#current wordcount is 3k

[rowarn]

this fic......has 4 smut scenes........its basically pwp......but four?!.......phew.....

#rowarnings #current wordcount is 3k #i skipped writing a smut scene for now so it would be longer by now but #i am who i am #sometimes i skip around when writing

[ugh-yoongi]

a word from our sponsors | knj

you’ve co-hosted a podcast with namjoon for three years; have known him even longer. the two of you have always been the picture of platonic, but that hasn’t stopped the internet from doing what the internet does. the shipping? a little weird at first, but you can understand it: two attractive twenty-somethings always in close proximity to one another, obvious (platonic!) chemistry—people have created ships for less. the fanfiction, though? also pretty funny… until you can’t stop thinking about it. 🎙️

pairing: namjoon x f. reader genre: podcast, friends to lovers au; crack, smut, fluff rating: explicit. minors do not interact. warnings: parasocial relationships galore, a m*n with a p*dcast, author abuses italics, swearing, alcohol, reader uses a pseudonym/nickname (piper) because writing the meta fanfiction scene would've been too weird without one and i refuse to use y/n, dialogue-heavy but it is a fic about a podcast, everyone is down horrendous, mentions of social media & fake r*ddit posts, ex-boyfriend yoongi but in a good, healthy way. let me know if i missed anything but mostly this is just two goofballs not realizing they're in love with one another. smut warnings: kissing, oral sex (f. receiving), fingering, unprotected vaginal sex (fiction), protected vaginal sex (nonfiction), a lil squirting, mild degradation, mentions of a p*ss kink but there is no actual pee i promise (...lest?), i didn't intend to write size kink but it's namjoon so it just showed up anyway, slight dom!joon, everyone orgasms. wordcount: 17.5k credits: this was entirely inspired by that one episode of the basement yard where frankie reads the smut fic of him and joe, so credits to both that author and that podcast. spotify, for their podcast name generator. astro-seek for helping me drag namjoon astrologically. an extra special, gigantic thanks to @effortandmore for writing the meta fanfic (3k of it, no less!) and not batting an eye when i said it could have pee in it as a joke. this is as much yours as it is mine. finally, @hot-soop and @the-boy-meets-evil for reading this over for me and telling me i'm funny. author's note: happy birthday, indigo! here i am to validate every fear you've ever had that the people you write porn about may one day read it. live and on air. :)

You’ve co-hosted a podcast with Namjoon for three years.

You can learn a lot about a guy in that amount of time.

None of it is especially salacious. You know all about his family and his dog and the brand of recycled paper towels he insists on buying in bulk. You know what he’d written his grad school thesis on and what he’d looked like in the thick of it, when he was staving off his fifth mental break of the week. You know how fidgety he gets when it’s closing in on Friday night and he’s got a date—how much he stresses over which restaurant to pick, which cologne, which expensive cashmere sweater to wear.

You also know what the internet thinks about him. Intimately.

Kim Namjoon, according to the internet, is peak husband material. He has cheeks ripe for pinching and thighs small countries would go to war to defend. He has a lap that doubles as a seat and dimples people want to get baptized in. He has Instagram selfies with hundreds of thousands of likes and comment sections full of intelligible keysmashes, especially the ones he posts from the gym.

Kim Namjoon, according to the internet, is a man written by a woman.

Looking at him now, you aren’t sure that’s true, you think people just need to raise their standards. Namjoon is just… Namjoon. He’s intelligent and kind and up to date on modern feminist theory, is all. And, sure, maybe in the current political landscape that puts him far above the rest of men, but the way the internet has latched onto him is a little concerning.

“There’s another post about whether or not we’re dating,” you say, pushing your glasses up the bridge of your nose.

sooo let’s be real here, we ALL think they’re dating, right?? Posted by u/pod-shipper 2 hours ago

Just like he always does, Namjoon huffs out a soft laugh, makes his way around to your side of the table. Puts his large hands on your shoulders as he leans in close to read from your screen, snorting every time he reads a sentence he finds particularly amusing. Whichever cologne he’d chosen this morning is, admittedly, very nice.

It’s sooo obvious, especially in the episodes they film and post on YouTube. The way they look at each other?? I don’t even look at my HUSBAND like that! (+1264) ↳ omg ur sooooo right! i could MAYBE buy that they aren’t full on dating, but they’ve def at least slept together. Namjoon is so 🔥🔥🔥 (+791) ↳ um how can namjoon be dating her when he’s already married to me 😌💅 (+3) ↳ For the millionth time, can we not speculate on their personal lives? This is weird and reinforces really harmful ideas that men and women can’t just be friends. (-51)

“How come they never talk about how hot you are?”

You can tell by the look on Namjoon’s face that he hadn’t meant to say that—or, if he did, he didn’t mean to say it like that, with an entire pout, eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline. “Cursed to be ugly and dumb,” you joke to ease the sudden tension, reading the comment that simply says you’d have to be the dumbest person alive to not sleep with Namjoon.

He scrunches his nose at that. Returns to his side of the table. “Yeah, I don’t think so, lots of people haven’t slept with me.” Starts to unpack all the gear from his bag before he says, “Hey, all that stuff—does it bother you?”

“What do you mean?” you answer, the corner of a protein bar stuck in your mouth. Namjoon always insists on recording at the most inconvenient times.

“People thinking we’re together,” he clarifies.

You shrug. “I dunno. Not really. Comes with the territory, I think, not to mention how much you love to overshare—”

“Hello?”

“I’m just saying,” you retort, hands raised in self-defense. “There really was no need for you to mention you blew your grad school stipend on a porn scam.” Namjoon looks affronted, like he can’t believe you’d stoop so low as to bring that up. “Or that you lost your virginity at fifteen.”

“We have a relationship podcast,” he states simply. “That’s kind of what we do, right? Talk about relationships? And the spectrum of human sexuality is part of that.”

You slump back in your chair as you quirk an eyebrow. “No one said it wasn’t, I just said you overshare. Which you do.”

“And that’s why there’s a dozen Reddit posts a week discussing whether or not we’re dating? Because I overshare?”

“Yeah, exactly. That’s the kind of behavior that leads to parasocial relationships. People latch onto that shit. Makes them think they’re your friend.” He glares. “Don’t give me that look, you know I’m right. It’s bad enough you’ve word-vomited all this highly personal information about yourself, but to not even do it under a pseudonym? It’s like you’re begging for trouble.”

Another comment he doesn’t even realize he’s making: “I don’t beg. For anything.”

To this day, you’re not sure why Namjoon asked you to co-host a podcast with him.

His reasoning had been simple: “You’re my best friend and we don’t agree on anything.” Hard to argue with that. Namjoon has seemingly endless patience, even in the face of things he shouldn’t entertain, and you… do not, to put it simply.

You’re not a cold person. Your fuse isn’t short. You’re just a little jaded, is all. Have far less propensity for bullshit than Namjoon does, so the two of you play well off each other. You end a sentence with a well-punctuated full stop and Namjoon’s right behind you to sigh and say maybe you shouldn’t be so hasty, not everything in the world can be so black or white.

Except some things are. Somewhere along the way, the podcast—which Namjoon had affectionately named Place Him Gently in the Garbage, even though some people should be shoved in there with force—had picked up a following. A big one. And now, every week, you’re inundated with emails ranging in severity. Sometimes people just want to vent after their tenth bad date in a row or share funny stories, and Namjoon lets you take the lead on those, but sometimes it’s a little more serious. That’s where Namjoon shines, all that endless patience, and people love him for it.

“What’s on the agenda today?” he asks, accepting a thick stack of papers from Jungkook.

Ah, Jungkook.

You aren’t sure what he actually does. Some kind of social media manager, which is obvious from the wildly out-of-context clips he posts of you to TikTok, and it’s his responsibility to go through the thousands of emails you get from listeners, but aside from that all you’ve got are your suspicions that he just sticks around to swindle Namjoon out of more and more money.

“I’m in a silly goofy mood,” comes Jungkook’s reply, and you let out a witch cackle as Namjoon winces. Nothing good ever comes of Jungkook being in a silly goofy mood, and that’s quite alright by you.

Fifteen minutes later finds you with a camera in your face that you greet with an unamused, flat stare. Jungkook is used to it by now. Just films for a few seconds before turning his attention to an unaware Namjoon. Head down, pen and highlighter going a mile a minute as he pores over the stack of papers with all the doggedness and eagle-eyed stare of a literature professor.

That’s the thing about Namjoon—he takes this really seriously. So do you, but not in the ways Namjoon does. He’s all skill and determination and you’re color commentary. It works. It clearly works, so you aren’t too bent out of shape about it, but sometimes you worry. Namjoon takes this really seriously and sometimes you worry that he takes it too seriously, that he carries the burdens and worries of all these strangers, that he’s trying to solve and fix things that aren’t his responsibility to solve and fix.

So he takes it really seriously and you don’t take it as seriously as you maybe should, and everything is by design. Balanced.

Twenty minutes later finds you staring across the table at Namjoon, who asks, “Are you ready?” and does one last equipment check before he launches into, “Welcome back to another episode of Place Him Gently in the Garbage with Namjoon and Piper. What’s new with you, Pipe? Any fun news?”

Pipe. It drives you nuts. Feels like nails on a chalkboard. “I see you almost every single day,” you respond dryly. “But for the sake of entertainment, I’m thinking about getting a cat.”

“A cat?” Namjoon parrots, and his eyebrows disappear beneath his fringe because he knows what that means.

You’ve co-hosted a podcast with Namjoon for three years, but you’ve known him even longer.

Since your first year of college, which is also when you met Yoongi. Yoongi, your ex. Yoongi, the person you’d been with for six years and had planned a life around. Yoongi, now one of your closest friends, because the two of you still love one another but no longer in that way, which is fine. But also—Yoongi, allergic to cats.

So, yeah. Namjoon knows what that means, and he has the good sense not to mention it. Unlike him, you’re intensely private and keep your cards close to your chest. Your listeners don’t even know your real name, let alone that you’d gone through a breakup a year ago.

“What kind of cat?” he continues, like his entire world hasn’t just been turned upside-down.

You shrug. “Eh, I don’t know. Probably one that’s been in the shelter a long time, I guess. I’m not too fussy, you know?”

“Right, a cat is a cat,” Namjoon says, thinking he’s done something. You and Jungkook gasp at the same time. “What? Why are you giving me that look?”

“Because that’s a fucked up thing to say! A cat is not just a cat. They have little personalities, just like people. You’ve got—”

“But you just said you’re not fussy,” he interjects. “And I know they have personalities and that you have to find one that suits your lifestyle! Like, you can’t have one of those really cool cats that likes to go kayaking and shit, it’d never work—”

“What does that mean? Why couldn’t I have a cool cat?”

“Hey, all you cool cats and kittens,” Namjoon mocks, and you can tell he thinks he’s done something again, but his impression falls flatter than flat. An awkward silence fills the studio. He coughs. “Anyway. Do you have pictures?”

“Yeah. I also have a list of candidates ranked by how cool their names are. Number five, Casserole.”

“That’s cute.”

“Mhm,” you agree, “but Casserole is a kitten, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that kind of responsibility.”

“They do say you should adopt kittens in pairs.”

“And that’s how they get you. You want one kitten and they talk you into two, and before you know it you’ve got, like, twelve cats. Number four, Party Girl.”

“Sick name.”

“Number three, Toddler.”

“Toddler?”

“Number two, Flat.”

“Just Flat? Understandable.”

“And, finally, number one: Human Torch.”

“Yoooo.” Namjoon laughs. “You have to adopt Human Torch. Let me see.” You pull up a picture on your phone and hand it over. “Okay, for our listeners—Human Torch is a young, male Domestic Short Hair. He has stripes. I don’t know what that’s called.”

“Tabby,” Jungkook chimes in.

“Jungkook says he’s a tabby. He’s cute. Adopt him.”

You return your phone to your pocket. “Maybe. I still think I want an older cat, but I’ll consider it. What about you, though? Any new dating horror stories to share?”

Ah, the dating horror stories. Your most dedicated shippers are convinced they’re fake, that Namjoon just makes them up on the spot to keep them off your trail. If only. Not in the if only they were fake and Namjoon and I were actually dating kind of way, but the holy shit one of my closest friends is a fucking disaster and it’s a little embarrassing kind of way.

“Not really,” he answers. “I’ve got a date this Friday, though. Trying to decide if dinner and a movie is too boring.”

“It’s a classic for a reason. What are you gonna see, My Big Fat Greek Wedding 3?”

“Three?” Namjoon emphasizes, truly sounding scandalized. “Since when are there three? I haven’t even seen one or two.”

“Okay, first of all, the original is a classic and it’s a crime you haven’t seen it.”

“And second of all?”

“There is no second of all. Repeat point one.”

He snorts. “I’m not gonna see that, anyway. Maybe the re-release of Howl’s Moving Castle.”

“Subbed or dubbed, though?”

“Are you trying to get me canceled?”

“Absolutely.”

“I like both,” he chickens out. “Now, let’s stop wasting time and get to the point of the show.”

“Talking about cats is a waste of time?”

“I—no, we’ve just got a lot on the agenda today.”

“Like what?”

“Well, there’s lots to talk about on the celebrity front—”

Namjoon loves this part. As esteemed and educated as he is, not even he is immune to good old celebrity gossip. (Inside him there are two wolves.) Lives for it. Texts you about it at all hours of the night. Sends you links to Reddit threads with hundreds of comments. Has more opinions on Celebrity Big Brother than he does on Ludwig Wittgenstein, sometimes, and when that’s the case you know you’re in for a long evening. You’ve never even seen an episode of Celebrity Big Brother.

But Namjoon loves it, so you’ve become fond of it by association. Reminds you a bit of Yoongi and his love for sports and sports anime.

“—one should we start with?”

“Whatever you want,” you answer, because you haven’t been paying a lick of attention and you aren’t sure it matters anyway. Namjoon can talk to a wall on a good day, but he’s an entirely different beast once mundane, innocuous celeb gossip gets involved.

And even though you hadn’t been paying attention, it seems like this was the right thing to say, because Namjoon smiles so wide his dimples crater his face. “Cool. Let’s start with Taryn Manning. Did you see that bizarre—”

“Who?”

“What?”

“Who is Taryn Manning?”

Namjoon looks a little dumbstruck. Even Jungkook’s arching an eyebrow at you. “Are you serious? She was in Orange is the New Black and Crossroads.”

“The Britney Spears movie?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. Weird, okay. Continue.”

Your co-host shoots you a very pointed look. “I will, thanks. Anyway, she posted a video on social media talking about this affair she had with a married man. Like, she pulled over on the side of the road to record this. Said she can’t stand the man’s wife because she called her a quote-unquote lunatic.”

“I—huh, thought we weren’t supposed to say that anymore. Alright.”

“But wait, it gets even more bizarre. Listen to this quote—and this is direct. This is a direct quote from the video, I can’t stop thinking about it: ‘Don’t you ever threaten me when your husband came to me to get his butthole licked.’ Can you—”

“What? Namjoon, what in the fuck—”

“It’s crazy, right? She was gonna buy this guy a boat.”

“Namjoon, this is a family show, you can’t just talk about ass-eating unprompted.”

“No it��s not.”

“Well, you still shouldn’t talk about ass-eating unprompted. It’s unbecoming.”

“You’re unbecoming,” Namjoon fires back, because he can’t help it. The words are out of his mouth before he can think. “Sorry, that was out of line.”

You sigh. Know whatever look Jungkook is catching on his camera right now is exasperated and pointed, the corners of your mouth probably tugged up just a hint. “Unbecoming, like I said.” Namjoon scoffs. “Anyway, so this actress was gonna buy this married guy a boat and was eating his ass?”

“Yeah. Apparently it was her friend’s husband? They all went to a Taylor Swift concert together.”

“Jesus, this keeps getting worse. Big year for Hollywood cheaters.”

“It is, right? Cheaters and divorces. Something in the water, I guess.”

“I saw the astrology girlies saying a bunch of planets are in retrograde, so—”

“Can you explain that to me? Like, what does it mean for a planet to be in retrograde? Why is it causing divorces?”

“I don’t know, I’m not an astrology girlie. That’s why I said the astrology girlies. What are your big three, though?”

“What’s that?”

“Your sun, moon, and rising signs.”

“How do I find that out?”

“Ugh,” you intone, “don’t worry about it, I’ll do it myself. What time were you born?”

Namjoon rattles off a time.

You grab your laptop. Pull up the page, type in Namjoon’s date of birth and birthplace, and wait. Then you’re staring at a circle with a bunch of lines in it that also don’t make a lick of sense to you. You roll your lips to keep from laughing and school your voice into something deadly serious. “Bad news: it says you’re a virgin.”

“Virgo,” Namjoon corrects, not taking the bait. “I already knew that.”

You scroll a little further down the page. “Your moon is in Sagittarius. Oh god, listen to this, they’ve got you pegged: ‘The greatest need is to always search for something. In order to feel safe you need a philosophy or belief’—”

“Haaa, that’s not—”

“—’You need to have a goal or mission that gives your life meaning. Your faith must be voluntary and it is a paradox that fighting against dogmas may lead you to other dogmas.’ Yeah, that’s you.”

“That could apply to anyone,” he argues. “There are seven-billion people on this planet; I’d imagine a sizable amount of them would say that also describes them.”

“Hm, sounds like your faith in astrology is not yet voluntary. Did you know you’re a Scorpio rising?”

“No. I’m sure you’re gonna tell me all about it, though.”

You smile. “Correct. ‘People with Scorpio on the Ascendant need to fight against dark and destructive power in their life.’ Is that true?”

“Yeah, you’re the dark and destructive power. You keep sidetracking me and we need to get to the point of the podcast.” He grabs the stack of papers Jungkook had given him. Looks more highlighter than paper, if you’re being honest. “I guess Jungkook thought we needed a lighthearted kind of day.”

“That was nice of him, considering what he gave us last week. I guess we’re allowed to have faith in humanity today.”

To your left, Jungkook scoffs.

“Alright,” Namjoon starts, putting on his Very Serious Podcast Guy voice, “first up we’ve got a question from one of our listeners in Canada. It says, ‘Hi, Piper and Namjoon. I recently agreed to go on a blind date with a friend of a friend. She said he was a bit old-fashioned but really talked him up so I thought I was in good hands—and then he showed up to get me in a ‘67 GTO and exclusively referred to me as doll. He didn’t use my name once. I’m torn, because he was really nice and I had a good time otherwise, but this is weird, right? Should I see him agai—’”

“No,” you interject.

“Can I finish?”

“You don’t have to. This guy sounds greasy.”

Namjoon pinches the bridge of his nose. “And why is that?”

“Ignoring the fact that this guy has arguably one of the lamest classic cars around, he didn’t use their name once? Not once, in all the time they spent together? That’s really disrespectful.”

“Some people are just pet name people,” Namjoon argues.

“With absolute strangers, though? It’s really giving the impression that he didn’t even know it, not to mention some people are uncomfortable with pet names. The whole shtick is super lame.”

“I agree it sounds a bit misguided, but—”

Ignoring Namjoon, you say, “Sorry you had to go on a date with the ghost of less-cool James Dean. Into the garbage he goes.”

And, just like he’s done a million times before, Namjoon rolls his eyes and says, “If you really like this guy and want to see him again, a bit of communication will go a long way. Tell him the pet name made you uncomfortable—if it did—and offer to pick him up for the next date. I don’t think he’s completely destined for the garbage, yet.”

“You’re just saying that because you don’t have a license. You probably think a 1967 Pontiac GTO is the pinnacle of romance. That’s probably like picking someone up on a Specialized Aethos to you, eh?”

“That’s a fifteen-thousand dollar bike, I’ll have you know.”

You groan. “Oh my god.”

Ep: #183 - Namjoon is a Virgin

I think Namjoon had the right idea on this one. Sure, the car can be considered lame, but I think a lot of men are deeply insecure and therefore overcompensate when it comes to dating. Women are hard to impress when they have unlimited options. You have to stand out, so I’m glad he advocated for him. Piper can come off like such a misandrist sometimes. (-649) ↳ just shut up bro namjoon would fuckin hate u (+204) ↳ Imagine caring about something like this when they’re getting a cat together 🙄 (+19)

You think about the cat thing for nearly a week.

Adopting a cat is certainly not the worst idea you’ve ever had, and truth be told it’s been a little lonely, living by yourself. No more Yoongi in your space; no more Holly. So, having a new little friend around might do you some good.

It’s just—

It’s a big commitment, and there’s also the dog sitting-shaped elephant in the room. Ending things on good terms means you’re still Yoongi’s second-choice sitter whenever he has to go out of town, and while you love Holly dearly (the two of you had adopted him together, after all), he’s a lot like his father in a lot of ways.

Should I get a cat, you type out, and it’s only been in Yoongi’s inbox a few seconds before the most unflattering picture you’ve ever taken of him is flashing across your screen.

“Are you dying?” you ask, because Yoongi doesn’t call you for much else.

And you already know what his response is going to be. “We’re all dying.”

“Lighten up, Yoongi. One might say being so existentially nihilistic before noon causes wrinkles.”

There’s a split-second pause. “It’s nine p.m.”

“Sure, but it’s before tomorrow’s noon, so it still counts.”

“Whatever. Listen, before you adopt that cat, I need a favor.”

“You going out of town again?”

“Yeah. Shouldn’t be long, though. A week at the most, five days if I’m lucky.”

“That’s fine, bring him over whenever. Yijeong’s busy?”

This pause is far, far longer. “No,” comes Yoongi’s eventual response, but it’s slow. Unsure. A two-letter word has never taken so long to say in the history of ever. “He’s, uh. Coming with me?”

Oh, you think. This is where your ex awkwardly and hesitantly breaks the news of his new relationship. You’ve known this day was coming, and this is what you get for staying friends with him. “This is a fanfiction plot,” you accuse. “Hot, mysterious man moves into a gaudy apartment complex after ending a long-term relationship and meets his equally-hot and mysterious neighbor and they fall in love.”

“I—that’s not—my apartment is not gaudy.”

“Yes it is. There’s a giant gold bust of a weird bird in the lobby.”

“Weird bird?” he parrots. “It’s a swan.”

“I see you’re not denying the in-love-with-your-neighbor accusations.”

“Am I on trial?” Yoongi retorts, and it’s such a Yoongi thing to say when what he means is, is this okay? He means, are we able to talk about this without it being weird? He means, I won’t ever say as much out loud, but your acceptance means a lot to me, and I’d like for you to give me this.

So you lower your voice and soften the edges because it’s not really something to joke about, and you say, “No, of course you’re not on trial,” and Yoongi knows what you mean. “And if you were, you'd get locked up for fifty years. You can’t lie for shit.”

There’s a beat of silence before he clears his throat, mutters a thanks that is so quiet you almost don’t catch it. “Send me pictures of the cats.”

Later on, once you’re freshly-showered and tucked into bed with a candle and a book (Eloge de l’amour by Alain Badiou at Namjoon’s insistence and request), your phone buzzes with a text from Yoongi—

Yoongi: toddler is a fucking hilarious name for a cat but so is flat Yoongi: it’s a tie for me You: Okay well pick one 🙄 Yoongi: yijeong says get both You: Both???? Is he paying my vet bills? Yoongi: kinda out of line to proposition him for money. flat is also good with dogs, js You: If he’s now being raised by you two, my perfect, well-behaved son is probably long gone. Does he even count as a dog anymore? Yoongi: me and yijeong both say fuck off Yoongi: holly too. he says he doesn’t miss you anymore and he’s not coming over now Yoongi has added Yijeong to the group Yoongi has changed the group name to #ThirdWheelChat Yijeong: Please don’t drag me into this. Also I did not say “fuck off” You have changed the group name to People Who Have Seen Yoongi Naked Yoongi: fuck you

You should’ve known something was going on with Jungkook, because it’d started like this:

(When you and Namjoon started the podcast three years ago, it was in the living room of his apartment.

Surrounded by books and plants. He loved to record in the afternoons back then—Namjoon loved to say it was because of his grad school schedule, but you’ve always suspected he just wanted to preen in the golden hour light, much like he’s doing now.

“Is this really necessary?” Jungkook whines from his spot on the couch. He’s already swindled Namjoon out of two bags of microwavable popcorn and three cans of sparkling water. “It’s a Saturday afternoon; I could be doing something so much more fun than this.”

