#not the same but also not completely not the same

[mortalscience]

live sophie reaction:

the rashomon job was legitimately so hilarious i had tears in my eyes from laughing so hard oh my god. the whole episode was fucking gold but my favorite part had to be everybody butchering what sophie sounds like, capped off with precious parker's complete inability to hear anything she says. sophie is just full on charlie brown adult voice to her, lmaoooo.

bonus, sophie's revenge:

[hangmanwrites]

your personal kryptonite ━ clark kent

dedicated to ━ @frivolousimagination because she’s the one who convinced me to post this ridiculous filthy mess even though i was being a coward about it, love u bestie, this one’s for you!! word count ━ 3.4k words pairing ━ clark kent x fem!reader content warnings ━ smut, mdni, oral (f!receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it irl unless you’re also dating superman), soft dom clark, praise, overstimulation, crying during sex (in a hot way), emotional support himbo vibes, aftercare, romantic filth, gentle but devastating author's note ━ this is only my second time writing smut so please be kind to my fragile little writer brain, i’m still figuring it out one emotionally unhinged paragraph at a time, but i really hope you enjoy it anyway and fall a bit in love with soft filthy clark, too. masterlist read here ━ we have a little discord server if you want to talk about david corenswet, clark kent, or anything in between. it’s a cosy community where we spiral together, share ideas, and help each other out with fic writing too. everyone’s welcome to join as long as you’re over 18. minors are not allowed, sorry loves!! 🩵

Today was a shitty day.

Work treated you like you were some sort of animal, not even a real person, just this empty thing people could toss problems at and expect answers from, like your brain was some kind of machine that didn’t glitch or ache or hit its limit after hours of passive aggression and sugarcoated threats and stupid bloody spreadsheets that kept crashing for no reason. 

You’d barely managed to get through lunch without biting someone’s head off, and you did snap at a printer, which definitely made at least one intern scared of you forever, but honestly, at this point, let them be scared. 

Let them think you’re heartless, because you can’t keep doing this, you can’t keep pretending it’s fine, that you’re fine, not when the train made you late and the rain soaked your socks and some stranger told you to “smile more” like that was going to fix your entire nervous system spiralling into self-destruct mode.

You almost didn’t come, almost got off at your usual stop and went home to cry into the same pillow that’s soaked up too much already this month, but the thought of being alone felt unbearable, like your body might shut down if you didn’t see him.

So now you’re outside his flat, fingers aching from gripping your keys too tight, throat thick with everything you can’t name, and the second he opens the door—

It’s over.

Your whole posture collapses like your spine forgot what holding you up looks like, like his face was the final straw, and suddenly he’s right there, stepping forward like you’re made of something delicate, like he knew before you said a single word that something was wrong, and he doesn’t hesitate and just pulls you into his chest with both arms, firm and warm and steady, and it ruins you completely.

You don’t even get a chance to apologise, because he’s already holding you like you’re not a burden at all, just tired, just human, and your fists are already curling into the front of his jumper like it’s the only thing keeping you standing upright.

And you can feel your breathing hitch against him, feel that awful stutter in your chest like a sob is waiting to break free and you hate it, you hate it so much, but he just keeps whispering, quiet and careful and close to your ear, It’s alright, I’ve got you, love, I’ve got you.

And he does, one arm wrapped firm around your back as though he’s trying to hold you together by force, the other hand steady at the back of your head, fingers tangled in your hair in slow, soothing motions as though he knows exactly where the panic lives and how to quiet it without being told. 

He sways with you gently, barely a movement but enough to keep you present, enough to remind your body that time is still passing, that you’re still here, still held, still safe in his arms even if the rest of the world spent the entire day trying to convince you otherwise.

He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push or question or try to coax anything out of you, he just stays there with you. He’d done this before, he’d memorised the shape of your silence and knows how to sit inside it without making it about him. 

When you finally manage a full breath, not the shallow, uneven things you’d been taking all day but an actual proper inhale that lifts your chest and makes your shoulders fall, his hand presses gently against your back as if to say I felt that, I see it, you’re doing so well.

“Come here,” he says, soft and certain, and you follow him instantly, still clutching his sleeve, still a little folded into yourself, but he doesn’t seem to mind, just guides you through the flat with both hands at your waist as though you might vanish if he lets go.

He sits you on the edge of the bed and crouches in front of you without hesitation, his hands on your knees, thumbs brushing slowly over your tights in a way that doesn’t ask for anything, and when he looks up, his eyes are so impossibly kind it nearly undoes you again, not because he pities you, but because he doesn’t, because he’s really looking at you.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, gently, carefully, as if the question is something he’s laying at your feet rather than pressing into your hands, “Or do you just want quiet?”

You shake your head, not sure which one you’re saying no to, not sure it even matters, because he nods anyway, as though a quiet understanding in the way he leans forward and presses a kiss to your knee, soft and lingering.

Then he kisses you again, a little higher, just above the edge of your skirt, and his hands slide to your hips, not in a greedy way, not in a way that demands anything, just a presence, just a reassurance, just him reminding you that he’s here.

“Alright,” he murmurs, voice lower now, gentler, as though you might fall apart if he speaks too loud, “Then we’ll just sit. You and me.”

You nod, barely, just once, and maybe he thinks that’s it, that you’ll stay still and let the quiet carry you, but your hands are already reaching for him, moving like they’ve been waiting all day for permission, and the second your fingers thread through his hair, your whole chest twists, as though something in you finally dares to ache now that he’s here to hold it.

He doesn’t pull away, just lets you tug him into the space between your legs where you’re still curled on the bed, and your mouth finds his before you’ve even had time to think, messy and eager and a little too much, as though your body’s just trying to survive through contact.

He kisses you back like he’s been waiting for it, like this is exactly what he hoped would happen the second you walked through the door, and it’s slow at first, careful, as though he doesn’t want to take anything from you that you’re not ready to give, but the way you’re pulling at him makes it impossible to keep it gentle.

You know he feels it too, the way the air thickens around you the second you tilt your head and open your mouth for him, the way his hands tighten on your hips as though he needs something to hold or else he might break apart entirely.

It’s not perfect, not neat or delicate or slow-burn cinematic, it’s messy and damp and hungry, and the exhaustion still clings to your limbs, the rawness of the day still presses at your skin, but none of it matters, not with his mouth on yours like it’s the only place he wants to be, not with that heat building low in your belly every time his thumb finds your waist or his tongue brushes yours just right.

You’re not trying to start anything, but the way he groans when your nails scrape the back of his neck pulls something up from deep in your chest that has nothing to do with sadness and everything to do with want.

You press in closer, tighter, chest flush to his, legs drawing him in, and you don’t stop kissing him because you don’t know how else to ask for more.

“Wait,” he breathes, voice rough now, ragged around the edges like he’s barely holding onto restraint, forehead pressed to yours, “Are you sure? I don’t want to take advantage, I—”

“Please,” you whisper, too fast, too breathless, too much, but you don’t care, you’re already chasing his mouth again before he can finish the sentence, already wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pulling him in, and he lets you, because it’s Clark and he always does, and his lips are back on yours before either of you can think.

He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push or take more than you’re ready to give, just kisses you with that quiet, steady focus that makes your whole chest tighten, his mouth slow against yours, his hands firm and careful even when they slide under your thighs to lift you into his lap, holding you close like it’s second nature.

You shift slightly, just enough to feel the heat of him pressed between your legs, and the sound he makes is low and helpless, his hands gripping at your hips like he’s trying to keep control, and for a second he pulls back, just enough to look at you again, and there’s no rush in it only that same quiet awe in his expression.

When he leans in again, he doesn’t go for your mouth, not yet, just presses a kiss to your jaw, then your throat, then just under your ear, each one slow and unbearably tender, and when he whispers, “You’ve had such a hard day.”

You don’t get a chance to respond before he kisses you again, quiet and steady, as if he knows you’ll try to brush it off and doesn’t want to let you.

His hands move lower, sure and careful, fingers sliding beneath your underwear like he’s done it a hundred times, not from habit but because he knows you now, knows how to move without asking for more than you’re ready to give, and when he pulls the fabric down your legs, you lift your hips for him without needing to be told.

And when he sees you, really sees you, he exhales like it knocks the breath out of him, low and quiet and almost reverent, like he still can’t believe you’re letting him in.

“God,” he murmurs, barely louder than a breath, hands sliding up your thighs to part them, not rough, not rushed, just steady, grounding, and when he sees how wet you already are, he doesn’t say anything else just leans in and licks into you like it’s all he’s needed all day.

It’s filthy, right from the first slow pass of his tongue, so deliberate it pulls a whimper straight from your throat before you can even think, and you can’t hold it in, not when it’s not just his mouth.

Your thighs twitch, your hips shift, and you’re gripping the duvet in tight fists just to stay grounded, but he just keeps licking into you, slow and deep and steady, as though this is the only thing that matters.

And when you moan his name, helpless and breathless and wrecked, he groans back into you, fingers digging in just a little harder, and it’s not for show, it’s him, it’s real, it’s yes, that’s it, let me have it without saying a word.

Then his hand slides back down, his fingers warm and slick when he pushes two of them inside you, slow but sure, like he’s done this in his head a hundred times, and the stretch is so good it knocks the breath from your lungs, makes your hips jolt into his mouth, and he groans low and keeps going, his fingers working you open as his mouth stays right there.

And you can feel your climax building already, hot and unbearable and close, because it’s him, Clark, on his knees, giving everything, and you’ve never felt more wanted in your life.

You say his name again and it’s not a choice, it just happens, your mouth moving before your brain can catch up, because everything’s gone fuzzy, because your body is too full to hold anything else, and he hums in response, pleased and steady and so full of love it makes your chest ache all over again.

His palm presses firm to your lower stomach, and his voice comes soft and ruined against your cunt as he says, “Let go for me, baby, I’ve got you, it’s okay, just let me have it, come on.”

And you do, God, you do, it hits you hard and fast and so deep you don’t even realise you’ve stopped breathing until it all rushes back at once, and your body’s jolting up into him without warning, a helpless thing. Every muscle snapping tight and letting go all at once, and your thighs are shaking around his shoulders and your fingers are pulling hard in his hair and he just groans, low and hoarse and wrecked.

He slows down, keeps his tongue soft and steady and lets you fall apart in his mouth, lets you ride it out with his hands holding you still, one on your thigh and the other pressing down gently on your stomach.

You’re shaking, breathless, too far gone to speak, not a single thought in your head beyond the crashing release still flooding your chest and hips and thighs, and your hands are still in his hair, and when he finally lifts his head it’s slow.

His mouth is red, his eyes unbearably soft, and he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters. He’s flushed and wrecked and breathing hard, but he still smiles when he sees you staring at the ceiling like your mind hasn’t caught up yet, and he reaches up with a trembling hand to brush your hair back, voice low and hoarse when he asks, “Are you alright?”

You nod, or something close to it, and he seems to understand. Then he leans down, kisses your hip, your stomach, the centre of your chest, soft and slow and steady, like he’s still trying to take care of you even now. 

Your throat tightens all over again, because it’s him, and he’s still looking at you like you’re a miracle.

His mouth moves higher, kissing along your collarbone and neck, and his hands slide back up your thighs, hot and unshaking, and you know exactly what he’s thinking. 

You can feel it in the way he breathes, in the way his body holds still like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

You feel him now, still hard, still clothed, the shape of him pressed to your thigh, and you can’t help it. Your hips roll, slow and greedy, your body answering before your head can catch up. 

He groans into your skin, low and deep, and you feel him falter, feel him fight not to lose it.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he says, quiet and hoarse and almost dazed, and it’s not a complaint, it’s reverent, it’s full of disbelief that he gets to have you like this, that he gets to stay here, and then he’s sitting up just enough to tug off his shirt and undo his belt, one handed.

And you watch him, still flushed and sensitive, still sore in the best way, but your legs spread for him automatically because your body wants this, wants him, wants to feel him everywhere, and when his trousers hit the floor and you finally get to see the full, desperate shape of him, flushed and thick and twitching with how hard he is. 

You swear under your breath because it’s obscene, it’s not fair, he’s so beautiful, and he just kneels between your legs like he belongs there.

He leans down to kiss you again, mouth still messy from everything he did to you, and you moan into it, half from the taste of yourself on his tongue and half from the way his cock presses right up against you, not pushing in yet, but it’s hot and heavy against your overstimulated cunt.

Your body jolts with it, and you hear yourself whimper, and he shushes you softly, forehead pressed to yours.

“Tell me you want this,” he says, not because he doesn’t know, but because he needs to hear it, needs to be sure, always so careful even when he’s wrecked and seconds from losing it completely.

You nod again, this time more definite, more desperate, and you whisper, “Please,” and that’s all it takes.

He pushes in so slowly you can feel every inch of it, feel every thick, aching stretch of him as he fills you, deeper than you thought anyone ever could, thick and hot and perfect, and you’re already gasping before he’s fully seated, already clutching at his back with both hands as your body adjusts, 

“You feel—” he starts, and then cuts himself off with a soft, broken noise, and presses a kiss to your throat as his hips roll forward, just enough to make you whimper, and he whispers, “So warm, sweetheart, so soft, you feel incredible.”

And then he moves for real, pulls back just enough to drag the whole length of himself out of you before sliding in again slow and deep, and your mouth falls open because it’s filthy, the sound of it, the slick, obscene drag of his cock inside you, your body taking him like it’s what it was made for, and Clark’s still breathing like he’s trying to survive it.

Clark sets a rhythm, gentle but full, grinding deep into you with every stroke, his hips tilting just right to press against that spot inside you that makes your thighs twitch and your stomach clench.

And every time he finds it again, again, he murmurs something soft into your skin, “There you go, That’s it, I’ve got you,” as though he’s guiding you somewhere, as if your body is answering him and he’s proud of it.

And it is so much, the stretch of him, the wet slide of your bodies moving together, the way your slick is dripping down your thighs now, messy and shameless, and Clark can feel it, can hear it, and instead of shying away from it he groans softly into your neck, presses his hand flat against your lower back to keep you right where he wants you, and says, breathless and stunned, “You’re so beautiful like this, I don’t think I’m ever going to forget how this feels.”

His voice is wrecked, soft and rough as he shudders above you, fingers finding your clit with slow, careful circles that make your whole body jerk beneath him. He doesn’t speed up, just keeps fucking you deep and steady, every thrust dragging right through you, and your legs are shaking, your hands clutching at him just to stay grounded.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs into your mouth, kissing you slow, “I’ve got you, I promise, just let go for me, sweetheart, please—”

And you do. It hits hard and hot, your body locking tight around him as everything breaks open, and you cry out without words, just Clark, just need, and he holds you through all of it, kissing your face, whispering soft things you can’t even process through the pleasure.

