of it. I haven’t felt that light in years. Like my whole body was being wrung out and re-threaded.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches. Quiet. Intense.

“And there was this one night,” you continue, tucking your feet under you. “We went to this hidden beach—like, you have to go down a billion steps that look like they’ve been carved by actual ghosts—and when we got there? Bonfire. Music. Locals playing guitar on these beat-up amps powered by a generator that sounded like it was dying.”

You grin, eyes flicking up to him for the first time. He’s still. Too still.

You push on, because you’re on fire now. “They handed us drinks—stuff made with arak and fruit juice, totally unregulated, I’m probably lucky I didn’t go blind—and they were just... flirting. Shamelessly. With everyone. Dami got asked to teach this guy how to salsa. Chaeyoung got proposed to with a mango. And I—” you pause, tilting your head, eyes dancing, “—I got called a goddess like, three times. Four, if you count the guy who kept asking if I wanted a moonlit shoulder massage.”

Yoongi's eyebrow twitches.

You notice. You smirk.

“Relax,” you tease. “I told him I was taken. Very taken. Like, off-the-market, emotionally-devoted, boyfriend-writes-me-songs kind of taken.”

His lips twitch, but the line of his jaw stays tight.

You lean forward a little. “Yoongi.”

He still doesn’t look at you.

“Yoongi,” you sing again, dragging out the vowels.

Finally, he lifts his eyes to yours, deadpan. “I’m just wondering why you remember how many times someone called you a goddess, but you can’t remember the name of the ramen place we went to three times in one week.”

You blink. Then you laugh. “Are you—oh my God, are you jealous?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “I’m just saying, you were gone for two weeks and apparently became the main character in a beach romance novel.”

“Well,” you hum, shifting closer, “I am a woman of many genres.”

He gives you a look. “Including ‘hot girl summer in Bali with mysterious shoulder-massaging men.’ Got it.”

You bite back another laugh, slide closer until your legs touch. “Would it make you feel better if I told you none of them had your voice? Or your hands? Or your devastating ability to turn missing someone into actual music?”

He doesn’t reply—but he’s listening.

You rest your chin on his shoulder. “I loved every minute of it. But I thought about you the whole time.”

His voice is lower now. “Even when someone was calling you a goddess?”

You grin. “Especially then.”

He exhales, finally, leaning back into you.

“You’re still annoyed,” you murmur, smiling.

“I wrote you a love song and you got proposed to with fruit,” he mutters.

You laugh against his neck. “Okay, that’s fair. But at least your song didn’t give me food poisoning.”

He finally cracks a smile.

And in the soft silence that follows, you slide your hand into his.

Back. Safe. Still burning—with the sun, with the music, with him.

The day after the studio session—after Yoongi had pulled you into his world and played you that new song with the kind of pride he rarely let show—you were finally home, finally grounded enough to unpack.

You’d brought back a mountain of things, mostly souvenirs for your friends. It wasn’t even guilt-buying; you just missed them. A lot.

You started sorting everything out on your floor, each item sparking a memory of someone’s laugh, someone’s oddly specific obsession.

For Namjoon, you had a set of handcrafted ceramics—delicate bowls and one oddly shaped mug you knew he’d appreciate in an “object with character” kind of way. He was into stuff like that: things with weight, texture, stories.

Seokjin’s little bundle was easier. He had this current fixation with coffee, and not just any coffee—he’d sent you the exact brand he wanted, grown somewhere at a particular altitude, roasted a certain way. You weren’t even sure how he found it, but you made the detour just for him. Worth it, you figured, for the chaos he’d unleash in the group chat once he got his hands on it.

Hoseok was getting the batik fabric you found in a tiny shop tucked away near the market. It had deep blues and burnt oranges—bold and beautiful, just like him. You already pictured him turning it into a jacket or draping it over something dramatically at a dance studio. And for his girlfriend, a delicate piece of handmade jewelry—silver with tiny amber stones, shaped like falling leaves. She was going to lose her mind over it.

Your own stuff? That took less time. You hadn’t packed much to begin with—mostly bikinis and breezy tops. The heat had practically demanded it. But you’d also picked up a bunch of new shorts, the kind that showed off your legs just enough. The thought made you grin.

You were definitely planning to wear them around Seoul soon. Yoongi was definitely going to like them.

You were halfway through organizing your pile of clothes when your hand hit something solid near the bottom of your suitcase.

“Oh... right.” Tequila.

Chaeyoung.

The memory hit you like the smell of lime and salt.

She’d shown up in Bali like a whirlwind—barely touched down in Seoul for the past eight months. She’d bounced from London to Chile, Argentina, and then Mexico, and somehow skipped straight to Bali to meet you all, suitcase in tow and stories practically spilling out of her mouth.

“I brought the best tequila for you girls,” she’d announced like it was gold. She held it up like a trophy, her sunglasses still on even though the sun had already dipped behind the trees.

“You’re gonna love it. I swear,” she added, unscrewing the cap to let you smell it right then and there.