Namjoon scoffs. “Are you saying this isn’t fun?”

“Yeah. It sucks, actually. This could’ve been an email.”

And because Namjoon is accomplished, mature, and absolutely incapable of not taking Jungkook’s bait, the space between his brows creases as he sends a murderous glare Jungkook’s way. “Stop eating my food, then. And drinking my drinks. And lounging on my couch like that—”

“I’m not lounging,” Jungkook argues.

“You’re manspreading all over the leather!”

“This is how I sit!”

“Well, knock it off! My couch is only for fun and people who think I’m fun!”

Jungkook rolls his eyes. “So you fuck on it?”

“What?”

“What other fun things could you possibly do on a couch?”

Namjoon blinks. “Watch… watch a movie?”

Jungkook groans, throws himself backwards against the pillows as if he’s suffering a Victorian ailment. “Jesus. No wonder you can’t score a second date.”

“Okay, that was a little uncalled for. There are a ton of reasons a person might not want a second date, and no one is obligated to go out with me—”

“Uh-huh. Anyway—”

You clear your throat. Try to hide your own can of seltzer you’d taken from Namjoon’s fridge in the midst of his and Jungkook’s bickering. “Not trying to be rude, but I have an appointment at the shelter at three. If, y’know. You wouldn’t mind speeding this up a little.”

“Oh! Yeah, of course—”

“Oh, so you’ll speed this up for her but not—”

Namjoon pinches the bridge of his nose. “She,” he begins, jerking his thumb in your direction, “isn’t needlessly complaining and actually has someplace to be.”)

It was just a quick little rendezvous in Namjoon’s living room to come up with a rough draft for the following month’s episodes. He couldn’t do it over text because he’d fallen down the steps at his office and landed on his ass on the corner of a step and his phone had been in his back pocket. Cracked clean in half. And he couldn’t do it over email because he—rightfully—knew Jungkook would ignore them because he has his inbox set up to send all of Namjoon’s personal emails to the trash.

But Jungkook holds onto things like that. Grudges. Loves to let Namjoon think bygones are bygones and pop up a few days later with some evil scheme. Hence:

“What is this?”

Jungkook smirks. Rocks back on his heels. “It’s fanfiction.”

“I can see that, but… why?”

This is where Jungkook shines: the ominous, cheshire cat grin; the aw, shucks demeanor that gaslights Namjoon into thinking Jungkook couldn’t possibly be fucking with him. “Well, you were having trouble coming up with ideas for episodes, and there’s an email in there from someone whose partner reads really expli—”

“Jungkook, this is fanfiction about me.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you. Of all the weird shit you’ve seen on the internet (and there’s been a lot), fanfiction of people you know—your friends—was something you’d managed to escape. Probably by virtue of not knowing anyone famous enough to warrant fanfiction being written about them.

But you should’ve known. You really, really should’ve known.

“Oh my god?”

You’re not sure who says it. Could be you or Namjoon, but the sentiment is the same. He mouths a what the fuck at you that’s met with a shrug. You’re in uncharted territory now, too. “Where did you even find this?” you ask, taking the stack of papers from Namjoon. “And why did you print it out?”

“Because I’m going to track down whoever wrote it and get them to autograph it. Then I’m going to buy a nice frame and hang it on the wall behind him, so we never forget this historical moment in Place Him Gently in the Garbage lore.”

“It’s a podcast,” Namjoon deadpans, “how can it have lore? And how much lore can there possibly be?”

“It’s the internet,” you concede. “The lore possibilities are endless. Don’t tempt them.”

Jungkook nods sagely, well-versed in the degeneracy of the internet. “Yeah, that’s how you end up with shit like 4chan.”

“4chan? There’s Space Jam porn on there.”

As the youngest, all Jungkook can do is roll his eyes. “Sometimes explaining this shit to you feels like trying to teach old people how to rotate PDFs—”

Namjoon scoffs. “I’m not that bad. I know how to rotate a PDF.”

Wow, Jungkook mouths. “Anyway, back to the fanfiction—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Namjoon interjects. He looks at you. “It’s weird, right? Like, it’s weird that people have written this about us?”

About us.

Your scope of the world narrows to the size of a pinhead. It’d just been about Namjoon before. This is fanfiction about me, he’d said, and you hadn’t been included in that. Now it’s written about us and you’re included.

“I—what?”

“It’s about us,” Namjoon repeats.

Jungkook rolls his lips. “It’s about the two of you fucking, to be specific.”

“Can you not—”

“Fucking a lot,” Jungkook continues. “So much fucking.”

Namjoon looks at you, and it’s all you can do to keep from laughing. The look on his face is pure bewilderment, both that Jungkook has cooked up this idea and is hell-bent on executing it and that he remains employed. And maybe it’s a little bit of nerves, too, because neither of you are ignorant of the risks. Reading fanfiction about yourselves—about the two of you as a couple, specifically, or at least two people who have sex—is weird. Not something you can unread.

And maybe it’s because you’re so determined to not make it weird that you send Namjoon a cheeky, exaggerated wink, shrug your shoulders, and say, “I’ll need a couple drinks, but I’m down.”

Jungkook throws his head back and cackles wildly, and that look of bewilderment on Namjoon’s face morphs into something else. Trepidation, maybe; definitely disbelief, because sometimes he lets himself get swept away in Jungkook’s schemes, but it’s rare that you follow suit.

As Jungkook continues to laugh, you wonder if you should’ve said no.

Namjoon has two stipulations: the two of you have to film the episode completely alone, and he, too, needs to be a little drunk.

The latter? Piece of cake, considering Namjoon has become some sort of whiskey aficionado in recent years. His drinking is streamlined and to the point—he knows exactly how much and what to drink to get him where he wants to be. You can’t say he isn’t efficient.

The former, though? Borderline impossible. From the second Namjoon states his terms, Jungkook is having none of it. Argues that he’s the one who found the story and the one who cleared it with the author, so he deserves to witness the fruits of his labor.

“No,” Namjoon repeats for the nth time, “no way. I’ll barely be able to do this with just her, let alone both of you.”

And that—that doesn’t bother you, right? You force a laugh, because why would it bother you?

There are few secrets between you and Namjoon, except your respective sex lives have been staunchly off-limits. Namjoon could be a virgin for all you know, and as you study him—the way he keeps bobbing his leg, the slight shake in his hands—you wonder if that’s the reason he’s being so weird about this.

It’s just a story.

Fiction.

Most people don’t have to worry about someone writing stories about them fucking their friends. If they do, you reckon even less actually read them. So, sure, it’s a little strange, but people from all over the world send in stranger stuff all the time, don’t they? It’s literally the reason you’re in this predicament.

Eventually Jungkook agrees. His whining has gotten him nowhere, so he just throws up his hands. Posts a cryptic little “u guys won’t believe what the next patreon ep is lmao” that sends the internet into a frenzy. Doubles your Patreon numbers almost immediately, and both you and Namjoon do a good job of pretending the pressure isn’t overwhelming.

Jesus. You have to read explicit fanfiction about yourselves. On camera.

Namjoon gets caught up with work and isn’t available until the weekend, so you’re forced to sit with the nerves for a few days. Not too bad at first, but you’re nearly coming out of your skin by Thursday with the need to know. You’re well-versed in the world of fanfiction, but this is fanfiction about you: your name, your likeness, maybe even your personality.

What will they know of Namjoon, though?

Will they get it right, the way he looks with his jaw clenched? How impossibly deep his voice can go, both when it’s raspy with sleep and when he’s fully at ease? Will the Namjoon in the story be closer to the Namjoon you know, or the version of himself he presents to the public?

And you’ve known him a long time—long enough that there are few secrets between you, but you don’t know the most intimate parts. All the parts the internet loves to speculate on. All the little gaps that, apparently, need to be filled in by fanfiction.

Will they know what Namjoon looks like when he gets off?

No, you scold yourself, jerking awkwardly like you’ve been burned, and neither will you.

Because you are not going to think about this. Your thoughts are not going to go there. Namjoon is your friend, and you’ve listened to him scold an endless amount of men on the podcast for exactly this behavior. Sexualizing their friends. You’re not going to do it, too.

Maybe that’s why you’re kind of seeing double when it comes time to record. Namjoon needed an extra shot and offered you one as well. You’d necked it without a second thought and now you’re here, trying to ignore the slight tilt of the room as Namjoon adjusts the camera.

“How’s the shot look?” he asks, gesturing vaguely behind him at his laptop screen because Jungkook had refused to lend you his fancy cameras if he wasn’t allowed to be involved.

It’s a completely normal question.

It’s a question you’ve asked and answered a million times.

Except—there’s something horribly distracting about Namjoon in this moment. The outline of his back muscles through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. The way the sleeves are tight around his biceps. He’s always been a gym rat, always carries around a protein shake that smells and looks completely foul, but you can’t remember it ever being this obvious.

And you take too long to answer, because Namjoon straightens up just enough to send you a concerned look. Which does not help. You are not imagining what else might cause his brows to pinch like that, what might have his lips parting, have sweat dotting his hairline.

You swallow. Hard.

“Looks fine,” you manage to say. He’s still staring. Are you on fire? You feel like you’re on fire, which would make sense. Would explain Namjoon’s sweating and concerned stare and the fact that he cannot stop staring at you. “Maybe a tiny bit to the right if we’re being picky,” you tack on, hoping it’ll break whatever spell the two of you are ensnared in.

It works. “To the—the right, yeah, makes sense,” he rambles.

He moves it an inch to the left.

—

Things are tense, to say the least.

Recording hasn’t been this awkward since your first episode, or maybe ever. You’re sat across from one another like you always are, and usually Namjoon would be making quip after quip by now, talking endlessly until Jungkook shushed him long enough to get the intro filmed. Now, there’s just silence.

“Should we…?” Namjoon startles. Bangs his knee on the underside of the table and drops a string of curses. “Sorry, are you—”

“I’m fine,” he says, cutting you off. He gestures vaguely toward the camera. “I’ll just… yeah.”

Showtime.

You wipe your hands on your jeans, unsure of when they got so damp. Unsure of when you’d grown so nervous, too, because you’d been fine an hour ago. Had strolled in with two cups of tea and a little too much confidence, giddy at what you were about to do.

Maybe the nerves had shown up alongside the alcohol. This sounds reasonable, and you do not, under any circumstance or for any reason, think about Namjoon’s back. Or his biceps.

Namjoon makes it through the intro, dimples deep and wide as he smiles, and you also don’t think about the way his voice cracks and gets a little breathy when he introduces you. It’s only because he’d been drinking, and the flush on his cheeks attests to that. The same flush that creeps down his neck, still a little sweaty; disappears beneath the hemline of his shirt.

“—Jungkook had. Right, Piper?”

Now it’s your turn to startle, and there’s not much you can do to hide the obvious except ask Namjoon to redo the shot. Because it’s bad enough the internet already overanalyzes every move you make, every word choice, every instance you’ve stared at Namjoon a second longer than they thought you would—this is a blatant display of… affectedness.

“Sorry,” you say, “I wasn't paying attention. Can we redo it?”

You’re expecting a playful scolding. A ha ha, get it together, because that’s what you usually get. But there’s nothing aside from Namjoon studying you and nodding. Asking if you’re okay. Saying, “Is this—this is weird, right? Is it too weird? Maybe we shouldn’t—”

An out. Namjoon is giving you an out, and you should take it, you know you should take it, so there’s absolutely no reason at all you shake your head and say, “No, no, it’s fine! I think I’m just a little, uh. Drunk?”

“Are you sure? We can—”

“It’s fine, Joon,” you insist. “Besides, it’ll be good content, right?”

“Good content,” he parrots. “Yeah, for sure.” He fidgets in his seat, runs his hands down the span of his thighs. Very, very thick thighs. “I’ll grab us some water.”

You faceplant onto the table as soon as he’s out of the room. When did his thighs get so thick?

But the water helps. Cures whatever strange, insatiable thirst has come over you, because you feel much more human after a few glasses. Less drunk, too, which makes sense. Yoongi could barely escape your drunken, horny wrath when the two of you were together, so you chalk it up to a Pavlovian response.

Namjoon does the intro again. Introduces you strong and steady, not a hint of nerves, and explains, with a fresh blush taking over his upper body, what the episode’s going to be about. “Someone wrote fanfiction about us,” he says, scratching at the back of his neck. “It’s, uh, pretty explicit. Jungkook thought it’d be funny if we read it.”

You snort. “He might get fired, depending on how this goes.”

“He should get fired regardless,” Namjoon deadpans. “Anyway, we have permission from the author to read this so don’t come after us, and, as always, we’ll put all the credits in the video description.”

“Special shoutout to Jungkook, though, who was not allowed to be here with us for this momentous occasion.”

Namjoon laughs. “I’m sure he’s having plenty of fun at home.” You both pause. “That’s not—I’m not implying anything with that! I just meant—you know, like. He’s hanging out and enjoying his day off.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Moving on. I have two copies of this. Do you want your own?”

You grin, wicked and wide. “Nah, just read it to me.”

“Making me do all the work,” he huffs. “Typical.”

“There’s a stack of papers in front of you that might say otherwise.”

It’s clear you catch him off-guard. He cocks an eyebrow, opens and shuts his mouth a few times like a goldfish. An obvious question sits on the tip of his tongue: You think you’d be in charge? Instead he coughs, jerks his head to the side, and says, “I guess we’ll see.”

It sounds like a challenge.

Thirty seconds is all you get before Namjoon’s shuffling his stack of papers and clearing his throat. Asking if you’re ready and jumping right into it once you say you are. Reads the first few lines like they’re some old lecture notes, and they’re conservative and safe-for-work enough that you start to relax.

And then Namjoon reads, “A louder one wonders if Namjoon is a pet name person—if he’d call her ‘honey,’ or ‘gummy bear,’ ‘babe,’ or ‘baby,’” and you choke.

“Gummy bear?”

Namjoon laughs along with you—the weird one that almost sounds like a dog panting. “You want me to call you gummy bear?”

“I want you to call me a Lyft,” you snark. “I’m leaving.”

He continues:

And that’s how it starts, wandering thoughts, wandering fingers—the first time Piper comes to the thought of Namjoon calling her baby, pushing inside her, showing her that he definitely doesn’t beg, but she does… Well, she’s a little ashamed. She’s apparently got a reputation to maintain, anyway, not to mention a friendship.

His eyes leave the paper and lock onto you. “Or maybe you’d prefer baby?”

“Fuck off.”

Weeks after that first time, it’s become a habit, thinking about Namjoon as something more than a friend. It’s confusing and a little mortifying and it’s starting to affect her in ways she hadn’t expected. When they record, she feels fidgety—she’s jumpy when he gets close, has all the stupid obvious tells of an unwanted crush: her breath hitches when he whispers (why the fuck is he whispering in her ear, anyway? Doesn’t he know what that does to a person?) inside jokes to her so Jungkook can’t hear, her heart rate spikes when their fingers accidentally brush, she feels itchy and hot and a little embarrassed whenever he holds eye contact with her. It’s terrible, and it’s only made worse by the way he’s doing all of those things more than usual. Or, at least she thinks he is, thinks she’s not imagining the way his eyes linger on her more than she can remember happening before or the way she’s caught him staring at her lips when she chews on the end of her pencil mindlessly. 

You’ve completely forgotten how to breathe.

Namjoon’s staring again. You need to salvage this. He’s only on paragraph three and you’re already squirming in your chair and imagining things that are not appropriate. So you roll your lips, return his teasing. “Well? Do you stare at my lips?”

It works. “No,” he scowls.

“You sure?” you joke, morphing your face into something half-pout, half-duck face.

“We’re never gonna finish this if you keep making comments.”

“You started it,” you point out. “Go on, then.”

There’s some dialogue. Some prose that hits way too close to home, has you wondering who on earth wrote this and how they plucked every single thought from deep within your psyche. A pang of fear that maybe you haven’t been as subtle as you’d thought all these years. A moment to confirm to yourself that, no, you haven’t been harboring a secret, deeply-buried crush on Namjoon.

Then he reads—

And then he kisses her. It’s greedy and hot, his lips like a branding iron. She moans a little against her better judgment when he licks at the seam of her mouth, and in return, she can feel Namjoon’s lips curve into a smile against her own. It’s better than she’d been imagining it, really. He’s a good kisser—firm at the right times, soft when she needs it, careful but not cautious. He holds her jaw with one hand and keeps her right where he wants her beneath him (as if she’d want to move, anyway).  When their lips finally part, he rests his forehead on hers. It’s intimate in a way she hadn’t expected, and he looks at her as if she’s the answer to every question. Finally, he whispers, “What’re we doing, Piper?” His lips are still wet and pink and a little swollen from kissing, and she barely hears the question—she’s too busy thinking about kissing him again, about pulling his plump bottom lip between her teeth, teasing and…  “Kissing,” she says finally.  “What do you want?” he asks, sinking to his knees in front of her. And if that alone isn’t an answer to his question… “Whatever you’re willing to give,” she replies. It feels like she’s wanted this forever, this and so much more. Once she got the idea in her head, it’s hard to know if she ever felt differently, ever truly thought they could just be friends. Or, if in the back of her mind, in the dark corners that she never lets see daylight, she always knew she wanted Namjoon. Always knew she loved him.

—and everything goes right out the fucking window.

Namjoon sits with those words for a moment. Scans the paper in his hands and frowns a little when he confirms what you already know. “The rest is, uh. Porn.”

“That is why we’re here.”

“Last chance to back out.”

“I’m not scared,” you lie. “Are you? You’re the one who keeps stalling.”

He huffs. “You’re a pain in my ass,” he retorts, and then nothing is all that funny anymore.

Because Namjoon was right: the rest is straight-up porn. He’s barely able to read the part where he goes down on you with a straight face, turning a deep shade of crimson. Stutters through the part where you pull his hair, and that is not something you needed to know about your friend. You think he loses his grasp of language entirely when he reads, “When he slides a long finger into her and brushes past her most sensitive spot, she arches into him and lets his name fall from her lips in a soft cry. Piper, notorious skeptic, is a babbling, trembling mess as she gets closer to her orgasm,” because all the words are garbled together, producing nothing but gibberish. You think he’s ready to keel over and die when he reads, “Namjoon pulls away briefly, lips slick with her juices, and licks over his top one, pausing to tell her how good she tastes before he dives back in.”

“That was nice of them to include. I appreciate their attention to detail in regards to my personal hygiene.”

“This is so embarrassing,” he whines.

You roll your eyes good-naturedly. “Gimme. I’ll finish it.” He hands over the papers immediately.

Except you regret it immediately. The words you’re staring at are not words you ever thought you’d read or recite in your entire life. Not even for a million dollars. “Oh,” you say instead.

“See? Not as easy as it looks.”

“This is really embarrassing,” you confirm. “I might need another shot.”

“Y-yeah. Alcohol sounds good.”

Namjoon staggers forward obligingly, looks completely fucked out and pliant, willing to do whatever she asks. She remembers the sounds he made when she pulled his hair, wonders if he likes being bossed around, if he wants her to tell him what to do, to be a little mean to him. Maybe it’s different from her dreams, maybe he will beg her. She wants him so badly, she’d do anything for him. So, she pulls his briefs down to expose his absurdly large member, already mostly hard, and slaps it. Gently at first to see how he’ll react, and when he shudders and jerks his hips, she does it again, a little harder. “Look at you,” she whispers, “such a needy boy.”  He whimpers at that, eyes pleading. “Please, Piper…” he whines.   “Please what?” “Please let me fuck you,” he begs. She wants to, wants him so much, wants to feel him stretch her open, and from the looks of his cock, thick and long and drooling with precum, he could. “Should I?” she asks. She musters all her confidence to keep the condescending tone up. It feels wrong given how desperate she is to get him inside her, but it also seems to be getting him worked up and equally as desperate. “Do you even know what to do with that big, stupid cock?”  Namjoon’s cock twitches, and he begs, “I—I’ll fuck you so good, Piper…. I know how, I promise. Just… please?”

“Oh my god,” the two of you say in unison.

You so badly want to ask if this is biographical. How Namjoon feels about a little degradation; what he’d do if someone actually called his cock stupid. Ifsomeone has called his cock stupid. You dare a glance at him and conclude that someone’s had to. Namjoon just has that kind of energy.

But you can’t ask because it’d be weird, so you keep reading.

“How do you want me?” she asks softly when their lips part. There’s a wild look in his eyes, like he’s processing all the possible options out of everything he’s considered. And then it occurs to her. “Have you imagined this before? Thought about how you’d fuck me?” she teases him as she stands, stepping into him. Piper pushes one hand through his hair, brushing it back off of his forehead and wraps her other around his dick, squeezing a little for emphasis on her words. “Yes,” he groans as she strokes him, thumbing at the head of his cock. “Tell me what you want, then. Want me on all fours for you? Want me to show you how it’s done, to let you lay back and ride you so you don’t have to put in any work?” Namjoon’s breathing is getting heavy, pupils blown wider with each suggestion. 

“I told you!” you shriek, laughing in between the words. “I told you I’d…” And then your gloating tapers off, because what happens next has your brain malfunctioning.

“All of that,” he whines as she lets go of his hair and brings her hand down to run a fingertip over his perineum. “Want all of that. Want to bend you over the table and fuck you right here. Hear your sounds in the microphone.” Even in her dirtiest thoughts about him, she hadn’t considered the microphone, hadn’t considered recording it. When she thinks about it though, it makes sense. Namjoon is exactly the kind of person that would get off to someone’s voice. So, she does. She makes a show of turning around and slowly bending over the table, sliding her upper body across it carefully until she can reach her microphone and turn it on. When she says into it, “What’re you waiting for?” she sees over her shoulder the way that Namjoon shivers.

This is… not good. You’re never going to be able to look at a microphone the same way, which is extremely not good for a person who supplements their income with a very popular podcast that requires them to speak into a microphone for extended periods of time.

This is very, very bad.

Namjoon must be thinking the same, because he lets out a strangled a-haaa that’s less of a laugh and more a plea to God, the gods, the entire gamut of higher powers that might be able to save him. No one’s going to, you think, staring down at the paper again. This godless piece of fanfiction will be preserved on the internet forever, will be seared into your mind forever, and no amount of praying is going to erase it.

“I should, uh. Just read the rest, yeah? Get it over with?”

“Mhm. Yep. Yes, please.”

Don’t say please, you almost say. You can’t take it; not after what you’ve just read.

So you put on a show. Steel your expression and your nerves and take it seriously. Use voices and sound effects and desperately try to stave off the awkwardness you know is inevitable because a smut fic is probably only going to end one way, and that’s with you acting out Namjoon having an orgasm.

Maybe you’ll have another one, too, if the author is nice.

It’s sweet, she thinks, the way he’s easy for her, takes his time with her. Strokes his fingertips along her sides and kisses the back of her neck reverently. As much as she loves it, part of her hopes he’s not always like this—hopes he’ll give as good as he takes, hopes he’ll put her in her place. She can feel his cock hard against the cleft of her ass, not even inside her yet, and still, she thinks about next time and the time after that. “Still okay?” He breathes into her ear as his tip rubs against her cunt.  “Yeah—want you, Joon.”  “Never thought I’d hear you say those words.”  “I never thought you’d record them,” she teases, eyes glancing up to the flashing light showing the mic picking up all of this as he starts his slow slide into her.  Piper falls even further forward when he bottoms out, letting her forehead rest on the table. He’s whispering filth in her ear, about how he has something to prove, how she’ll never want anyone after this, how no one can fuck her the way he does.  She hates that he’s right.  Each stroke brings a new sensation: sparklers, butterflies, nerve endings on fire as he fucks into her and licks and sucks at her neck, her shoulders, her ear. Piper can’t even think, and this is what people mean when they talk about being fucked stupid, she decides.  It’s perfect.  Every time she thinks she’s getting close again, he changes something: fucks her a little shallower, moves his hips just a little, slows down, speeds up… It’s driving her crazy.  “Come on,” she whines. “I’m so close…” At least she can tell he is, too. No longer able to sustain the dirty talk, he’s breathing heavily, letting out broken moans and sighs of her name. He’s moving rhythmically now, thrusts consistently faster.  “Oh, fuck, Piper,” he groans, “Gonna cum.” One of his hands finds her clit and he rubs careful circles over her, bringing her to her peak along with him, no more teasing.  When she comes, it’s with a loud moan into the studio mic, and that seems to be what tips Namjoon over the edge, too. His hips stutter into hers as he comes, her cunt clenching around him for what feels like forever.