And he’s still inside you when it fades, still thick and hard and throbbing, just watching your face with the kind of awe that makes you ache all over again, and when you finally open your eyes, blinking up at him with wet lashes and parted lips, he leans down and kisses you one more time, deep and slow and full of everything he hasn’t said yet.

“You’re alright?” he asks, and he’s flushed and wrecked and still holding back, and you nod, still breathless, still clenching around him, and his whole body shudders again.

“I’m not gonna last much longer,” he admits, so softly it makes your heart twist, “You feel too good, I can’t— I don’t want to hurt you—”

But you’re already pulling him closer, because he needs it, because he’s holding himself so carefully, still buried in you and barely moving, arms shaking and jaw tight like it’s taking everything not to fall apart.

You press your hands to his face, tilting his head until he looks at you, and the second his eyes meet yours, something in you snaps again, because he’s beautiful and he’s yours and he’s waiting.

You don’t have to speak. He sees it in the way you nod, in the way your hands cradle him, in the way your thighs pull him in.

And he exhales, shaky and wrecked, and leans into your touch like he’s been waiting for it, and he presses his forehead to yours and whispers, barely audible, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you say, and it’s not breathless anymore, not messy or chaotic, it’s just soft, steady, honest, because you mean it, because you know him, and you know he never could.

He starts to move again, slow and deep and careful, as if he’s trying to memorise how you feel now that he’s allowed to. It’s not rushed anymore, just warm, just full of that unbearable closeness that only he ever gives you, and when your body clenches around him he groans, low and reverent.

Clark kisses you again and again, mouth soft on yours, whispering between breaths, “So good, I’ve got you, I’m right here,” and it’s never really about him, not even now, not even with his hips starting to stutter and his hands gripping tighter like he needs to hold on to something real.

And when it happens, when he finally lets go, you feel all of it; the shake in his thighs, the rough sound in his throat, the way his mouth drops open against your cheek and you hold him through it, hands in his hair, whispering his name just to let him know you’re here.

He groans your name like it’s the only word he knows, and he spills into you with his face tucked into your neck, his entire body trembling as though he’s never felt anything like this before, as though this moment, this warmth, this love, is undoing something in him he never thought could be undone.

When it’s over, his hips still and his breath evens out, and he doesn’t move. He stays close, chest to chest, mouth pressed to your skin like he’s not ready to let go, and you lie there with him in the quiet, holding each other, breathing slow and steady, hearts still racing in sync, and you know you’ve never been loved like this before.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, tangled and quiet, your legs still around his hips, his arms still tight around you like he’s afraid to let go. And maybe he’s right. Maybe you would fall apart if he stopped holding you like this, so gently, so steady, like he’s keeping you from breaking again.

When you finally shift, just enough to breathe deeper, he follows without question, tucks his face into your neck and sighs. Quiet and warm and full of peace, as if something inside him has finally gone still.

It’s a mess, all of it, your bodies sticky, your thighs still shaking, your heart beating too fast to keep up with your thoughts, but you don’t care. Not when his hand keeps stroking slow across your back like he’s soothing something deeper than skin, not when his mouth keeps finding your shoulder in soft kisses that feel more like promises than habit.

You should say something, maybe thank him or laugh or breathe properly, but all you can do is hold him tighter and hope he gets it. Hope he hears it in the way your fingers stay in his hair, in the way your forehead presses into his cheek, in the way your breathing finally begins to settle, not calm, but easier. 

And the thought hits you, not all at once but slowly, creeping in through the quiet like a truth you’d been ignoring until now;

Kryptonite could kill him, sure, it’s the one thing strong enough to bring him down, the one weakness he can’t hide, but Clark Kent on his knees, hands steady and tongue slow and eyes so full of love it breaks you, that might just kill you first.

[neellscapsule]

a resounding heart attack

summary | there are three romance rules you have to follow: don't date coworkers, don't fall in love with flirty people, and never show how whipped you actually are. clark fails the three of them.

pairing | clark kent x wayne!female!reader

warnings / tags | pure fluff with a bit of suggestive stuff (language & actions), but nothing actually happening except lingerie photos that reader does not send but they are from a production :D. reader is a menace but gotham loves her ??? she's actually so cheeky so flirty so everything (just one chance pls). clark is blushing mess especially when it comes to her. mentions to a sad childhood because reader it's literally a wayne ?????

word count | 4.9k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first language so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)

i've written this with david!clark on my mind but you can picture him hoverer you want. i also believe in battinson agenda for this specific version of clark :D

THERE ARE LITTLE THINGS IN THE WORLD THAT CAN AFFECT CLARK KENT.

All the types of Kryptonite disturb him in different ways. Red sun weakens him, dulling his strength and senses until he almost forgets what it feels like to be invulnerable. Magic does a number on him too, inexplicable and chaotic, like trying to hold onto smoke with bare hands. Other aliens with tech far beyond Earth’s understanding have hurt him, too. Kara once punched his arm and left it all purple — it healed fast, but it still hurt.  

There are, indeed, little things that can affect him. 

But you? 

You are at the top of that list.

He does not remember his heart beating that fast, almost inhumanly, on the edge of being impossible. Does not remember his cheeks ever being so red, his clumsiness bordering on being considered the dumbest man on Earth. Once he dropped his entire mug of coffee on his slacks just because you called him “Smallville” with that mischievous little smirk. 

Jimmy, Lois and practically everyone just laugh at him, his quirks, but he can't help it.

He can't help how much you affect him. Can't help how much he likes you. 

In his defense, there's no way he was able to not like you. Not only because he —and at least half the population— thinks you are hot. You are hot. Very much. He’s not going to lie to himself about that. The kind of beautiful that doesn’t feel like it was made for the front page of a magazine, but the kind that stuns you mid-sentence because of how effortless it is. You laugh too loudly sometimes, you talk with your hands, and you make eye contact like it’s a dare.

But it’s more than that.

You’re smart. Sharp as broken glass. Your writing is electric, biting in the way that Gothamites tend to be—your byline alone has caused five resignations, two public apologies, and one lawsuit (which the Daily Planet won). Not even Perry crosses you, that must count for something. You flirt with everyone, but with him, it’s different. You save your cheekiest lines, your softest smirks, your most infuriating whispers for him—as if you know how easily he folds.

The worst thing is not that you work together. No. Clark has a complete and long list about the worst —best— part of working with you.

In the first place, is that you share the same space with him. Your desks are pressed together, both of you facing one another, screens lit up, voices low as you trade edits, ideas, and insults. Your heel taps his shoe sometimes—grazing more than stepping. He’s convinced you don’t even notice it, that it’s just a habit, something subconscious.

From his seat, he sees you clearly. Memorizes your expressions like a song stuck on repeat. The way your eyes narrow when something doesn’t sit right. The sharp inhale before you pounce on a lead. You scrunch your nose when someone makes a poor argument, like it physically pains you to hear idiocy. You press your tongue briefly between your lips when you're deep in thought, which he pretends not to see but always does. You smile—oh, when you smile—it hits like sunlight through lead glass. Blinding. Honest. Beautiful.

The two of you share a corkboard pinned to the wall. His side is sparse—some clippings, a "Mighty Crabjoys" movie poster, and a coffee-stained sheet of work hours he never took down. But yours? Yours is filled to the brim, despite not being much space.

A series of colorful letters that spell your name, doodles, a Gotham National University pennant, and a printed photo of a night out with everyone —Lois, Jimmy, Steve, Cat, you, and himself included.

He hears the click of your heels before anyone else does.

It’s the kind of sound that parts his thoughts in two, makes them flutter like loose pages in a breeze. Sharp, rhythmic, deliberate. You don’t walk through the bullpen—you arrive. And every step pulls the air taut around him like fishing line. 

He doesn’t need to look up to know it’s you. His entire body already knows. His hearing adjusts itself before he can think better of it—your heartbeat, lighter than most, steady and confident, like it owns time. Like it’s never once skipped or stalled the way his just did.

You turn the corner and he’s already looking, caught in the act—he knows you catch him. You always do.

You enter the Daily Planet like you own it, and in some subtle way, you do. Not because of your name. You don’t need money or threats to command a room. You have something worse. Charisma. Ease. Danger. Power in a smile that knows it has claws and doesn’t care to hide them.

Your skirt is black and short—unreasonably so. Illegal in several states, maybe. Certainly illegal in Clark’s heart, because it just stopped beating. Your white stockings gleam slightly under the lights, spotless and smooth and devastating. You’ve tucked your ironed shirt into your waistline like some kind of cruel, beautiful war crime. Gold glints from your ears, your wrist, the edge of your collar. Not fake gold, not plated. Real. Heavy. Old money.

You wear your wealth the same way you wear your grin—like a challenge.

You look over, the corner of your mouth curling, and say, just for him, “Good morning, Smallville.”

Smallville.

He could snap the pen in his hand if he weren’t careful. You say it so softly. So wickedly. Like you know. Like you know that he’s already halfway undone and you’re just playing with the bow.

Clark already had your coffee in his hand—he'd been holding it since 7:43 AM, exactly three minutes after he arrived. Two sugars, no cream. Lid slightly ajar because you said it kept the flavor from suffocating. He didn’t really understand what that meant, but he listened. He always listened.

He handed it to you with trembling fingers.

“Good morning,” he says, trying not to clear his throat.

You sit down, smooth the back of your skirt behind you with grace and muscle memory, and lean to the side, setting your bag against the leg of your desk. Your voice is light as you bring your phone to your ear again. He doesn’t mean to listen. But he hears everything. He always does.

“Alfred,” you say warmly. “Yes, I got here. No, no traffic, thank god. Yes, I remembered my meeting with Lucius over the computer. No, I’m not eating fast food for lunch. No— No, I will not talk to Bruce unless he sends Dickie over for the weekend. I already told him that.”

Clark’s cheeks heat just listening to you talk. Not because of what you’re saying. But because of how you sound when you say it. Comfortable. Confident. Unfiltered. Even the way you say Alfred is affectionate and biting at the same time. Gotham to your core.

“Alright, Alfie. Gotta go. No, I’m not drinking too much caffeine. That’s a lie and you know it. Bye.”

You hang up and turn your attention to the rest of the room, sweeping your gaze around the bullpen like a queen taking inventory of her court.

“What’d I miss?” you ask, reaching for your coffee.

Lois, across from you, didn’t look up from her monitor. “You missed Jimmy flirting with Marcie from legal. Again.”

Jimmy Olsen, from the far side of the square of desks, turned his chair with all the mock indignation of someone deeply unashamed. “I wasn’t flirting. I was complimenting her boots.”

“You told her she had the stride of an Amazon warrior,” Lois deadpanned.

“Well, she does!” Jimmy said, throwing up his hands. “That’s empowering. I’m being supportive.”

You sipped your coffee, giving Clark a wink over the rim. “You’re one scandal away from a harassment workshop, Olsen.”

“Pffft. I’ve dated half the women on this floor.”

“Exactly.”

Lois snorted, and Clark tried very hard not to laugh. He tried even harder not to stare.

It was pointless.

You leaned back in your chair, arching slightly as you stretched—your blouse pulling just enough to make Clark look away before he went blind from the effort it took not to look. You tapped your pen against your lower lip as you glanced at the whiteboard across the bullpen.

“I see no one’s updated the lead stories,” you said casually. “So we’re still pretending the mayor’s brother being caught in a LexCorp-funded apartment with two unlicensed bounty hunters isn’t news?”

Perry White’s voice roared from his glass office. “I’m waiting on confirmation before we blast that one, Wayne!”

“Oh, sorry,” you replied, not even looking at him. “I forgot the Planet’s new slogan: ‘Cowards First.’”

Clark coughed to cover his laugh, and Lois shook her head, grinning.

“Do you wake up and choose violence or is it just muscle memory at this point?” Lois asked, not even hiding the fondness in her tone.

“Neither,” you said, rolling your chair closer to the below edge of the desk. Your knees brushed his. He stopped breathing. “I wake up and check if Gotham’s still a hellhole. Then I make myself look nice for Smallville here.”

You smiled at him, devilish. Clark’s mouth opened and closed like a dying fish.

Jimmy leaned over the desk, pointing between the two of you. “This,” he said, “this is why I never bother flirting with you. I don’t like losing.”

“Oh, lover boy,” you purred. “No one even asked you to compete.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “And I never will again. Lesson learned.”

Lois chuckled, returning to her screen. “Good. Maybe now you’ll actually write your piece on the sewage reform bill.”

Jimmy groaned. “Please. Why do I always get the sexy stuff?”

Clark finally found his voice. “Because last time you covered a robbery, you took a selfie with the suspect.”

“He was holding the stolen merchandise!” Jimmy argued. “What was I supposed to do—ignore the story?”

You shook your head with a dramatic sigh. “You’re the reason Perry has a ‘No Selfies at Crime Scenes’ memo pinned to the break room door.”

Clark smiles, ducking his head toward his screen, pretending to reread a paragraph he’s already proofed twice. But your heel taps his shoe under the desk—lightly, casually—and the impact goes straight to his ribcage.

You sip your coffee and sigh happily. “Mm. You got the vanilla right this time.”

“I, uh—yeah,” Clark says. “I remembered.”

“Of course you did.” You grin, crossing one leg over the other. “You always do.”

He forces his eyes to his monitor. His vision is fine, of course. Superfine. He could read microscopic text if he wanted. Right now, though, even large font blurs when you look at him like that.

Lois finally glances up and gives you a once-over. “Did you steal that skirt from a teenager?”

You make a scandalized noise. “Lois Lane. Jealousy is unbecoming.”

“I’m just worried HR is gonna pass out in the hallway.”

“Please. HR loves me. They send me memes.”

Jimmy leans over the divider. “Is it true you threatened that CEO with a bottle of wine?”

You tilt your head thoughtfully. “Technically, I described what a bottle of wine could do in the hands of a woman from Gotham. The threat was implied.”

Lois huffed. “God, you two are unbearable before ten.”

You wink. “We’re unbearable after ten, too. Just more caffeinated.”

A comfortable hum settles into the bullpen after that. Everyone returns to work—Lois muttering to herself, Jimmy editing photos, the low murmur of keyboards and printer hums filling the space. Clark focuses on his article, or at least pretends to. The screen glows back at him, a half-finished headline blinking expectantly. He tries again.

From his seat, he can see you—your expression flickering through a dozen small emotions as you scroll through your inbox, narrowing your eyes, muttering curses at editors, grinning when Jimmy shows you a ridiculous photo of a dog wearing sunglasses. He watches you like a man stranded in the desert watches a thundercloud. With reverence. With thirst.

It’s stupid, probably. This crush. This...thing.

But then again, everything about you is a little bit dangerous. A little bit impossible.

And still—he wants it. Wants you. Wants this part of his life that feels so close to normal, even if it isn’t.

Because you don’t know.

You don’t know who he is. What he is. You flirt with him like he’s just a man. You smile at him like he’s not carrying the weight of ten thousand secrets on his spine. And when your heel brushes his shoe again, just lightly, he lets himself smile back.