Dami squinted at her, skeptical. “What do you mean best? Like—good flavor or good time?”

Chaeyoung had smirked. “Oh, babe, if I told you half the things I did after a couple of shots of this…”

“You’re crazy,” Taeha called out from the back patio.

“No, babe,” Chaeyoung said, eyes wild and glass already half-empty, “you’re gonna want to be crazy after I teach you this little trick. Trust me—this stuff? It’ll get your man on fire.”

The room paused, like it collectively sensed incoming chaos.

Jieun blinked. “Why does that sound illegal?”

“Because it probably is,” Dami whispered, crossing her arms like she was preparing for war.

Chaeyoung ignored both of them, too far gone. She slammed her glass down like she was about to present a scientific discovery. “Okay, LISTEN. I’m about to change all your lives.”

“Oh no,” Taeha muttered. “Not another ‘I saw a TikTok and now I’m a sex guru’ monologue—”

“SHUT UP and listen”, Chaeyoung snapped, already standing like a drunk prophet. “So I was in Mexico, okay? Had just eaten like...six tacos and a churro. I’m tipsy. This guy is rambling about the flavor notes in mezcal like he’s auditioning for MasterChef: Alcoholic Edition, and I’m scrolling TikTok minding my business—and BAM.”

She clapped loudly. Everyone jumped.

“This woman—an actress, like straight up goddess energy—comes up on my For You Page. And she’s like, ‘This is how you seduce a man in ten seconds or less.’ I didn’t even blink. I learned.”

“Stop,” Jieun begged, already wheezing. “I can’t breathe when you talk like this.”

“I’m serious!” Chaeyoung shouted. “You don’t need lingerie. You don’t need a playlist. You just need THIS.”

She grabbed a pillow off the couch and slammed it onto the floor like it owed her money. “Dami, you’re the man. Get over here.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“DAMI. Get. Over. Here.”

By the time Dami crawled over, purely out of morbid curiosity, Chaeyoung was already miming the scene. She picked up her shot glass like it was sacred, locked fake-eyes with Dami, and whispered:

“You take the tequila. You hold it. You stare. Not blink. Not smile. Just stare like you’re about to commit emotional crimes.”

She mimed holding the shot in her mouth, then leaned toward Dami with cartoonishly intense eye contact.

“And THEN,” she continued, dramatically slow, “you pass it. Mouth. To. Mouth.”

The room exploded.

Jieun SCREAMED. “WHAT THE FUCK!!!”

“I SWEAR TO GOD I’M GONNA DIE,” Taeha said, curled into a ball.

Dami fell backward, shrieking. “Get off me, you demon woman!”

“I WAS DOING RESEARCH!” Chaeyoung yelled back, offended.

“YOU DID THIS TO SOMEONE?” you gasped.

“In the bathroom of a rooftop bar in Oaxaca!” she declared like she was announcing a Grammy win. 

“WHAT.”

“WHATTTTTTTTT?!”

Jieun was hiding behind the couch now. “I cannot believe I have to know you.”

Chaeyoung, now fully unhinged, launched into a dramatic reenactment—flipping her hair, straddling the pillow like a man was beneath it. “Then we made out so hard I almost knocked a soap dispenser off the wall. I think there was applause outside. I don’t know. I blacked out from the POWER.”

“You need help,” Dami groaned, fanning herself.

“No, YOU need tequila and a man with low expectations,” Chaeyoung snapped, already pouring more shots. “Now, who’s next? Let’s practice. I’ll be the guy. Come on. Seduce me, cowards!”

You were crying from laughter. Your stomach hurt. Your soul hurt. Jieun looked like she was about to call a priest.

“Do we need to tell Yoongi about this?” Taeha asked you with an evil grin.

“No one tells Yoongi anything,” you said quickly, gripping your drink like it was your only protection.

Chaeyoung just smirked at you, devilish. “You’re gonna try it. I know you are.”

You just laughed—and avoided her gaze.

But she already knew.

Yeah, that bottle of tequila was now staring at you.

Oh, you were gonna have fun.

By the time Yoongi woke up—hair messy, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, blinking at you like you were a dream—it was nearly noon.

“You unpacked already?” he asked, voice raspy, warm with sleep.

“Trying to pretend I’m not still on Bali time,” you mumbled, smiling into your mug.

He padded over, kissed your temple, and muttered something about making tteokbokki.

And god, he really could cook.

You sat cross-legged on the counter while he moved through the kitchen with quiet confidence, slicing green onions, adding just the right amount of gochugaru like it was instinct. The rich, spicy scent filled the apartment, and when you finally sat down to eat, you could have cried from the comfort of it. After two weeks of fresh seafood and tropical fruits, having something that tasted like home—like Seoul, like him—felt grounding.

“Still like mine better than any Bali food?” he asked, smug as he watched you devour the last piece.

You licked your spoon. “No offense to Bali, but your tteokbokki is emotional support food. It wins.”

He grinned, that small, rare one that made your stomach flutter.