You deserve an award, you think. An Oscar. You didn’t even groan when you had to read the word “cunt,” and that’s a feat in and of itself.

“Is it over?” Namjoon asks, words muffled by the hands covering his face.

“Not quite,” you answer. “There’s some aftercare, and at the end you ask if I’ll piss on you.”

Namjoon gags. “I asked you what—”

“Today’s episode has been brought to you by Stamps-dot-com—”

HOLY SHIT THE NEW PATREON EPISODE???????? Posted by u/pod-shipper 4 minutes ago NO WAY. NOOOOOOO FUCKING WAY DUDE THERE’S NO FUCKING WAY THEY DID THIS AS AN ACTUAL EPISODE WHAT THE FUCK WHAT HTE FUCK WHAT EHTU FKF DFGLKDG;L (+705) I wasn’t sure if they were messing around before, and I was quite critical of the “shippers,” but now I’m pretty convinced. (+423) ↳ we’ve been telling y’all for YEARS 😤 (+197) ↳ Glad you’ve seen the light, u/RandomAcorn2058! (+5) ↳ ugh. they weren’t messing around before and they aren’t messing around now. do you guys not listen to what they say? namjoon’s been dating, and piper got out of a six-year relationship just over a year ago. if they’ve had something going on for “years” that means they’re both cheaters, and that’s a really shitty thing to assume about them. not to mention it makes the entire point of the podcast moot. (-63) Why do you guys think Jungkook “wasn’t allowed” to be there? (+314) ↳ So they could fuck lmao it’s so obvious (+329) ↳ because it’s awkward af? would you wanna read porn about yourself w all your coworkers in the room? (+2) ↳ the “it’s awkward” excuse is sooooo lame he’s the one who found it and is the one who edited the episode, he’s gonna see it regardless. (+15) ↳ Tbh I’m more curious about how he even found it to begin with? Do they have a throuple thing going on? Like, why was he looking for smut fic about his bosses? (+38)

You do not get through recording unscathed.

You are very scathed. Perhaps the most scathed a person has ever been.

Jungkook texts the group chat sporadically throughout the week, cracking jokes and making memes at your and Namjoon’s expense which is par for the course and shouldn’t have you off-kilter, but something inside you feels deeply wrong. Feels like someone’s given you devastating news; feels like it used to back in uni when you knew you’d failed an exam and were just waiting to see how badly.

It both helps and doesn’t that the internet is so invested. All the clips Jungkook keeps posting have re-doubled your Patreon numbers, and jumping up a tax bracket never hurt anyone, you included. But all of those jokes and memes largely went unanswered by both you and Namjoon, still too close to the incident to find the humor in it from the other side.

The two of you had sex.

Not literally, of course, but you figure you might as well have with the way you’re feeling. The way you’re avoiding one another. Someone wrote a story about the two of you having sex and you both read it and something about that, days later, feels really fucking unsettling.

In a bad way? You aren’t sure. It’s not like you’re mad or upset or any other synonym. You just feel… off. Itchy from the inside out, and that’s far from the norm in your and Namjoon’s friendship. In all the years you’ve known one another, you’ve never once avoided each other, including the time you’d set him up with a close friend and he showed up 45 minutes late to their date and ghosted after.

(Unsurprisingly, that friendship had not lasted.)

Maybe it’s because Yoongi had always been there as a buffer. You aren’t of the belief that men and women cannot be platonic friends, but being in a years-long committed relationship nixed a lot of awkward interactions and assumptions off the bat. Even Namjoon had known Yoongi first. Had introduced himself to you in your shared 100-level psych course with a, “Hey, you’re Min Yoongi’s girlfriend, right?” because they ran in the same underground circles and Namjoon had idolized him from afar for years.

Pretty fucked up, then, that Yoongi’s off in Los Angeles with his hot new boyfriend and you’re on your couch, Holly at your feet, pointedly ignoring your texts.

“I’m gonna get a cat,” you say to the dog, trying to redirect his attention when he starts chewing on your sock again. Holly doesn’t offer any input, of course, and he’s a lot like his father in that way. “I can’t believe you have a stepfather. You’re a proper child of divorce now, Min Holly.”

There are a pile of unread texts you continue to ignore in lieu of showing Holly pictures of adoptable cats. A few more memes from Jungkook, one from Namjoon’s new phone asking to move the recording date a few days because “something came up at work,” one from the food delivery service you admittedly use too much offering 10% off your next order, and two from Yoongi. This reminded me of you, the first one says beneath a picture of an ice cream cone on the ground, and another one of him holding a water gun that says send me a picture of my son or else.

You eventually reply back with a picture of your middle finger, Holly nothing but a blurred brown blob in the corner of the frame.

That’s how it goes for the better part of a week. Namjoon’s work issue lasts four days. He doesn’t offer an explanation and you don’t ask for one, you just wait for the all-clear text and try to quiet the nerves once you get it.

You’ve never been nervous to see Namjoon before.

The more popular the podcast became, the more money rolled in. The more money that rolled in, the more you could afford nicer things. That meant going from recording in Namjoon’s living room to a bona fide office space. Third floor, an expanse of windows and natural light, thirty-five minute commute by train.

Today, it feels more like thirty-five seconds.

You can hear Jungkook’s witch cackle from the stairwell, and your mind fills in the blanks of Namjoon’s exasperated sigh. It helps, your brain reminding you that you know these people. You know this is Jungkook’s late gym day, so he’ll be in a pair of sweats and a hoodie that drowns his frame. You know that when Namjoon has work issues and feels like an inconvenience, he always shows up with two boxes of baked goods from the bakery near his place, and you know both of them will save the best donut for you.

So you walk in and Jungkook’s in a hoodie and sweats just like you expect him to be, and there are two boxes of baked goods next to the coffee machine. Both of them say hello and wave and, for all intents and purposes, everything is normal.

Except it isn’t.

Because Namjoon looks… different.

Not in a bad way. Not in a bad way. He almost always dresses nicely, always looks polished and put-together, usually because he’s either going to or coming from campus—fitted shirts, either of the tee or dress variety, and earth-toned cardigans; tailored trousers that are sometimes corduroy; polished loafers. Sometimes, if he’s feeling extra casual, a stark white pair of tennis shoes.

Today, he wears none of those things.

No, today torture comes in the form of form-fitting jeans and a t-shirt a little oversized so he can roll the sleeves. His hair is brushed back off his face instead of parted down the middle. He’s wearing gold jewelry that glints in the sun. A pair of off-white Converse high-tops. And, much to your horror, he’s also wearing his glasses.

According to the internet, Kim Namjoon is peak husband material, which you can usually ignore, but not when he’s wearing glasses.

You avert your gaze, convinced you’ll burst into flames if you stare too long, not to mention Jungkook will notice and that’s a ribbing you’d rather die than take. So you avert your gaze and pointedly ignore Namjoon, who’s talking about his work crisis to no one in particular. Something about a co-worker going on an unexpectedly early paternity leave, and Namjoon being asked to cover some of his courses until they could find a more permanent fix.

Jungkook asks a question you don’t catch. Because paternity leave means his co-worker and his partner had a baby, presumably via old-fashioned methods, and it’s not a direct mention of sex but it’s close enough to send you into a coughing fit you have to blame on your donut. Neither of them buy it, but Namjoon is a good enough person to look genuinely concerned. Reaches out, probably to slap your back, but the thought of him touching you is just… too much.

So he barely gets out an, “Are you o—” before you choke down whatever’s left in your mouth and cut him off with a, “Yep, all good!” before you’re scurrying off to the opposite side of the room like a little rat.

It doesn’t get any better.

Both of you are so stilted and awkward during recording that Jungkook has to be the voice of reason and call it, suggest trying again tomorrow. Luckily he has enough b-side stuff he can release if need be, Namjoon’s work emergency providing a decent cover, and he sends the two of you home for the afternoon with all the exasperation and incredulity of a disappointed parent.

Thirty-five minutes back home.

Thirty-five minutes to sit in the embarrassment of not being able to do your job. Thirty-five minutes to catastrophize and wonder what you’re going to do if you can’t get it together. Namjoon will keep the podcast, of course; you’ll be replaced with someone else. Maybe someone less cynical, maybe someone more, but undoubtedly a man. After this mess, you can’t imagine Namjoon would want another female co-host.

But as embarrassed as you are, your traitorous brain keeps thinking about Namjoon.

Thirty-five minutes to think about his glasses and his rolled-up sleeves and the way the denim of his jeans contoured perfectly to his thighs. Thirty-five minutes to think about, “Please let me fuck you,” he begs. Thirty-five minutes to squeeze your thighs together and overanalyze the way he stumbled over his words today; how he could barely make eye contact. Thirty-five minutes to draft a dozen resignation texts and delete them all.

You groan, head thunking against the train window. You’ll take a cold shower as soon as you get home.

That’ll cure you.

You get home and walk Holly so long he gives up halfway through and you have to carry him back to your apartment. You take a cold shower and actually find it pleasant once the initial shock wears off, so it doesn’t work to keep all your rogue Namjoon thoughts at bay. You make a simple dinner and don’t think about Namjoon sitting you on the counter and having his way with you. You tuck yourself into bed far too early and consider going back to therapy, because clearly something very, very bad has happened to your psyche.

Needless to say, nothing cures you.

But it’s a new day, and you’re determined to get your shit together. Yesterday was a fluke, because you’re so normal and so capable of being in the same room as Kim Namjoon.

Except—you’re not.

Jungkook’s there when you arrive, mindlessly scrolling through his phone. Barely looks up at you to say hello, and barely returns it when you do. You double-check the time, because you can count on two fingers the amount of times you’ve shown up and Namjoon wasn’t already there, jotting down extensively-detailed notes, circling and highlighting and chasing down Jungkook to ask questions.

“Where’s Namjoon?”

Jungkook shrugs. “Dunno. Not here.”

You roll your eyes. “Super helpful, thanks.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes right back. “You don’t pay me enough to also be his handler.”

You bite your tongue. Arguing with Jungkook means you’ve already lost the war. Not worth it. But it still eases your worries a bit that he doesn’t know any more than you do. That Namjoon hadn’t only texted him to say why he was running late because he didn’t want to—or couldn’t—talk to you.

So you wait. And you wait and you wait and you wait. Jungkook lets you talk to people on his dating apps and tells you about his new gym routine until your eyes are glazing over. Orders food delivery for the two of you because he gets hungry after an hour and had already eaten what was left of the snacks before you arrived. Cracks a joke that isn’t really a joke about calling the police, because Namjoon still hasn’t shown up and he hasn’t said anything and none of your texts are showing as delivered.

You’re halfway to hour two when the office door bursts open and Namjoon stumbles through, soaked with sweat and stammering over apologies.

“I am so sor—I broke my phone again so my alarm never went off and then I missed my bus? And apparently they’re not running the regular bus schedule today so the next one was a half-hour wait, but then I…”

You don’t catch the rest, because Namjoon is covered in sweat and breathing heavily and a week ago you could’ve survived this. A week ago you would’ve cracked a joke and handed him a towel and told him to get to work. A week ago you would not have been paralyzed in your seat, transfixed on the sweat rolling down the side of his neck.

You are fucked beyond belief.

Jungkook elbows you in the ribs, bringing you back to reality. “...even paying attention?” You startle, face warming in embarrassment. Namjoon still isn’t looking at you. “This is so sad to watch,” Jungkook mumbles, and thankfully it’s only loud enough for you to hear. “Like some stupid shit you only see in nature documentaries.”

Well, you can’t really argue with that, now can you?

But you’re a professional above all, so you hum an acknowledgment and take your regular seat. Pointedly ignore Jungkook. Wait for Namjoon to assume his position as well, and you’re surprised to see the space in front of him empty. No notes. No script. There’s just… nothing.

“Are you okay?” you ask, gesturing to the space in front of him when he seems confused. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without a stack of notes in front of you.”

“I forgot them.”

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that, either.”

Your tone is light and airy, not at all accusing or confrontational, but Namjoon’s jaw clenches nonetheless. He scoffs, fires a shitty little, “Were you not paying attention when I was talking about what a horrible fucking morning I’ve had?” at you that makes even Jungkook flinch. A few moments of stunned silence, and then, “Oh fuck, I’m so sorry, that was rude—”

“Yeah, it was,” you agree, and all of a sudden you feel too big for your body. Feel like there are ants beneath your skin, feel like everything is wrong, and you don’t want to be here anymore. “It’s fine. Let’s just—”

Namjoon looks like he wants to argue, but he just sighs and says, “I—yeah, okay.”

This is where Namjoon would usually launch into the intro, a dimpled smile already plastered on his face that’d drop as he discussed another failed first date with that brand of self-deprecation that makes him so endearing. This is where he’d say what have you been up to, Pipe, and you’d try not to groan because how hard could it possibly be to add one more letter, another syllable, but Namjoon seems incapable of it. This is the part that, for three years, has been seamless and easy and instinctual, just two friends having a conversation.

There’s a red light on your microphones that indicates you’re recording. It’s on and it mocks you, because Namjoon is not doing the intro or telling you about a failed date. He doesn’t use that cringey nickname. He doesn’t say anything at all. His mouth opens and shuts and no words come out. What’s worse is that you know exactly why he can’t speak, because you’re thinking about it, too.

“So, uh,” you begin, and Jungkook makes a gagging sound from behind you. “Come here often?”

Namjoon ignores you. “Right, right, the intro…” He sucks in a breath. “Welcome back to another episode of Put Him in the Trash, I’m—”

“Joon—”

“Namjoon, and my co-host here is—”

“Joon, that’s not—”

“Piper. Wait, why are you looking at me like that?”

“That’s not the name of our podcast.”

“Huh?”

“You said Put Him in the Trash.” Namjoon just blinks. “It’s Place Him Gently in the Garbage.”

“Is it? Since when?”

“Since forever?”

He looks at Jungkook, who is hiding behind his hands. “Is she right?”

A beat of silence. “I can’t do this,” he half-shouts, half-whines. “Are you two going to be like this forever? Because if you are, I’m quitting. I’m so serious. I’m gonna quit. I can’t take it anymore. The two of you are insufferable.” Another beat of silence, before Jungkook stands at full height and lords over you and Namjoon. “Forget today. Just go home and try again on Monday. This is so—I’m seriously gonna quit.”

Yoongi comes on Saturday afternoon to pick up Holly.

Yijeong isn’t with him, which is almost disappointing. Now that he’s dating again, you were looking forward to seeing just how awkward it could get with the three of you in the same room, but he looks good. Refreshed. The trip clearly did a world of good for him, and you can’t even bring yourself to crack a joke at his expense.

He, however, has no such hang-ups. “You look like shit.”

“Weird way to say thank you.” You click your tongue and look down at Holly. “Do you see how your father treats me? You should bite him.”

“My son would never. But also, thank you.” He flops onto the sofa. “You do look like shit, though. You wanna talk about it?”

“Not with you, preferably.”

“Oh, gross, is it a dating thing, then?”

“I—no.” You pause. It’s not a dating thing, but you still feel like you’ve got motion sickness whenever you think about it. How would you even begin to explain this to Yoongi, anyway? Someone wrote a porn fic about me and Namjoon. You remember Namjoon, right? Namjoon, that I’ve known and have been friends with since college. Yeah, that Namjoon. Anyway, someone wrote fanfiction about us having sex, and it fucked me up so bad I can no longer be in the same room as him.

No fucking way.

“You look like you’re holding in a fart.”

“You know, I’m getting really sick of you. Did you just come here to insult me?”

He snorts, but his smirk dissipates a few seconds later, a familiar seriousness filling the void. “We’re okay, right? Was the Yijeong thing too soon?”

“No,” you answer immediately, leaning over to flick him on the forehead. “We’re fine, and if you’re happy, then I’m happy for you.” He still looks doubtful. “You want me to start singing ‘I Will Always Love You’ or something? It’s just… weird work stuff.”

“Depends. Are you singing the Dolly Parton or Whitney version? And real work or podcast work?”

“Podcast work, and obviously the Whitney version.”

Yoongi seems surprised by this, eyebrows disappearing beneath his fringe. “Like, the podcast with Namjoon?” He presses his tongue into the fat of his cheek when you nod your head. “Not gonna lie, I didn’t think that was possible.”

“Like I said, it’s weird. It wasn’t, like, an argument or anything.”

“How weird?”

“You’re so fake, Min Yoongi. You act like you’re so distinguished and above drama, but really you’re just as hungry for gossip as the rest of us.”

He shrugs. “I’m not denying it.”

God help you, you’re going to rip off the band-aid. “Someone… Jesus, this is so embarrassing. Someone… wrote? Fanfiction? About us.”

“About you and Namjoon?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my god—”

“About us… uh. Having sex? Specifically.”

“Oh my god—”

“Jungkook found it and thought it’d be funny if we read it for an episode.”

“Oh my god?”

“So we did? And it was really weird, which I expected, because I’ve known Namjoon for a long time, and I never, ever thought about having sex with him because we were together and me and Namjoon are friends, so yeah, it was fucking weird. But now… I don’t know. I can’t stop thinking about it? And now we can’t even be in the same room as one another.” Yoongi is a concerning shade of red. “So our show is gonna get canceled, because we can only release b-side stuff for so long until people realize something’s up, and it was Namjoon’s podcast to begin with so obviously I’ll get fired—”

“Oh my god, you want to fuck Namjoon.”

Yoongi sounds like a strangled cat when he says this, which does not help the way you feel like you’ve been hit square in the face with a frying pan. “No,” you argue, though it sounds more like a question. You do not want to fuck Namjoon. “No, no. No. It’s just because it was weird.”

“Did you forget I dated you for six years? I know what you look like when you want to fuck someone.”

“You’re telling me you wouldn’t be weird if someone wrote fanfiction about you fucking your friend?”

“Not if I didn’t actually want to fuck them, no.”

“You’re a liar. Get your dog and get out of my apartment.”

Yoongi laughs as he stands. Pats you on the back in the most condescending way you’ve ever had someone pat you on the back. “Let me know how it goes. No need to give me credit for your moment of horny clarity.”

Min Yoongi is a bastard.

Unfortunately, as you come to find out, he’s also a correct bastard.

You want to fuck Namjoon.

Which is… not great, you have to admit, considering he can barely stand to be around you, so you take another cold shower and decide you’re going to take this to your grave. You’re going to spend the rest of the weekend getting your shit together, and you’re going to show up on Monday and be a consummate professional. You’re going to look at Namjoon and say, ha ha, isn’t it so funny someone thought we would have sex? I don’t think about it at all because I am so cool and normal about it.

You’ve got it all planned out. You’re going to show up fifteen minutes early with your own box of pastries. You’re going to look nice, if not a little pretentious—maybe a nice sweater. You’re going to be prepared with notes of your own. You might even be nice to the villain of the week so Namjoon doesn’t have to pinch the bridge of his nose and sigh at you.

And then someone knocks on your door.

You find Namjoon on the other side, and all your plans immediately go to shit.

Has he always been this tall? You can’t remember. You can’t remember a lot of things, including how to speak, because Yoongi had launched you into a crisis of epic proportions and now here’s the source of it, standing right in front of you. With all of his… height. And thighs. And that heady, musky cologne he always wears, that you can still smell now even though there’s an unfortunate amount of distance between you.

“Uh, hi.”

You blink. “Hi,” you parrot, and it’s a little insulting how one single word seems to have sucked up all of your brainpower. “Namjoon,” you tack on, not awkward at all.

“Sorry to just show up,” he says, scratching at the back of his neck. Very bad idea; makes his biceps bulge. You barely swallow your whimper. “It’s just—my phone’s still broken, and it felt bad leaving things how we did? So I was hoping we could talk.”

Talk. Namjoon wants to talk to you. Normally: not a problem. Currently: big problem. You manage a nod, open the door wider to let him in, and you don’t think about how jarring it is to have Namjoon in your space. You don’t think about how your legs feel like jelly all of a sudden, or what it’d be like if Namjoon bent you over the couch, or the kitchen counter, or the—

You cough. “Do you want anything to drink?”

“Oh, sure. Maybe just some water if you have it.”

If you have it. What kind of person doesn’t have water? But you tell him to make himself comfortable and get him some anyway, and you mull too long over the size of the glass. Ultimately decide on a smaller one, because if things get unbearably awkward you can excuse yourself to the kitchen to get more.

“I haven’t been here in a while,” Namjoon says from the living room, and when you look up he’s sorting through a stack of books near the window. Some he’d lent you months ago, notes jotted in the corners, sticky notes in the shape of sea animals on important pages. “You ever wind up reading this?”

The Idiot. Namjoon had raved about it when he was in the midst of his 19th century Russian phase, right after he’d read a bunch of Tolstoy and Pushkin. You shake your head—though, judging from the title, you wonder if someone hadn’t written your biography.

“It’s good. If you have the time, you should definitely give it a shot.”

“Yeah, of course,” you say, handing over his water. You take a seat in an armchair, pull your knees to your chest. Namjoon’s still looking through your books, isn’t looking at you, so it feels safe to say, “You wanted to talk?”

“Yeah.” He moves to sit on the floor, massive thighs spreading until he’s comfortable. Thank god he can’t see the look on your face. “I just wanted to make sure we’re alright. Things have felt pretty weird since we filmed the, uh.” He coughs. “Thing.”

“Right, yeah.” You realize he’s waiting for an answer, and you offer up a very rushed, “We’re fine, Joon.”

“Are you sure?”

Yeah, you’re sure: sure you absolutely cannot be having this conversation in the safety and sanctity of your own home. It’s tainted now, contaminated by all your uncontrolled horny thoughts about the man in front of you. You’ll have to fumigate. Might have to pick up and move, actually, or call an exorcist.

“I’m sure,” you assure him. “The… thing… was weird, but it’s fine. Temporary.”

“Do you think we shouldn’t have done it?”

That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Because, in isolation, reading a porn fic about yourselves wasn’t a big deal. No one got hurt. Everyone who needed to be consulted was consulted. The episode made the two of you a lot of money, and Jungkook even promised to send some of it to the author, so your bases are beyond covered.

So, should you have done it? There wasn’t a good enough reason not to, because the story itself was never the problem.

The problem is staring you right in the face. It’s sitting on your floor, a book cracked in half at the spine and forgotten in his lap. The problem is looking at you like you hold all the answers to the universe’s secrets, and it’s no small thing to be looked at like that. The problem is that Namjoon is looking at you like that from across the room but you’re wondering what it’d look like from on top of you.

The problem is that you’ve co-hosted a podcast with Namjoon for three years, have known him even longer, and you’ve just realized today that you want to have sex with him.

And you can’t say that, can you, because Namjoon came here to fix things which really does not lend itself to a hookup. Namjoon cares about your friendship and your working relationship so much he came here to try and salvage it, so you’re going to keep your mouth shut. You’re going to say, “I think it’s okay that we did,” and leave it at that. Because it is okay.

Because you’re the problem.

It feels like a small victory when Namjoon sags in relief. When he exhales and says, “Okay, good, because I think so, too.”

“It made us a lot of money,” you tack on.

Namjoon’s eyes widen as he laughs. “Right? Like, that was almost too much money. Just to watch us read porn?”

“About ourselves. I think that was the selling point.”

He stands. You do, too. “Never thought I’d be doing that,” he says, returning the book to where it belongs. “Definitely the most embarrassing thing I’ve done for money.”

“Being a man with a podcast wasn’t embarrassing enough?”

He snorts. Gets closer to the door. “Hey now.” You’re going to survive this. “Thanks for entertaining me, by the way. For a second there I was really worried we’d fucked it all up.”

Just the ending. Just one more thing to say and you’ll be done with this, and then you can take your third cold shower in recent memory and triple text Yoongi with a full-fledged mental breakdown. Maybe he’ll bring Holly back and you can register him as your emotional support animal.

And Namjoon must sense the awkwardness that’s crept back in, because he tries to cover it with a joke. Says, “Haaa, like you’d actually piss on me, right?”