Just a little.

Just enough to make it through the rest of the day.

Moving to Metropolis had been a choice . . . unexpected to everyone close to you. Well, you didn't have many close people back on Gotham that weren't your brother, Alfred, and Dick. And Dick was your nephew, so that must say something. 

Growing up as orphans took its toll on you and your brother, but each of you took different paths. While Bruce trained in his youth to become Gotham's vigilante—the glorious Dark Knight—adopting Dick while on it, you had become more of a celebrity, always the center of attention. 

When you came of age, you became a model —while studying multiple careers: you were fascinated with the aspect of having many degrees since you could remember— and it wasn't until you moved to Metropolis several years later that you abandoned your career altogether.

It wasn't that you didn't enjoy it. You really enjoyed being a model. Especially when the shoot wasn't shared—the modeling world was very competitive, and quite exhausting, too.

But it wasn't enough.

You went to therapy for many years. Your brother hadn't been able to be convinced, but Alfred had insisted so much that you had no way of refusing. And it was in one of your last sessions that your psychologist had mentioned something about a new lease on life.

Perhaps she didn't mean exactly moving to another city, but you took it like that.

Gotham had been your cradle and your crypt. It raised you, starved you, scarred you. It made you what you are. But it also stole a piece of you when it took your parents. You were only eight, and you still remember the scream your brother made—guttural, inhuman—as he held your tiny shoulders and covered your eyes. He’d been just a kid, too.

You loved Bruce, deeply. You respected what he became. But the way he chose to fight back… it wasn’t your way.

You had to find your own.

That's how you ended up in Metropolis, with an excellent letter of recommendation (or rather, a favor) that led you right to where you are now. You lived well, combining the money from your last name with your salary, in a safe area, on the top floor of a tall building.

Metropolis differed vastly from Gotham. While Gotham rarely saw a ray of sunlight, Metropolis seemed flooded with it. There weren't as many villains as in your hometown either, but the ones that did exist were either pure aliens or completely enhanced. Meta-humans, they called them.

And here they didn't have a vigilante. They had a hero.

Superman.

Your brother doesn't especially likes him. Doesn't hate him either way. He just wants you safe, and if Superman is there to protect all of Metropolis, then he must be there to protect you as well. 

You don't worry much about it. If it's about burglars, you have a gun, a taser and a pepper spray so powerful that you could be arrested in at least five countries. If it's about aliens . . . well, you had a good life.

Lunch breaks at the Daily Planet were a coin toss. Sometimes, you barely got a fifteen-minute window to scarf down a protein bar between deadlines and chaos. Other times, like today, you managed to sneak out with Lois Lane—two of the sharpest tongues in the city wrapped in designer sunglasses and sarcasm, tucked into a booth in a tiny diner four blocks from the office.

You liked this place. A hole-in-the-wall with cracking linoleum and a grumpy waitress who called everyone “sweetheart” and meant it in a way that could also mean “dumbass.” The coffee was terrible, but the fries? Perfect. Greasy, salty, served on cracked white plates with tiny cups of spicy ketchup. You and Lois had claimed the corner booth months ago, and no one had dared to sit there since.

You pulled your sunglasses off your head, tossing them onto the table as you sank into the squeaky vinyl seat.

“I swear to god,” you muttered, unbuttoning the top of your blouse to breathe, “if Perry gives me one more rewrite on that Luthor piece, I’m going to throw myself out a window.”

Lois smirked over the rim of her iced tea. “He only pushes you because your drafts are so clean. You know he likes to feel like he’s doing something.”

“Yeah? Next time he wants to feel productive, he can scrub the bathrooms.” You stabbed a fry. “He’s lucky I don’t invoice him for every time he makes me put a period after LexCorp instead of Lexcorp.”

Lois’s laugh was soft, knowing, the kind that made her seem lighter than she ever let herself be at work. “You need a vacation.”

“I need a raise.”

“You’re already rich.”

You shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want Perry’s money too. I’m a capitalist pig. I want your money while we’re at it.”

Lois chuckled again, shaking her head. “Gotham.”

“Damn right.”

It was easy, this. Effortless. You’d always gotten along well with women—grew up around men who didn’t talk about their feelings and a brother who bottled everything up until it cracked through his ribs—but Lois? Lois was like steel wrapped in velvet. Smart, intense, loyal to a fault. You liked her immediately. She reminded you of a fox—sharp, beautiful, and always watching.

You weren’t sure when you’d become best friends. It had just… happened. Shared assignments turned into late-night editing sessions, which turned into wine-fueled gossip nights, which eventually became something deeper. It felt good to have someone like her. 

She didn’t care that you were a Wayne. She didn’t care about Gotham. You were just you to her. You hadn’t had that in years.

“So,” Lois said, her voice carrying that sharp edge she got when she was gearing up to dissect something, “are we gonna talk about it or do I have to drag it out of you?”

You blinked at her. “Talk about what?”

She gave you a look. The Lois Lane look. The one that could strip paint from a wall and force you to confess crimes you hadn’t even committed.

“Oh no,” you said, pointing a fry at her like a weapon. “I am not talking about it.”

“You are absolutely talking about it,” she countered. “Because you’ve been mooning over him like a teenage girl with a crush on her math teacher, and I’m this close to staging an intervention.”

Your entire body went hot, like she’d just shouted the truth to the whole diner. “Lois—”

“Don’t Lois me,” she said firmly. “You are painfully, pathetically, devastatingly whipped for Clark Kent, and it’s embarrassing for both of us at this point.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “I am not whipped.”

“You’re whipped,” she said again, sipping her tea with infuriating calm. “You’re so whipped you buy your outfits based on how you think he’ll react. I saw you this morning. That skirt? That was a weapon of mass destruction.”

You peeked through your fingers at her. “Okay, first of all, I looked amazing. And second of all…” You hesitated, then sighed. “Yeah, maybe I wanted him to notice.”

Lois leaned forward, smug. “And did he?”

You hated that she was making you say it out loud. “He… looked at me.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes!” you hissed. “Lois, it’s Clark. He looks at everyone like they hung the moon. That man probably blushes at Perry when he’s in a good mood.”

Lois laughed so hard she nearly choked on her tea. “Okay, first, I wish I could un-hear that mental image. Second, you’re wrong. Clark doesn’t look at me like that. Or Jimmy. Or anyone. He looks at you like that.”

You snorted, leaning back against the booth. “He’s just… nervous. He’s nervous around everyone. That’s his thing. He’s like a giant golden retriever with anxiety.”

Lois leveled you with another one of her patented, withering stares. “You’re an idiot.”

“Thank you,” you said sweetly. “I work hard at it.”

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Y/N. He likes you. He’s just shy. Painfully shy. The man can barely string a sentence together when you’re around.”

Your heart gave an unhelpful little flutter, and you immediately tried to squash it. “Or he’s just… shy in general.”

“No,” Lois said flatly. “Trust me, I’ve known him for years. He’s quiet, but he’s not shy. He’s the kind of guy who’s comfortable letting everyone else take the spotlight. Except with you. You short-circuit him.”

You stared at her, trying to will yourself not to hope. Hope was dangerous. Hope led to heartbreak. And you’d had enough of that to last a lifetime. “You really think he likes me?”

Lois smirked. “I know he likes you. You could cut the tension between you two with a butter knife. Honestly, it’s nauseating.”

You bit your lip, fiddling with your straw. “He’s just… I don’t know. He’s Clark. He’s kind, and sweet, and ridiculously good-looking, and—”

“And you’re crazy about him,” Lois supplied.

“Shut up.”

“You are,” she said, grinning like the devil. “You’re so gone for him it’s painful.”

You shoved a fry in your mouth to avoid answering, chewing furiously. But she wasn’t wrong. Clark Kent had somehow managed to completely undo you. Which was ridiculous, because you’d grown up surrounded by some of the most intimidating, impressive men on the planet. Bruce. Alfred. Hell, you had met the most attractive men on Earth while being a model…

Clark Kent made your heart beat like you were sixteen again.

“He’s so fucking cute.”

“You’re pathetic.”

“Violently.” You popped another fry into your mouth. “Do you think he knows? Like, knows?”

Lois blinked at you over her straw. “Are you serious?”

“I mean… I flirt with him a lot.”

“You practically sit on his desk and purr.”

“He never flirts back.”

Lois put her drink down with a thunk. “Y/N. He stutters when you look at him. He spilled an entire latte on his lap last week because you called him Smallville.”

You tilted your head, considering. “Okay, but—he’s like that with everyone, isn’t he?”

“No. He’s not. He’s awkward, sure, but with you? It’s different. What I'm saying is that Clark Kent is terminally down bad for you. And has been since you showed up at the Planet for the first time in Prada heels and a war crime of a pencil skirt.”

You smiled, teeth flashing. “So you noticed that skirt.”

“Everyone noticed that skirt. Including HR.”

“Still not my shortest.”

Lois rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible. And half the office thinks you’re already dating.”

You blinked. “They do?”

“Of course they do,” she said. “You two sit practically on top of each other all day. You bring him coffee, he brings you bagels, you touch his leg under the desk, he turns the color of a tomato… it’s a whole thing.”

You buried your face in your hands again, frustrated with yourself. “I’m going to die.”

Lois grinned wickedly. “Or you’re going to kiss him. Your choice.”

The walk back to the Daily Planet is slow, heavy with the weight of too many fries and just enough gossip to give the next hour of productivity a fighting chance. You and Lois move together the way you always do—shoulder to shoulder, stride for stride, two women used to commanding space and rarely apologizing for it.

Lois is telling you about a source she has in the Mayor’s office—a guy who apparently sweats like a faucet when asked about Luthor’s latest construction contracts.

“You should see him,” she says, half-laughing as you both round the corner. “One mention of ‘independent oversight’ and the man’s upper lip turns into Niagara Falls.”

You snort, adjusting your sunglasses on top of your head. “I’ll go with you next time. I’ve been told I have a very disarming presence.”

“Oh, you disarm alright,” Lois mutters, pushing open the lobby doors. “Mostly by blowing people’s equilibrium to hell.”

“Why thank you,” you grin. “I do my best.”

You ride the elevator up with the kind of easy silence only best friends share. Lois doesn’t press, not anymore. She’s said her piece about Clark—twice—and now she’s letting the cards fall where they may. Which is good. Because your heart is still somewhere back in that booth, fluttering like a moth caught in a lampshade.

The bullpen is quieter now, the post-lunch lull settling in. Phones ring, keys clack, and the occasional shout from Perry’s office cuts through like a cleaver. Jimmy’s at his desk, editing something with his headphones on. Lois splits off with a “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” and you answer with “That’s a very short list,” earning a wink and a wave as she disappears.

You move through the bullpen with purpose—heels tapping soft but steady—and you’re halfway to your desk when something catches your eye. Or rather, someone.

Clark.

He’s exactly where you left him: sitting ramrod straight, tie slightly loosened now, glasses perched just so, brow furrowed in concentration. From behind, he looks painfully composed. Too composed. The kind of composed that only comes from total panic.

And the screen in front of him?

Well.

That’s your face.

Your body.

A high-resolution photo splashed across his monitor, larger than life. You in pale green lingerie, draped across a white velvet couch, lips parted, hair tousled, gaze direct. The photo is a couple years old, but unmistakably you. From a Gotham editorial that never ran publicly, just teased in hush-hush corners of the internet and fashion magazines. A private, exclusive shoot—back when you still occasionally let stylists talk you into anything.

It wasn’t obscene, not exactly, but it was… suggestive.

Clark Kent is staring at it like it might explode.

You stop walking.

Then, slowly, carefully, like a predator who’s just spotted something delicious, you change course. You drift behind his desk with feigned nonchalance, the lazy curl of a smirk already blooming on your lips. He hasn’t noticed yet. He’s too focused. You almost feel bad.

Almost.

You lean in close. Not too close—just enough. Close enough to breathe the same air. Close enough that he can feel the softness of your blouse graze the back of his shoulder. You rest your chin on the slope between his collar and the thick fabric of his suit jacket. He froze, every muscle going tight as though you’d just hit him with a Taser.

Your voice is warm honey when you speak.

“Well, well. I didn’t know I had a fan club.”

Clark jerks like he’s been electrocuted.

“Y-Y/N—!” His voice pitches up. He fumbles for the keyboard like it might save him, slamming a key—probably Escape, poor thing—but it only zooms the photo in further. Right on your midriff.

You raise an eyebrow, still resting your chin on him like you belong there. “Nice monitor, Smallville. That screen quality’s amazing. Did the Planet get new tech or are you just… investing in some private research?”

“I—No, I didn’t—This isn’t—” he’s turning bright red, hands practically slamming at the keys now in pure panic. The image disappears with a blur of motion, but the damage is done. The shade of him. Scarlet all the way up to his ears. You swear even the back of his neck is blushing. 

You grin, slow and wicked.

“Relax,” you murmur near his ear. “It’s not like I’m offended. I’d say I’m flattered.”

Clark makes a sound that’s somewhere between a cough and a strangled gasp.

You step around his chair, finally moving to stand in front of him. Not that it helps. You’re still too close—just standing, slightly leaning into the wood. And you’re looking at him now. Really looking. Fingers resting lazily on the edge of his desk, eyes soft but unreadable.

“That’s an old photo,” you said conversationally, eyes flicking toward the screen. “At least two years, maybe three. I’m impressed you dug it up.”

He made a strangled noise. “I—I wasn’t—”

“Oh, sure,” you interrupted again, smirking. “You just… accidentally stumbled across me in lingerie on a random Tuesday afternoon. Happens all the time.”

“Y/N,” he said, his voice rough with mortification. “I can explain—”

You tilt your head.

“But between you and me,” you say, voice low, “there are… better views than that photo.”

Clark blinks rapidly, shoulders so stiff they could crack. “Better—?”

You let the silence stretch, letting him squirm just a little longer. Watching him. Watching how hard he tries not to look at your mouth. Your legs. Anywhere but your eyes. He fails, beautifully.

You smile—real slow, like it knows too much.

“I mean,” you shrug, feigning innocence, “if you want an updated photoshoot, all you have to do is ask. I’m very cooperative when properly motivated.”

The sound that escaped him wasn’t even a word. More like a faint, startled noise from the back of his throat.

You straightened up at last, letting him breathe, and smoothed your skirt with a practiced flick of your fingers. “Anyway,” you said breezily, as though you hadn’t just completely destroyed him in front of his own computer. “I should get back to work.”

Clark turned slowly in his chair, wide-eyed and still visibly reeling, his tie slightly askew. “Y/N, I—”

You held up a hand, cutting him off. “No need to explain, Smallville. Really. Just… try not to get distracted, hmm? Perry would hate for you to miss a deadline because you were staring at my legs on a screen.”