Now, hours later, the sun was setting outside the living room window. The city buzzed softly in the distance, but here in the apartment, it was calm—dim lights, a quiet movie playing, legs tangled under a shared blanket. Yoongi leaned into the cushions, one arm draped behind you, the other lazily scrolling through his phone during the slow parts.

“Should we open some wine?” he asked, his voice low, almost a hum.

“Only if you pick it,” you replied, resting your head on his shoulder.

He gave you a small pat on the thigh before heading over to the shelf tucked into the corner of the kitchen—a narrow unit lined with a modest but respectable collection of bottles. He crouched down, humming to himself, searching for the right red.

Then he paused.

“...What the hell is this?”

You turned your head.

Yoongi straightened slowly, holding up a sleek, unfamiliar bottle. The label was bright. Bold. Very not him.

He squinted at it. “Did this multiply in my apartment without my permission? I did not buy this.”

You bit your lip, trying very hard not to smile.

He turned to face you. “This yours?”

You gave him a sheepish nod.

He examined the label again, then looked at you with a mixture of suspicion and amusement. “Why... do you have a bottle of tequila hiding in my apartment?”

“Chaeyoung gave it to me,” you explained, as innocently as possible. “As a gift.”

Yoongi arched a brow. “That sounds fake. Try again.”

“Okay,” you admitted, slowly standing up, blanket falling from your lap. “It was part of a girls’ night... situation. Involving stories. And hypotheticals. And a very specific TikTok.”

Yoongi narrowed his eyes at you like he was trying to read subtitles you weren’t offering.

“…What kind of TikTok?”

You gave him a totally innocent smile. “A harmless one.”

“That’s never true,” he said flatly. “Every time someone starts a sentence with ‘so I saw this TikTok’ it ends in something insane or borderline illegal.”

You raised your hands in mock surrender. “Nobody got arrested. Nobody died. There were just... beverages. And discussions. That’s all.”

Yoongi held up the bottle like it was radioactive. “So this ended with you bringing back imported mystery tequila from girls' night? That’s the takeaway?”

“Don’t be dramatic,” you said, walking over and plucking the bottle from his hands. “It’s artisanal.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“You act like I’m hiding a crime,” you teased, setting it carefully on the table.

“You are hiding something,” he muttered, still watching you suspiciously. “You’re way too smiley for this to be a normal ‘hey let’s have tequila’ situation.”

You shrugged, doing your best to look unbothered—even as your face threatened to betray you with another grin. “Maybe I just missed you and thought it’d be fun to have a drink together.”

“Uh-huh,” he said slowly, eyes narrowing like he was filing that line away for later. “Totally believable. No other reason. No hidden context.”

“Exactly.”

A pause.

Yoongi finally dropped back onto the couch beside you, still eyeing the bottle like it might start talking.

“You’re lucky I like you,” he muttered under his breath.

You nudged his knee with yours. “I am lucky.”

He glanced at you, then let out a small, exasperated laugh. “And now I’m low-key afraid to drink that.”

You leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Well, good thing we’re having wine right now.”

He shot you a look, but couldn’t help the amused smile tugging at his lips.

It had been a shitty week. No poetic metaphors, no dramatic flair. Just plain, exhausting, soul-sucking shit. Going back to work was shitty. As an editor at a publishing company, you were used to juggling deadlines, writer meltdowns, and 2 a.m. “urgent” revisions — but this week? This week decided to personally test your will to live.

By Friday, you were running on caffeine, petty rage, and whatever serotonin your cat videos could offer.

Thankfully, it was over. Finally.

You were curled up on the couch in an oversized hoodie, staring blankly at your phone while half a bag of chips sat forgotten beside you. Yoongi had texted earlier — be home in an hour, miss u — and even just that had been enough to keep you from combusting.

With a sigh, you opened your messages app, finally catching up on the chaos you’d ignored all week.

Your friends' group chat was on fire. Everyone was still riding the Bali high, posting blurry sunset photos, thirst traps in bikinis, and messages like:

Taeha: literally thinking about the nasi goreng at 3am Jieun: my skin still glows like i bathed in tropical gods Dami: WHEN are we doing round two. i need a new passport stamp and a new man. urgently. Taeha: can we do Greece. or Spain. or literally anywhere with sun and drama.

You smiled, heart softening a little. Yeah. That trip was magic.

And then you saw it — a private message from Chaeyoung.

Chaeyoung💥: [TikTok link] “this is the visual representation of what i tried to explain that night LMAO” “giving this to u cuz u r the only one with a man lol”

You tapped the link, suspicious.

The video started playing — and you immediately paused it, jaw dropping, face heating.

Oh. OH.

It was the exact tequila trick she’d so enthusiastically attempted to act out back in Bali. Except now, seeing it performed in real time — slow, hot, absolutely lethal — made something in your brain short-circuit. You blinked, stared at your phone like it betrayed you, then hit play again. For science.