Except it sounds like he’s got a mouth full of marbles.

It’s no wonder you mishear him.

Because he says like you’d actually piss on me but you hear like you’d actually kiss me, and there isn’t a universe that exists in which the following makes sense: you, stunned into silence in the doorframe, Namjoon saying his goodbyes, you thinking fuck it, last chance and saying, “Yeah, I’d kiss you.”

Namjoon stops dead in his tracks. “What?”

Your entire body is on fire. “Is, uh. Is that not what you said?”

“I don’t think it matters anymore what I said.”

“I’d argue that it does, for the sake of my digni—”

“You’d kiss me?” Namjoon… doesn’t look put off of the idea, which is surely a point in your favor. Interesting to note that his diction is crystal clear, now. Bastard. “You’d kiss me right now?”

There’s also no explanation for the way you say: “It’s only been an option for ten seconds and you’re already begging for it?”

You’d say there’s no explanation for the way Namjoon’s jaw clenches, the way he repeats I don’t beg for anything, but maybe the simple fact is: the two of you want to fuck each other. And, judging from the way Namjoon crowds your space, keeps dropping his gaze to your mouth, it seems very likely to happen.

All that fixating you’d done on Namjoon’s thighs was wasted, you think, as you take in the shape of his mouth. His lips. The way his tongue darts out to run along the bottom at the last second before he reaches out, tilts your head up, and finally presses his mouth to yours.

And you’ve got to laugh, because no piece of written fiction could ever accurately portray what it feels like. How soft his lips are. The way he touches you—gentle, but still dominant enough to have you moving the way he wants, have you backing up into your apartment so he can smile against your mouth as he closes the door behind him.

No piece of fiction would get it right, the way you’re unsteady on your feet, breathless at the way Namjoon’s kissing you. How he only breaks apart long enough to ask where do you want me in that throaty, deep voice of his. How you’re so overwhelmed you can’t decide: unsure if you want to waste the time it’d take to get to your bedroom, but if it’s only going to happen once, wanting to make it count.

So you decide to risk it. Plant your hands in the middle of his exceptionally broad chest and push him in the direction of the hallway, and if the two of you can’t wait, can’t control yourselves, well.

But the story had gotten one thing right: Namjoon does kiss like a branding iron, hot and greedy. Namjoon kisses you like there’s nothing else he wants to do in this lifetime, and it makes you dizzy. Has you off-kilter, stumbling into the wall as you try to remember where the fuck your bedroom is and why it’s so far. Just like the fictional version of you, you also moan when he licks into your mouth.

“Should I do it the way we did in the fic?” Namjoon asks as the two of you cross the threshold into your bedroom, a cheeky grin on his face. “Do it like this?” he questions, pushing you gently until you’re on the back in the middle of your bed, chest heaving as you lift your head to look at him.

Namjoon is so, so big from where you lay, just hovering at the foot of your bed. Cheeks ruddy, bulge prominent. “What’d you say you wanted?”

Takes a second to remember how to breathe, let alone what you’d read. What do you want, Namjoon had asked, right before he’d sank to his knees in front of you. “Whatever you’re willing to give,” you answer.

Namjoon smiles. Puts one knee on the bed, and the way it dips beneath his weight is unsettling. Why does he have to be so fucking large. “That’s right, baby.” Christ, you think, because there’s another thing that fic had gotten right. No one on earth would be immune to Namjoon calling them baby in that tone of voice.

The riposte biting at the back of your teeth gets swallowed whole as Namjoon grabs your ankles and drags you to the edge of the bed. “May I?” he asks, hands poised above the waistline of your leggings. You nod, and Namjoon drags down your underwear with them. “Fuck, look at you,” he groans, awe creeping into the edge of his words.

“You want me to do it the same way? Hm? You’re being awfully quiet; thought you were giving me shit about being the one in charge,” he chides.

Because you’re short-circuiting. Namjoon’s on his knees, just like you’d envisioned, and his mouth is dangerously close to your cunt. How can you be expected to think and speak under these conditions? But if Namjoon can find the brainpower to be a bastard, so can you, because what you’d read and the way he’d reacted can both never be forgotten. So you thread your hands into his hair and pull. The resulting moan is enough to sustain you for years.

“Are you gonna keep running your mouth, or are you gonna make me come on it?”

He blinks. “Jesus Christ.”

There’s precedent. Fictional Namjoon ate you out like a man starved, like he couldn’t get enough. Had fictional you writhing and insatiable, so it’s a lot to live up to, but it doesn’t deter him in the slightest. He hesitates for only a second, giving you one last chance to back out before the two of you set every last boundary on fire, and then he’s settling between your thighs and making you see stars.

Now you know what it’s like. Now you don’t have to rely on fiction, and it doesn’t matter because it’d never compare to the way Namjoon feels as he works to bring you to your ruin. The way he flattens his tongue to lick long, thick stripes; the way his lips suction around your clit. The way it feels when he groans against your core. The way he says, “Fuck, you do taste good,” like that’s a completely normal thing to say. Like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing to you.

But you need more and Namjoon knows it. His mouth doesn’t leave your cunt for a second, but his fingers find your mouth, so you put on a show. Wrap your lips around them, suck on them the way he’s doing to you, make sure they’re slick. Namjoon groans again, doubles his efforts. Slides one thick finger inside of you and barely lets you adjust before he’s adding a second.

In an embarrassingly short amount of time, Namjoon has you unraveling. Presses incessantly on a spot that has your vision whiting out. Has you trembling, a little panicked as you say, “Joon, fuck—Namjoon, wait—” as it builds and builds and builds.

You might black out for a second, because you come to and Namjoon looks… stunned. He looks like he can’t believe any of what just happened, and you blink a few times, try to come back into your body, and when you regain enough consciousness, you’re extremely aware of the large wet patch beneath you.

“Um—”

“Holy shit.”

“Namjoon, that’s not—that’s embarrassing—can you grab a—”

He shuts you up with a kiss. Presses the taste of you into your skin, and all those silly protests die in your throat, because if Namjoon was needy before, he’s desperate now. Covers your body with his own, hips dipping down low enough to press his erection into the juncture of your thigh, and the weight of him is delicious. Has you fisting the fabric of his t-shirt to pull him closer, has you pulling it over his head, his pants following. Has your hands skimming down every thick part of his body until you reach his cock, hard and aching and slick with pre-cum.

“I need to suck you off later,” you say, done with overthinking. Time to just be honest, and Kim Namjoon has a dick you need to feel down your throat. “Remind me.”

He whines, thrusts into your hand a little harder. “How could I forget that?”

“Don’t know. Didn’t know if this would be the only time,” you answer. “Did you bring a condom?” Namjoon nods, fetches one from his wallet and rolls it on.

He hovers above you again. Looks nervous, all of a sudden, like he can’t tell his lefts from his rights. All out of sorts. You’re about to tell him it’s fine, you don’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to, don’t have to do anything at all, when he says, “It doesn’t have to be.” You just stare. “The only time.”

There’s a conversation to be had. You know that. Both of you clearly have feelings you need to talk about and sort out, but you reckon they can wait. They’ll still be there in the afterglow, in the morning. So you nod, say okay, Joon, and kiss away the insecurities that still linger.

You think about the fic. Think maybe Namjoon would appreciate it if you cracked a stupid joke, just like he’d tried to do earlier. “Has anyone ever called your cock stupid?”

He laughs, breath fanning against your skin. “No. Wanna try it and see what happens?”

Might as well. You try to remember the exaggerated tone of voice you’d used. Repeat the line—“Do you even know what to do with that big, stupid cock?”—and wait.

There’s a beat of silence, and then—

Namjoon swallows thickly. “I, um. Unfortunately, I think that really works for me.” You laugh. Pull him closer. Wrap your legs around his waist as he starts to move against you. Has jokes of his own. “Please. Please let me fuck you.”

You roll your eyes, laugh tapering into a giggle. “Do you know how?” Namjoon nods, looking all too much like a puppy eager to please its owner. “Do you promise?” He nods again. “Okay. Okay, come here.”

You expect him to move fast; expect the first time to be frenzied and a little awkward. It isn’t. Namjoon lines himself up and pushes the smallest bit inside, and then he’s leaning down to kiss you. Threads your fingers together, squeezes your hand. Pushes further inside and mumbles praise just beneath your ear.

It’s dizzying, the amount of care Namjoon handles you with. How soft he is. Does nothing to ease the discomfort of the stretch, the overwhelming fullness, but he talks you through it. Tells you how good you feel, how beautiful you look. Spills a lot of words you’d probably be embarrassed to hear and he’d be embarrassed to say if this was any other time, but in the heat of the moment it all just works to unravel you faster.

He bottoms out. “Okay?” he asks, and you’re rewarded with a dimpled smile when you say you are. Namjoon is a devastating kind of beautiful.

But, as he gives you time to adjust and you give him the all-clear, he also fucks like a demon. What once was hand-holding is now your wrists pinned to the bed, your body caged beneath him as he rolls his hips at a pace that has your eyes rolling back into your head. You’ve been deceived. Lured into a false sense of security.

It’s almost a shame this isn’t being recorded, because you want to memorize all the sounds Namjoon’s making. Want to hear them for the rest of your life. Don’t want anyone else to be the reason he sounds like this, and as he ups his pace and presses his lips to your neck, you don’t want to sound like this because of anyone else, either.

Maybe one of those times in the future, you can talk him into it.

Namjoon reaches down, rubs circles into your clit. Every time you think you might be close, he pulls his hand away, smiles like the devil. You let him have his fun for a while, let him think you’re keen to lie back and take it, and then you tighten your legs around his waist and flip him onto his back.

He doesn’t think it’s very funny. Looks up at you all bewildered. “What’re you—”

“You were taking too long,” you snark. “Figured I’d take matters into my own hands.”

“Yeah? Shit,” he says as you begin to move. “Fuck, baby, like that. Ride me just like that.”

You do. Don’t change a thing, because Namjoon’s cock is long and thick enough to hit exactly where you need it to. You can feel yourself clenching, feel yourself getting wetter, and the sight of Namjoon beneath you does nothing to stave off the inevitable. He looks even better than you’d imagined: skin flushed, eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back, sweat-slick. You want to make him cry. Want to give him the entire world. You will.

Namjoon thrusts at the same time you roll your hips, and that’s what does it. Has you crying out, has stars flashing behind your eyelids. Has you saying fuck, fuck, fuck as he drives you over the edge for the second time. Has you on the brink of oversensitive as he thrusts a few more times to chase his own end, almost delirious at the way Namjoon moans as he spills into the condom.

Has you swooning, just a bit, at the dopey way Namjoon smiles at you, eyes half-lidded and crinkled at the corners.

“Was that okay?”

You snort. “Yeah, I’d say it was decent.”

“Maybe next time you could pee on me,” he jokes.

You whack him on the chest. “Sure. Or we could record it.”

Has you a little shocked at the way his cock twitches inside of you at the mention of it.

On Monday, you don’t wear a pretentious sweater.

When you stroll in, Jungkook’s already got the best donut shoved halfway into his mouth because he’s a shithead. He eyes you warily, probably hoping with all his hope that you spent the weekend finding God and getting your shit together.

And then he realizes you’ve got on Namjoon’s hoodie and he nearly chokes to death.

“What the fuck are you wearing—”

Namjoon appears at that very moment, and it’s so hard not to take credit for the way he’s glowing, the dazed smile on his face. But Jungkook notices, because Jungkook notices everything, and his gaze darts between the two of you: your hoodie, Namjoon’s face, your face. He opens his mouth, something inappropriate bound to spill out, but Namjoon beats him to the punch. “Ready?” he asks you, and you nod.

It’s seamless.

No hiccups, no awkward stuttering. Namjoon gets through the intro without a hitch, and it feels exactly like it used to. Just two friends having a conversation. It’s obvious Jungkook still wants to say something, but after suffering through last week, he stays quiet lest he makes it worse and sends the two of you back to the bad place.

“How was your weekend, Pipe? Do anything fun?” Namjoon rolls his lips, tries not to laugh.

So you play along. “No, not really, just some dog sitting. How about you?”

“Oh, you know me. Had another first date on Saturday.”

“Did you? How’d it go?”

“Perfect.”

It’s a blessing Jungkook isn’t filming this, because your eyebrows raise so far they nearly disappear from your face altogether. There isn’t even a hint of hesitation in Namjoon’s voice, and although you would’ve described it the same way, hearing him say it with such conviction has you a little stunned. “Wow. You gonna see her again?”

“Yeah,” Namjoon says, sharing a private smile with you. “I think I am.”

who the FUCK is namjoon dating Posted by u/pod-shipper 7 minutes ago This has honestly ruined my entire day. I thought all the stories he told about dating were a bit… Like, what kind of guy has a podcast about relationships but can’t seem to be in one? But you could just HEAR it in his voice how much he likes this woman he went on a date with over the weekend and I’m sick to my stomach. (+2195) ↳ bro you and me both 😭 i genuinely thought him and piper had something going on fr (+1302) ↳ Seriously might stop listening because of this! Any woman with self-respect would never let their partner host a podcast with someone they’re obviously in love with. If he gets serious with this woman, Piper will be gone within 6 months, mark my words. (+927) ↳ I wouldn’t worry about it too much! My cousin works at a really nice restaurant in the same city Namjoon lives in, and she said she saw this “date” on Saturday and that it wasn’t anything serious. (+788) ↳ Piper got a cat and Namjoon finally got a second date. Face it, it’s over. (+325) ↳ cannot believe him and piper aren’t dating.. do you think i should delete all my tiktok edits? (+4) ↳ this is unhinged lmfao i thought y’all hated piper? you’re in here bitching abt her being a “misandrist” every week and now ur gonna stop listening bc namjoon isn’t dating her? pick a lane and stay in it (-64)

Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts, and reblogs/shares are always welcome! I appreciate you very much~ ♡

#namjoon x reader #namjoon smut #bts fanfic #bts smut #bts x reader #namjoon fanfic #namjoon imagine #namjoon scenarios #namjoon x you #namjoon x y/n #bts imagines #bts scenarios #jewel writes

[joelmillerisapunk]

candy hearts

Joel Miller x Reader

masterlist

↳ wordcount: 3k

↳ summary: In the post-apocalyptic world, you and Joel find solace in each other's arms. As you explore an abandoned building, a stray acoustic guitar becomes the catalyst for a passionate night of music and intimacy.

~or~

You find the perfect Valentine's gift for Joel

↳ warnings: 18+, unprotected p in v, this is during the outbreak

↳ notes: Happy Valentine's. Will you be mine? 🥹 tysm @saradika-graphics for the dividers.

As you and Joel make your way through another abandoned building, you can't help but feel a sense of relief. It's Valentine's Day, and you're grateful to have Joel's company and a roof currently over your head in the midst of the chaos and uncertainty of the outbreak.

“See If you can find a good spot to set up for the night, I'll make sure the rest of the house is clear.” As Joel starts rummaging through cupboards and drawers, he comes across a stash of old candy hearts tucked away in a corner. "Hey, look at this," he says, picking up the candy and showing it to you. "It's those dumb candy hearts. Must be from before the outbreak."

You walk up to Joel and take a candy, reading the red printed message on it: "U R CUTE." You can't help but smile and chuckle at the simple, heartfelt sentiment.

Joel picks out a candy heart with a message that catches his eye: "Be Mine." He holds it out to you, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Well, will ya?," he says, his voice flirty.

You take the candy heart and look at the hard to read text, "Be Mine, huh?" you say, trying to sound coy. "Well, I don't know, Miller. What's in it for me?"

Joel grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "What do you want?" he asks, his voice low and playful.

You give Joel a flirtatious smile and say, "Well, for starters, how about you try to find some blankets for our bed? Wouldn't want to catch a cold on Valentine's Day."

Joel's grin widens, and he nods. "I think I can manage that," he says, his voice full of promise.

As you head upstairs, you continue to playfully banter. "And maybe, just maybe, if you're lucky, I'll let you share my body heat," you say, winking over your shoulder.

Joel chuckles, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "I'll do my best to earn that privilege," he replies, a playful glint in his eyes.

As you reach the top floor, you start scouting for a good spot to set up camp for the night. You come across a large, open room with a few pieces of furniture scattered around, and you immediately feel drawn to it.

"This looks perfect," you say, setting down your bag and starting to unpack your things. As you're setting up your makeshift bed, you notice something in the corner of the room that catches your eye.

It's an old, worn acoustic guitar.

Your heart skips a beat as you make your way towards it, feeling like you've struck gold. You run your fingers gently over the strings, plucking them softly to test their sound. To your surprise, they don't sound bad, but they could sound better. You quickly remember the spare strings you salvaged a few months back from a broken guitar body and pulled them from your bag, excited to replace the strings and surprise Joel.

But just as you start removing the strings, the job proves harder than usual. Taking the strings off is easy, but you aren't paying attention to where they come out from on the guitar as you pull the original ones out. As you continue, you hear Joel's footsteps on the stairs. You turn around just in time to see him enter the room, a stack of blankets in his arms.

"That doesn't look like a bed," he says, his eyes scanning the room.

You grin, feeling a rush of excitement. "No, it's not," you say, pulling out the new strings that you've been saving for months. "But I found something even better."

Joel's eyebrows shoot up in surprise as he takes in the strings in his calloused hands. "Where did you find these?" he asks, his voice full of curiosity.

"I found them a few months ago," you say, holding up one of the strings. "I was just waiting for the perfect guitar to come along."

Joel chuckles, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "And you think that there is the perfect guitar?" he asks, looking at the old acoustic guitar with a skeptical eye.

You nod, feeling a sense of determination. "I do," you say, starting to replace the strings.

He starts watching you with amusement as you try to figure out the first string. “Need help darlin’?”

You look up at him pausing, “No, you already ruined the whole surprise part. I'm not letting you ruin this for me too."

Joel grins, shaking his head in amazement and chukles. "You're kinda sneaky, huh?"

You giggle. "Maybe a little," you wink at him.

As you work, Joel sits down next to you, watching with interest and amusement. “You sure you don't need help? Can I just show you how to do one at least?”

You roll your eyes, trying to act like you've got it all under control, but you can't help but feel a little embarrassed. "Fine, fine," you say, handing the guitar over to Joel.

Joel takes the guitar from you, a smug look on his face. "Alright, let's see what we've got here," he says, examining the guitar closely.

Before you know it he's swapped out more than a couple, “Hey, you said you were gonna show me one not fix the entire thing.”

Joel smiles and then begins showing you how to properly replace a string. You watch carefully, trying to commit his movements to memory.

"Alright, last one you try," he says, handing the guitar back to you.

You take the guitar, feeling a sense of determination. You carefully thread the string through then wrap it around the peg, pulling it tight. You turn the peg, watching as the string tightens and the pitch rises.

Joel's eyes twinkle with excitement as he watches you replace the last string. "Not bad at all," he says, impressed with your progress. "You might just have a talent for this."

You smile, feeling a sense of accomplishment. "Well, I've been saving these strings for the perfect guitar," you say, running your fingers gently over the now-tightened strings.

Joel's eyes linger on your hands, a hint of desire in their depths. "I think you've found the perfect one, alright, darlin"

"I hope so," you say, giving him a playful smile.

Joel grins back, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Well, let's see if we can get a tune out of it, shall we?" he says, grabbing the guitar and testing the strings.

You pick up the blanket and pillows from your bag, laying them out on the makeshift bed. "You make yourself comfortable while I finish setting up this bed," you say, glancing back at Joel as he tunes the guitar.

Inspecting the guitar, Joel's fingers find the right chords, and the room fills with the sweet sound of a well-played tune. "Well, I'll be damned. It sounds almost new, whatcha think darlin’ how does that sound?" he calls out to you, his voice rich with the melody.

You can't help but be mesmerized. "Sounds amazing," you say, your voice filled with wonder.

Joel smiles, a sense of satisfaction in his eyes. "I've sure missed playin this thing," he says, strumming the guitar once more.

"Would you teach me how to play that?" you ask.

Joel's eyes light up, and he nods enthusiastically. "Of course, darlin'," he says, setting the guitar down and offering it to you.

You take the guitar, feeling a sense of excitement at the prospect of learning something new. Joel sits you down on his lap, guiding your hands as you place them on the strings.

"Now, first things first," he says, adjusting your fingers on the frets. "You've got to get the grip just right."

You nod, focusing intently on Joels hands, mostly how good they feel on top of yours, so large, so rough. "Got it," you say, feeling the strings beneath your fingertips.

Joel's eyes linger on your hands, a hint of desire in their depths. "That's it baby, just like that," he says, his voice low and seductive. "Now, let's try a chord."

You follow his instructions, strumming the strings as he showed you. "Wow, that's actually not as hard as I thought," you say, feeling a sense of accomplishment.

Joel grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "See, you're a natural," he says, winking at you. As you continue to practice playing the guitar, Joel's hands rest on your hips, his breath warm against your neck as he watches you play. The room is filled with the sweet sound of music, and you can't help but feel a sense of contentment.

Finally, Joel sets the guitar aside and looks at you with a twinkle in his eyes. "I think that's enough practice for now," he says. “Come on to bed now, baby.”

The two of you settle into the makeshift bed, pulling the blankets up around you as you snuggle close to one another. "Hey, darlin'," he says, his voice low and seductive. "I'm feeling a little cold. Mind if I snuggle up to you?”

"I'm cold too," you say, your voice low and seductive. "Maybe we can help each other warm up.”

Joel chuckles, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "I think that can be arranged," he says, pulling you closer to him.

As you snuggle up to one another, your bodies pressed close together, you can feel the heat radiating off of him, warming your skin and making you feel safe and protected in his arms. You take a moment to breathe in his scent, a mix of sweat, dirt, and something uniquely Joel, that you've come to associate with him and the comfort he brings. Your hands begin to wander over his chest, feeling the defined muscles beneath his shirt. You can feel the rough texture of his calluses, evidence of the physical work he's done to survive in this new world, and it only adds to his appeal.

You trace your fingers over the lines of his abs, feeling the muscles tense beneath your touch. You move your hands up to his shoulders, feeling the strength in his arms, the way they encircle you, holding you close. Your fingers graze over the rough stubble on his jaw, feeling the way it scrapes against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, feeling the way they part slightly, welcoming you in. Your hands continue to explore his body, feeling the way his chest rises and falls with each breath, the way his heartbeat quickens beneath your touch.

Joel responds to your kiss, his hands moving to your hips, pulling you closer to him. You can feel the hard length of his erection pressed against you, and it only serves to heighten your desire for him. Joel's hands wander your body, cupping your breasts through the fabric of your shirt. He teases your nipples, causing you to gasp with pleasure.

You break the kiss, your breath coming in ragged gasps. "Joel," you moan, your voice full of need.

Joel's lips trail down your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. "Yes, darlin'?" he asks, his voice husky with desire.

"I want you," you say, your voice low and seductive.

Joel's eyes darken with desire. "I want you too, darlin'," he says, his voice thick with need.

He lifts your shirt and bra over your head, tossing it aside as his lips find yours once more. He teases your nipples with his tongue, causing you to moan with pleasure.

You run your hands over his chest again, feeling the muscles beneath his shirt. You tug at the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside. Joel's hands wander down your body, cupping your ass and pulling you closer to him. You can feel the hard length of his erection pressing against you, causing you to moan with need. He trails his lips down your body, kissing and licking at your skin as he goes. He reaches your pants, unbuttoning them and sliding them down your legs. You help kick your pants aside, your body now bare before him. Joel's eyes darken with desire as he takes in the sight of you.

He stands up, removing his pants and boxers in one swift motion. You take in the sight of him, his body muscular, his erection long, thick, and hard. Joel crawls back onto the bed, his body hovering over yours. He looks into your eyes, his own full of desire.

"You sure, darlin'?" he asks, his voice low and seductive.

You nod, your eyes locked on his. "I want you, Joel. I need you."

Joel's eyes darken with desire as he looks into your eyes. "You've got me, darlin'," he says, his voice thick with need. Joel's eyes darken with desire as he positions himself at your entrance. He teases you with the tip of his erection, causing you to moan with need. Finally, he thrusts inside of you, filling you completely. You cry out with pleasure, your body adjusting to the massive intrusion.