You gave him one last, devastating smile before gliding toward your desk, heels clicking softly on the floor. Behind you, you could feel his gaze follow you like a physical thing, hot and helpless and utterly, wonderfully Clark.

Yeah, maybe Lois was right.

[pnutbutter-n-j-elyy]

HIII can i request like 9th member has a fight w skz during practice then the next day they are late and quiet then everyone is ignoring her?? TYSMM ur writing is amazing

THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!!! and thank you for the request!!! I hope you enjoy :)!!!

"Y/N, you missed the count again."

Chan's voice slices through the music with precision- calm, and undeniably sharp. The whole studio comes to a stop. The rhythm dies. The motion stills. The tension in the air, which has been building steadily for hours, now hangs heavy and suffocating.

Chan is sitting at his makeshift desk, manning the music as everyone else practices the choreography.

You blink through the sweat stinging your eyes and swipe your sleeve across your forehead. The heat is irritating you, your mistakes are irritating you and the pressure of 8 sets of eyes on you puts you on edge. It had been a day already, and this made it no better.

Your chest rises and falls quickly, not just from exhaustion, but from the familiar sting of disappointment.

"Yeah, I know," you say, keeping your voice low and your gaze on the floor.

"Then fix it."

Three simple words. They shouldn’t hit so hard, but they do. They land heavy and unrelenting, a final push over a line you didn’t even realize you'd reached.

You nod, jaw tight, your teeth grinding against each other. You shift back into position, hands clenched, body tense.

You’ve been trying.

God, you’ve been trying. For hours.

The same set of eight counts on a loop, your muscles burning and your ankle quietly throbbing with every step over, and over and over again.

You haven’t complained once.

Haven’t taken more than a few sips of water.

Haven’t let yourself sit longer than a few seconds.

But somehow you still were the only one messing up. Or maybe the only one who was noticeably messing up.

One more time. Just one more. Maybe this time you’ll nail it.

You don’t.

The music cuts abruptly again.

"Alright, let's pause," Chan says, rubbing the back of his neck. His tone is weary. Not angry- not yet- but tight with control. He’s been doing that neck rub all night, the way he always does when he's trying not to snap. "You're still ahead of the beat after the spin, Y/N.. I don't see where the disconnect is."

Your arms fall to your sides, fingers trembling. You know he’s right, but you’re too far gone to hear it constructively. "Because I’m trying not to fall on my fucking ass," you mutter, eyes narrowing as you threw down your towel in an admittedly childish manner.

The rest of the members tense and you immediately regret it.

"What did you say?" You hear him get up from his chair.

You hesitate. "Nothing." You respond, all though a bit of an attitude peaks through, and you silently curse your pride for allowing you to be a complete brat right now.

But pride is also the thing that won't let you back down from this pent up frustration leaking out.

But by the time you turn to see his response to yours it's already too late. He’s moving toward you, slow and deliberate. You straighten instinctively, heart pounding.

There’s something in his eyes now. Not anger. Not annoyance. Something more complicated. He’s scanning you, looking for the real problem hiding underneath the steps you keep messing up.

"Y/N, if you're struggling, say something. Don't lash out at me when I'm just trying to help."

Your arms cross over your chest. You hate how small your voice sounds, but you speak anyway.

"Is that what this is? Because it doesn’t feel like help. It feels like you're lecturing me. Again."

He flinches slightly, like the accusation caught him off guard. "Y/N-ah, I'm not lecturing you. This is practice. Mistakes get corrected."

Your throat tightens. "It’s always me though," you say louder. The room is watching now. You can feel their eyes, their unspoken tension. "I'm always the one getting called out."

"That’s not true," Chan insists, trying to stay calm. "Everyone gets feedback. That’s how we grow."

"Yeah, but it doesn’t feel the same when it’s me!" The words spill out fast, bitter, trembling and before you can tell yourself to stop digging this already deep hole.

"I’m not the best dancer, or the best singer, or the one who fans scream for. I wasn’t even supposed to be here. I was added last. I'm just...the extra."

The air shifts.

From across the room, Changbin straightens, voice gentle but firm. "Y/N, don’t go there."

"Why not?" you demand, voice cracking. "It’s true. I was the ninth wheel. Everyone had already clicked, had their rhythm, had their place. I walked into something already built. And no matter how hard I try, I never feel like I really fit the same way."

Chan opens his mouth, then stops. His silence hurts worse than any correction ever could.

You mentally curse yourself for flinging your words around so carelessly.

You were frustrated and hurt and you wanted to hurt as well.

I'm a terrible person... You thought as you looked at Chan, who seemed to be thinking his response through.

Felix put his hand on Chan's shoulder. "Hyung..."

"Y/N/ah...no more." Minho said quietly trying to separate you two before anything else.

Chan spoke tone low and exhausted.

"You always bring this up when we argue. That you don’t belong. Do you know how hard it is to hear that from someone we love? Every single time things get tough?"

Your lips part, the guilt immediate, but your voice barely comes out. "I didn’t mean-"

"Yes, you did," he cuts in, sharper now, frustration peeking through. Felix stepped back and slunk off near the rest of the members, everyone avoiding eye contact.

"You always mean it. It’s your defense mechanism. You feel attacked, so you make yourself smaller. You pretend we don’t care. And you're not letting anyone in to know exactly why."

You stare at him, throat dry. "Maybe because sometimes it feels like you don’t."

The room goes completely still.

Chan recoils, the words hitting him square in the chest. His jaw clenches, and for once, he has no immediate response. No words. Just stunned silence.

No one says a thing. Even the speaker, still on pause, seems to hold its breath in the static.

Then, slowly, Chan speaks again, voice lower than ever before. "You’re not just an extra piece, Y/N. But if you keep acting like one, if you keep putting yourself on the outside and blaming the rest of us for it- one day, it might actually feel true. Not because we want it to be. But because you made it that way."

The words slam into you.

Your breath catches. And your heart feels like it’s cracking wide open.

You want to yell back. You want to say he’s wrong. You want to scream that you’re trying, that you just feel lost, that the pressure is drowning you. But no words come out.

So instead you just grab your hoodie, shove your water bottle into your bag, and walk toward the door with shaking hands.

No one moves to stop you.

No one says your name.

And the silence as you leave is the loudest thing you’ve ever heard.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You show up to practice late. Hoodie up. Eyes on the floor. The excuse is already prepared on your tongue, a practiced lie about traffic or sleeping through your alarm, but when you open the door and no one looks up - not even once- you don’t bother saying it.

The room is already buzzing with movement. The speaker hums low with the same track on loop. Some of the boys are stretching in silence, others reviewing choreography in the mirrors, heads down and movements sharp. Their voices are softer today, laughter muted. It's not icy, but it's definitely cooler than usual.

No one calls out your name. No smiles. No playful bickering. Not even the usual the intense playful  stare down you and Jeongin always have when you walk in.

You quietly walk over to your spot in the corner and drop your bag, trying not to flinch at the silence. You stretch alone, stealing glances at the others. It’s not like they’re glaring. But somehow the full lack of attention is worse.

Halfway through warm-ups, you slip into formation. Felix gives you a brief nod but nothing else. There are no questions, no corrections, no quick check-ins. No one makes a big deal out of your presence.

No one speaks to you directly. Not during warm-ups. Not during the first run-through. Not even when you land the move you'd struggled with last night perfectly. The same move that started this whole mess.

You glance up, hoping someone might've noticed. But the others are focused. Distant. As if your small victory doesn’t matter.

As if you didn’t.

Your chest tightens. Every movement you make is sharp, practiced, drilled to perfection. But it feels like you're dancing inside a soundproof room. Like you're screaming without making a sound. You're part of the routine, but separate from the group. Surrounded by noise, yet completely alone.

You keep waiting. For a quiet nudge from Hyunjin. For a sarcastic comment from Seungmin. For Chan to stop you, pull you aside, offer something. Anything.

It doesn’t come.

You lose count of how many run-throughs you do. How many steps you take without meaning. By the time practice ends, your throat is tight. Your arms and legs are shaking, not from exertion, but from how much you’re holding back.

You pack your bag slowly, your motions dragging. You’re not stalling. Not really. You’re hoping someone will say something. Even just a quick, "You did fine today."

But the room is already dissolving into chatter. The others break off into small groups, grabbing water, towels, phones, and heading toward the exit.

You slip out without one goodbye.

That night, you lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. The glow of your phone is the only light in the room as you scroll without focus, trying to lose yourself in anything else. But then, a notification catches your eye.

You click in.

Chan and Jisung are live. They’re sitting on the studio couch, casual and cozy. Jisung is a whirlwind of energy, cracking jokes, waving his hands, tossing out impressions with ease. Chan laughs along, but it’s more subdued than usual. His smile lingers a second too long, and his eyes keep drifting back to the comments rolling up the screen.

The live is easy at first- playful teasing, familiar banter, answering light questions. Until one message pauses Chan mid-chuckle.

@ lee.knows.left.shoulder: "jisunggggg channieeeeee this live made my day 😭 me and my mom argued really badly earlier. this made me feel better 💕"

His smile falters for just a second. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, gaze softening as he reads it again silently.

"Ah... yeah, those kinds of arguments hit different," Chan says gently, his tone shifting. "It’s not like fighting with someone you don’t really know. When it’s someone close- someone who means something to you- it sticks. You replay the words even when you don’t want to."

Jisung glances at him and quiets, letting Chan speak.

"Sometimes you say things in the heat of the moment," Chan continues, rubbing his thumb across his palm like a nervous habit. "Not to hurt them, but because you’re hurting too. Or you do mean it- but only in that second. Not forever. And once it’s out there... it’s hard to take back."

He lets out a short breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. "You think later, ‘Maybe it wasn’t that deep.’ But the silence after? That’s what really gets you."

His eyes stay on the screen. "But when someone matters to you- really matters- fighting doesn’t mean it’s over. It just means something needs fixing. Even if it’s uncomfortable. Even if you don’t have the right words yet."

He leans back slowly, voice quiet but steady. "Walking away doesn’t mean you gave up. And someone staying silent doesn’t mean they don’t care. Sometimes, it’s just space. A pause. Waiting to see if the other person will reach back. Show they’re still there. Even in the smallest way."

A brief beat passes.

"People who love you will leave the door open," Chan finishes. "Just in case."

He clears his throat and offers a small smile toward the camera. "So yeah. For the person who sent that...I hope things get better with your mom. Or anyone out there who’s having a rough time with someone close. These things- if you work through them- they make the bond stronger. So hang in there, alright?"

He doesn’t say your name. He never does.

But he didn’t have to.

You’re curled up in bed, blanket tucked beneath your chin, phone resting lightly against your chest. The words echo like ripples, softer than a whisper, but loud enough to crack the silence that’s been sitting on your chest.

You shut the screen off slowly, and for the first time that night, let yourself breathe deep.

Then comes a knock.

"It’s me," Changbin’s voice comes through the door, low and steady.

You swallow hard and whisper back, "Come in."

The door creaks open slowly, and Changbin steps inside, shutting it gently behind him. His posture is relaxed but his eyes are sharp, scanning the room until they land on you curled up in bed. He walks over without a word and sits beside you, close but not too close, giving you space to breathe.

"I watched the live," he starts, his tone softer than usual. "Did you?"

You nod once, eyes on your blanket.

"He didn’t say your name," Changbin continues, "but I know you knew it was about you."

You sniff and nod again.

He leans back slightly, exhaling. "You know... back when Hyunjin and Jisung were trainees, they fought all the time. Over dumb things. Choreo, lyrics, practice time, you name it. We used to joke that they couldn’t go a full day without arguing. But even when it got ugly, they always made up. Because at the end of the day, they knew they were stuck with each other. And even if they wouldn't admit it at the time... they wanted to be. Because that’s what family is."

He glances at you. "Now look at them. You couldn’t break them apart if you tried. Hyunjin calls Jisung his brother. Not because they’re blood, but because they worked through the ugly stuff. And they chose to stay."

You stay quiet, chewing your lip, you Tears leaving a salty taste.

Changbin’s voice drops a little. "You and Chan…you fight different. Like father and daughter almost, I swear." He lets out a deep sigh. "But it’s not yelling or slamming doors. It’s deep stuff. Personal. And I know he takes every word to heart- especially when it’s from you."

Your breath catches.

"When you say things like you’re just an add-on, you're not only hurting him. But you're hurting us as whole- and I'm more than sure it hurts you too." He adds softly. "Channie-hyung...he...he sees you as someone he brought in for a reason. Someone he desired- and we all desired- to be in this family. And every time you say you don’t belong, it’s like you're telling him he made the wrong call. That everything he did to bring you in didn’t matter."

Changbin shifts so he’s facing you more directly. "He may not say it, but it eats at him. Not only because he's a perfectionist and I'm sure if he ever thought he made the wrong call it would drive him nuts but also because no matter how strong he acts...he’s scared too." Changbin bites his cheek and meets your eyes. "He's scared that one day, you’ll mean what you say. And that you’ll really leave. And you leaving, Y/N-ah? That would destroy our family but him? I don't know if he'd recover truly from something like that."

You wipe at your eyes, voice shaky. "I didn’t mean it. I was just tired and frustrated and-"

"We know," Changbin says quickly, gently. "We all have those days, trust me. I understand that sometimes criticism especially over and over again can seem targeted. And I can understand that after a long day your on edge. And that the slightest thing can make you snap. But that's still not an excuse, sweetheart." He reaches over placing a warm hand on your shoulder. "You can’t keep using frustration as a reason to push people away. You don’t get to light a match and be surprised when the room starts to burn."

He moves his hand to gently pat your head.

"And I want to clarify today we weren't trying to ice you out. Change just wanted us to give you space. We love you, Y/N. Every single one of us. More than you could know. But love means calling each other out, too. It means saying ‘you hurt me’ when you do. And it means staying. Even when it’s hard."

You crumble again, the tears falling faster now.

Changbin pulls you into a firm hug, one hand rubbing circles into your back. "You're not an add-on. You're one of us. But you have to start believing that, too. You have to show us that you’re staying. Not just in words- but in action."

You nod into his chest, barely holding yourself together.

He holds you for a moment longer before pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. "The door’s still open, you know. It always is. But walking through it? That’s on you."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning you were up before anyone. You had done your best to fight sleep off the night before, waiting for Jisung and Chan to come home, but your eyes had felt too heavy after all the tears you shed.

Now, the dorm is still quiet. Dim. Everyone’s doors remain shut, the air still with sleep. But you’re already dressed, nerves tangling in your stomach. You knew Chan was a night owl so much he turned into an early bird sometimes, just always up long after the rest of the world turned in, and you hoped- prayed - that maybe he was awake.

You pad softly down the hall, avoiding the creaky floorboard near the bathroom, and head toward his room door. It’s cracked open just a sliver, light spilling out into the dark hallway like an invitation. Your fingers hesitate on the handle. Just for a second.

Then you knock, barely louder than a whisper.