The way the woman in the video straddled her man, the effortless way she passed the drink between their mouths, the almost moan he let out like it rewired his whole nervous system—

Yeah. You were watching this on a Friday night after getting metaphorically body-slammed by your job. You deserved joy. You deserved serotonin. And preferably, you deserved it in the form of your boyfriend, shirtless, on this very couch.

You: chaeyoung. what the hell. why r u sending me this 

Chaeyoung: DIDN’T I JUST SAID YOU R THE ONLY ONE WITH A MAN THAT YOU CAN CALL YOURS. SEE THE VISION

You: i see it i feel it

Chaeyoung: YESSSS get that man WEAK, babes.

You: he’s coming home in 40 how fast do u think i can shower and emotionally prepare

Chaeyoung: light the fucking torch.

You stared at the screen for a second, heart racing, lip caught between your teeth.

Well. You did just wash your hair last night. And your cute robe was clean. And that bottle Chaeyoung gave you? Still hiding behind the wine rack like a dirty little secret.

You stood up.

Time to turn this terrible week around—with tequila, TikTok tactics, and one very lucky boyfriend.

The apartment was dimly lit, cozy, and quiet—exactly the way Yoongi liked it after a long day. He kicked off his shoes by the door, ran a hand through his hair, and called out casually, “Babe? I’m home.”

No answer.

Well, no immediate answer.

Just the soft hum of music coming from the living room—something low and sultry. It wasn’t your usual playlist. This was a vibe.

He squinted. Suspicious.

“Babe?” he tried again, stepping further in. His jacket was halfway off his shoulders when he turned the corner—and stopped dead in his tracks.

You were in the living room. Waiting.

Correction: you were posed in the living room.

Wearing your favorite silk robe—one that barely grazed your thighs, tied in a loose, suspiciously flimsy knot. Candles flickered on the coffee table. Two glasses sat beside a bottle he definitely didn’t own.

“Hi,” you said sweetly, crossing one leg over the other as you sat perched on the edge of the couch like a perfectly wrapped sin.

Yoongi blinked. “...What the hell is going on.”

“Celebrating,” you answered, like it was obvious.

He raised a brow. “Celebrating what?”

“The end of a very horrible week,” you said, then added with a grin, “And also… you.”

Yoongi was now actively side-eyeing the bottle. “Is that—”

“The tequila,” you confirmed. “Yes.”

“I thought we said we were saving that for—”

“Plans change,” you cut in, voice light. “Besides, I have a new method. A fun one.”

He blinked at you again, slower this time. “Why does that sound threatening.”

“It’s not,” you said. “It’s sexy.”

You laughed, a little wild in your eyes, and patted the spot in front of you. “Sit. Trust me.”

Yoongi hesitated, that familiar wariness flickering behind his dark eyes like a warning siren—this was definitely going to be one of those moments. But as always, he couldn’t resist you. With a sigh, he shrugged off his jacket and dropped onto the couch, still shooting you a suspicious look. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m being generous,” you teased, voice low and mischievous.

You slid closer, your hands gentle but firm on his shoulders. “This is something I learned.” You practically straddled him, settling down on his lap with a confident smile.

Yoongi’s brows knit together, confused but intrigued. “What—”

“They said this is how tequila tastes the best,” you whispered, your fingers tracing the buttons of his shirt. “And since I know you really like your alcohol…”

You slowly hooked your finger into the top button of his shirt, eyes not leaving his face. “Can I unbutton this?”

Yoongi tilted his head slightly, lips curling in amusement. “Yes,” he replied, raising a brow as if to say whatever you're up to... I’m watching you.

With a sly little grin, you unfastened one button. Then the next. Then another. You were deliberate with it—fingers brushing his skin each time, exposing just enough of his chest to leave your mouth watering. His skin was warm, soft, and smelled faintly of the cologne he always wore. That scent you liked to steal from the collar of his sweaters.

You leaned in, holding the tequila shot glass loosely in your hand, and whispered—half to him, half to yourself, “And then I have to... huh... lick.”

You dipped your head and—without hesitation—flattened your tongue against the base of his neck. You dragged it slowly up, tracing a path over his collarbone and along the curve of his shoulder, right where the salt would go in the classic version. Except you weren’t following any rules.

Yoongi’s breath caught sharply. His hands, resting on your hips, twitched.

You leaned back, just enough to lock eyes with him. He looked stunned. Flushed. Slightly speechless.

Then, as if to really commit to the bit, you took the shot. Head tilted back, throat bobbing as the tequila slid down.

And finally—eyes on his—your hand reached out for the lime. But instead of putting it in your mouth, you brought it up to his lips.

“Bite,” you said softly.

He obeyed.

You leaned in one last time, stealing the lime back with a kiss that lingered longer than necessary, your lips brushing his in a mix of citrus and heat.

“Okay—where the hell?” Yoongi sputtered, blinking like he just came out of a trance. “What? Why? What the hell?”

He was flustered—genuinely flustered—and that was rare for him. A soft pink crept up the sides of his neck, and his chest was still rising and falling just a little faster than usual. You stayed exactly where you were, still straddling his lap, hands resting lightly on his now half-unbuttoned shirt like it was the most casual thing in the world.