Joel sets a slow, steady pace, his hips moving in a slow, circular motion. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper inside of you, taking exactly what you need. You feel the tension building between you, the pleasure mounting higher and higher like a rollercoaster about to reach the very top of the track. Joel's thrusts become more urgent, his hips moving faster and faster.

As the tension continues to build, you can feel yourself getting closer to coming apart. Each thrust of his hips sends a wave of pleasure crashing through your body, leaving you breathless and trembling. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest as his hands roam your body, exploring every inch of your soft, supple skin.

"Oh god, Joel," you moan, your voice barely above a whisper. "I'm so close. Please don't stop."

Joel's response is a low growl, his body tensing as he drives deeper into you. His thrusts become more erratic, his movements more urgent as he races towards his own climax. You can feel his cock swelling inside you, the veins standing out as he pumps his hips faster and faster.

"Fuck, m'gonna come," he gasps, his breath hot against your ear. "You ready for me, baby?"

You nod, your eyes fluttering shut as the pleasure becomes almost too much to bear. "Please Joel, need your come deep inside me."

With a final, powerful thrust, Joel reaches his climax, his cock twitching as he empties himself deep inside you. You can feel the warmth of his seed spreading through your body, triggering your own release as you cry out his name. Your orgasm rolls through you in waves, leaving you trembling and gasping for breath. Joel collapses on top of you, his body slick with sweat.

You wrap your arms around him, holding him close as your bodies come down from the high. Joel reaches over into the pile of candy hearts and pulls out a new one. He looks at it for a moment, a smug smile spreading across his face.

"Think this one sums up tonight perfectly," he says, holding it out for you to read.

You take the candy from him and read the message aloud, "Heavenly Match."

Your heart flutters, and you can't help but smile. "Couldn't agree more cowboy," you say, leaning in to press a kiss to Joel's lips.

Joel grins, his eyes shining with affection and love. "Forever yours, darlin'," he says, his voice low and husky.

You smile back at him, feeling a sense of warmth and happiness that you've never felt before. "Forever yours," you say, pressing a kiss to his lips.

He wraps his arms around you, pulling you close as you bask in the afterglow of your love. As you lie there in each other's arms, basking in the warmth of your love, you realize that amidst the chaos of the world around you, you've found a sanctuary in each other. The abandoned building may be filled with shadows and uncertainty, but in this moment, there's nothing but the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the windows, casting a gentle light on your intertwined bodies.

With a contented sigh, you snuggle closer to Joel, feeling his steady heartbeat against your chest. In his embrace, you find solace, strength, and a sense of belonging that you never thought possible in this harsh new world.

As you drift off to sleep, the sweet melody of the guitar still echoing in your mind, you know that no matter what tomorrow may bring, you'll face it together, hand in hand, hearts intertwined, forever bound by the unbreakable bond of love.

#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller #pedro pascal #tlou fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you

[phramboise]

— collector:: simon“ghost”rileyxfemale!reader

Could he daily feel a stab of hunger for you? Find nourishment in the very sight of you? You think so. But would you see through the bars of his plight, and ache for him?

tags and warnings: 18+, therapist!reader, patient!riley, mentions of names of psychiatric drugs, disorders, self-destructive behaviours and many other labels that are in the nature of therapy, talk of trauma, persuasion, sexual fantasies, kissing; drugging, kidnapping, nudism, Stockholm syndrome, self-pleasuring (f), vaginal fingering, female receiving oral, semi-public sex, vague ending. More like your obsessive situationship kidnapping you. italics are therapy entries, scribbled notes of the therapist written in her POV; the rest is in third POV. In no way this is praising or normalising any behaviour written -read at your own risk, drugging and kidnapping are not consensual.

wordcount: 3k

;;

When Mr. Riley first crossed your gaze, it wasn't amid your session. Across the road, he stood, and there was no mistaking the man. Here near the thicket, scarcely a few people wear long sleeves on summer fierce, and even fewer have masks on. Until you stop making a mental prognosis even for a person who is not your client and come back from your tea break -or until the end of your shift if you don’t notice- he lingers around, waits at the bus stop, though not seeming to wait for a bus for countless have come and gone, in the hours long.

Another man is what you see, he might be any passerby on the street, and perhaps he is. Mr. Riley embodies one of those afflictions, less unique than he imagines, of those pathologies you've encountered before. When you extend your hand to greet him in your office, he offers no response, nor does he ask of you to address him more sincere. Mr. Riley he remains. He's one who knows himself, aware of his inner discord, though its depths remain veiled. From afar, his black eyes turn warm summer, amber in the sunlit pane, his presence yields little beyond the his file's mundane strain. He avoids talking of his past, and names elude the characters as he tells little pieces of his life. No period of self-destructive history, no suicide attempts. No addiction on gambling, alcohol. No signs of wrist cutting, nor drug injections -seems you misinterpreted his clothing choices. Many hospitalisations, all classified military field papers, one particular on teenage period, one he speaks not about.

Mr. Riley's visits to the office seem to transcend the usual reasons of any other patient, not for seeking counsel or solace; they harbour an enigma you can't quite decode. He adamantly requests your final session on Friday evenings, as if bound by some unseen rhythm of his own. There's no poignant trauma he didn't untangle of himself, no platitude of life's hardships to impart upon him. He has already navigated life's currents, seemingly with ease. There's no sign that he needs a therapist to grasp the stark realities, to know life's not to see through rose-tinted veil.

He is a patient who possesses a profound understanding of himself, sparing you the tire of the week's closing session. There's no need for medical interventions, no requirements for Risperidone, Prozac, or Paxil, nor any hint of sedatives to dull his senses. At times, his answers are so astute that the roles between therapist and client seem to blur. In the dynamic of your therapeutic alliance, there is no predetermined mould, because Mr. Riley doesn't adopt them.

Not a traditional pathology, Mr. Riley is one where not the patient being ready for the therapy, but the therapy being not ready for the patient, one who needs of you to be creative and bold to unravel himself. Of no technique, no book nor rule. So, you suggest roleplay -no voice recorders, not a notepad to write down occasionally. Less practical and even less theoretical. You even offer to do it on the skirt of the small lake behind the office as not to create social desirability. -Not that he bothers of it.

He accepts.

Now, neither of you are what your roles are defined to be, you are no therapist, nor he is a client. He’s not a diagnosis, a test to report, a scale. Not an alienation, not a compulsive or antisocial disorder. Only Mr. Riley.

When you ask him about his first memory he recalls, you realise you must play the maternal figure in this intricate play. When you settle on the bench overlooking the pond, he approaches from behind, enfolding your shoulders before walking to your front, resting his head to your lap. He does not know much about gods; but he thinks that the water is a way of semblance, his soul’s double winks off the reflection, whispers in your voice as you offer solace. “Sometimes” you begin, stroking gently the blond locks that nestle on your lap, “one must mourn to heal.”

He rises on his knees, clinging to your body as you caress his neck, crying to your chest as your cloth is now pulled down with the weight of him resting on you. …Like a baby, his resistance just melts away.

Mr. Riley requests that from now on the therapies take place in the backyard of the building, and since this change of nature contributes to the therapeutic alliance more than the office setting did, and now that he is sure of you enough to remove his mask, and since now when he looks at you he sees you, you acquiesce.

Mr. Riley is touch deprived, he has not yet spoke about his father, but he revealed in our role play therapies that his mother passed when he was only a child - his deprivation leads to a relentless need for contact, that is, after he started to trust me. He shook my hand today, and came with only a mask that covers half his face, which he later took off also. I feel for much further developments with Mr. Riley, which is heartening.

He's by your step as you step around the garden, his presence a silent echo of your every move. His arm wraps around your shoulder as you sit next to one another on the bench. With each sensual step, he surrenders morsels of his shadow, weaving them into your shared space. And when he bids the invitation to walk hand in hand along the water's edge, you accept. Not a drug-treatable depression, rather, it's a serenity born from the tumult of excess violence and the rusty imprints of roads taken, reflected in his eyes. A familiarity in his demeanour, a wash of embrace as if he unravels yourself to you.

Mr. Riley abandons the sessions for a while, it takes a lot of strength to pretend to other clients that you are interested in their problems. When you start to wait in your office on Fridays, even though your last session is available, an empty slot, and when you do this for weeks on end, you realise that this bond is a two-way street, nothing professional. For him, you are a person who will listen, for you-

Someone to listen.

;;

When he does return, the birds are flying south. You find yourself consumed by a gnawing unease of thinking that his routine apathy is back again. Once more, -you prayed so- he seats you into the sanctuary of the bench amidst the garden, yet his eyes no longer linger upon yours with their former intensity. When he pushes you into the water with the strength of one arm, you freeze for a moment, and when he pulls you back in before you soak in the reedy river, he catches you unaware and kisses you harder than you dreamt possible.

One thing you cannot deny, is how his demanding yet sensual kiss is turning you on, leaving not one bit of your responsibility, your authority as the therapist as his hand moves over your legs, circling beneath the curve of your hips. Dipping his hand between your warm thighs, you let his firm touch venture between, supple skin heating cold fingers. His other hand gropes a fistful of your slinking skirt, and you wrap his scent around your loins as he falls to his knees again before the bench. Before you.

Never in all your career you thought you’d be getting into this, to abuse someone who is to solace in the first place, even the thought of it appalled you. Now the thought tightens his fingers on your hips, his tongue rubs idly against your clit in unrushed fashion, he slowly feasts you out.

Mr. Riley will no longer attend our therapy sessions – I said to him that our sessions are not helping him, gave him another therapist’s card, hopefully his condition will move for the better. My efforts were useless I’m afraid.

It’s what you wrote down the day after, but you don’t recall him agreeing.

;;

Three Fridays it takes when he suddenly reappears, he intercepts you locking the door of your office. Adorned with the very mask he tells you he came back to get the other one from you, he’s clad beneath a hoodie, zipper drawn all the way to conceal more than just his torso, hood over his head. You’re not sure what to answer, in a vague indecision, with the haunting realisation that his condition remains as unchanged as ever. Perhaps you should have heeded the warning signs, reconsidered the nature of your occupation, and resisted the temptation to immerse yourself so deeply in his plight— perhaps you shouldn’t have given of yourself to something that won’t heal for the better.

He's your shadow down the corridor, a silent loom trailing behind you as you make your way back to your office. You let out the breath you've been holding as you pick up the pace and create a few steps of distance until you reach your door. Yet, even within the confines of your own space, his presence looms large, casting a pall of uncertainty over your every thought.

In your room, he follows, his silence heavy in the air. As you retrieve his mask from the drawer, he catches your wrist as you turn.

One word leaves your mouth, he’s on you again. Pressing your back against your desk, one hand winding tight around your arm as the other tips your chin up for you to meet his height as he looms over you. The caress of his lips draw tingling heat to your cheek, your lips, your neck. You feel his body against yours deeply as he clines closer, hand on your jaw tight as he tries his way in with his tongue, both hands cupping your head to his, leaving nowhere to lean but him.

His mouth feeds something inside yours, a smooth little dragée that leaves a ragged earthy taste each second you refuse to swallow down, his mouth is on yours to keep it on your tongue, raw liquorice and a sickly sweet taste in your pharynx, your nose tightens in its taste as you try to pry away with a doleful cry — he only pulls away as he feels it down your throat with his thumb, the other wipes the tear on your cheek as he pushes his forehead against yours, cooing it’s okay as you shudder in trepidation.

You leave the room, try to cough it out your mouth.

A hit behind your neck is enough to knock you out.

;;

The sound of spinning tires piercing a howling like a restless banshee against the asphalt wakes you, worn leather feels eerie against your back as you sink into its contours, laid sprawled on the backseat in a short slip gown you don’t own yourself that pools around your hip as the car you’re in hurtles towards the undying disquiet. Cool leather surrounds you, as if offering a hug from the owner on the driver’s seat. The sight outside is a blurred panorama of shifting shadows of a transient night and neon lights racing by in dragging lines before your surly hand moves to feel the ache nestled behind your nape. His gaze grazes your body through the rearview mirror. Deliberately slow is his hand resting over the open window as he drops the stub of his cigarette down, he pulls his mask down before dividing the cold night air mixing with the smoke through the misty window. You don’t know where this road leads, where he’s taking you. Of what he forced into your mouth or when he wore this negligee on you.

Gentle engine lulls you, to some elusive and ephemeral warmth, starts below your stomach, sprouts where you fear it. You were right when you thought, neither of you are what your roles are defined to be. Now he’s to lead, and you’re to follow this fleeting respite of surreal blend. Something in your blood that gets you warm, or it’s the adrenaline of this unknown place. Only Mr. Riley and you. You’re scared, you’re intoxicated. You enjoy it.

You turn your head to his side, wind blows your hair, trails over, snakes through your legs as your hands move to pull the skirt down to cover your hips, holding the satin tight between your thighs. Your own skirt is gone. So are your sheer tights, so is your underwear – he must’ve taken them off before he carried you in his car.

The sultry heat pulsates between your thighs, a yawning chasm that stirs an ache inside. Though, there’s no trace of wetness that already paints your groin, only the searing fire deep within. Your insides burn but you don't feel any strain anywhere except the pain in your neck. You still smell like your own perfume, untouched, without an intrusion of cigarette smoke on his fingertips or the weight of his hands grabbing your skin. Not a single mark marrs your flesh, not even the faintest imprint that dry, rough fingertips as they graze on supple skin. He seems to only changed you in silk, a whisper-soft fabric that clung to you, only piece that’s shielding you from the cool grace of the air. As your fingers brush over the tender swell of your breasts, a shiver dances down your spine. The satin wrapped fabric weaves you into a life that is not meant to hurt, and with each breath, a soft moan threatens its way out your parted lips, a melody of surrender to the lethargy that he trapped you in. You now have a few ideas about the pill he gave you.

Leather smells varnish, aroma intertwining with the haze of his cigarette smoke that hangs in the air. His masculine presence stands as a silent challenge to your frailty. With a delicate touch, you place your hands on your kneecaps, the tip of your tongue running over your teeth as your knuckles leave the skirt of your dress, not holding it over yourself anymore. He must’ve done the same, you imagine his fingers tracing a similar path, grazing against your inner thighs as he lowers your panties, taking them off. Grounded by a thick, scorched, labdanum base, a dark and brooding charred wood and burnt sap, floods through you as the air carries his cologne to you, your nose picks up whatever it is that gets your body wanting more, you caress yourself. 

Could he daily feel a stab of hunger for you? Find nourishment in the very sight of you? You think so. But would you see through the bars of his plight, and ache for him?

You wish you fingers were to be rougher, thicker and that your fingertips would smell of tobacco. Of something grainy and rugged instead of this slipping silk between your legs for you to rub against. Did he made you sit on his leg as he clad you in this dress that leaves none to imagination, had he rubbed you against his trousers as he put you down? 

Your breathing gets heavier, he changes the hand that steers the wheel, now the car decelerates to keep it in control, now slow enough, a person on a sidewalk would have a flash of image if they were to be as the car glides by- you know you’d do this even if there were no tinted films on the windows- you search for his gaze over the rear mirror, laden with unspoken want. You clench around nothing, mutter words of no meaning, but he knows. You whine deeper breaths, and they soon turn to lilting whimpers. 

You think about him feeding you the pill with his tongue - does he feel as you do right now? You wriggle your hips, let a moan to get yourself going, his eyelids flutter close before yours do slowly. He’s watching you; did he watch you when he stripped you naked? How long was he watching you? Your heart races with the writhing pulse between your legs as you rub your arm along your nipple, your hand moves to your core, brushing against your clit as you move your fingers against your lips, the breeze of the interior now seeping on the slick you play with your fingertips. The car sways a little out the road as you cry out a louder whimper, pebbles rolling under the tires, vibrating the seats, adding you on. 

Some part of you wants him to pull the car to the side, come to join you, grab you by the ankle and yank you out the car, do whatever he wants to you against the asphalt. Some part likes this piercing gaze through the reflection, of him biting the insides of his cheek as he groans lowly and shifts himself on his seat. From the little frame of the mirror, his free hand is out your sight, but you hear it.  Hear his belt loosening as the metal hits the strap. You hum as you increase the pressure, circling your much thinner finger around your hole before sliding in, clenching around them as you slide the latter finger. 

If he were to tell you to call him by his name before, you’d moan it. Now, all that leaves your mouth is loud and lewd sounds as the saliva clicks against your tongue, synching slow with the in-and-out of your motion, trying to reach your g-spot with the tips of your fingers. 

This won’t last long, are you sure if this is what you want?

Open your eyes, where are you going? Did you even ask? Pill wears off slow in time, fear stings beneath arousal’s guise, your slick skin sticks to your hair, to the now warm and wet cushion under you. Everyone seems to be asleep but you two, as he takes you into the unknowns of the lovers. Your fingers demand release, rubbing and rubbing hastened than your breath, ill imagery fills goosebumps on its way down to your spine, in texture of his icy fingers. Your teeth sentinels at your lips, hard against skin, against the impulse to speak his name— a bare boundary to still not cross on your book. Maybe you could’ve stopped it if you wanted, but you’re not the one driving. Truest valour lies not in defiance, but in surrender. So you do, let it all out.

It's a hushed stillness of something trembling under, the radio scratches before it turns a sepia-tone song spilling cadence, a gentle sway as you massage and pull your soaked legs to your chest, laying on your side as the road keeps hurling forward to an endless terrain.

#cod simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley x you #simon riley smut #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #cod ghost #cod mwii #call of duty #cod x reader #summary off Hannibal #now that I have this out it’s time for another looooooooooongv time again

[pedrotonin]

OF BOOKS & BALCONIES

Summary: being cooped up inside due to extreme temperatures, you start to really appreciate your balcony. It also helps that Joel is your downstairs neighbour.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

Rating: R

Wordcount: somewhere around 3K

Warnings: 18+ stuff. Curse words, masturbation, grinding, fingering.

A/N: my first smut...

The sun seemed to be permanently plastered to the sky these days. No clouds, no rain, barely any wind.

It wasn't so much that you hated the sun, but with it came a scorching heat. For weeks on end the temperature had settled around a 100 degrees.

The QZ was unusually quiet. After multiple people had succumbed to the heat and drinking-water being a scarce source at the moment, they (being the military who ran this place) decided it was too hot to work. That didn't mean you could just hang out on the streets though. They ordered everybody inside and stay there untill some big shot decided otherwise. So here you were. Cooped up inside your home.

It was a tiny apartment. A separate bathroom, but the living room, kitchen (not that you needed a kitchen anyway) and your bedroom were all in the same space. The wooden floor had seen better days and the wallpaper was moldy, but you tried to keep the rest of it as clean and cosy as possible. Which of course was not an easy feat with this whole apocalypse thing going on.

And even though it looked nothing like the house you used to live in before everything went to shit, it felt like home to you. Your safe place. You felt lucky you did not need to share it with anyone. And what you especially loved about it, was the tiny balcony. Your love for it only recently developed (you never really used it before), because with the current temperatures it seemed like a godsend. Being able to open a door to the outside and let some of the heat out and a breeze in, was something that made you extremely grateful. No one dared to keep open their doors to the hallway. Especially the women living alone, for obvious reasons.

Dusk was finally settling in, the sun had disappeared behind the buildings. Voices drifted into your living room. You even heard some music playing. Venturing outside, you let out a deep sigh. It finally started to cool a bit. Deciding to eat your can of cold beans outside you sat on the floor with your back against the lukewarm brick of the building.

That's when you hear them. They were having an argument. Not for the first time either, but you could never really make out the words before. You could now, with both your balcony doors being open.

"Christ Tess! Just keep your mouth shut for once!"

The voice belonging to Joel, your downstairs neighbour. He was somewhere in his late forties or even fifties maybe? He had a permanent scowl plastered on his face and his mouth always set in a thin line. Not once had he said a word to you. Truth to be told, after he downright ignored you twice, (with you only saying 'goodmorning' the first time and 'hi' the second, not bothering to address him again after that) you were a little intimidated by him. He was tall and broad shouldered, with salt and pepper hair, brown eyes and a full mustache and beard (streaked with grey). Okay, so you may have stolen a glance or two his way. A woman had the right to look.

"Oh go fuck yourself, Joel!!"

That was Tess. The woman he lived with. You had no idea if they were a thing, but they looked out for each other. That much was clear. A loud bang (probably a door) followed and then silence filled the air. You took a bite of your beans. You would kill for some ice cream right now.

"Goddamnit."

Joel's voice again, closer this time. He was standing on his balcony now, just below yours.

You heard him mumbling some more profanities and it sounded like he too sat down against the brick wall. You almost dared not to move, afraid he might hear you. Like you were spying on him or something. You chided yourself and took another bite of your beans. The spoon clanking against the can. Fuck it, so now he knew you were there. It was not like he was going to acknowledge your presence anyway.

After finishing your meal you got up to grab a book. Contemplating reading it on your bed or on the balcony, you chose the latter.

Watership Down by Richard Adams. It was one of the few belongings you'd manage to take with you while on the run. You read it hundreds of times. Books were a rarity these days. Most of them being ripped apart and used for fires.

You tried to read, but halfway through, the book brought back memories. It often did. It had been a birthday gift from your parents. You didn't exactly remember which birthday. You were still living with them when it all started. You'd been 19 years old.

You had made it out of the house, into the car. But some twenty minutes later your mom started to turn into one of those things and then it was just you and your dad. Eventually you'd found a small group of survivors with whom you had stayed a couple of years. But more and more people died either by infected or raiders. Your poor father never saw his death coming. You unfortunately did and it still haunted you to this day. You had survived on your own for a couple of years and ended up here. Suddenly feeling lonely and overwhelmed, you started to cry. A few sobs escaped your mouth and your breath came out in little puffs. Well, so much for reading.

You had no idea if Joel was still there. Had he heard your sobs? When you closed your balcony door for the night (safety reasons), you heard him stepping inside and closing his. Well, there was your answer.

----

When you woke up the next morning, the sun already hit your window. Meaning it was late morning. Not that it mattered much, you had no idea what to do these days anyway.

You got up and opened your balcony door. The smell of cigarette filled your nose. The sound of a page being turned. A hum. Joel.

Thinking about last night made you roll your eyes. Sniffling on the balcony right above that stoic man. You stepped outside and immediately spotted something out of the ordinary on your balcony floor. A book. Not your own book, but one you never saw before. You slowly picked it up. Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brönte. You've heard of it, but never had the chance to read it. How on earth did it get here?

Someone flipped a page again, the sound reaching your ears.Joel. Joel who probably heard you read last night and crying afterwards. Did he put it here? You picked up the book and opened it, but there was no note.

You could not stop reading. The day had long gone and stars painted the sky. Finishing the story, you slowly closed the book. Incredible. But now came the difficult task of returning the book to it's rightful owner. You sure as hell weren't going to knock on his door. And where he could balance on his railing and place the book on your balcony, you could not reach his. Only if you would throw it and you would never. Opting to just leave the book where you'd found it this morning, you go to sleep.

Jane Eyre was gone the next morning, replaced by The adventures of Huckleberry Finn, no note. Then came Lord of the Flies, no note, and after that A Clockwork Orange....no note.

You held your latest balcony find in your hand. Brow raised. The title being "Smoky Darling", you looked at the rather interesting cover: a man wearing a red plaid with the buttons undone. Showing part of his tanned, muscular body. Somehow the plaid reminded you of Joel. Though his was green. Shaking that thought you opened the book. And there it was: a note.

- Sorry, out of other options.

The book had you blushing like a teenager. My goodness, did people actually read this kind of stuff? Well, obviously...you're being one of them.

"That's right. Work yourself on my hand. Fuck my fingers" Heat pooled low in your belly. "If you know what's good for you, you're gonna shut your mouth and take your punishment like a good girl" You felt yourself clench at the thought of someone calling you a good girl. "Behave this time, or I'll have to find another way to keep your mouth occupied". You rubbed your thighs together to create some much needed friction. You never really cared much for touching yourself, could never seem to get it just right. But now, you craved for it. Never have you imagined a book could turn you on like this. A book Joel gave you. Did he even read this before he gave it to you?

You grabbed a pencil and the note that came with the book. 'Got more?' you wrote before putting the note back in the book and going to bed. You had vivid dreams of a man wearing a plaid shirt that night. A green one.