A pause. Then his voice: "Yeah?"

You peek in. He’s at the desk, headphones around his neck, fingers resting on the keyboard, but his eyes meet yours instantly.

"Can I talk to you?" you ask.

Chan nods once. "Of course." No smile. No scowl. Just tired eyes and a quiet gesture to come in.

You step inside and close the door behind you.

"I didn’t want to wait till morning," you start, voice shaking. "I couldn’t."

He says nothing. Just watches.

"I messed up," you continue, and your voice cracks on the word. Your throat tightens so painfully, it’s a miracle you manage the next words. "What I said during practice- what I always say when I’m overwhelmed or scared- I didn’t mean it. Not really."

Chan stays quiet, watching you with unreadable eyes.

"I just... I felt like I couldn’t get anything right," you say, voice wobbling. "And when you corrected me, I spiraled. I panicked. I felt like I was proving everyone right- that I didn’t belong."

Your breath shudders. You clasp your hands together tightly in front of you, trying to ground yourself, but it doesn't help. The tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them.

"I know I always say the same things. That I’m just an add-on. That I was never supposed to be here. But the truth is... it’s not what I want to believe. It’s just what my brain tells me when I feel like I’m failing. And I take it out on you. Because I know you’ll still be here, even when I’m awful."

Your voice is barely above a whisper now. "I hate that I’m like this sometimes. I get so prideful. Like... I’d rather be mad than admit I’m scared. I’d rather act like I don’t care than say I’m hurting. And- and that’s not fair to you. Or everyone else. It never was. I’m so sorry. I really am." You swat at your face, trying to dry it.

Chan leans back slightly, rubbing his hands together slowly. He still doesn't say anything for a few moments. The silence stretches, but not unkindly- he's thinking.

Then he finally speaks, voice low but warm.

"I get it," he says simply. "I really do. More than you probably know. That feeling like you’re barely holding on, like everyone else is one step ahead while you’re still stuck on the first count. Thinking that even the slightest correction or criticism is an insult to your talent. A shot at your ego. I’ve been there too."

Your breath hitches, surprised at the softness in his tone.

"But the thing is," he continues, "You’re not a burden. You're not some stray piece we’ve just been dragging along. You’re part of this. We chose you. Every single day, we keep choosing you. And yeah, it hurts when you act like none of that matters."

You wipe at your eyes, but the tears don’t stop. "I just didn’t know how else to say I was struggling."

Chan nods slowly. He stands up and walks to you- not fast, not dramatic, just calm- and places a two steady hands on your shoulders.

"Then say that next time, Y/N-ah." he murmurs. "Tell me you're having a hard day. Tell me it’s too much. Just… let me help before it gets that far."

Your lip wobbles. "I didn’t mean to push you away. I just didn’t want to disappoint you."

"You didn’t," he says instantly, and this time there's no hesitation. "I was hurt, yeah. But I was never disappointed in you. I know your heart. I know just how hard you try. And that't why I push you because I know you're capable."

You nod, crying harder now, your bottom lip jutted out though your shoulders slowly ease.

"You’re allowed to mess up, Y/N. You’re allowed to fall apart a little. But you’re not allowed to vanish on us. Or try to minimize our care for you. We need you here. I need you hear, okay?"

He pulls you into a hug, wrapping both arms around you tightly. You melt into him, gripping the fabric of his hoodie, letting out another sob against his shoulder.

Chan rubs a hand over your back, slow and steady.

"Shh," he murmurs. "I got you. It’s okay. I got you."

The words break something open in you. Your knees stay locked, but your body leans heavier into him, all your weight tucked into his arms. You hold onto him with the same innocence as a child hanging onto their parent- like Chan truly is the only person who can keep you safe and sound.

"I want to be better," you cry, voice ragged. "I want to stop making things harder for you. For everyone. I want to stop ruining the moments that matter."

"You're not ruining anything," Chan whispers. "You’re just learning. Like the rest of us."

You cling tighter. "I’m trying. I really am. Even when it doesn’t seem like it."

"I know," he says. "And we see it. Even when you don’t."

He pulls back just enough to see your face, brushing a tear away with his thumb.

"You’re not alone, okay? No matter how bad it gets."

You nod, sniffling, finally letting your breath slow.

He lets out a soft chuckle as he pats down your hair. 

"You know its kind of impossible to stay mad at you?" He smiles. "You're just so precious. Even if it feels like a nine to five sometimes."

You let out a wet laugh, half-choked by the tail end of a sob. You swipe at your cheeks with the sleeve of your hoodie, still curled into the side of the couch. His warmth hasn’t moved. Neither has his arm around your shoulder.

"So I’m your full-time job now?" you mumble.

"You’ve always been a full-time job," he teases gently, ruffling your hair. "But you’re one I’m not quitting."

That makes your chest twist again, but this time in a different way—like something tight is slowly loosening. You look at him, really look at him, and you can tell he means it. No sarcasm. No exasperation. Just pure, stubborn care.

You rest your head against his shoulder with a sigh. "Thank you. For not giving up on me."

"That’s not even on the table. Not today. Not ever."

You sit like that for a while, breathing in the silence. It's a different kind of quiet now—comforting, not tense. You don’t feel like an outsider anymore. You feel seen. Anchored.

Then, quietly, Chan says, "The others want to talk to you too. They were just… giving you space. Letting you come to them."

Your stomach knots again, but it’s different now—less panic, more anticipation.

"Should I be nervous?"

"No," he says with a chuckle. "But you might cry again."

You pause, then glance up at him. "Did you... tell them to? Give me space, I mean. Binnie said you did."

Chan’s gaze softens even more. "Yeah. I did. Not because we wanted to ice you out- but because I needed you to see what it would actually feel like if what you said was true. About being just an add-on."

Your breath catches, throat tightening again.

"I didn’t do it to hurt you," he continues gently. "But you needed to feel the difference. That kind of silence? That wasn’t us giving up on you. That was us giving you room to see that your presence actually changes the energy. That when you're not there everything feels off."

Your lip trembles again. That tight feeling in your chest starts to loosen a little more.

"You weren't shut out, Y/N. Not even for a second. If you'd walked in ready to talk, they would've dropped everything. I promise. We just...needed you to believe it yourself."

You sit up a little straighter, wiping your face again. The puffiness in your eyes might never recover, but there’s a spark back in your chest. A small flame.

You’re not fixed. Not magically better. But you're not broken either.

And you’re not alone.

Chan gives your shoulder one last squeeze. "Come on, the guys are probably hovering outside pretending not to eavesdrop."

You laugh, a sound that finally feels a little more like you. "You think their up this early?"

"Felix and Jeongin asked Minho to make an apology breakfast. But Minho only agreed if all the guys helped, and I can smell the bacon already." He gave a warm smile. "You ready?" he asks, offering you a hand.

You hesitate for half a second, then slip your fingers into his.

"Yeah," you whisper. "As long as Felix isn't on toast duty this time."

"Hell no. Last time the fire department was called and Jisung didn't have pants on and I'm not trying to explain that to management again."

He leads you toward the door, your hand still in his. And even if your steps are small, they’re steady.

Whatever came before- whatever was said, whatever was felt- wasn’t the end.

Just the beginning of putting it all back together.

Together.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

@abovenyx @wolfs-archive @oddracha @iyeeeverydee @parisanmorovati @seungmincenteric @panbish-1209 @fxiry-vtt @sseawavee @shuporanporang @amarecerasus @softkisshyunjin @whoa-jo @meanergreener @rikibun @ayyonoona @shinywombatcrusade @y4yayael @skzstan12345 @mariteez @allys-reads @jazziwritesthings @skzstannie @yongbokkiesworld @kkkeopi @neverendingstay @moony-9 @minsungsthirdwheel @everlastingspring143 @joyofbebbanburg @leezanetheofficial @tr-mha-fan @bubbly-moon @night-storm7 @missmajdastark @axel-skz @rockstarkkami @emilyywhyy @lezleeferguson-120 @enhacolor @madirye062 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[transfemme-shelterdog]

The same people who fall for "fictional content can cause you to commit crimes and hurt people in real life" rhetoric would also have fallen for Ted Bundy's schtick.

I'm gonna elaborate on this because I'm sure 99.999% of people who read my blog don't know about the incident as it was probably before their time (1989). Hell, it was before my time (1997 baby) but I studied this stuff in University.

So, Ted Bundy, before his execution, he did one last interview that lasted for about an hour with Dr. Dobson, of Focus on the Family. You can watch it here on YouTube

But to save you an hour of watching if you don't have the time, I'll give a summary here.

Bundy did an interview with Dr. Dobson and he explained that the reason why he raped and killed women is because of pornography that he read. Bundy completely strung Dobson along because he knew that Dobson was a hard-line conservative who was against pornography, so he just fed into this and manipulated Dobson into believing him. Honestly, it was really interesting to watch, but I digress.

My point is, Bundy completely peddled the lie that reading and looking at porn drove him to commit harm against people in real life. This is the same rhetoric that people who rail against "pro-shipping" pass around - that reading fictional crimes against fictional people will cause you to commit real life crimes against real people. There's no evidence of this, but people still seemingly gobble it up for some reason. Just like Dobson did when Bundy told him that he raped women because of porn.

It was disproven in the 80's when the interview first aired, and it's easily disproven now.

[shortnfreaky]

OKAYYY BUT I FEEL LIKE JOHNNY WOULD LOVE TITIES, he’s such a tease but also such a sweet guy he’d wanna bury his face in reader’s all the time! And if he sees her being insecure abt it, mostly if she’s got a small chest, seeing herself as not ‘feminine enough’ he’d wanna suck on ‘em until she sees how pretty she is to him.. maybe while fingering her too!😺😺

(I’m sorry if that’s a weird sort of writing request— turned out longer than I thought😔)

ೃ⁀➷ ⋆·˚ ༘ * ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ೃ⁀➷ ⋆·˚ ༘ * ˏˋ°•*⁀➷��⁀➷ ⋆·˚ ༘ * ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

a/n: YES GAWD! YES MA'AM! YOUR MIND?! as a fellow member of the ittie bittie titties committee i agree with this message

warnings: smut minor dni, fem!reader, nipple play, fingering, oral (f receiving), praise kink if you squint

masterlist ✶ requests are open!

Look At You

You’re sprawled out across Johnny’s bed — half-dressed, half-trying to hide. His room smells like his cologne and a faint trace of smoke he’ll never quite get rid of. He’s propped on his elbow beside you, blue eyes tracing every inch you try to cover.

“You’re doing it again,” he murmurs, voice warm but firm.

You shift, tugging the blanket up over your chest. “Doing what?”

He laughs softly, the sound buzzing against your bare skin as he noses at your shoulder. “Hiding the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Johnny—” You huff out a breath, half flustered, half annoyed at how easily he can read you. “They’re not even… big. I know you like—”

He cuts you off with a roll of his eyes and a warm palm sliding under the blanket. “Don’t even finish that sentence. You think I care about big when I’ve got you?”

His touch is gentle at first — fingertips brushing the soft swell of your breast, his thumb circling your nipple until it tightens under his touch. He grins at your shiver.

“Look at you,” he says, lips brushing your collarbone. “Perfect. So fuckin’ pretty. Could look at these all day.”

You bite your lip, trying not to whimper when he palms you fully, pressing a hot kiss just above your heart. His mouth trails lower, wet and warm, until he’s mouthing at your nipple through the blanket.

“Johnny—”

“Mm?” His voice is muffled, his teeth grazing lightly before he pulls the blanket down, exposing you completely. “Want me to stop?”

Your only answer is the way your hips shift closer to him. He laughs again, soft and wicked. “Didn’t think so.”

He sucks your nipple into his mouth — warm, slow, a little sloppy just because he loves it messy when it’s you. His fingers trail down your stomach, teasing at the waistband of your panties.

“You know what I see?” he murmurs between kisses. “I see the girl who sets me on fire every time she looks at me. I see the prettiest tits I’ve ever had my face buried in. And I see…” He slips his hand lower, cupping you through the thin fabric. “A pussy that’s so ready for me, huh?”

A tiny whine escapes you — you hate how easy he makes you beg, but God you love it too.

“You wanna feel pretty?” he says, voice rough now. “Let me show you. Gonna make you feel so good, baby. Gonna suck on these pretty tits while I make you cum on my fingers. Want that?”

You nod — desperate, breathless. He grins against your skin, wicked and sweet all at once.

“Good girl. Now keep your hands up. Let me look at you.”

Your breath hitches as Johnny’s tongue circles your nipple again, slow and greedy. He hums low in his throat when he feels you arch into him, your hands fisting the sheets above your head like you’re holding on for dear life.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your skin, the heat of his breath making your nipple pebble even harder. He switches sides, giving the other the same lazy worship, sucking and licking like he’s starved. Every flick of his tongue makes your stomach flutter, your thighs clenching around nothing.

His hand slips under your panties now, knuckles brushing your soft skin until his fingers part you — slow, deliberate — like he’s savoring every second of finding you soaked for him.

“Fuck,” he groans, lifting his head for just a moment to look you dead in the eye, pupils blown wide. “Look how wet you are for me, baby. All because I’m sucking on these pretty tits, huh?”

Your cheeks burn but you can’t stop the needy sound that slips out. His smirk is wicked, but his eyes are soft — like he’s telling you, don’t you dare hide from me.

“Johnny, please…” you whisper, hips bucking when his middle finger slides through your slick, teasing your clit before dipping just barely inside.

“Please what, sweetheart?” His mouth is back on your nipple, tongue swirling lazy circles as he talks. The vibration of his voice sends a shock straight through your core. “Want my fingers? Want me to fill you up while I taste you here?”

You nod — desperate — fingers twisting in the sheets. He chuckles, the sound vibrating through your chest as he slides one finger inside you, then two, the stretch making your thighs tense around his wrist.

“That’s it… look at you,” he breathes, lifting his mouth just enough to watch your face as his fingers start to work you open, slow and deep. “So tight, baby. So fuckin’ perfect.”

Your hips roll against his hand on instinct, chasing every push of his fingers. He hooks them just right, brushing that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. His tongue flicks your nipple at the same time — wet, relentless — and the mix of heat and pressure coils tight in your belly.

“Johnny— oh God—” you gasp, legs trembling as you feel yourself getting close too fast.

“Mmm, that’s it. Don’t you hold back on me,” he growls, pressing his thumb to your clit now, circling just right as he sucks harder on your nipple. “Wanna feel you cum on my fingers. Wanna taste how pretty you sound when you fall apart.”

You feel the heat crest — too much, not enough, all at once — and then it snaps, pleasure surging through you so sweet and sharp that you cry out, back arching off the bed. Johnny doesn’t stop — he works you through every wave, fingers thrusting slow and deep as his mouth kisses soft little promises into your chest.