You tilted your head innocently, though your smirk betrayed you. “This is why I wanted to save that bottle.”

Yoongi stared at you, eyes narrowing. “This is what that TikTok discussion was about?”

You leaned forward just enough so that your chest brushed his, your voice dropping to a whisper. “I told you it was educational content.”

He huffed a dry laugh, but his hands were already on your hips again, holding you tighter now. “Educational? Babe, you just licked me like a human salt rim and then kissed tequila into my mouth. That wasn’t education. That was witchcraft.”

You bit your lip, eyes gleaming. “Witchcraft that works, clearly.”

Yoongi’s gaze dropped to your lips, his breath catching slightly. You could feel him shifting beneath you, his composure unraveling by the second.

“You’re literally still on top of me,” he muttered, voice lower now, rougher.

“Mhm.” You rolled your hips just a tiny bit, enough to make his hands dig into your waist in warning. “On purpose.”

His eyes snapped back to yours, something darker flickering there now. “You planned this.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Maybe.”

“Maybe, my ass.”

He surged up just enough to kiss you fully, mouth warm and tasting faintly of lime and tequila, his hands sliding under your shirt like he was reclaiming control. But you broke the kiss with a breathless laugh, leaning back just enough to look him in the eyes.

“You said you liked tequila.”

“I like peace and quiet too, but I guess I’m not getting that either,” he muttered, though the way he looked at you said something very different.

“Not when I’m around,” you teased, pulling his shirt fully open now and tossing the shot glass aside like the game was only beginning. 

He chuckled, low and wicked. “And here I was, just trying to have a normal Friday night.”

“But did you like it though?” you asked, breathless now, lips still tingling from the kiss. You dragged your hands slowly up his chest, over the exposed skin you’d just unbuttoned, nails light enough to make him twitch. “You haven’t said anything about it, babe.”

Yoongi looked at you—really looked at you. His pupils were blown wide now, jaw tight, lips slightly parted as he processed the question, like you had just asked him something offensive.

“You’re seriously asking me that,” he said, voice low, hoarse with restraint, “while you’re literally sitting on me like this?”

You rolled your hips ever so slightly, the friction cruel in how light it was. “Just want feedback.”

Yoongi let out a sharp breath—half disbelief, half groan—and grabbed you by the hips, steadying you, containing you, but barely. His fingers dug in, possessive.

“Of course I fucking liked it,” he said, eyes dragging down from your lips to your neck, to the swell of your chest beneath your shirt. “Who the fuck do you think I am?”

You smiled slowly. “Just making sure.”

“You licked my neck, downed a shot like it was foreplay, and then had the audacity to grind on me like it was a goddamn game.”

You tilted your head. “It was a game.”

He pulled you flush against him, his mouth brushing the corner of yours with maddening softness, the kind that made your whole body tense in anticipation. “Oh, it’s a fucking war now.”

You gasped, but before you could respond, his mouth was on yours again—hotter this time, needier, tongue sweeping past your lips like he needed more of you now. His hands slid up your back, under your shirt, dragging it higher with every desperate kiss.

He was already hard beneath you, and the way his hips bucked up, just once, slow and deliberate, told you exactly how much control he was pretending to have.

“You wanna know if I liked it?” he growled against your mouth, lips brushing yours with each word. “I’m gonna show you how much.”

And he kissed you again—messy, rough, like the question had flipped a switch in him. One hand tugged at the waistband of your shorts while the other held you firmly in place, his thigh pressing between yours now. Heat pooled low in your belly.

“Tequila,” he muttered against your skin, trailing kisses down your neck. “What kind of spell did you girls cook up in Bali?”

You laughed, breath shaky as your hands tangled in his hair. “The kind that ends with you begging.”

He was gone the second you straddled him.

Yoongi tried—really tried—to keep his cool. But the minute you whispered “lick” and dragged your tongue along his neck, something short-circuited. His brain, his restraint, his sense of time. All of it.

And now, here you were—sitting on him like sin in human form, asking if he liked it.

Liked it?

He wanted to laugh. Scream. Flip the couch. Instead, he grabbed your hips because he had to. Not to stop you—hell no—but because if he didn’t hold on, he might do something entirely unhinged. Like flip you over and lose his mind.

“Of course I fucking liked it,” he said, and even to his own ears, his voice sounded wrecked. He could feel the way your weight settled into his lap, how warm you were, how smug. You knew exactly what you were doing, and it was driving him insane.

He couldn’t look away from your mouth. The way you were breathing a little faster. The faint shimmer of tequila still lingering on your lips.

When you rolled your hips again—again—he swore under his breath.

His body reacted instantly, hips lifting into yours with an involuntary jerk that made him clench his jaw. Your breath caught. Good. You felt it too.

“You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he muttered, dragging his hands under your shirt, mapping every inch of skin like he had to memorize it. “This—whatever this is—you’re not walking away from it, you know that?”