The next book was called The Casanova. A guy in a suit on the cover and a short note inside that simply read: '-enjoy'

You thumbed through it, but opted to wait untill it was dark outside, knowing it was probably going to make you feel needy again. When you finally deemed it was time, you all but grabbed the book and sat on your balcony.

Cigarette smoke filled your senses. Was he there? You listened closely. Yes, he was definitely there.

"Joel?" you whispered.

No answer. You tried again: "Joel?"

He let out a "hm", acknowledging he'd heard you.

"Thank you," you whispered, "for the books."

No response, how surprising, really. You opened the book and began reading. "Baby I'm going to make you come untill you pass out" "Fuck, you want me to beg? I'll fucking beg!" You let out a breathy moan. Clasping your hands over your mouth, you listened to any signs Joel might have heard you.

"Keep reading," his voice was low and husky.

Okay, so he did hear you. Your breathing was so loud by now he could probably hear that too. Half an hour later you almost felt like you would spontaneously combust. Lust clouded your mind.

"I finished the book," you breathed.

You lost it then. Didn't know exactly wat it was you were asking for when you whispered his name again.

"Joel, please, I-"

Your hands started to wander over your thighs, up to your stomach and over your breasts. Your nipples hardened under your touch. With one hand you pinched one through your shirt, while the other wandered down your body again. You cupped yourself through your jeans. A moan escaped your lips. You needed more.

"Joel? Can you... talk to me?"

Apparently not because there was no answer. Growing frustrated with his silence you tried again.

"I- I need you to tell me what to do," your voice barely above a whisper. "Please".

Still no answer. Christ, was he really such an ass? You felt stupid, suddenly very conscious of what you were doing.

A knock on your door had you bolting upright. Smoothing down your clothes, you hesitated for a moment before walking inside and opening your door. Right in front of you stood the man in his green plaid. Joel. His eyes looked you up and down, dark, filled with lust. Your cheeks flushed. He was so much taller than you, you'd forgotten how much.

You stepped aside and he walked past you. Looking around your room.

Before you could say anything he beat you to it.

"Get on the couch."

Your feet start walking before your mind can actually comprehend his words. You sit.

He also sits, a little to your left. He leans back and spreads his legs.

"Lie back."

You do, propping yourself up against the armrest so you can still see him. Your feet touch his thigh.

"Touch yourself."

Okay, you could do this. He was finally using words and you wanted to listen, to obey. Your hands slide from your thighs to your breasts, back to your thighs, lower... touching your still clothed pussy.

He inhales sharply and moves his hand to touch his cock.

"Shorts off, keep the panties."

You strip them down your legs and look at his hand. He's pushing his cock to face upwards inside his jeans and then he starts to rub the length of it.

"Open," he commands.

You spread your legs as wide as possible..

"Fuck, so wet. All because of that little book I gave you?"

You blush and cover yourself.

"S'okay darlin'. Lemme help you."

He swats your hand away and touches you. Sliding his fingers over your clit and down to your dripping opening. Pushing a little of the sudden fabric inside of you.

You never felt anything like this before. Your cunt clenches around nothing. "Please," you mumble.

He looks you in the eye while pulling your panties aside. His fingers find you again. He pushes one in, then another, and slowly starts to push them in and out of you. His eyes travel down, and he licks his lips. You moan and his other hand clamps over your mouth.

"Ssssh, baby. Quiet."

He removes his fingers and offers you his hand. You're not sure what he wants, but you take it. He pulls you over his legs so you straddle him with your back towards him.

The sudden pressure and feeling of his clothed cock on your ass has you moaning and his arms settle on your hips, holding you in place. Your own hands gripping his knees.

"Move," he whispers.

You start grinding yourself on him. His mouth opens and a low groan escapes him. A gush of arousal leaks out of you and onto his jeans. One of his hands glides over your ass, over the inside of your thigh and then his fingers are inside you again. You start riding them. His other hand grabs your throat and he pulls you flush against him. His mouth near your ear.

"What do you need, tell me."

"T- talk to me."

"Doing so good. You make me so fuckin' hard."

You shudder. His fingers leave you and his indexfinger starts drawing circles on your clit. Fast, slow, fast, slow.

"I want you to scream my name when I make you come, you hear me?"

He pushes his fingers back inside you and fucks you with them in an almost brutal pace. You're almost there. Your stomach tightens and your legs start to tremble. He crooks his fingers inside of you, the pleasure overwhelming. The hand on your throat tightens as he moans into your ear. "Come for me," and you do. Your pussy clenches around his fingers, liquid gushes out, stars burst behind your eyes, while this all-consuming feeling spreads from your fingers to your toes. Never before has it felt so good. Tears stream down your face, while you chant his name over and over again.

He slowly removes his fingers. They're glistening. He pushes you off of him and you fall onto the couch. You can barely focus. He opens his jeans and pulls himself out, mixing your juices with his precum and smears them over his cock. It only takes him a few strokes before he comes. He groans and his head smacks against the back of your couch. His cum coats his green plaid shirt.

Both breathing hard, you look at each other. He tugs himself back inside his jeans and uses your panties to clean the cum off his shirt. When he's done, he hands them to you with a devilish smile. He stands, walks towards your balcony and comes back with The Casanova in one of his hands.

"Good book?" he asks.

"Very," you reply.

He leaves then without another word, but the next morning there's a new book on your balcony. More English literature...

Motherfucker.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfic #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fanfic #joel miller smut #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller tlou #joel miller the last of us #pedro pascal characters #tlou #the last of us

[bowtiepastabitch]

One more day to contribute to fandom science, and if you've already submitted your response here's some fun facts about Good Omens fic on ao3 for you:

Prior to the release of the first season, there were 3,574 fics on ao3 under the Good Omens book fandom tag. Especially compared to current numbers, they are almost overwhelmingly general and teen. Popular tags included fluff, humor, crossover, established relationship, romance, and drabble.

The "anal sex" tag did not make its debut on the top tags list until January of 2024. The ratio of explicit fics is also much higher than any month since the s2 release. Y'all nasty (I love you).

The longest fic under the GO Tv tag is 1,041,533 words with over 200 chapters and is published in spanish. The second place is at 500k, also in Spanish. The third, and the longest english fic, is 479,886 words and 56 chapters, and it's a rarepair Crowley/Gabriel with Aziraphale as the villain. Interesting choices were made here, major respect for the author. Takes guts.

There are 150 pages of fic, or about 3,000 fics, with less than 50 words (my cutoff for calculating average wordcount). That's 3k archived works consisting of podfics, artwork, and short poetry. Very cool!

Y'all are all simps and suckers. With the singular exception of August 2023 (Neil you know what you did), the top tag accross all dates I pulled data from was always fluff.

As I said, if you haven't already PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE GO VOTE to contribute to the biggest survey of Good Omens fanfic statistics made to date, and maybe give this or the poll a reblog to get it in front of more writers.

Bonus fun fact: In the time it took me to type this post, 4 more fics were posted.

#will reblog in the morning #since it's literally one am #but it's fine everything is fine #this has been so fun and interesting and I can't wait to share all my math with you #good omens #good omens fandom #neil gaiman #gomens #good omens 2 #ao3 #fandom meta #for science #good omens fanfiction #gomens fanfic data analysis #I need a snazzier tag for all this shit but that will work for now #also don't y'all come bitching at me that archival data is technically closer to a humanity or social science I don't wanna hear it

[hoseokslefteyebrow]

Cute || H. SJ

Pairing : Han Seojun X Blind! Reader

Genre : Fluff

Summary : Han Seojun didn't expect to fall in love so fast, neither did he expect the blind girl he ran into the other day to be so cute.

Wordcount: 3k :) 

[ Disclaimer; This is not an accurate description of being blind. ]

A shriek leaves your mouth as you're pulled backwards, falling right into the body of another person. 

" Yah! You should watch where you're going! Didn't you see that car? " A (very pleasant) voice scolds you. 

You hurriedly turn around, bowing deeply to whoever it is. 

" I'm so sorry! " You tell them. 

They sigh. 

" Honestly, don't apologize to me. Just watch where you're going. " The person scoffed. 

You 'look' back up again, hoping you're looking at their face. 

" I'm sorry I'm-"

" You're blind. " The person says. 

You nod. 

" Yes, sorry to bother, I will be on my way again. " You bow again. 

However, as you turn around, you're being held again by your wrist. 

" Don't blind people have a cane? " They ask. 

You can feel the colour rushing to your cheeks. 

" Uhm, yeah. Mine broke last week. My family can't effort one for now. " 

" So, they leave you to walk by yourself? "

" My mom's busy working. My older sister goes to college so she's generally just very busy- Don't worry though, I'll be okay. "

" Tell me your address. I'll lead you home. " They sigh. 

" No way. I don't know you. You could be kidnapping me for all I know. " You exclaim, ripping your wrist out of his hold. 

" My name's Han Seojun. I live on MadeUp street and I go to Seobom High. I'm currently 18 years old. " He introduces himself. 

" Y'know, for all I know you could be lying. " You point out. 

" Well, how would you get home otherwise? " He points out. 

" I know the directions by heart. " You smile. 

Han Seojun sighs as he's resting his head on the table. His mind keeps going back to that moment of yesterday night. 

The girl might've been blind, but her dark eyes seemed to twinkle under the light of the lamppost yesterday night. 

Truth to be told, he was scared something might happen to her. What family leaves a blind girl to fend for herself in the dark? 

" Yah, Seojun-ah, you're not even listening to a word I've said! " His best friend, Chorong, complains suddenly, bringing him back to present. 

" What? " Seojun huffs. 

" Ohhhh, what were you thinking about, a girl? " Chorong teases. 

" Maybe. " Seojun smirks. 

At his answer, Lim Jukyung turns around curiously, yet for the first time in months, Seojun doesn't feel the need to have her attention on him. 

-

" Hey! " 

Just as hoped, you show again, this time a few hours earlier than before. He's glad he decided to take this route straight out of school. 

" Oh, Seojun, is that you? " You ask him. 

He smiles. 

" Yeah, glad you remember me. I've come to walk you home again. " 

He watches as your cheeks heat up. 

" Oh, that's real sweet of you. You didn't have to though. " You smile, carefully walking over to him, running a hand over the building beside you. 

Seeing your movement, he walks over most of the way, so you wouldn't have to walk all the way to him. 

" I wanted to. I enjoyed our walk yesterday. " He tells you with a smile, one you can't see. 

" That's nice to hear. I did too. How was your day? " You ask. 

The two of you start walking, Seojun making sure to softly brush shoulders every now and then. 

" It was alright. I hoped I'd see you again. How was yours? " He asks in return. 

You smile sweetly at his words. 

" It was okay. I really didn't expect to see you again though. " 

And so the two of you walk, once again, all the way to your house. Seojun finds talking with you fun. You seem so soft spoken and delicate that he cannot help but feel a little smitten with you. 

" Hey, hand me your phone. " He says, stopping you from entering your house's gate. 

" What? " You ask. 

" I'll put my contact info in. That way you can call me when you're done in school, I'll pick you up when I can and walk you home. " He explains. 

You narrow your eyes at him. (You really aren't though, you're looking right beside him, but it's okay.) 

" How would I know you won't be stealing it? " 

He laughs. 

" Don't worry, even if I did, you can find me at Seobom High. C'mon. " He says, holding his hand out, momentarily forgetting you can't see him. 

He softly nudges your arm with his fingers. 

" Hmm, hand me your phone, and I'll hand you mine. " You tell him. 

He snorts, but does as asked. He takes your hand before smoothly placing his device in your hand. Once he's sure it won't fall out of your grip, he lets go. You take your phone out after a second, handing him an obviously outdated BlackBerry phone. As he puts his number in, the device speaks out every number he puts in. 

Once done, he takes your empty hand, placing your phone in it. He softly takes his own back too. 

" There goes. See you, hopefully, tomorrow, Y/N." Seojun grins as he pats your head before leaving. 

A few months later

Seojun has grown a lot closer with you overtime. Eventually he learned that you come from a very poor family, which was why you didn't have a cane when you first met. A few days after, you thankfully did. 

Now the two of you have gone into an easy routine of hanging out nearly everyday. The two of you rarely ever spend time at your place cause' there isn't much to do, but more often than not spend time at his. His mum loves you as if you're one of your own, and his sister has more or less become one of your closest friends as well. 

Currently, the two of you are hanging out in his room. 

" Y'know, tomorrow I have the day off. " You say whilst spinning around on his desk chair. 

Seojun looks up from the 'homework' he's doing. (His phone is in his book.) 

" Really? Nice. What're you planning on doing? I've still got school, but we can skip if you're up for something. " He tells you nonchalantly. 

You give him an angry look, one he finds all too cute. 

" No, skipping classes is bad Junnie. But we can make it later than usual. " You suggest. 

He hums. 

" Wanna sleep over? " He asks suddenly. 

You blink. 

" What? I haven't got any of my stuff with me. " You point out. 

" That's fine. You can sleep in my clothes and I'm sure we have a spare toothbrush somewhere.  My classes don't start until late in the morning anyway. "  

" Hmm, let me ask my mom. " 

And so it's settled. Tonight, you'll stay at Seojun's place. 

" Alright, would you mind if we share my bed or would you like your own mattress? I'm sure we have an inflatable mattress somewhere. " He says, his own cheeks tinting pink at the idea of it. 

Truth to be told, the closer the two of you've become, the more he's started to like you. So of course he hopes you'll share his bed. 

" I mean, I don't mind sharing your bed if you don't either. " You tell him, your cheeks pink. 

" Cool, want me to read to you in bed? " He asks. 

" Yes please! "

And so you come back into Seojun's room a while later, a pair of his shorts and his shirts fitting your form. Truth to be told, you look adorable in it.

His cheeks flush as he looks at you. 

" You look even better than I do in my clothes. " He grins, getting up from his bed to take you by hand. 

A small 'eek' leaves your lips as he pulls you forward.

" Don't worry, I've got you. I'll be your eyes, Y/N." He says softly. 

Once more, you start to feel the fluttering of butterflies in your tummy. The boy in front of you really managed to capture your heart in the short time you knew him. 

" Okay. " You reply softly. 

Just as promised, he leads you to his bed (which is only a few steps away.) 

" You can sit down here. " He says, patting his bed as he touches your shoulder. 

You carefully sit down, being mindful not to sit on the edge. 

It takes a while, but eventually the two of you find a comfortable spot together, with Seojun laid on his front, holding a book in his hands, while you're curled up beside him. 

Both of your hearts beat in sync as he reads to you, and you listen to the low hum of his voice. 

You're grateful to have run into Seojun. He's sweet, comforting and considerate. He doesn't seem to judge you for weak even though you're blind. 

It doesn't take long before Seojun realizes the soft breathing pattern he hears is actually you simply being asleep. He grins as he looks down on you, where your head slightly touches his elbow. 

" Aish, this girl. I don't even like to read. " He quietly complains to himself, before glancing down at you again and smiling fondly. 

He'll admit, you're cute. 

Putting his book away, he turns off the small lamp besides his bed, before turning to lay on his side, facing you. He softly swipes a few stray hears from out of your face, before taking your hand in his. 

That night the both of you sleep slightly more comfortable than usual. 

-

You're currently stood in front of, what you guess to be, Seobom High. Seojun often goes out of his way to pick you up, so you figured you might as well do the same. 

You assume your guess is correct, as you soon hear a lot of footsteps, accompanied by people (of who you guess to be your age) chatting away. 

" Oh, are you lost? " Someone, a woman by the sound of it, approaches you. 

" Oh, uhm, I don't think so. This is Seobom High right? " You ask, just to make sure. 

" Yes, are you looking for someone here? Maybe I can help? " She asks. 

" Uhm, no thank you. I don't want to be a bother. " You tell her, giving her a polite smile. 

" Don't worry about it, it's quite alright. I'm Soojin by the way, who are you looking for? " She asks you kindly. 

" Nice to meet you. I'm Y/N. I'm looking for-"

" Yah, Y/N, is that you? " 

Just the man you're looking for. 

Soojin watches with wide eyes as Han Seojun approaches the two of you, an actual smile on his face, instead of the rude smirk he usually wears. 

" Seojunnie! Yes, it's me. I thought I might as well pick you up today. " You grin. 

He smiles. 

" That's sweet of you. C'mon, let's go. " Seojun says hurriedly suddenly, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and turning you around, walking off without sparing Soojin a glance. 

Meanwhile Seojun had spotted Suho from a distance. The male seemed nowhere near interested in what Seojun was doing, but Seojun didn't want to risk catching you between them. 

" Oh! Bye Soojin! Thanks for being nice. " You hurriedly call over your his shoulder. 

Soojin blinked as the two of you walked off. 

" Is that, Han Seojun? With a girl? Since when does he have a girlfriend? " Sooah asks as she approaches her friend, causing Soojin to shrug. 

" No idea. "

The next day, Seojun is approached by Jukyung. 

" I heard you've found a girlfriend. I'm happy for you. " She smiles. 

Seojun knows there's no ill intention behind her words. Her words are genuine, and he's glad she's happy for him. 

" Thanks. I'll never let her meet your boyfriend though. " He says, leaning his head back onto his table.

" Yahh, Suho is nice, no need to be worried. "

-

Seojun is sitting at his desk this time, eyes on yours (although you're probably not aware of it), whilst you're sitting on his bed. 

" I can feel your eyes on me y'know. Is something wrong? " You ask him, now turning to face him. 

He blinks, not having expected that. 

" For how long have you been blind? " He asks bluntly, suddenly. 

You blink. 

Seojun, seemingly realizing how rude that probably sounded, tries taking his words back.

" Sorry, if you don-"

" I'm born blind. "

" Oh. "

" Don't worry. It's okay. Besides, being blind also means I don't have to worry about my looks- I often hear my cousins stress over their appearance. " 

Seojun studies you for a good moment, before eventually leaning over, his fingers brushing through your hair gently as he clears your face of a few loose strands. You jump once you feel his fingers, your heart beating just a bit faster than usual. 

" You wouldn't need to worry about it anyway. You're beautiful Y/N." Seojun smiles. 

You blush at his words. 

" Uhm, thank you I think? - Can I see you? " You ask him suddenly. 

He furrows his brows. 

" What? "

" I'm good at drawing. If you're okay with me touching your face, I can show you what I see- with my hands at least. " You tell him. 

" I mean, sure. I don't mind as long as it's you. " He grins. 

You smile widely. 

" Great! Do you have a pen and paper? "

And so he finds himself sitting still as your hands gently run over his face. It's a very odd feeling, but he doesn't mind it as he watches a sketch of himself come to life.

As time passes, his mouth slowly falls open at how accurate the drawing is. It's nearly like he's staring at a picture of himself, most of his minor skin details are even shown on the paper. The only thing that's missing are his eyes, that spot remains blank. That doesn't ruin the sketch though, instead giving him a more angelic look, if he may think so himself. 

" Woah. That's amazing Y/N. " He smiles as he's done. 

" Thank you. You're quite handsome. " 

" Of course I am, what did you expect? That I'd be bad looking? " He teases you. 

You shrug. 

" I don't know many people their looks, nor what most would consider pretty, but I always though you'd be , less good looking? I don't know, I'm visually not very creative. " 

Seojun has not heard his heart beat quite that loud in a long time. 

-

Seojun knows he's got a crush on you, and the more the two of you hang out, the stronger his feelings grow. After a bit of thinking, he decides that today is the day. Now is the time to ask you out. 

He impatiently waits until the last bell rings, leaving the classroom before most have packed their bags. On his way to picking you up, he picks up some flowers. He's careful that they don't sting, and that they smell good. 

After a while, he finds himself standing in front of your school. After doing some small research, he realized that your school is actually pretty close by. It's a little further from his house, but he'll spare those ten minutes. 

It doesn't take long before you come out, and he's quick to approach you. 

" Y/N! " Seojun greets you with a big smile. 

" Hey Seojun, you sound happy. Did something good happen today? " You smile at him. 

" I'm about to find out actually. You see, I like you Y/N. A lot. " He tells you bluntly, straight out with his feels. 

He watches as your eyes widen, and the scared feeling of rejection is quick to creep up on him. But before he can doubt himself too much, a big smile breaks out. 

" Really?! I like you too! I though that my crush was just one sided! " You say, jumping up and down before engulfing him in a big hug. 

Seojun grins, receiving your hug with one arm, the other still holding the flowers. 

" Definitely not. You run through my mind all day, Y/N." He says softly into your hair. 

" Oh, also, I got you this. " He says as he pulls away. 

" Is that what I've been smelling? " You ask, as he guides your free hand to the flowers. 

" I hope so. " He blushes. 

" They smell great! " 

" Glad you like them. "

" Thank you Seojunnie. " You smile softly, leaning over to kiss his cheek. 

The moment your lips touch his cheek, his heart skips a beat. 

Yeah, he's got it bad for you. 

[ A/N: My first try on a Seojun fic :D. I feel like I haven't exactly nailed down his personality yet, but at least I've made a start :], let me know what you think! Also, I'm open to Han Seojun/Lee Suho requests. ]

#true beauty #true beauty fanfic #han seojun #han seojun x reader #fluff #idkeitherman #we need more seojun ffs

[minecraftbookshelf]

Marriage of State Housekeeping note

So given that it has taken me ten months to actually start posting fic for this, I feel like I do need to add a disclaimer so no one is surprised and disappointed when the first chapter of of the first fic goes out in the next week or so.

Its current wordcount, in the draft form that I sent to my beta, is almost exactly 3k. I am not and never have been a long form writer.

The past ten months have mostly been occupied with outlining, worldbuilding, and screwing around with the characters to get a handle on their voices and arcs and themes.

So yes hopefully now that we’re getting started on the fics themselves there will be a fairly steady output, but it will not be fast and it will not be large.

For the most part. Sometimes there will be a surprise longer one-shot XD.

I just want to warn everyone that this won’t exactly be a bunch of 10k multi chapters, but I hope that my smaller format is still enjoyable!

See you all soon with chapter one of…[Still untitled fic, lord help me]

(Also if you want to be tagged when it goes up just let me know in the replies of this post, I won’t be doing a full taglist for the whole thing but for the first installment I am willing)

#it’s working title #as in #the title on the doc #is Xornoth fucks up #for obvious reasons that will not be its official title #marriage of state au #rain rambles

[itbmojojoejo]

A Good Man | Part 4

Pairing: Finan x Ealdorman's Daughter!Reader

Summary: The group learn more of Lord Eadred who suggests raising doubts that could harm y/n.

Warnings: SLOWBURN. Suggested violence. If I have missed anything please let me know!

Wordcount:3k

Part 1 | Part 5 | Other Works

Authors Notes: Oh its going places. Protective Finan emerging.

Finan listened to Uhtred explaining that Aethelflaed had been made aware of Eadred’s comments to you and she had agreed he needed to be watched, if his father was too sickly to travel to attend a witan and couldn’t recover Gleawecestre would soon have a new Lord giving him power he doesn’t currently possess. Out the corner of his eye he could see you spinning your cup slowly with your fingers as you had in Coccham but there was no smile or relaxed posture, you were tense and staring at the wood grain of the table.

“I will talk to some of the women in the palace tomorrow” You stated with a nod

“What for?” Finan asked scrunching his face up in confusion, as far as he was concerned you’d done your part with Eadred and that should be the end of it.

“They may have different information than what Sihtric and Osferth can get”

“What if it gets back to him that you’ve been asking questions?” He queried

“It won’t because I won’t be asking, mention that you think a man is handsome and you’ll be told everything there is to know, good and bad.” You shrugged your shoulders

“Alright, so what if it gets back to him that you think he’s handsome? That’s better than the compliment he gave you. He might decide to pursue you further, is that what you want?” Finan ranted quickly, his tone verging on argumentative

“Well no, but I-“ You attempted to defend your decision being cut off almost immediately

“Then you don’t need to go asking anyone anyth-”

“Finan.” Uhtred interrupted the exchange giving him a stern look

“I’m sorry, Lady y/n.” he sighed shaking his head and turned to you with the concern evident on his face.

You placed your hand on his forearm reassuringly rubbing your thumb against his skin accepting his apology, you knew he wasn’t angry with you and only speaking from a place of worry. At that moment Osferth and Sihtric rounded the corner taking a seat at the table.