“Good girl,” he pants, finally pulling back to grin down at you, his lips pink and shiny. “So fuckin’ good for me. Look at you… prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You’re breathless, boneless, half-hiding your face in your arm — but he won’t have that. He catches your chin, tilts your head back so you have no choice but to see him, flushed and smug and so in love it aches.

“Hey.” He kisses you, sweet and messy, tasting a little like your sweat and his own warmth. “You feel pretty now, baby?”

You nod, dazed, and he laughs softly against your lips.

“Good. ‘Cause I’m not done yet.”

Your body’s still humming with aftershocks when Johnny flops beside you, chest heaving a little, skin warm where it brushes yours. He doesn’t give you a second to feel shy or small — he hooks an arm under your shoulders, tugging you into his side until you’re half sprawled across him, your cheek pressed to his bare chest.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice soft, almost shy for once. He dips his head to kiss your temple, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your hip. “You good?”

You nod, too floaty to answer right away, just nuzzling closer to his skin. He laughs, quiet and fond, then reaches down to grab the blanket you’d kicked off. He tucks it around you both, trapping you there like he’s afraid you might slip away if he lets go.

You feel him shift, and then his warm hand cups your breast again — not teasing now, just holding, like he can’t help himself. He presses a slow kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then down to your jaw.

“You know,” he murmurs, thumb brushing over your nipple in soft little sweeps that make you shiver, even now. “I meant every word. You’re so fucking pretty, baby.”

You bury your face against his neck, half laughing, half embarrassed. “Johnny—”

“Nope,” he cuts you off gently, tilting your chin up so you have to look at him. His eyes are soft, but there’s that spark too — the one that says he’ll fight you on this if he has to. “Look at me. You hear me?”

You nod, breath catching when his thumb drags across your nipple again, slow and sweet.

“Prettiest tits I’ve ever seen,” he says, like it’s the simplest truth in the world. “Don’t care about big or small or whatever bullshit you think makes you ‘feminine.’ You’re mine. You’re perfect. I love every inch of you — but these—” He gives your breast a gentle squeeze, grinning when you squirm. “—these are my favorite.”

You let out a soft laugh, cheeks warm. “You’re ridiculous.”

He grins, shameless. “Damn right I am. Ridiculous for you. I could spend the rest of my life buried right here—” He ducks his head and presses a warm, open-mouthed kiss to your nipple, slow enough to make you gasp. “—and I’d die happy.”

You roll your eyes but you can’t hide the way you melt into him, fingers curling into his hair again. He kisses his way back up to your lips, soft and slow, tasting you like he’s not done proving his point.

When he finally pulls back, he cups your face with his clean hand, brushing his thumb along your cheekbone.

“You’re so fucking pretty, sweetheart. Especially here.” He squeezes your breast again for emphasis, then slips his hand to rest warm and steady over your heart. “And here. Don’t you ever forget it.”

You sigh, sinking into his warmth, your leg draped over his hip. He hums, nuzzling into your hair, his lips brushing your temple in lazy, sleepy kisses.

For a long moment, there’s only the quiet hum of the city outside, the soft rise and fall of his chest under your cheek, his hand warm on your skin.

“You know I love you, right?” he murmurs, voice almost drowsy now, but so full of something that makes your chest ache sweetly.

You smile, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “Yeah. I know.”

“Good,” he whispers, a grin in his voice as his palm slides up to cup your breast again — soft and possessive. “Then sleep, baby. I’ll be right here. Gonna hold you all night. Gonna dream about these perfect tits.”

You snort, swatting his chest — but he just laughs, pulling you tighter until you’re pressed to every inch of him, safe and warm and adored.

And in his arms, you believe him — every word, every soft promise — until sleep finally pulls you under.

[yumiblaze]

Cursed - Saja Boys X Fem!Reader Part 20

Snoop time~~~~

PROLOGUE / PART 1 / PART 2 / PART 3 / PART 4 / PART 5 / PART 6 / PART 7 / PART 8 / PART 9 / PART 10 / PART 11 / PART 12 / PART 13 / PART 14 / PART 15 / PART 16 / PART 17 / PART 18 / PART 19

NEXT PART

CHAPTER TWENTY

The rest of the morning went pretty well, you just busied yourself with looking after Derpy for a while. You brushed her fur and helped Jinu clip her claws. It was nice to have something to do that didn’t involve demons and k-pop for once; though I guess Derpy is technically a demon?

You kept glancing at your phone checking for messages from Celine only to see constant messages from Rumi, Mira and Zoey saying they wanted to meet up with you and make sure you were okay. It wasn’t like you were going to be able to avoid them forever but you knew that if you showed up with one of the Saja boys things could get dicey. Then again leaving the apartment without a body guard right now was not an option and you kind of wanted to try and get the two opposing teams to make peace somehow.

Who to take was a completely new problem. You knew that taking Baby was a definite no; he had enough trouble getting along with everyone in the house let alone anyone else. Mystery and Jinu had also been part of the attack on Rumi so taking them might make her uncomfortable. That left you with Abby and Romance; both boys not being involved in the attack. Abby was a clear choice in your head not only did he seem to be the most soft hearted of all the boys but maybe his muscles would keep Zoey and Mira distracted long enough for you to explain why they shouldn’t kill him.

Since the largest of the group wasn’t in the living room you guessed that he would probably be in his own room. The only problem was out of the six doors in the corridor you only knew where the guest room was and where Romance’s room was. All six doors looked exactly the same from the corridor and while you could just ask Jinu or Baby (the only two boys in the living room) whose room was whose it sounded a lot more fun for you to snoop.

You closed the living room door behind you making sure you were alone before deciding which door you wanted to try your luck with. You decided to just go with the first door on the left, silently twisting the door handle and cracking it open just a sliver. You gazed into the room as you slowly creaked the door open bit by bit.

The room was roughly the same size as the guest room but was covered in black sound proof panels. There was an unmade double bed shoved into one corner, navy blue covers and a couple black pillows strewn over the bed without care. Opposite the bed was a large black desk adorned with a symphony of screens, a light up key board and mouse and a comfy looking gaming chair that was black with blue accents. Between the bed and the computer set up was the one window in the room, though black out curtains had been drawn across it letting no natural light in. On the left side of the room just behind the door was a black wardrobe a few lose pieces of clothing laying in a pile in front of it. Finally the area closest the door to the right had a TV attached to the wall, various gaming consoles beneath it. There was a few shelves attached the wall with a few different games on them and a collection of beanbags opposite the TV to sit on.

“You know if Baby finds out you’ve been snooping in his room without him knowing he’ll get mad.” Someone whispered in your ear making you jump.

You slammed the door to the room and spun round to see Mystery standing right next to you. You had no idea how the boy had made his way over to you without making a noise or where he had even come from.

“Myst! You scared the shit out of me.” You scolded the boy placing your hand over your racing heart.

“Sorry.” The boy muttered pulling the sleeves of his hoodie over his hands. “I keep forgetting humans don’t hear as well as I do.”

“You hear better than humans? Don’t you have a human body right now?” You asked confused.

“I mean I guess I look human but my sense of smell and hearing didn’t go away after I made a deal with Gwi Ma. I got to keep these enhanced sense from when I was me, when I was a wolf.” Mystery told you shrugging like it was nothing.

“So you can hear everything that happens in the apartment?”

“Most of it, especially when Baby gets angry at games. He put these weird sound proofing things up but I can still hear him quite clearly, it’s just quieter.”

“Didn’t know Baby would be so into gaming.”

“He likes shit talking people and likes winning games against others.”

“Yeah that actually sounds like his thing.”

“Anyway why were you snooping?”

“I wasn’t snooping, I was trying to find Abby but I don’t know whose room is whose yet.”

Mystery smiled at you slightly as you denied snooping before gently taking your hand and leading you further down the hallway. He knocked on the door one down from Baby’s and opened the door without waiting for a reply.

“Have fun.” The quiet boy told you gently shoving you through the open door.

The room you had been pushed into was much lighter than the last room you had been looking into, the curtains fully open and letting in the bright afternoon sun. The walls were a light peach colour and the floor was a smooth laminated wood. The double bed was messily made, the red and orange colours making the warm feel warm. There was one large wooden chest of drawers on one side of the room and the other side of the room was littered with a collection of weights and work out tools. The main event being a work out bench, where the man you had been looking for was placing a huge looking barbell back in its resting place.

“Oh hey (y/n)! What’s up?” The man asked sitting up and smiling over at you. You blushed as you glanced at the pink haired man. He was sitting on his workout bench, a thin layer of sweat covering his form and he wasn’t wearing a shirt letting you take a better look at his flawless muscles. You found your mind completely unable to remember why you had come into the room as you took in the sight of his glistening muscles. His whole chest reminded you of something you’d see in a museum, like someone had sat and sculpted those perfect shapes for hours.

“You like what you see?” Abby asked with a smirk pulling you from your thoughts.

“No! I mean yes! I mean- I just didn’t expect to find you topless!” You stuttered trying to avert your eyes from his naked torso.

Abby just gave a hearty laugh standing from the work out bench and walking past you to his chest of drawers.

“I mean last time we spent time with each other you were the one half naked so now you get your revenge.” The man remarked pulling a top out of one of his drawers. “Did you need me for something?”

“I actually wanted to ask if you could come somewhere with me.” You replied fanning yourself with one hand in an attempt to cool your burning face.

“Where?” Abby asked slipping the top over his head and grabbing his yellow beanie.

“I want to go visit my sister in the hospital.”

The man froze, his eyes filling with worry.

“You sure you want to take me with you?” He asked nervousness lacing his words.

“Well I mean I can’t take any of the three who attacked her, Romance will be way too annoying for Mira to deal with and I’m never leaving the apartment on my own after last time.” You explained. “Anyway you’re so caring and hot that they won’t be able to stay mad at you!” You stared at him with the best puppy eyes you could muster.

“Fine.” Abby told you with a soft smile. “Just don’t tell Jinu or he will lose his shit.”

@ffcfffr @whimsiecat @gremlinartstudio @chugjugg @aerissblog @kitkatpattywack2808 @airwolf92 @fries11 @doggyteam2028 @downbadgirlypoo @kashasenpai @seung185 @faefanatic @izzieg3987 @lansy-4 @weponxwrites @bunniotomia @chaoticfivesworld @clmstorm @sra7riddle-malfoy @vi1326 @justanotherkpopstanlol @jaeyuuns @tikitsune @zzsloth @yumi-does-stuff @ghost-reine @yuurisfavblog @dragongirl642 @just-a-blue-nerd @snowy-violet @justanindiangirl12 @sexually-attracted-to-pans @minthoneynbasil @tatsuri-zomushiki @ellie-x0xo @olxh @satansdaughter123 @reallysparklychaos @s3ungm1nxxl0ve @lostsomewhereinthegarden @avadakadabra93 @szc56 @phoenixflying666 @l0wlifepr1ncess @reverie-sxno @fantasyhopperhea @bakusquadobsessed @adorablepandasuniverse @sad-sie

[so-very-small]

when you ask a borrower how they feel about the giant they live with: “Oh, well, it’s complicated. They terrify me, in the sense that they are a giant being part of a world I cannot fathom, capable of doing things with one hand that I could never do in my lifetime. At the same time, I rely on them totally and completely; without their food and supplies, I wouldn’t have anything to live off of. They don’t know I exist, but they keep me alive. Yes, I fear them, but I also respect them.“

when you ask a giant how they feel about the borrower living in their walls: “the fucking what?”

[angel-writes-skz-here]

We Can Never Be Friends

Bang Chan x F! Reader Synopsis: You and Bang Chan can't seem to be friends. Warnings: SMUT, p in v unprotected, fingering, slight teasing, slight public sex, angst. A/N: This is loosely basing this off of Why Are You Here by MGK. Let me know if y'all want a part 2 to this. Comment to be added to the taglist! I apprecaite y'all so big! Xoxo💋

The house party is insane, drinks, loud music and people grinding and making out all over the place; all things you expected. However what you didn’t expect was to see Bang Chan at the party with another girl. 

The two of you had broken up a little over a year ago. It was a messy relationship honestly. The two of you were both toxic, fighting in front of the members, despite both of you not wanting to. Word daggers thrown in arguments to hit below the belt and there were many times where one or the other would simply go quiet for days after an argument, not for the sake of their own sanity or boundaries, but for the sake of punishment.

But something about the two of you was electric, though it might have been dangerous like a live wire, it was there. Sparks flew, for better or worse and seeing him tonight was no different. 

Initially the two of you hoped you could be friends, bc Chan really is and was a great friend, but the two of you always seemed to end up with your clothes discarded on his bedroom floor, tangled in his sheets and the smell of sweat and regret.

Not regret that you slept with him, he was always a great lay, but regret that things happened the way they did. The arguing, the toxicity, the sex itself between you when you knew nothing could ever be attached that was healthy and worth pursuing. It hurt, because as much as you hated the dynamic of your relationship with him; you still loved him as a person.

But it had been months since you saw each other, because last time, you both swore you were done. You woke up in his bed, the only modesty available was his sheet and you agreed you couldn’t be friends. You agreed it was best to stay away from each other. 

So when his eyes meet yours across the room, it’s instant electricity. There’s a pull to him, despite the man to your left being completely oblivious to your current situation. You had a good thing going with Luke, you didn’t want to screw it up. 

He’s nice, attentive, but the sparks just aren’t there. With Chan, he’s a bit of a workaholic, attentive, caring when things are good, he always made time for you somehow despite the extreme workload, and yet it was hell all at the same time. 

Chan takes a sip out of his cup, eyes flitting to his date who’s also wrapped up in conversation, and the second his eyes leave yours, you turn towards Luke, your stomach twisting and mind racing with thoughts. 

You’d avoided him successfully for months, and now all of a sudden here he is, again. But it doesn’t mean anything… or it doesn’t have to at least. You can stay away from him.

Right? 

You can also feel his eyes burning holes into your back. 

Luke puts an arm around your shoulder and you lean into him, desperate to avoid Chan’s gaze but you can feel it; it’s even more intense now. For the next few you’re able to pretend he isn’t there, despite the feeling of his eyes on you as you move throughout the party. 

You excuse yourself to the bathroom, needing a break from the party and his eyes. 

You walk into the bathroom and go to shut the door behind you, but Chan is too close behind and stops the door. He steps into the bathroom with you, locking the door, your eyes wide and the party muffled behind the door. 

You stare at each other for what feels like hours, but it's only mere seconds. 

“What the hell are you doing-” your words are cut off by the sudden feeling of his lips on yours. They’re soft, plump and oh so sweet. Your lips are still and he pulls back, breathing heavily. Your heart is pounding, nerves tingling in your body and you’re slightly light headed. You look at each other for a minute, as if something between you is deciding whether it needs to live or die. 

As it’s about to hit the ground for good, dying in the dust, you reach for the handle, bodies pressed together, and you look into his eyes, the thing between you soaring to life the instant you crash your lips to his. He moves his hands to your hips, picking you up and setting you on the counter, your arms wrapping around his neck. 