You tilted your head, smirking. “Wasn’t planning to. I told you I had a shitty week.”

Yoongi chuckled, the sound deep in his throat as he leaned in, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “So this was your plan, huh?”

You felt the slow drag of his hands down your sides—warm, steady, maddening.

“Mmm,” he murmured, voice low and laced with amusement. “You just wanted to have a little fun. That it?”

His nose nudged against your cheek before he whispered, “You missed me, babe. Don’t play like you didn’t.”

You tried to keep a straight face, but the way he spoke—so casual, so sure of you—made your breath hitch.

“Two weeks without me…” His teeth grazed your jaw. “Two weeks without sex.”

Your thighs instinctively tightened around his hips, and he noticed—of course he did.

“Ohhh, I knew it,” he grinned, cocky now. “I wonder what you got up to while I was around. Hm? What kind of desperate little thoughts did that pretty head of yours have?”

He ran his hands up under your shirt again, slow, appreciating every curve like he’d been starving for it. “You did something to this body, didn’t you?” he drawled, voice dark velvet now. “You’ve been walking around all tan and glowy and smug like that trip fixed your soul—but I know what you really needed.”

His fingers curled around your hips, rocking you down against him, just enough to remind you exactly how ready he was.

“You’re a whole different person when you’re horny, baby. So needy. So fucking honest.”

You squirmed, and his laugh was smug, satisfied.

“You had a shitty week,” he said, dragging his mouth down to your neck, lips soft but teasing. “So naturally, you thought—‘Hey, I know what’ll help. Let me climb on top of my boyfriend and ride the stress away.’”

“Is it working?” you whispered, breath hot against his cheek.

He pulled back just enough to look at you—really look, eyes burning like they could eat you alive.

“I made you a song while we were apart,” he said with mock offense. “You? You learned a seduction trick off TikTok.”

You grinned. “Productive two weeks.”

Yoongi’s hands were still on your waist, warm and possessive, when he leaned back just slightly, eyes hooded and gleaming with something dangerous. You knew that look. That smirk. Your stomach flipped.

“So…” he began, brushing his thumbs in slow circles over your bare skin, “you pulled that little tequila stunt…”

You grinned. “Guilty.”

“…and thought I wouldn’t retaliate?”

Your smile faltered. “What?”

He leaned in again, lips barely ghosting over yours as he whispered, “You really think I don’t have a few tricks of my own, baby?”

You swallowed hard.

“I’ve been patient,” he continued, dragging his fingers slowly—infuriatingly slowly—down your spine. “You had your fun. Now it’s my turn.”

Before you could respond, he was lifting you effortlessly, standing with you wrapped around him like it was second nature—because, at this point, it was. You barely had time to gasp before he was carrying you down the hallway toward the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him like he meant it.

He laid you on the bed with a reverence that made your heart race and your thighs press together, and then he disappeared for a second—just long enough to make you whine in protest.

“Relax,” came his voice from somewhere near the kitchen, casual and dangerous. “I’m just grabbing the bottle. If you’re gonna start something, babe, you better be ready to finish it.”

Your mouth went dry.

When he returned, the bottle of tequila was in one hand, and that same dark smirk was back on his face. He set it gently on the nightstand, then climbed onto the bed with the kind of grace that made your breath catch.

“You remember how it goes, right?” he murmured, kneeling between your legs. “Salt… lick… shot.”

You nodded, suddenly the one speechless.

He dragged a finger across the curve of your collarbone, then leaned in to kiss the spot—slow, open-mouthed, lingering. You felt your heartbeat stutter.

“Lift your arms,” he whispered.

You obeyed. He licked a line just below your clavicle, then sprinkled the salt there with deliberate precision. His lips brushed your ear again.

“Keep still.”

You couldn’t breathe.

He brought the shot glass up, holding it steady in one hand as he dipped his head.

The lick came first—wet, slow, decadent. His tongue traced the salt from your chest with a kind of reverence that made your whole body tighten beneath him.

Then the shot—head tilted back, clean and quick.

And then?

Then came the lime.

Instead of handing it to you, Yoongi brought it to your mouth himself, holding the wedge with his fingers just so. “Bite,” he murmured, his eyes locked on your lips.

You did—and his eyes darkened.

He watched the way your mouth moved, watched the little shiver run through you from the sour tang and the heat still lingering on your skin.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dropping the lime to the side and pushing you gently back onto the pillows. “You're never allowed to do that trick again unless I get to do it right back.”

Your laugh was breathless. “Deal.”

But before you could say anything else, his mouth was back on you—hot, insistent, everywhere at once. He kissed a path down your stomach, murmuring praise between every inch of skin.

And just before he disappeared between your thighs, he looked up at you with that same boyish smirk that always got you in trouble.

“You had a shitty week,” he said, voice low “Guess I’m gonna have to fuck it out of you.”

You barely had time to react before Yoongi’s mouth was on you again—slow. He kissed down your stomach like he was mapping it, like he was reclaiming it. His fingers slid under the waistband of your shorts, tugging just enough to make you whimper.