“Back so soon?” Uhtred asked assessing their body language

“You can’t follow someone into a..” Osferth stopped and nervously glanced at you

“Whorehouse.” Sihtric finished, you chuckled lightly at the news. It didn’t surprise you, it was something that most men did.

“Why aren’t you waiting for him to leave?” Uhtred followed up

“He’s paid for the night Lord”

“Then you will talk to the woman he’s with tomorrow.”

Finan’s hand coming to rest on top of yours drew your attention back to the fact you were still touching him. Giving his arm a light squeeze you pulled your hand away folding it into your lap with the other. You excused yourself from the group after finishing your cup under the guise of a headache from the heat when in reality you just needed time alone to process everything that had happened over the past few days.

“Now that y/n is no longer with us, what do you know?” Uhtred folded his arms over his chest looking to the two men he sent away to spy

“We don’t know what to make of it Lord, the brothel-keeper says that Eadred frequents every time he is in Winchester but that the women fear him.” Osferth’s brows furrowed as he kept his voice low

“One of the workers spoke of a young woman who went missing after his last visit but she wouldn’t tell anymore than that, not even for extra coin.” Sihtric spoke looking into his cup

“Oh I do not like where this is going.” Finan groaned and rubbed a hand over his bearded chin

“Agreed. Finan you will keep a close eye on y/n tomorrow, it may be for the best that she doesn’t go seeking information herself.”

“Don’t have to ask me twice Lord, consider it done.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if it was one of us Lord?” Osferth queried

“No, Finan has been inside the palace as a personal guard many times it won’t raise suspicion, you are the bastard of Alfred and Sihtric is a dane, neither of you would be welcome.”

“Do you not trust her or something baby monk?” Finan asked taking a gulp of his ale

“I did not say I do not trust her, she seems like a fine Lady, I’m just worried about the two of you being seen together so often.”

“You worry too much Osferth, he’ll be with her on my orders so should anyone ask just send them my way.” Uhtred smiled putting a foot up on the table.

The following day you jumped with a startle at seeing the irishman leaning against the wall of the hallway outside your room as he greeted you instantly when you opened the door.

“Good morning Lady.” He flashed his brillant smile, you clutched your chest breathing a laugh.

“Morning Finan, please less of the Lady.”

“As you wish. I’ve been instructed to accompany you for the day”

“Even inside the palace?” It wasn’t that you didn’t want him around but you knew it would be difficult to get the answers you wanted with him watching your every move.

“Even the palace, consider me your personal guard y/n.” He gave you a knowing look hooking his thumbs into his sword belt guessing he’d foiled your plans at sneaking around. “I like the dress by the way, blue suits you.” He let his eyes wander over your frame for a quick moment causing a blush to hit your cheeks before stepping aside letting you lead the way out.

As you’d be at court you made sure to pack a tunic and under dress with a different cut to draw any attention that may help you gather useful information. The floor length white underdress was a tighter fit to your frame and arms and sat just below your collar bones, the light blue tunic had the same neckline with short sleeves and a wide split up the centre stopping at your waist.

Finan walked close by behind you heading towards the palace to join Aethelflaed and some other nobles for a lunch, it was a way at appeasing them for travelling to a somewhat disappointing witan. He should of been watching your surroundings but his eyes drifted to the hand at your side, rubbing your thumb against your index finger and your other arm in front of you, if he had to guess you were smoothing a hand down your dress or fiddling with your cross. You were confident he knew that but everyone has tells for when they did feel nervous and these were yours.

“Hey, you’re going to be fine, it’s just lunch” He spoke quietly trying to reassure you coming to walk beside you now

“Why do I feel like I’m walking into a snake pit?”

“Because you are, but I’ll be right there with you. Well, as close as I can be anyway.”

Finan reluctantly handed over his sword and seax at the entrance and walked you through the halls arriving at the main room used for witans and gatherings such as these. You paused in front of the doors at the sight of Aethelred speaking with Eadred, upon noticing you the Lord of Mercia rolled his eyes and Eadred gave you a curt bow.

“Of course the turds are friendly.” Finan muttered behind you

“They do say like attracts like” You responded quietly and turned to him “You must stop frowning at them.” You smiled and reached up smoothing your thumb over the crease between his brows making him relax his face. Looking past you he gently tugged on the sleeve of your dress to lower your arm.

“This is as far as I go, I’ll be sat right there waiting alright?” he motioned to a small bench in the hallway and you nodded in response.

During lunch the topic of conversation was nothing of interest or use to you but the Lord Eadred rarely took his eyes off you, you had to fight the urge to fix him with a glare and just focus instead on picking at the food on your plate occasionally adding a comment to something Lady Aethelflaed said. You had noticed that anyone needing to relieve themselves was exiting and re-entering the rear door, the same door the servants were using to get to and from the kitchens.

Excusing yourself you walked out into the much more narrow hallway and followed a maid up ahead through various doors until you arrived in the main kitchen bustling with cooks preparing all types of foods for dinner later on.

“Oh my Lady, are you lost?” A shorter plump woman asked wiping her flour covered hands on her apron.

“No no, I fear I’m not feeling too well and was looking for some water?” You patted your forehead faking being overheated by the weather

“Yes of course, please take a seat.” She motioned for a younger serving girl to pour you a cup of water and bring it to you at the bench you’d been seated on. You regarded her for a moment, she couldn’t of been much older than one of your nieces and looked easy to bait.

“Thank you, I’ll be out of you way soon enough, I just don’t want to embarrass myself in front of Lord Eadred, he is quite handsome.” you offered her a sweet smile and watched the way her eyes flicked from you to the floor and she became uneasy

“Forgive me for speaking out Lady but, good looks don’t always equal kindness.” Her voice was small as she shifted on her feet making sure no one else in the room heard her, you held the now empty cup out for her to refill with the jug of water she held tightly.

“Go on?”

“Let’s just say we all prefer to keep our distance Lady, in the palace and more so outside of it.”

You remembered Sihtric and Osferth returning from their spying yesterday, at first you thought maybe Osferth had looked nervous to mention the brothel because you were a Lady but if they were able to know he paid for the night then they had obviously spoken to someone inside and had gotten a little information at least, what had they been told that they didn’t want you to know?

“Thank you, I feel much cooler now.” You rubbed her arm and placed the cup on the bench leaving the kitchen the same way you entered.

Back in your seat at the table you focused on the servers around the Lord and there was a clear unease in the women that had to approach him for any reason. You could forgive arrogance, it was a common trait of noblemen, but treachery and ill-treatment of women you couldn’t. At the end of lunch Aethelflaed took you aside,

“We are to leave for Aeglesburgh first thing tomorrow, your father has sent a messenger, he wishes to discuss something with us in person.”

“Is everything alright?”

“As far as I know yes, he didn’t say what it was. I’ll meet you out the front with the guard and horses in the morning.” She gave your hand a light squeeze

“Yes Lady.” You exhaled slowly as she walked away, smoothing your dress and turned to leave the room but came face to face with a broad chest.

“Lady y/n, it’s nice to be in your presence again.” Lord Eadred smirked down at you, he was over an entire head taller and stood so close you had to look up to meet his gaze. You only responded with an empty smile trying to remain polite.

“I see you have one of Uhtred’s dogs following you and not a Mercian household guard?” He spoke again his blue eyes boring into yours, with a quick glance around you noticed the empty room. “I wonder, is it because you plan to be betrothed to the heathen warrior?” You scoffed at his foolish thought and tried to back away from his space but your legs hit a side table

“I have no plans to be betrothed any time soon, Lord.” You stated calmly and met his eyes once more

“Hmm, is that something to do with the man from Irland perhaps? You do seem rather close to him. What would your father think of this friendship, or is that the reason he thought to send you to a nunnery?” It seems you aren’t the only one who’s been digging for information.

“Finan is simply acting as my personal guard whilst we’re in Winchester.” You maintained, choosing to ignore the nunnery comment.

“Ah he has a name, of course. Would be a shame if someone were to call your virtue into question.. Any and all chances of a noble match would be eradicated, your family disgraced..”

Finan rose from his seat to check on you, everyone else had left the room but you still hadn’t come out. Coming to a stand still at the door he saw you backed into a side table with Lord Eadred looming over you, nodding to himself he straightened his back and stalked his way over standing impossibly close to the pair of you and fixed his gaze on the taller Lord with his thumbs hooked into his sword belt.

“Do we have a problem big man?” Finan challenged, internally willing Eadred to say or do something more out of line.

“There’s no problem, Lord Eadred was just leaving.” You insisted, eyes never leaving the mans opposite you standing firm.

“Hmm, I think I prefer you in lilac Lady.” Eadred critiqued and stepped away with a smirk, he gave a disapproving look to Finan before leaving.

“Do I even want to know what he said?”

“He suggested publicly questioning my virtue.” You fretted, fingers reaching for your small cross. You could feel the anger coursing through your veins, him looking to get a rise out of you wasn’t something you had an issue with, but to ruin your family would be a shame you couldn’t live with.

“Just ask y/n, and he can be gone.” Finan spoke quietly, his warm eyes searching yours as he placed a comforting hand on you arm.

“You know something.” You didn’t think he would be offering what he was if the situation wasn’t worse than you already believed it to be.

“I do.”

You weren’t going to pry, you trusted that he would only tell you what you needed to hear when the time was right, and after what you’d heard and experienced of the Lord’s behaviour today your gut was telling you it was best you didn’t know all the details.

“I’ve been called back to Aeglesburgh by my father, we don’t know what for but we’re going first thing in the morning.”

“Right. Come on, let me get you back to the inn.” He moved his hand to your back ushering you from the palace.

That evening you paced the inside of your small room at the inn with the window shutters open trying to let out the stifling summer heat that still lingered from the afternoon, Finan had instructed you to stay put with Osferth keeping watch outside and neither of you had argued with him. Hearing three sharp knocks you stopped in your tracks staring silently at the old wooden panelled door waiting for your guest to announce themselves.

“y/n..” You recognised Finan’s voice and rushed forward lifting the small piece of wood used for a lock and let him enter. He held a thin leather belt with a narrow sheath housing a dagger around 8 inches in length.

“Finan..” You spoke quietly with a confused look

“I know, you don’t think you know how to use one of these but I promise you in the moment you will know. And look, it’s no seax, you can easily conceal it under your dress an-“ He rambled gesturing towards the small weapon and you

“Finan, stop. Do you really think it’s necessary?”

“I hope to god you don’t ever need to use this but I’d sleep better knowing you had it.”

“Where did you even get that from?” Your brows pulling closer together

“I know people.” He responded with a small shrug of his shoulders

“And did you pay for this?”

“I di-wait, that’s not important, y/n please?” He held the belt out towards you with his eyes pleading for you take it from him.

“Will you show me how to wear it?”

Nodding he stepped forward and paused going to move his hand under the split of your tunic and looked at you silently asking if it was alright, you pulled both sides of the linen open exposing the white underdress that clung to your waist. He passed the belt from one hand to the other at your back trying his best to keep his hands off your body and buckled it up tying a little knot and gave it a light tug keeping it secure.

“Just looks like a normal belt, no one will even know until you poke them in the eye with it” Finan jested with a small smile

You smoothed the sides of your dress down relieved that the way the fabric fell didn’t reveal the outline of the dagger. A wave of emotions rolled over you, being given a small weapon shouldn’t of been something to hit you this way but it did. He had been so kind looking out for you and wanting to keep you safe without asking for anything in return.

Finan watched you turning the leather belt in your fingers and saw the way your breath hitched as your eyes met his, he went to say something but you stepped forward into his space and leaned up pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. Your nose lightly brushed against his skin as you pulled away and gave him a small smile.

“Thank you, Finan”

Next

End Notes: I'm a tall girlie at 5ft11 and i know not everyone is, so uh for context when ive written hes over a head taller than reader Eadred is like 6ft4/6ft5, which is quite a bit taller than Finan too, sometimes i do struggle to write height differences as im taller than the average man so if you’re a petite person these dudes are gonna be huge in comparison. A beast height wise like Clappa or Steapa, broad but athletic build type.

Taglist: @arcielee @tssf-imagines @bcon24

#finan x reader #finan fanfic #finan tlk #tlk fanfic

[captainjamster]

hihi!! I just seen your post about writing things for those who feel under represented in the community; and I was wondering... could you do one where Simon takes care of trans masc!reader on a really bad day of endometriosis pain?

Hey there anon, you're the very first request! Thank you so much for asking! This was originally going to be just 800 words, don't ask how we ended up at almost 3k lol. Sorry it took a few days, I hope you enjoy the fic! It's also on AO3 :)

Pairing(s): Ghost x transmasc!Reader w/ endometriosis (SFW) Warnings: Blood, menstruation, two off-handed mentions of sex Wordcount: 2.8k Summary: Simon takes care of your morning, despite your attempts to soldier on through a painful menstrual cycle. AO3 Link: Right here! <3

A/N: I hope this is enough "taking care" for you! Reader is indeed transmasc, but point of transition and upper anatomy is for you to decide. I might revise this one and upload an improved version, change the level of debilitation, add in HRT and increase how much Ghost does for you. But for now, here you go!! I think of Ghost as someone who conveys his love and affection through acts of service, and he'd die happy if you let him quietly manage every need you have. <3

Endometriosis currently affects around 10% - around 190 million – of women and girls of reproductive age. This statistic does not include the rate of endometriosis in non-women individuals with female reproductive genitals, which inflates the number even further. Despite the existing prevalence, endometriosis is underdiagnosed and overlooked within those who suffer from it, and this becomes even worse within trans individuals. I hope this fic can provide some love and representation for those struggling, especially my trans ppl <3

Full fic is under the cut <3

A dull throb in your stomach, pressed against the mattress is the first thing you register as consciousness slowly trickles through the thick fog of sleep. The sheets stick to your thighs as you try to roll over. Simon’s bulky, warm figure isn’t there to stop you from rotating flat on your back, encroaching onto his cold, empty spot.

You crack an eye open, looking at his vacancy in disappointment. The room is filled with an early, pale glow that peeks from around your curtains, brushing against the frame with each soft breeze from the open window. It’s not unusual for Simon to be up so early, but you miss the opportunity for morning cuddles.

A particularly sharp contraction in your stomach breaks the peaceful moment, your hand coming up to knead at the sore, bloated flesh. The last few days had left you in a pool of pain, the familiar ache creeping into your stomach and worming its way down your legs and up your back. Accompanied by the unsettling nausea and fatigue that wears you out even during a nap, you’ve resigned yourself to the fact that your least favourite friend would be making a visit this week.

Rolling back onto your stomach, you sit with the uncomfortable sensation throbbing through your midriff. It takes a moment for the damp, coldness beneath your pelvis to register, contrasted to the dry sheet your back was just resting on. Your eyes fly open, pushing yourself up and back onto your knees with a pained groan.

Even such a simple movement has a strong wave of pain flare through you, but your dismay at the mess staining your sheets is stronger. Your friend has arrived earlier and heavier than expected. The dark grey sheet is soaked in patches of black, tacky enough that you know it’s had more than plenty of time to steep into the fabric – thank god for the mattress protector Simon persuaded you into getting for other activities. Looking down, your skin is dappled with red, crusty and dried around the hairs scattering your stomach. The worst is pooled between your thighs, boxer-briefs drenched with a sharp iron scent that crinkles your nose.

Pushing through the wave of dizziness persuading you to the floor, you grab at the blankets frustratedly. You check them meticulously, scrutinizing them for even a speck of blood, but they’ve been far luckier in their escape of your mess. Throwing them haphazardly onto the floor, you set into action, working to hide the messy consequences of your cycle.

There’s no real need for the urgency that you move with, especially as every aching fibre in your body screams at you to slow down. Rationally, you know Simon wouldn’t react poorly to your calamity in the slightest, even if you asked him to change the sheets while you cleaned yourself up. He’s stayed with you during other cycles, never blinking an eye at anything menstruation throws at you. Yet he’s not here to help, and interrupting whatever he’s doing just to do something you feel capable of seems selfish. On another level, you don’t want Simon to see this right now. Frustration eats at you – for being stuck with this, for being surprised with an early cycle, and maybe just a little bit because you really wanted those goddamn cuddles. You’ve wrestled three of the four corners off when Simon catches you stripping the bed, a towel drapes around his neck, shirt damp with sweat that still drips from his hair.

“What’re y’doin’, handsome?” He rumbles, an eyebrow raised as he stands on the other side of the bed. His eyes flicker between the blankets clumped on the floor and the sheet you’re mid-tugging off the mattress.

Though his question is fair, the obviousness of your situation, and your irrational irritation makes it feel like he’s rubbing your misfortune in. Gritting your teeth, you wrench a little harder than needed at the fabric. “S’my fault, I’ll chuck it in the wash.” You grumble, pulling up the mattress to unhook the last corner, ignoring how your back groans with the motion. Simon makes a noise of protest, not unkind as he snatches the sheet you’re trying to bundle in your arms. “Don’t be daft, mate.”

His tone is flat and slightly exasperated as he pulls the sheet from you, looking at the myriad of stains on your front, glazing over the angry expression you’re giving him at his little quip. Before you can open your mouth to say something, he turns you by your shoulders, escorting you to the bathroom.

“What’re you doing?” You huff, taking your turn to ask an obvious question as you let him steer you to the ensuite. A grunt is your only response as he pushes you through the door, his warm hand leaving your shoulders to pull back the liner fully. You watch as Simon turns the taps, listening to the pipes creak as water begins to dribble from the head. He doesn’t make any move to pull off his sweaty athleisure, just fiddles with the tap, turning it much hotter than Simon would usually take his showers – oh.

Taking the hint, you pull off your boxers, wincing as the cold air hits your now-exposed, sticky skin. Simon’s hand is under the water, breaking the droplets’ fall as the water warms, but his attention is now focused on you. When you straighten up, tossing your briefs to the hamper, he meets your unhappy look with a question.

“Pancakes?”

You blink at him, indignance still plastered on your face in a grumpy scowl as your brain struggles through the pain fogging your thoughts, and Simon just raises an eyebrow.

“Eggs ‘n toast? Take-out?’

A moment of bemusement passes as you think for a second, until your mouth drops into a little o-shape, and guilt tints your cheeks red. “Oh.”

Simon huffs affectionately, echoing your “oh” as he pulls his hand back, waiting for you to answer.

“Pancakes?” You mumble, looking up at him through your lashes. The corner of his lips tug into what you’ve learnt is a forgiving smile, and he leans over your figure to press a soft, unexpected kiss to your forehead. His lips are soft – good, he’s had a drink after working out – and the appetising, musky smell of his BO fills your mouth as he leans in.

“Pancakes it is, darlin’,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss to the top of your head as he moves out the room, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him.

Before anything can drip from you and create an additional mess you can’t be bothered with, you climb into the showerbath, making sure the plug is hung up to avoid any water filling the tub. He’s perfected the temperature, and you feel like just lying down in the empty tub as your body goes boneless, feeling water drizzle down on you from the showerhead. It’s just enough to soothe the way your body aches, but not enough to make you feel any dizzier. By the time you’ve finished in the shower, your skin feels red and tender, but the heat has temporarily worked your muscles into a sleepy stupor. Though you swear the scent of metallic fetor lingers on your skin no matter how many scents you use, any visible remnant has been washed down the drain.

Pulling the liner back, a towel sits on the vanity, folded neatly with two painkillers resting atop the fabric’s surface and a half-full glass next to it. On the other side, a pair of your boxers and one of Simon’s shirts hangs from the edge. You didn’t even notice Simon slip in to leave them there – despite how long you’ve been with him, it’s still unnerving that such a big man can move without a sound.

Scooping the pills up, you take them with a mouthful of water, before unfurling the towel to dry yourself off. The ordeal is short, pausing to pull on your briefs and a sanitary product of choice before you finish drying your tender legs, hanging the towel to dry over the rail nailed to the wall.

A whiff of sweet, buttery batter permeates the bedroom as you step back into it, mentally bracing for a brutal war of ‘how many sides can I get on before one pops off’ with your goddamn super king sized bed. However, surprise stops you in your tracks, feet stuttering as you find the floor empty of blankets. They’ve returned to the bed, which has been made with a rehearsed, militarized perfection, corners tucked tightly in with barely a ripple across the taut fabric.

With one chore covered, you grab the hamper from the bathroom, walking out into the living room to the source of the smell. Simon is hidden in the kitchen, his back to the entrance as he stands over the stove, but the sound of your feet padding around the corner raises his head.

His hair is light and fluffy, the tips still damp as he puts down the spatula, walking over to take the hamper from you despite your objections. The musky sweat coating him earlier has been replaced with the artificial, clean scent of shampoo and soap - you have no clue how he’s managed to change the bed, wash himself in the spare bathroom, and make a start on breakfast before you finished your own shower.

Resigning, you move to the stove and take up the spatula, patting the pancake as bubbles rise to its surface. Barely a minute passes before Simon’s arms slip around you, taking the spatula back and letting it drop to the counter to interlock your fingers.

“Independent this morning, pet?” He murmurs, carefully placing his other hand over your stomach, feeling as it rises and dips with your laugh. The warmth that radiates from his palm is ridiculous, seeping into the sore muscles that are starting to ache again.

“C’mon, you’d call me feeding myself independent.” You tease, leaning back until your head meets his chest. It shakes as he huffs a quiet laugh, bouncing you slightly before answering.

“When I could be feedin’ you? Don’t reckon I’m wrong.” He grunts, wrapping your hand around the handle, his own still encompassing yours, smiling into your hair as he helps you flip the pancake with a flick of your wrist.

You give his retort an overly dramatic groan, but his attention is captured by an electronic beeping that sets off. The moment he pulls away, your body misses his heat, watching him open the microwave door to pull out a very familiar, tear-shaped heap of fabric. You step away from the stove, reaching out to take it from him as he extends it towards you. The cartoon-ish looking figure of a little ghost heatpack is hot to the touch, emitting the faintest smell of lavender and chamomile, and he gives you a small smile as you wrap your arms around it, holding it against your torso.

“You think of everything, huh?” You laugh, heart squeezing as he answers you with a lop-sided grin and turns back to the stove, pouring in the last of the batter.

“Not everythin’ – how ‘bout you make a cuppa and sit down, hm?” He rumbles, gesturing to near the fridge. Two cups are already coupled together on the counter, and you skip boiling the kettle again as lazy tendrils of steam already climb from its spout. Grabbing a couple of tea bags, you tuck the heating pack under your arm, filling up the mugs as you listen to the sizzling of the pan. Simon gives you a quiet “thanks, love” as you set down his mug next to the stove, but when you reach for a plate to start dishing out the cooked pancakes, you’re interrupted by a chiding “ah!” and large hands turning you around. “Go sit down love, I got this.”

The look you give Simon over your shoulder does nothing to sway his rejection of your help, big brown eyes staring back at you with an expectant look as he gently nudges you to the exit. Though it’s tempting to ignore him and stay, the effort of staying upright is slowly sapping any hint of energy you recovered in the shower.

Bringing your drink out and flopping yourself onto the couch, your legs scream in gratitude when your weight is finally shifted from them. The small ghost sits across your abdomen, radiating a relaxing warmth that soothes the muscles cramping violently underneath it.

Though it’s barely minutes that pass, Simon comes out to find you curled in the couch’s corner, wrapped up around the heating pad with a slight frown in your brow. The gentle clink of the ceramic against the coffee table stirs you from your light sleep, cracking your eyes open as Simon sinks into the couch next to you, his plate balanced on his thighs.

“Sorry love,” he murmurs apologetically, raising an arm to let you bury into him. You jump at the opportunity, shuffling yourself to press against his side, and a content relaxation falls upon you as his arm covers you protectively. Without moving you too much, Simon leans forwards to grab your plate, resting it on your lap and tucking a fork into your hand.

Looking at the pancakes, he’s given you an extra one in your stack, drizzled generously with your favourite toppings. Your chest squeezes at the sight, each carefully placed topping another homage to the tenderness that your lover struggles to verbalise.

“You’ve done so much for me this morning, Si.” You start remorsefully, eyes downcast to your stack of pancakes. With a grunt, Simon reaches for his fresh mug perched precariously on the couch’s arm, using a spare finger to hit the on button of the remote sitting next to it. “Not allowed to give my special boy some love when he’s roughed up?”