Your teeth knock as the kiss turns feral, like you want to devour each other. Hands roaming each other’s bodies; your hands roaming his chest and abs, his roaming your sides and thighs.

“You’re here with someone,” you mutter against his lips. 

“So are you.” You roll your eyes as his lips attack your neck. A soft gasp leaving your mouth as his teeth sink into the skin there. You can feel him smirk against you, his hand teasing your inner thigh. 

“Tell me to stop and I will,” he whispers in your ear; his voice husky, full of lust and desire. He knows better, but gives you the option anyway. He hesitates, offering you a moment to answer. You take his hand guiding it to where you’re dripping-aching- to be touched. 

“Still so desperate for me, hmm?” he chuckles as his fingers ghosts over the damp fabric. 

“Are you gonna run your mouth or are you gonna fuck me?” you bite and Chan pulls his face back, an amused smirk on his lips. 

“All you had to do was ask,” he says, slipping the fabric to the side, teasing you. Your eyes close and your bottom lip gets caught between your teeth. 

“So fucking wet,” he groans, his cock straining against his pants as his finger slides in. 

You gasp, arms around his shoulders, mouth close to his ear. 

“Fuck,” you whimper bitting at his shoulder. His finger curls, stroking your g-spot, causing your hips to buck. 

“You’re already gripping me,” he teases, feeling your walls flutter around his digits. He quickens the pace, his thumb circling your clit. 

You gasp into his neck, grip on his shoulders tightening. 

“Fuck, I love the way you sound. Does he do this to you?” he grunts, his own heart rate picking up.

“God, fuck, no.” you groan as your hips roll. He quickens his pace to lightning speed, the squelching echoing in the bathroom despite the muffled party noise. 

“Come on, baby, cum for me, soak my fingers.” His words swirl around you as your breathing comes in pants

You groan into his neck, body trembling from the intensity of your orgasm. You pant, the two of you making eye contact for a split second before Chan kisses your lips again, his hands fumbling with his belt and freeing his long, veiny hard cock. Your mouth involuntarily waters as he teases you with it, sliding it up and down your folds, barely pushing past them. 

You jump as it hits your clit, now puffy and sensitive. 

“I’ve missed you,” he says earnestly as he pushes in, making you feel every inch of his shaft. You gasp, both from the feeling and his words, goosebumps littering your skin. They pierce your heart, but you push it out of your head. 

“Fucking hell,” you mutter as he wraps your legs around his waist, tilting your body slightly for a better angle. 

His face buries in your neck as he sets his pace, soft and slow- sensual almost. He makes you feel every vein, every drag against your warm walls. He pulls out completely, burying himself back in, balls deep, his head resting on your shoulder.

“Fuck,” he groans as you squeeze him, fluttering you walls on purpose.

“Stop teasing me,” he chuckles. Cock twitching as you whimper from the stimulation of your g-spot. Once he hears that sweet little gasp-y whimper, he drills into you like a man on a mission. Your eyes squeeze tight and your mouth hangs open, arms locking around him as your body jolts in his grasp from the velocity.  

“It’s ok, baby I know you’re close,” he whispers in your ear. Even after all this time your body was a map he couldn’t forget; it’s as if it's tattooed in his brain. His mouth attaches to your neck, careful not to leave any visible marks, and as his tongue swipes over the skin under your ear, his other hand goes down between you, rubbing tight little circles onto your clit.

You shriek, thankful for the loud music outside. 

“Fuck,” you squeal quietly as your legs stiffen, stomach churning with that familiar heat. 

“Cum on my cock, baby. You can do it, just let it go. I’ve got you,” he says and you feel him twitch inside you.

A silent scream leaves you, your cunt sucking him in and he groans in your ear. 

The after shocks hit and your cunt pulses around him, causing Chan to lose it and his orgasm crashes into him just as intense as yours did to you. 

The two of you take a second to breathe, staring at each other, chests heaving up and down, a silent tension between you. 

“Damn it,” you whisper. 

“What?” he asks, a slight amusement in his voice. 

“We can’t keep doing this, Chan.” You sigh as he pulls out and cleans himself up, and then tending to you. You inhale sharply as the warm towel hits your area and he cleans up the mess. 

“You say that every time and yet you never stop me.” 

“Yeah well,” you pause as you take a breath, “I am now.” You hop down from the counter, legs slightly wobbly, grabbing the door handle once you steady yourself.

“Y/n, wait,” he tugs on your opposite wrist and you look back at him. 

“I meant what I said, I miss you,” he says sheepishly. 

“You can’t tell me you don’t miss us,” he pleads, eyes resembling a sad puppy. 

“Actually I can. We were toxic as fuck, Chan. I don’t miss the fighting, I don’t miss the yelling, I don’t miss the bullshit. I don’t miss us ignoring each other, I don’t miss us trying to fix each other only to break each other more! What we had wasn’t healthy, and I don’t miss it.” You grit your teeth. It’s true, you don’t.

“But when things were good, when things were healthy-” 

“Were they ever healthy? Or did we just ignore and put up with shit until we couldn’t anymore?” 

“I-” he sighs. 

“When things were good, they were good, but after the first few months those times got few and far between. I loved you, I did the best I could at the time.”

“I loved you too.” He interjects.

“I know you did, but like a moth to flame we were attracted to each other and we went up in smoke. I can’t do that again, not for you; not for anyone.” 

“You just fucked me with your date outside,” he says pointedly. You feel the twist of shame hit you like a truck. You had almost forgotten about Luke. 

“You just fucked me with yours outside too.” 

“She knows it’s just casual. She knows I’m not ready for a long term serious thing. Hell she’s a distraction. To cure the lonely nights we used to fill together.” 

“You mean the one’s where we fought and argued till 3 am? Cursing and spitting at each other. Where one or the other was always leaving, slamming the door behind them? Those nights?” You ask him seriously. 

“At least then I knew you still cared,” his eyes drop to the floor as he mumbles.

“Chan, I’ll always care, but that doesn’t mean we’re right for each other.” 

You bring a hand up to his cheek, kissing his nose gently, forehead resting on his. 

“Next time you see me, pretend you don’t. Walk the other way, tell yourself I’m a mirage or whatever it takes to stay away from me. Because Luke is too good for me to hurt him like this. He doesn’t deserve it.”

You kiss his lips one last time, his hands flying to your cheeks, anchoring himself to you.

“I love you,” he whispers in a last ditch effort. 

“I know,” you whisper back. You turn from him walking out of the bathroom after fixing your clothes and hair, back to your date. Shame and guilt curling around you like a snake squeezing it’s prey.

-

Over the next few weeks all you’ve been able to think about is that night. The way he held you, the way he smelled and felt. Like it was home, familiar and oh so needed. The fire between you may be dumpster fire, but it’s intense, hot and passionate.

Then the memories of the screaming and crying start. The way you couldn’t always contain your feelings to yourselves in public. The way he’d apologize every time with flowers, a plushie and a kiss that was desperate and fervent. You thought you could work through all of it, and in the time you’ve been apart you’d made progress, but letting him go completely was harder than you thought. 

Especially now; almost eight weeks later. You’ve been sick off and on, breasts tender, and you've missed your period- twice.

You stare at the test in your hands, the two pink lines appearing on the little oval. There was no way it was Luke’s, you hadn’t even had sex yet. 

It could only be his.

Tags: @breakmeoff @thelovelybireader @crystal005 @velvetmoonlght @hwangjoanna @lezleeferguson-120 @princesskrystix

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[superbassbuck]

☁︎ ⋆｡˚ first class ⋆｡ ☁︎ ˚｡

pilot!husband!bucky barnes x wife!reader

Mentions: 18+, grumpy but soft buck, tooth-rotting fluff

Summary: Bucky is the pilot everyone knows. Top of his game, perfect safety record, and no room for nonsense on his flights. He doesn't chat much with the crew—rarely even cracks a smile. He's respected, but also feared. But when you—his wife—is on board, he turns into complete mush.

Word Count: 2.1k main masterlist credit to @adalvsseb for the idea

The tension in the crew lounge was so thick, it felt suffocating.

Two flight attendants hovered near the galley doors, whispering and gossiping like teenagers—as the crew always did to pass the time.

“Captain Barnes seems like he’s in a bad mood today,” one of the flight attendants, Yelena, muttered, glancing toward the cockpit door where Bucky’s silhouette could be seen just faintly.

He had his arms crossed, shoulders tense, and jaw clenched as he stared down at the controls like he always did before his flights.

“When is he not in a bad mood?” the other attendant, Ava, scoffed, patting down her uniform.

They both immediately went silent as the man in question stepped out of the cockpit, his black pilot jacket open to reveal his crisp white shirt, his tie slightly loosened like he had half-assed putting it on.

His cold blue eyes scanned the cabin—sharp and dangerous. 

One of the flight attendants, John, was down the row helping a passenger put their bag up. Poor Walker nearly dropped the luggage when Bucky shot him a judgmental glare, muttering under his breath.

“Incompetent,” Bucky said, shaking his head. “This plane’s never leaving the gate.”

Ava and Yelena gave each other a look—fear and the same desperate thought they didn’t say out loud. 

Please, let this be a short flight. 

But before either of them could retreat, the sound of rolling luggage wheels and soft footsteps on the carpet drifted up the aisle.

Bucky turned his head toward the sound instinctively, and just like that, his entire demeanor shifted before anyone could blink. His shoulders relaxed instantly, arms uncrossing as he turned towards the door.

And there you were—his wife—standing in the frame of the open cabin door, a bag slung over one shoulder, your smile warm and bright despite the early hour. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” your voice came out soft and gentle.

The scariest captain in the fleet nearly tripped over his own feet as he stepped forward to reach you. 

“Hey, doll,” he said just as softly, tilting his head down to press a kiss to your temple, not even caring that the whole crew was staring.

Everyone did a double take, their eyes wide as they watched Bucky brush a strand of hair away from your cheek and tuck it behind your ear. He leaned in, nuzzling his nose against your hair.

“I didn’t know you were on this flight, baby,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to your temple as his arm snaked around your waist. “You missed me that much?”

Bucky didn’t even look back at the open-mouthed crew as he pulled you close against him—like you were a fragile little thing and he only trusted himself to hold you. 

“Of course I did,” you said softly as you nuzzled against him. 

He let out a quiet chuckle, cupping your cheeks in his hands as he looked at you like you were the only person that mattered. He spoke even softer, the crew barely making out the words. Something like “Long morning?” he asked, and you hummed, resting your head briefly on his shoulder despite the sharp line of his crisp uniform.

One of the attendants gasped. 

If someone so much as brushed against Bucky’s shirt, he would have scolded them alive for wrinkling it.

“Did you eat?” Bucky asked, already steering you toward an empty row at the front of first class. “I told you I’d bring you breakfast.”

You waved him off with a sleepy grin. “You did, but I wanted to be with you. Besides, I brought my own snacks.”

He huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh. 

But Captain Barnes? 

Laughing? 

Bucky turned to the nearest flight attendant, his eyes flicking down to the name tag because he couldn’t be bothered to remember the new hire’s name.

“Bob. Could you get my wife some tea? Chamomile, if you’ve got it.”

He didn’t say please, but the polite tone was clear enough to indicate it—because this was Bucky asking. Not ordering.

“Y-yes, Captain,” Bob sprinted to the galley—practically stumbling over his own feet. 

You settled into the seat Bucky guided you to, and he grabbed your bag, stowing it in the overhead bin in one smooth and easy motion.

“You comfortable?” he asked, voice low and soft, like you two were the only people on the plane.

“I’m perfect, James. Go fly your plane,” you chuckled softly, buckling your seatbelt in. 

Bucky chuckled too, bending down as he leaned in closer, feeling your giggle warm against his lips. “Not until you kiss me.”

Somewhere behind him, the co-pilot cleared his throat loudly. “Captain, we do have a schedule…”

Bucky shot him a look that could have crashed the plane on its own. But you just laughed, tugging him closer by his already messed up tie and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his mouth. When you pulled away, Bucky was the one smiling, the faintest shade of pink brushing the tips of his ears.

He stood and turned to the crew, all of whom had suddenly found very interesting things to look at on their clipboards.

“Take care of her,” Bucky announced, voice back to that demanding cold steel.  “She’s the only thing on this plane I care about more than getting you all there safe.”

“Haha,” Bob let out a nervous chuckle and clapped awkwardly. “Captain Barnes—you’re so funny.” 

Yelena leaned in, giving him a warning look. “He’s not joking, Bob.”

Bucky looked back at you one last time, all warmth again. Soft eyes, softer smile as he brushed his knuckles along your jaw. “Call me if you need anything. Anything, babydoll. Okay?”

You gave him a reassuring smile, taking his hand and pressing a chaste kiss to his knuckles. “Go on, Captain. And don’t crash.”

Bucky let out a soft snort and pressed one last kiss to your head before heading back to the cockpit. Once he disappeared behind the door, the cabin came back to life. Boarding announcements echoed overhead, the sounds of carry-ons ruffled through the overhead bins, and passengers settled in for the flight.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚｡⋆

The crew kept stealing glances at you. 

“Thank God Mrs. Barnes is here,” Ava muttered, peeking her head out to watch you. “Makes our work day so much easier.”

Yelena snorted. “Yeah, right. Captain Barnes will be on our asses, telling us to check on her every five seconds.”

Ava shrugged. “I don’t mind. It keeps the Captain happy,” she added, glancing at you again, “and she’s the nicer Barnes.”

The seat belt sign blinked off, and passengers were already dozing off or flipping through in-flight movies.

Yelena perked up at the sound. She nudged Bob gently in the elbow. “That’s our cue,” she said, nodding her head toward you. “Go check in with her if you want to get on Captain Barnes’ good side.”

Bob stood up straight and nodded eagerly. He slipped down the aisle and stopped by your seat. “Mrs. Barnes?” he asked sheepishly. “Can I get you anything? More tea? A snack?”

You lowered the book you were reading and gave him a soft, easy smile. “I’m okay, thank you, Bob. You’re all taking such good care of me already.”

Bob’s shoulders dropped in relief. “We’re just doing our jobs, ma’am…” 

“You can call me by my first name, you know,” you laughed, warm and gentle. “No one has to ‘ma’am’ me.”

Bob jumped at the sound of Captain Barnes’ muffled voice through the crew interphone. He scrambled to grab the handset hanging by the galley door, nearly dropping it as he pressed it to his ear.

“Bob. Is everything alright up front?” 

“Y-Yes, Captain!”

Bob stammered, voice squeaking a little too loud.

“All good up here. Mrs. Barnes is comfortable and doesn’t need anything right now.”

There was a brief, tense pause on the line. Then Bucky’s voice came low and extremely protective. 

“Good. Keep it that way.” 

Bob swallowed hard, glancing back at you with a nervous smile.