“You wore these to tease me, huh?” he murmured, hot breath fanning over your skin. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

“Maybe,” you said, breathless, hands tangling in his hair.

He chuckled, dark and low. “You walk in here, tequila bottle like some kind of sex witch… straddle me like it’s nothing, lick salt off my chest like that’s a normal Friday night—what the fuck do you expect me to do?”

You were about to answer—something witty, something bratty—but then he had your shorts off and his mouth was on your inner thigh, kissing the skin there like it was sacred.

“You smell like heaven,” he muttered. “And you’re shaking. You’ve been thinking about this all week, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasped.

He hummed. “Then stop pretending like you don’t want me to ruin you.”

And he did. Tongue pressed flat, slow and firm—one long lick that had your hips bucking off the bed. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you down with practiced ease.

“Fuck, baby,” you breathed, already seeing stars.

Yoongi didn’t respond. He was focused, utterly and deliciously focused, like he was composing a melody with your body as the instrument. He switched between long, slow strokes and quick flicks that had you sobbing his name.

Every time you got close, he’d pull back—kiss your thighs, suck a little mark into the skin just to watch you squirm.

“You don’t get to come yet,” he said, voice rough now. “Not until I say.”

You whimpered, a full-body shiver running through you.

He slid two fingers into you—slow, curling just right—and your back arched. Your hands gripped the sheets, clawed at them. He pressed kisses to your inner thigh as he fucked you with his fingers, mouth still devastating between your legs.

“You taste like you missed me,” he said, voice hoarse, fingers never slowing. “Is that what this is? Two weeks of missing me? Of needing this cock and not getting it?”

“Yoongi—”

“Tell me.”

“Yes—yes, fuck, I missed you—”

“Yeah, you did.” His teeth grazed your skin, his fingers moving faster now. “Missed being filled. Missed being fucked like you deserved.”

You were a trembling mess, every nerve ending lit up, every muscle tense and begging for release.

And just when you thought you couldn’t take another second, he moved up your body, hovered over you, kissed your lips deep and dirty with your taste still on his tongue.

“Wanna come?” he whispered, grinding against you, already rock hard through his boxers.

“Yes, please—”

“Good,” he smirked. “Because I’m not stopping until you do. And then again. And again. You're not sleeping tonight, babe.”

Yoongi didn’t stop—not when your legs started to tremble, not when your breath hitched in that high, helpless way that drove him insane. He was relentless, completely immersed, tongue gliding in slow, torturous circles before switching to sharp, precise flicks that had you arching off the bed.

“God, fuck. Please,” you almost choked, voice wrecked, coming out in desperate, broken pieces. “Fuck, fuck—”

Your hand flew to his hair, threading through the dark strands with shaking fingers. You weren’t just touching him—you were clinging, grounding yourself against the overwhelming wave crashing through your body. Then your other hand joined, not stroking, not pulling—just holding on as he pulled deeper sounds from you than you'd ever made before.

“I—fuck,” you gasped again, voice hoarse and breathless, hips rising against his mouth. “Yoongi—please—I can't—”

He growled low, the sound vibrating against you in a way that made you cry out. And still, he didn’t stop.

Didn’t even look up.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

You were falling apart under him, trembling and moaning and begging, and he was drinking it in like your body was his favorite kind of worship. His hands tightened on your thighs, holding you open, holding you down—as if to say You’re not going anywhere. I’m not done yet.

Because he wasn’t.

He was building you like a beat, layering sensation on sensation until it all collapsed—until the dam broke and you screamed his name, clenching around nothing, your body shaking as pleasure tore through you.

And even then, he still didn’t let go.

“Good girl,” he murmured against your thigh, breath hot, voice rough with pride and lust. “Now let’s see how you take cock”

He didn’t give you much time to recover—just enough for your breathing to even out, for your lashes to flutter open, dazed and ruined, still trembling from the aftermath.

Yoongi leaned over you, chest brushing yours, the weight of him grounding you. His lips ghosted across your jawline, featherlight, and then lower, over your neck, where he bit down gently—claiming.

"You always taste like this?" he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Or is this just what happens when you miss me?"

You whimpered, already breathless again.

He sat back on his knees, undoing his belt in one smooth pull that made your mouth go dry. His eyes never left yours—dark, heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide with hunger. His shirt hung open, still a little damp where you’d licked the salt off his skin, and he looked completely, devastatingly fucked out, even though he hadn’t gotten anything yet.

“Look at you,” he murmured, eyes raking down your body. “You’re shaking. You really had a week, huh?”

You nodded. Barely. And he smiled, slow and sinful.

“Well, baby,” he said, positioning himself between your thighs, stroking himself once, twice—thick, flushed, already dripping—“let me make it better.”

And then he pressed in.

The stretch made your breath catch, eyes fluttering shut—your body still too sensitive, too desperate—and he hissed between his teeth.

“Fuck, you’re tight. Always so good for me. Goddamn.”