You give him a good-natured huff, digging into his side playfully. “Make it sound like I’m wounded, Si.” Simon snorts, pulling his eyes away from the TV to shoot you an amused look. “With the amount of blood, y’could’ve convince me.”

You laugh at the comment, letting the light warmth fill your chest until it’s dampened by the unspoken guilt still sitting miserably on your conscience. “Sorry for bein’ grumpy earlier,” you mumble.

Simon hums, pulling you tighter as he cuts into a pancake with his fork, raising it to your mouth. “Kinda figured you wouldn’t be top shape after seein’ the blood, s’alright pet. Y’ve told me that this shit hurts more than normal.”

Taking the mouthful, you give him a small, grateful smile, reaching for your own plate and cutlery to share a piece back. The pancakes are light and fluffy, not heavy enough to upset your stomach, but enough to be filling for how insatiable your appetite can get. “Thanks, Si. Still appreciate you’re patient with me, though.”

He hums thoughtfully as he chews, gently rubbing his thumb mindlessly against your thigh. “Patient? Nah. Johnny said y’deserve a ring for bein’ patient with my shit after deployment – he’d take the piss if I told him you’re thankin’ me for being patient.”

The way Simon drops the idea of marriage is so calm and casual, a significant contrast to how it makes your heart soars in your chest. Reigning in your excited response, you take another mouthful, giving him a grin that can’t quite hide how much you like the idea. “Hope you told him how useful this little guy has been,” you gesture to the ghost on your lap, “because it’s definitely my second favourite ghost since he bought it.”

The narrowed glare that Simon gives the plush heating pad has you giggling around a forkful of pancakes, looking at him with light-hearted exasperation. “Oh c’mon, I said second favourite!” You chuckle, watching him roll his eyes with a grumble.

“Yeah, yeah,” his tone is low and playfully grumpy, rumbling through you. “S’long as it’s me you’re cuddlin’ at night, ‘m not havin’ a toy steal my man.”

Mindful of your plates, you wrap an arm across his chest and ignore how your stomach complains at the movement, squeezing him lightly. “Never, Si. My favourite ghost.”

With a satisfied noise, he looks down at you, a mischievous half-grin on his face. “Good, that thing couldn’t fuck you half as well.”

The cheeky remark gets him a deeper dig in the side, enough to pry a grunt from him as he squirms, though he’s still careful with how much he jostles you. Silence quickly falls over you, Simon watching the news with a protective arm around you. He sips at his tea as you finish your plate, running a hand through your hair every now and then, placing a few kisses to your scalp.

When you’ve finished your meal, you put the plate on the coffee table, reaching for Simon’s to stack them together. Reaching forwards has you wincing, a pulsating pain in your core that makes your tailbone ache, and Simon swoops in to stop you in your tracks.

“Sit your ass down already,” he grouches, pushing you back into the couch as he scoops up your plate. “Told you, you’re bein’ dependent today.”

#jams asks #ghost x masc!reader #ghost x transmasc!reader #simon riley x masc!reader #simon 'ghost' riley x masc!reader #call of duty #call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic #jams writings #rep!reader writings

[porgthespacepenguin]

Qcard WIP update

It's been a rather productive two months, as it turns out. I wrote 26k in November, a number I was rather proud about...

And then proceeded to smash that wordcount in December. As of today, I've written over 40k more...

And I only have about 3 chapters to go. At my current writing output of 3k a day, I might actually be done very soon.

So, to celebrate, here are the title and summary of my upcoming, novel-length Qcard fic:

See you all at the finish line! <3

#porg's fanfiction #qcard #star trek tng

[rad-roche]

general update post

(it's good news)

comin up on two years of toils on dead woman walking, the far harbor neo-noir fan novel! i have a very firm 'it'll be done when it's done' attitude so i'm not stressing over the time taken, this is a fun hobby after all, but what a thing to think about! dead man talking was, originally, going to be for me and like 10 of my friends in a google doc. i'm glad i stood, and am still, standing firm on the 'write it all, publish in segments' plan because the 1.5k eyeballs might make me slightly nervous otherwise. well, pairs of eyeballs. so i suppose it'd be 3k. oh god let's not think about that actually

i wrote dead man talking in a three-month blast during the middle of 2021 because i needed the distraction of an indulgent product during... well, 2021. i'm sure you don't need the details, we were all there. regardless, take the slower pace as a good, and far healthier, thing on my end; i am not in the middle of a maelstrom of things i have to be distracted from. i'm very, very fond of it, but i think the years are making dead woman walking into the better project and in retrospect will make dmt more of a proof of concept. it'll be bigger, bleaker and backed with now multiple years of experience and a greater sense of confidence in the style as well as my own ability to consistently reproduce it. hurrah!!

actually thinking on it, i think i'm moving at a fair clip! i've, what, had complete computer obliteration, been sick a bunch, novel coronavirus, hand injuries, been sick all those other times. stop posting, says god. never, says i, still posting. this is not an oscars acceptance speech so i'll wrap it up and say, if you have even a hundredth of the fun reading it as i did making it, i'll consider it a roaring success ( ᐛ )و

fun of course being a subjective term! i'd like to make at least once person cry. if somebody outright pukes i'll consider that a huge win

current cleaned up crispy fresh ready-to-go wordcount is 60k. the very very hardest parts to write are done and what's left is in my wheelhouse. still pushing for september, but won't get too hung up on it if i overshoot it a little. unsure what the final wordcount will be because i like way way overwriting then taking a hacksaw to it in editing. at a guess, 100k words of low-octane, unrelenting human misery, but subject to change

(if you thought i put nick through the wringer before...)

#alright! back to my toils #dead man talking #dead woman walking #text posts #i've seen people taking about it get the names confused and do not worry: that is on me this is a confusing format #am i fixing that? no. but i am aware #gloria roche #nick valentine #fo4 #fallout 4

[jo2ukes]

Tav glances up at him, his eyes closed, her name on his lips… He is so beautiful like this. Her kisses turn from soft to sharp, as she nips at the skin tainted by the markings from the Orb. It is, in its own roundabout way, a gift from Mystra, a reminder- something she’d like to cover it with a gift of her own. To mark Gale as hers. Not as her plaything, not as her current fancy. But really, well and truly hers. The man she wants. The man she loves. Gods be damned.

Rating: Explicit

Wordcount: ~3k, oneshot, COMPLETE (ACT 3 SPOILERS)

#GOOD MORNING TO GALE/TAV NATION!!!! everyone else..... hi i guess #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 gale #gale x tav #my writing #hi i haven't published anything for like a year... aheem hem

[cafeinthemoon]

Ruins - Chapter V

Chapter 5/?

Wordcount 3k

Title Part V

Fandom��Shuumatsu no Valkyrie / Record of Ragnarok

Pairing Hades X reader

Previous chapters

1 . 2 . 3 . 4

Symbols ⭕ . ➕ . 💛

Warning (s): none

Tagging @darling-imobsessed (if you want to be tagged in any of my stories, just send an ask or a message 😉)

N. A.: So I've been re-reading what I've wrote until now and came to the conclusion that I've basically created a fairytale and tbh the only thing that was missing was a ball/party, but the fairytale will be complete after the current chapter: an event with even more deities waits for the girls :D On the other hand, things are getting complicated and reader will have to count on her smartness to get through it. Let's pray for her XD

You had no ways to predict when you were going to see the mysterious god again, and for that reason you had to be prepared. Not that you haven’t thought of some measures yourself, of course: you recollected the enigma and wrote it down on your notebook, then started analyzing it in separate parts; but that was a work that took you not less than an entire day.

First, he is the eldest of four brothers.

If these four included women, he would have said siblings, right? Could it be a language trick? It’d be a problem if you got stuck in this, so for now you would consider four men.

Among these four, one – the second – seemed to not have his own domain.

Did that mean that he didn’t have a domain at all, or was his domain a concept, something abstract while his brothers’ domains were literal? It could be like that. This god was also described as being always with his elder brother; was it possible that the concept or idea that he represented – to conquer – was entwined with the existence of his brother’s domain? Maybe.

Now, the three others.

The first, presumably the only one among them you’ve already met, had a domain that should become known by men at some point of their lives, which could be seen as a sort of conquest from his part, matching what he said about his second brother. By this parameter, his domain must be ancient, wide and perennial.

The domain of the third brother causes love and fear, which makes men grow.

If his domain was such that could shake two of the deepest human emotions, it might mean that humans had regular contact with it during their lives, unlike the first’s domain. And through the awakening of the said emotions, men were sort of educated, or improved. This could originate many interpretations, so for now you would leave it like this.

Finally, the domain of the fourth brother was one to where only a few would go.

He might have spoken about a literal distance between the world of men and that domain, or simply about the difficulty to access it regardless of the distance. If his domain was this hard to find, it could be that it wasn’t destined to humanity in general, but only a few men were allowed in it, maybe once in a lifetime.

Well, you thought those were reasonable conclusions, though all of them could be applied to many gods of many families. But it would only work as long as there were four brothers included. Such information could be found among official registers, the type of thing you would find in the files section at the Library. If you would be allowed to read those documents, you couldn’t tell, but you had to try.

You hid your notes under your pillow and decided that going after them would be the first thing you would do the next day.

***

When the next day came at last, you ate your breakfast with your plan in mind. Yes, there was the possibility of you meeting the god again and not having the answer, but the registers were the only thing that could help you now. Sensing you didn’t have much time, as soon as breakfast was over, you stood up and left your spot…

But, heavens, fate decided to wrap you in its little schemes at that exact moment, having none other than Hermes as its cooperator.

He entered the room and stopped by the table’s headboard, to which all the girls stood up and greeted him.

– Good morning, Hermes-sama.

You weren’t so far from your chair, so you quickly went back to it and followed the others.

He opened his best smile and started speaking in his usual, kind tone.

– Good morning, girls. It’s good to find you healthy and happy, as always. As you can imagine, my presence here at this hour can only mean one thing: I have good news for you!

A murmur spread across the table as the curiosity and cheerfulness grew in the girls’ hearts, but you were wondering what news could be this good to make the messenger himself so excited.

Sometimes, Hermes-sama acts so extravagant that it gets funny. I suppose this is part of his work at the Olympus.

You didn’t have to wait too long to hear the said news.

– All the deities present in Valhalla attended a meeting last night and the ones who took apprentices agreed that, though you’ve just spent one month in their company, there were only good things to say about you – he continued – Their praise reached the ears of gods and goddesses who weren’t present since the start, and because of what they heard, they are arriving at Valhalla in a few days to see the talented children with their own eyes.

The murmur raised for the second time at this announcement. A girl sitting near the headboard, who you saw doing handcraft with a group of elves, was the first to speak.

– What kind of reception we will prepare for them, Hermes-sama?

Hermes’ response was to giggle, as if he just reached his favorite part of the news.

– The reception will be a party, of course!

Now, instead of a murmur there was a wave of little screams and laughter that could only happen in a room full of young girls: so you were going to prepare a party to receive new gods and show your talents. For most of the girls, it was a reason to celebrate, and you were content for them; however, for the ones who haven’t found a place among the divine ones, it was another reason for concern.

You remembered the conversation you had at Hermes’ chambers, when you stated that it would be worse to stay there and wait for a chance that could never come. You were going to ask how this was going to work for the ones in your situation, but a girl by your side was faster and asked first.

– Hermes-sama, what about the girls who haven’t become apprentices? What are we going to do?

– There’s good news for you too – Hermes raised his index finger as he spoke – The gods were informed about the young women who couldn’t find guardians and offered themselves for the position – and before the girls could restart their cheerful noises, – For the next days, you will be occupied in the preparations just as your partners. I will divide you in groups and designate your tasks. By this evening, I will give you the necessary instructions. For now, you’re free to use your time as you please – he blinked at you all in a funny way – Take this chance, because there will be hard work waiting for you.

***

The corridor that led to Valhalla’s Library was even quieter than the previous days, as if the girls were not the only absent ones this time. You couldn’t help feeling a slight discomfort with this, but you weren’t leaving without doing what you had to do: if you would be as busy as possible soon, you couldn’t waste any chance to seek for the enigma’s answer.

You revised the notes you took on the previous day as you walked. You haven’t forgot anything: the four brothers, the domains, their connection to humanity… You just had to find the right section and the right pantheon, then pray for the god to not show up again before the riddle was solved.

I may have failed to find the interpretation of my own dream, but I’m sure I can solve this. And I will give him a complete, detailed answer.

Unfortunately for you, fate didn’t even want you to complete your path to the Library, for you had your inner monologue interrupted as you bumped into someone.

– I’m sorry, I… Ah! – you looked up and startled when you found the last person you expected to see there – Hermes-sama?!

The Olympian seemed to be in excellent mood, judging by the way he greeted you.

– Ah, it looks like I was right in my guess – and giving you one of his cunning looks, – That is, you’d come here as soon as breakfast was over to continue your researches.

You took a second to put yourself together and think of a decent reply.

– Ah... Actually, I need to start a completely new research.

– How so?

– Something happened yesterday – you held your notebook tight against your chest – I saw him again.

His eyes widened a bit when he heard that.

– Really? And how things went this time?

You described how you discovered the secret garden, and how he was immediately aware of your presence and invited you for a walk.

– We talked about the gardens and how things are organized to keep them functional. Then, he told me he projected them – a sudden thought crossed your mind at that point, and you decided to try something – Speaking of this, Hermes-sama, I understand you cannot tell me his name, but can you tell me if this is entirely true? – you shrugged – That this god is very wise I already know, but is he such a formidable designer?

Hermes put a hand under his chin and kept staring at you with the same look as before. Yes, he knew what you were doing, but that didn’t bother him at all: he seemed to be enjoying all of this.

– Well, I don’t see any problem in sharing this information, so yes, he was the author of the Gardens’ project. Even among the ancient gods, he’s particularly good in understanding how things work, as well as to organize them. It’s really admirable.

You couldn’t contain a smile at this.

– It is.

– But the conversation didn’t stop at this, right?

You understood this as an invitation to tell the rest of your little adventure.

– I took this opportunity to tell him my considerations about our dreams. I said I found it interesting that a designer would dream about a place in ruins, as if this is a sign for him to build something. He said this was a possibility and replied that the dream might be about bringing life to a place where there is none, since the dream happens in Hellheim.

The moment you mentioned bringing life to a place such as the Underworld, you swore you noticed a distinct glimmer in your listener’s eyes.

– Interesting. But what about your participation in this, y/n?

Well, you had an idea of what the dream meant to you, but regarding a possible collaboration with that god you had nothing to say. And you confessed that to your advisor.

– I… I can’t see myself playing a similar role to his, in any way. It would be arrogant of me even to suggest that, wouldn’t it? – you sighed – But I told him about what I felt while watching the ruins. It’s the same feeling I use to have whenever I think about my homeland, my life and my people. To summarize, I told him about how I want more than they can offer, and how I’m tired of being judged by my ambitions.

Your hands started to shake around your notes and you adjusted the grip on them.

– I told him that all I want is to live. And when I asked if this was too much, he just replied that it’s the least I should ask for.

A strange relief took over you when you recalled the scene. This peaceful feeling didn’t go unnoticed by the god.

– And hearing this made you happy.

– Of course it did! – you had no reason to hide your contentment – Hermes-sama, can you imagine how it feels not being understood by your own people but then receiving the comprehension and even the approval of a god in just one day?

Hermes smiled with sympathy.

– I’m not a human, so I can only catch a glimpse of it.

– So, allow me to tell you that this would be the happiest moment of your life – you replied in awe – I might not have lived too much, but at that instant I knew it. Isn’t it funny? – you laughed – He gave me such a wonderful gift without even telling me his name or the true connection between our dreams. I can’t imagine what’s going to happen once the remaining secrets are revealed.

The sight of your joy might have been pleasant to the Greek spokesman but, as expected from him, he wouldn’t let his usual common sense aside in favor of it.

– Well, well, I like to see your cheerfulness, but I still think you should be careful, y/n-chan – he glanced over his shoulder – Speaking of this, may I ask about the subject of your new researching?

You looked down at your papers, then to Hermes again.

– In this second encounter I asked his name, but he replied that it’s not difficult to guess and gave me an enigma to solve – and, after reciting it, – I need to check on the registers of family trees and see if I find something. Since it’s a specific information I’ll be looking for, it won’t take too long.

Hermes thought of it for a moment.

– You took some notes about it, didn’t you?

You nodded.

– May I see them?

– Of course.

You opened your notebook on the latest notes and gave it to him. He read the whole text with not disguised curiosity, whether murmuring with himself, whether in silence. You saw the look in his eyes when he returned the notes to you.

– Impressive, child – he smiled – Let me tell that you’re not far from the truth.

Your eyes widened at that.

– Well, this gives me so much hope! Now, if you excuse me, I have to go...

You moved aside and were going to leave, but Hermes got in your way before you took the first step.

– What happened, Hermes-sama?

– I’m sorry for this, y/n, but the Library will be closed for the next days due to the preparations for the party. Your researching will have to wait.

A chill ran down your spine.

– Closed? But...

– This decision wasn’t mine. I argued that there was no need for such measure, but unfortunately no one listened to me – he raised his hands in an apology – I was sure you would come here, so I had to come too and warn you, for I cannot make an exception... not even for you.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. If not even Hermes-sama could interfere, there was no use in arguing against it.

– Well – you let out a resigned sigh – I guess I’m going to turn around and find something else to spend my time with.

You excused yourself and were going to walk back through the corridor, but he called you one more time.

– Yes, Hermes-sama?

– Listen. It really displeases me to see the girls under my responsibility getting frustrated or sad. If I could do anything to help, I certainly would, but things are what they are. For now, I will tell you to be patient. Judging by what I saw in your notes, you have half the necessary information to solve this mystery, and though I cannot give you any clues, I know there are precious details you can recall from your encounters with him. Think of them while you’re occupied with your work, but remember to take some breaks. A well-rested mind can process twice the amount of information.

That moment, your view on Hermes improved with this advice: that was the first time you saw him being so open about his preoccupation for the girls under his protection; you sensed the genuineness in his tone and allowed yourself to feel relieved, for having someone who truly cared about you while you were so far from home, among strangers, wasn’t bad.

– You see, y/n-chan, that if he wanted to prepare something more difficult, he would certainly have done that – he continued – But if you have already gone this far without any help, it’s because he wants you to solve it. You just have to trust this.

– Well – you replied with a smile – I think I can do this!

– And that’s good to hear! – he nodded in approval.

You thanked Hermes and left his presence, determined to do as he said.

If only you were more experienced or weren’t so focused on your own matters, your curiosity could have led you to stay around, for with just one glance at Hermes’ expression would be enough to understand his thoughts after your conversation, or your attentive ears could have caught what he said, at first only to himself.

– It has happened countless times before my eyes, but it never gets boring – and with a calm sigh, – Even though time is the only one that can tell if they will germinate, a girl’s heart receiving the first seeds of love is always a beautiful thing to observe...

He looked back, over his right shoulder, and smiled.

– Don’t you agree, Hades-sama?

The sound of calm steps approaching in the shadow of the corridor behind was followed by the appearance of the King of the Underworld himself. The light beam descending from a window at their left touched his face and revealed a soft smile.

– Time passes and you remain the same hopeless romantic – Hades stopped by his nephew’s side, staring at the path you just walked across – Will you never change, Hermes?

The other’s response was to chuckle.

– You, on the other hand, remain the same cruel man, uncle. Is all of this necessary?

– What a silly question. What do you think would happen if I just came to the girl and tell her that she’s destined to be the wife of a god because that’s what the Oneiric Lords said? – he sighed – I just want to avoid a disaster. And considering that humans love a good mystery, it’s better to let her seek for the answers, in which she will certainly succeed.

– Aren’t you worried about her reaction once it happens, my Lord?

That time, Hades laughed.

– Of course, I am. But for now, let time do its work. Patience is, after all, a sign of love.

#record of ragnarok #shuumatsu no valkyrie #shuumatsu no walkure #ror #snv #ror fanfiction #snv fanfiction #record of ragnarok x reader #shuumatsu no valkyrie x reader #ror hades #snv hades #record of ragnarok hades #shuumatsu no valkyrie hades #ror hades x reader #snv hades x reader

[h1myname1sv]

FIC UPDATE: Side by Side 3/14

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: broken bones, major character injury Fandoms: Star Wars, Clone Wars Relationships: Commander Cody & Obi-Wan, Commander Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi Characters: Commander Cody, Obi-Wan Kenobi Additional Tags: Whumptober, Whumptober 2023, Whump, Angst, Tragedy, Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Obi-Wan Kenobi, Hurt Commander Cody, Obi-Wan Kenobi Needs a Hug, Commander Cody Needs a Hug, Protective Obi-Wan Kenobi, Protective Commander Cody, Developing Relationship, Bittersweet Ending, POV Alternating, Idiots in Love, War, Not a Fix-It, I love these two so much ahhh, which of course means I'm gonna hurt them Wordcount: 3k Summary:

Glimpses of pain within and pain shared between a general and a commander during a war that never seems to end. (Based on the Whumptober 2023 prompts on tumblr.)

Excerpt:

Cody coughs from the dust in the air.

He groans, registering blood coating the side of his face. He tries to move, tries to stretch out, but the rubble on top of him shifts precariously, and he stays still, holding his breath as if that would affect his current position.

These are the moments in war when he has to face his own mortality, and it isn't a pretty sight.

He remembers seeing the bomb, remembers shouting at a shiny to move away.

Well, not only his own mortality.

The shiny's gone now, blown to bits probably. Cody sees a cracked, unpainted helmet a few feet away from his supine form and lets out a long and shaky sigh.

The casualties of war.

His chest hurts, he notes absently. Broken ribs likely, from the remnants of a building currently pinning him down.

He feels like he should be more panicked than he is.

Instead, he just lies there, breathing shallowly, staring at the smoke billowing from the ground into the blue sky, blue like Obi-Wan's eyes.

He jerks up suddenly, and groans as something shifts in his chest. Broken ribs definitely. Hopefully they won't puncture one or both of his lungs, but he's been through this song and dance before (unlike the shiny whose blood now coats his own hands), so it won't be too bad.

It shouldn't be too bad.

#whumptober2023 #no.5 #pinned down #star wars #clone wars #fanfic #fic #codywan #obi wan kenobi #commander cody #fic update

[sprinklenoodles]

So, I've been doing some thinking. And I was wondering if I should change my main fic. Like, right now it's the pokemon AU and while I love that, it's the same for my others fics.

So, I'm letting you guys decide. You can vote in the pole for whatever fic you want to be my main fic from now on!

Under the poll will be some info about the fics, including a link to it, wordcount, a summary, average chapter lengts and at what point we are in the fic.

The Ultimate Mystery Incorporated- word count 47K. It follows Byakuya, Sayaka, Leon, Kyoko and Hiro as they solve mysteries around town. But something much bigger is lurking in the shadows...

Chapter length: 3K-4K

Currently at the point where things will change. It'll get a lot more interesting.

A Heir's Journey- word count 19K. It follows Byakuya on his journey to complete the Gym Challenge. He meets Chihiro and Sayaka here.

Chapter length: 2.2K

Currently going to the second gym, so not far.

A Legacy Will Be Crowned- word count 9K. Byakuya's backstory rewritten. To become heir, he needs to complete a series of challenges. Also has short chapters after every challenge from his dad's POV about how the competition is going.

Chapter length: 2K for normal chapters, 1K for Kijo's (his dad) chapters.

The Heir of Despair- word count 6.5K

A Mastermind Byakuya AU. Together with Junko, he planned the killing game. He enters the killing game to make things more fun. Also has a short chapter after every 'game' Chapter centering about how Junko and Byakuya began working together.

Have completed the prologue and will start Chapter 1.

Chapter length: 4K-5K for normal chapters, 1K for the flashback chapters.

That are all of the options! Based on what is chosen, I can say how often I'll be able to update it. It depends on how long the chapters are, but at least twice every month!

#danganronpa #danganronpa trigger happy havoc #byakuya togami #danganronpa fanfiction #kijo togami #kyoko kirigiri #chihiro fujisaki #sayaka maizono #leon kuwata #yasuhiro hagakure #junko enoshima