“Of course, Captain. Will do.” 

He carefully placed the handset back in its cradle, then he wiped his clammy hands on his pants. 

Ava peeked around the corner, fighting back a grin.

“Careful, Bob. If she’s not satisfied, he’ll toss you out at 30,000 feet. Here,” she grabbed a tray of snacks, “watch and learn.” 

You barely had time to open your book again before Ava appeared beside you with a warm smile and a tray balanced on her palm.

“Mrs. Barnes,” she smiled warmly, “I know you brought your own, but I also brought you some extra snacks just in case. I didn’t know what you liked, so… I just brought a bit of everything.”

Meanwhile, Yelena was fighting back a chuckle as she and Bob watched at a distance. 

You glanced at the neat rows of crackers, fruit, cookies, and a tiny bowl of mixed nuts. “Oh, Ava, that’s so sweet. You didn’t have to do all that!”

Ava’s eyes darted to the cockpit door and back again. “It’s really no trouble at all,” she said quickly. “If you want anything else, just ring the call button. Or don’t.  We’ll check on you anyway.”

You laughed softly and took a cookie from the tray. “Thank you. You’re all spoiling me.”

Before Ava could answer, a ding rang from the intercom by the galley. Yelena grabbed the handset, pressing it to her ear.

“Flight deck.” 

“Yelena. My wife, how is she?” 

Yelena rolled her eyes, but forced her voice to sound chirpy.

"Yes, Captain. She's fine. She's having a snack right now."

"Perfect. What is she having? Chamo—"

"Yes, Chamomile. She likes the cookies, too. Alright, Captain. Yes, Captain. Goodbye, Captain."

She hung up the phone and turned to Ava with a dramatic sigh. “That’s the third time in an hour. I’m really about to tell him to come check himself if he’s so worried.”

“Does he really call that much?” you asked, half-embarrassed. “I’m sorry if it’s such an inconvenience to you guys—” 

Yelena grinned, shaking her head. “Not at all. The big scary Captain turns into a golden retriever if you’re here. So even though he’s pestering us every ten seconds, it’s actually a good day for the crew.” 

Bob appeared next to you, offering a warm towel in his hands like it was gold. “I brought you a hot towel, Mrs. Barnes,” he said shyly. 

“Oh, Bob, thank you,” you said, taking it and gently pressing it to your face. “You’re all too kind, really.”

Before they could scatter back to work, the intercom crackled again. Yelena snatched the handset before Bob could fumble it again. 

“Captain, again? She’s fine—she’s using the hot towel Bob gave her. Yes, Bob. The new one. He’s doing fine, Captain. Yes, she’s smiling. Okay. Okay. Bye, Captain.”

She slammed the handset back into the cradle and gave you a look. “If he calls one more time, I’m throwing this stupid headset out the window.” 

Ava leaned closer, whispering. “He wants you in the cockpit, you know. If you aren’t in his line of sight, he’ll go crazy.” 

You laughed, trying to hide your grin behind your hand. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep him in line when we land.”

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚｡⋆

The landing was smooth—smoother than usual, according to Yelena, who nudged Ava and whispered, “He only flies this soft when she’s on board.”

Passengers were already filing out, and when you finally reached the front of the plane, your bag slung over your shoulder, Bucky immediately bolted to you and pulled you into him. One big hand cradled the back of your head as he pressed a deep kiss to your lips, a kiss that went on way too long for it to be considered appropriate in a workplace.

Behind him, the flight attendants froze mid-task. Bob nearly dropped a stack of folded blankets. Ava turned away dramatically, pretending to check the overhead bins. Yelena made a gagging sound that she didn’t bother to hide.

Bucky pulled back slightly to brush his nose against yours. “Did they take good care of you, doll?” he murmured, thumb stroking your cheek.

You giggled softly, your hands resting in the front of his uniform shirt.

“They did. They were perfect. Almost as good as you.”

He huffed a quiet laugh against your lips.

“Almost? Don't worry. I'll show you how good I can take care of you tonight,” he leaned in and kissed you again, this time more possessively, his hands cupping your jaw. "You ready to go home, sweetheart?"

At a distance, Bob whispered to Yelena, “Should we… clap or something?”

Yelena elbowed him. “Don’t you dare. Just… get your bag and let's get the hell out of here.”

And as the crew bustled around you, rolling their eyes or pretending not to peek, Bucky pressed one last kiss to your temple, and despite him being exhausted from his long day, he took your bag off your shoulder without asking and slung it over his own. He laced his fingers through yours, ignoring the way the crew pretended to gag behind him.

“Alright, Mrs. Barnes,” he said softly. “Let’s get you home.”

[danitcx]

From “mine” to “ours”

Clark Kent (David Corenswet) x female reader

Synopsis: Clark Kent has never been the jealous type. He never had to be… until a new journalist starts flirting with her. What seemed like a small discomfort grows into something else: the need to make sure she’s still choosing him. A soft jealousy story, full of quiet love — and a move that changes everything.

Genre: Fluff, Soft Angst, Romance, Established Relationship

WC: 2,140

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Clark Kent, jealous?

At first glance, it would seem impossible. He's not like that. He doesn’t have that possessive fire in his gaze, nor a controlling instinct. Clark trusts you with the calmness of someone who truly loves. He never questions if you stay late at the office or go out with friends. He doesn’t interrogate, he doesn’t insist. He just hugs you before leaving, and waits for you. He always waits, whether it’s in front of your building, on the phone line, or simply focused, with his hearing locked on every beat of your heart to make sure you get home safely.

But let’s be honest. You’re kind, too. Very. You radiate warmth with your smiles, greet sweetly, say thank you with a look that could melt any heart. And that was probably what made Clark fall for you in the first place. Seeing you smile at him, thank him for helping you with an article, so natural, so generous… so you.

Only that same light he adores can also throw others off balance. And when the new journalist arrived from the Washington offices, Clark noticed everything.

He saw you greet him with that same kindness. He heard —with his ear that always follows you— how the man tried to flirt with you without much subtlety. And even though you didn’t seem to reciprocate, Clark felt a pang in his chest that he couldn’t identify right away. It was a new emotion. Restless. Guilty. Because he knew he had no reason to feel jealous. You were his. You had chosen him.

But then he remembered how, weeks ago, you got upset when you noticed the receptionist flirting with him without him realizing it. And in that moment, he understood. He understood how it hurt. How it felt to look at something you don’t want to see.

He looked away when he heard your laugh from across the floor. He smiled at first —his instinct upon hearing you happy— but it faded when he saw you. You were laughing, cheeks slightly flushed, eyes sparkling. Had the new guy said something funny? A compliment? Something that made you react like that? Clark felt a lump forming in his throat.

Should he learn new jokes? Search the internet for the best professional compliments? He wanted to be better than him. Better for you.

He was so absorbed that he didn’t notice when you looked at him, hoping he was watching you. You wanted to ask him if he wanted to go out for ice cream after work. But he didn’t look up. He didn’t see your smile. He didn’t see your longing. And you, with a slightly heavier heart, simply went back to typing.

Then came the final straw.

“Want to grab a coffee after work?”

The new journalist’s voice cut through the air like an arrow. Clark looked at him from his seat, as if suddenly every cell in his body was on alert. Had you told him you had a boyfriend? Did that man know you and Clark were more than coworkers?

“Sure,” you replied, with that same sweetness as always.

But this time… that sweetness cut through him.

Clark stayed still, completely still. Stunned. His mind started spinning at full speed. Were you mad at him? Had he forgotten something important? Were you tired of waiting? Had you fallen for someone else?

He looked at you, like a wounded puppy, as if searching your eyes for a sign, a refuge, a promise that you were still there for him. And when you did —when your eyes met his— you smiled… as if nothing was wrong. But then, you spoke:

“Shall we go?”

The invitation was for Clark. You knew it. He knew it. But you also said it out loud, so Albert could hear. So he would understand. So everyone would understand. That you had someone. That your sweetness was for everyone, but your heart… only for one. For Clark.

“Albert, who else is coming? I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable with us.”

That word showed up again. Us. Clark felt warmth fill his chest. You said it naturally, but he felt it like an anchor, like home.

Albert hesitated. He noticed how your chair had subtly slid until it touched Clark’s knees.

And he understood.

“Ah… no, yeah, of course, I’ll invite the others. Of course.” He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well… bye.”

You followed him with a diplomatic smile, but as soon as he left, you turned to Clark with deliberate softness. Your knees still touched his.

He held your gaze. He wasn’t upset. But he looked down. And that made you smile. Because you had provoked him. And he… he knew it. And he loved that you could do that with so little.

“I hope now you understand that the receptionist doesn’t just want your number to see if Perry answered…” You leaned in slightly, and with soft fingers, adjusted the glasses that were sliding down his nose again. “She just wants it to text you.”

Clark cleared his throat. His cheeks lit up instantly. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetheart.”

“I don’t need super hearing to notice you’ve been acting weird these days,” you said playfully. “Girlfriend: one. Superman: zero.” You winked and got up to look for some documents. “Will you stay at my apartment tonight?” you asked, without turning around.

Clark blinked. His heart was beating hard… but not from anxiety, from that restrained emotion he didn’t know how to express.

You had noticed his absence. You knew. He thought you didn’t. That he had slipped away without you noticing, that his sleepless nights without you had gone unnoticed. But you knew him. You knew him too well. You knew he wouldn’t say anything, that he’d never make you uncomfortable… even if it hurt him.

“What if I stay tomorrow too?” he blurted out, louder than he expected.

You looked at him from a distance, papers in hand. Your eyes sparkled, in sync with his. “Of course,” you said. “A week if you want. On Saturday we could go to your apartment, check if everything’s okay.”

“No.” The answer came out almost instinctively, and he put his glasses back on, licking his lips nervously. “What if… I stayed there?”

“Clark…” you began, smiling. But he interrupted you.

“But… permanently.” There it was.

You looked at him. In silence. Your eyes widened, sparkled, breathed in what he had just said. “Are you serious?” you asked, voice trembling with emotion.

Clark nodded with a tenderness that couldn’t fit in his body. “I never joke when it comes to us,” he answered with a soft firmness, so sincere it made you tremble inside.

And just then, as if the universe decided to bring you back to Earth, the office door opened.

“The article! On my desk. Now.” Perry’s voice thundered through the air and you turned toward him.

Clark stayed still, caught between the moment and the interruption. Embarrassed, nervous, but still, with his eyes on you. You were already standing, holding the documents. And then, just before walking to the office, you looked at him over your shoulder, with a soft smile.

“See you later… at our apartment.”

And you left.

You didn’t say it to provoke.

You didn’t say it to reaffirm anything in front of others.

You said it because it was true. Because it already was his.

Because you wanted to stay forever too.

Clark didn’t move. He couldn’t.

He just sat there, heart pounding so hard he almost swore the whole Planet could hear it.

His lips curved into a small, honest smile, one that didn’t need witnesses.

And for the first time in a long while, he knew that no matter what happened out there —no matter the threats, the villains, the rescues—

You had said our apartment.

You were choosing him too.

And Clark Kent didn’t just smile for the rest of the day.

He smiled for the rest of his life.

He had stopped doubting.

He had stopped fearing losing you.

Because yes, you could be kind to everyone. You could shine with everyone.

But he was the only one who knew the music of your laugh, the secret language of your gestures, the silent refuge of your hugs.

You loved him.

You understood him.

You chose him, again and again.

And that was enough for his world —the one he used to save— to finally make sense.

God…

How lucky he was to have found you.

And even more… to know you had no intention of letting go of his hand.

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I take requests occasionally! If you have an idea for Clark Kent, feel free to send it my way 🥺💫

[tinkertailorsoldierguy]

just throwing this out there

[teddy-the-queer-wizard]

gonna be real with you

even if these people were out right lying about never integrating their stuff with ai and were actively scraping what i gave them or had weak security so someone else could do so or even if its true now but in two years it won't -

id still want something like this for what im using it for

absolutely i could use my laptop and type up shit or had write stuff on tiny notebooks that i can carry around and then type it up later when i got home if i wanted and absolutely i grew up ripping cds and putting shit on floppy disks, cdcs, discs, and thumb drives

and for important stuff i can still do all that even if i have to get an external disc drive to do it, because i was lukcy enough to be there when they were still teaching people how to do it and had computer interested parents.

its a good still to have and doing that and other computer related stuff should absolutely be something people get to learn to build a good foundation of knowing how to do more than just whatever surface level apps they've stuck on your computer

but what i specifically want to do

is to type up shitty fanfiction ideas and organize all my thoughts and notes on them in a way where i don't up losing an idea or find the idea later and have no idea what im talking about because its vauge and disconnected from anything it my be related to and be able to work on them wherever i go.

id also like to be able to do it off-line and then sync it later because sometimes you just dont have signal

i personally do not care if they steal this shit. i care if things do what i want them to, so *i* can access it without having to do the note book thing

my handwriting is so terrible that even i have trouble reading it when im in a rush, im prone to losing things, and tech should be making my life easier where possible. in this case it can without fucking me over as *bad* as it could, and i know enough about what im doing to accept the risks.

i might settle for some sort of completely offline app that i had to connect to the same program on my computer to transfer files if it had enough other things going for it that it was worth the extra steps

but i don't need that right this second

i will say that libreoffice is on android though and having used the desktop version I can agree that it is decent even if it takes a hot second to find something, it has a whole proper book on how to use it

and heres what the app says about the mobile version in the play store (fair warning, the play store is hiding it. i had to click the link on the actual website to track it down)

like. i definitely am not saying youre wrong.

i am saying that its the wrong option for me at this moment. thank you though

might help someone else out so like definitely gonna share what i know and provide links to help people find what youre talking about so they can check it out if it helps them

Hey horny writer lil heads up for you guys, the “ai” google is forcing into docs to “scan for grammar errors” has been proved to also be scanning for spicy content and multiple ppl have already got notifs saying like “we’re sorry, there was a system error and some of your work was lost” and it was only the horny stuff so uh

Pleeeeease back up your files !!!! Don’t lose your horny to a robot, that’s Doc’s job, not Docs’…

[remcadll]

Dick is never going to get to have a midlife crisis because Bruce is going through his for him. also because he will not be making it to 40.

[silosbears]

i think alphonse would still experience depersonalization and dysmorphia even after getting his body back

[schizopositivity]

People with autism or ADHD: I have this symptom

Me, a schizophrenic: oh me too!

People with autism or ADHD: I have this symptom

Me, a schizophrenic: haha yeah I got that too

People with autism or ADHD: I have this symptom

Me, a schizophrenic: yeah I deal with that daily

People with autism or ADHD: have you been checked for autism/ADHD? It really seems like you have it

Me, a schizophrenic: you know those are all possible symptoms of schizophrenia too right? You know that we have more than just psychosis right? And we can experience almost every symptom of autism and ADHD combined right? You know that we are more alike than we are different, right? Right?