He rolled his hips, slow and deep, and it was like the air was punched out of your lungs. He filled you completely, every inch deliberate, every movement dragging against all the places you needed him.

Your hands flew to his shoulders, nails digging in for purchase.

“Yoongi—fuck—”

He caught your mouth in a kiss, messy and hot, all tongue and teeth, swallowing your sounds like he wanted to own them. His thrusts got harder, deeper, finding that rhythm that had your entire body arching, your legs locking around his waist like he was the only thing anchoring you.

"You think you can come in here, ride me with tequila tricks, and not get absolutely wrecked?" he growled into your neck.

You moaned—helpless—and he smirked.

"Not after that little show, baby. No way."

He shifted, one hand sliding under your thigh to hitch it higher around him, changing the angle—and fuck, you saw stars. Your back arched off the bed, your head thrown back, and Yoongi watched like he was witnessing art.

Yoongi’s grip tightened, his voice dropping low and rough against your skin. “What did they call you? A goddess?” His hips thrust harder, heavier, deliberately rougher, every movement pushing you closer to the edge. “But they didn’t get to have you like this, right?”

You choked on a breath, overwhelmed by the sensation. “Oh my god… I told you—fuck—because I thought it was… there, fuck—funny… Oh my god, are you really jeal—fuck!”

Your eyes rolled back, pleasure washing over you in waves so intense you could barely keep up.

“I’m not jealous,” Yoongi growled, voice thick with need.

“No?” you teased breathlessly, arching into him.

“I’m thriving,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours, every word dripping with possessiveness. “They don’t fucking get to see you like this. Only I do.”

“You feel that?” he grunted, thrusting harder now, body slamming into yours with a rhythm that left you gasping. “That’s mine. All of this—mine.”

You couldn't speak—you could barely think. Every movement was electric, every drag of him inside you a white-hot promise of release. His pace was brutal now, every snap of his hips laced with possession, with the kind of love that ruins you for anyone else.

“You’re gonna come again,” he said—low, rough, a little breathless, but firm. Not a question. A command. “And then you’re gonna do it one more time. Because I missed this, too. I fucking missed you.”

He growled the last part, voice cracking slightly under the weight of how real it was. His hips didn’t let up—deep, relentless, tuned perfectly to your body like he’d memorized every reaction, every gasp.

Your fingers clawed at his back, useless against the way your body spiraled. You were wrecked—utterly, completely, beautifully wrecked.

“I—I missed you so much, Yoongi,” you sobbed, the pleasure too much to hold in anymore. “I’m gonna… fu—fuck, cum—”

“Oh my god,” is all you can manage, your voice wrecked and breathless, your whole body trembling beneath him.

“Inside,” you whisper, your lips brushing his ear, need thick in your tone.

He’s still moving—slow now, but deep, deliberate—as if he wants to feel every last second of you wrapped around him. The look in his eyes is feral, undone.

“Fucking missed you so much, babe,” he groans, and then he’s right there—burying himself deep as he cums hard, hips stuttering, spilling into you with a growl so raw it vibrates in your chest. His whole body tenses against yours as he rides it out, forehead pressed to yours.

“I fucking missed you,” he repeats, almost breathless, voice rasping against your lips. “I told you—I wrote a whole damn song because I missed you. I didn’t have time to give you something earlier but I had this whole fucking plan—a date, like a proper boyfriend.”

He huffs out a breathless, delirious laugh, still barely able to move.

“And now look at us,” he adds, burying his face in your neck. “Fucking tequila.”

You laugh, weak and breathless, wrapping your arms around him tighter. “Next time you bring the salt.”

Group Chat: 🌴 Good Bitches Reunited 🌶️

You: update: tequila trick was… effective 😌✨

Chaeyoung: I KNEW IT

Taeha: WAIT. omg she DID

Jieun: This is why I need to start collecting frequent flyer miles. I’m flying to you next.

Dami: HELLO??? 

You: girl. the look on his face when I did it… like he saw God

Chaeyoung: I’M SO PROUD I COULD CRY

Taeha: Honestly I thought you’d chicken out but no. you did the whole “lick → salt → shot → kiss” thing right??

You: Of course I did I studied the tape

Jieun: So you're telling me tequila + cleavage + terrible week + some sort of emotional reunion = Yoongi malfunction?

You: He short-circuited 😌 Then rebooted and proceeded to rearrange my internal organs

Chaeyoung: This is now a case study Scientific proof that tequila leads to spiritual fulfillment and hot sex like I SAID.

You: Anyway. Legs? Gone. Dignity? Questionable. Regrets? Zero. So… success?

Chaeyoung: Tell Yoongi I accept thank-you notes in the form of concert tickets or exclusive unreleased demos 🫶

You: He wrote me a whole song during the trip So I seduced a man and got a song.

Dami: MAIN CHARACTER SHIT

You: I’ll send a selfie later once my legs function again Love u whore💋

Taeha: God I missed us Can we go to Greece next?

Jieun: Bitch, we’re going to Spain next. Get a freakin grip.