#happy crack fic friday everyone!!

[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~ ♡

[diazsdimples]

Fuck It Friday/ Inspiration Saturday

Tagged by @wikiangela @actuallyitsellie @jesuisici33 @hippolotamus @wildlife4life @exhuastedpigeon @neverevan @spotsandsocks @theotherbuckley @cal-daisies-and-briars for Friday, tagging you all back for Saturday (sorry if I missed anyone, I am SO behind on my notifications)

Okay it's Saturday here but I'm sure it's still Friday somewhere right?? HAPPY BI BUCK TO EVERYONE!!!! This fic is inspired entirely by That Kiss, and it sparked me to make a 7x06 spec fic. So, please enjoy what will hopefully be the only snippet (godwilling) of the Why Are Buck and Eddie So Dirty At Madney's Wedding fic. This snippet is from the very beginning and yes, it is Bucktommy (for now), no I will not apologise for it. Enjoy!

“You-you’ve never called me that before” he breathes. Tommy brushes the pad of his thumb over Buck’s bottom lip, releasing it from his teeth. He brushes his other hand through Buck’s hair, fingers threading through his yet-to-be-tamed curls. “What, baby?” he asks, grinning as Buck’s eyes flutter shut at the utterance of the name once again. “Is that okay?” ‘Y-yeah,” Buck nods, leaning forwards to brush their noses together again, angling his face up in an implicit request for a kiss. “I kinda liked it.” Tommy hums out a laugh and Buck feels it reverberate deep in his chest. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says softly, and he hooks his finger under Buck’s chin, just like he did the first time they kissed, and captures Buck’s lips with his. Every time he’s kissed by Tommy, Buck is introduced to a whole other side of the word “soft”. He’s had the feminine “soft” plenty of times, with the way Abby would curl into him after a long shift, or how Ali would brush his hair from his forehead with her nimble fingers, and even on the rare occasion with Taylor, when she was sleepy and would crawl into his arms and fall asleep in seconds.  With Tommy, it’s different. Tommy holds Buck like he’s a fragile egg, smoothing his thumbs over the cracks and balancing him in his palm. He’s soft in the way he holds Buck to his chest, or the way he kisses Buck’s hair while they’re watching a movie, or how he knows when Buck’s had a bad shift and needs to get out of his head for a bit, and will come over with pizza and beer and promises of kisses.  He’s soft in the way he presses his palm to the small of Buck’s back when they’re out together, but not as if he’s pushing Buck in a certain direction. More like he’s grounding Buck, showing him that he’s allowed to be out, happy, with a man.

tagging @watchyourbuck @daffi-990 @bidisasterbuckdiaz @rainbow-nerdss @babybibuck @evanbegins @fortheloveofbuddie @spagheddiediaz @loserdiaz @giddyupbuck @aroeddiediaz @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @kitteneddiediaz @elvensorceress @thekristen999 @smilingbuckley @epicbuddieficrecs @underwater-ninja-13 @shortsighted-owl @loveyouanyway (also sorry if I've missed anyone, so many have changed urls and I can't keep up sksksks)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Follow You Anywhere 8

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, controlling behavoiour, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You’re online existence threatens to leak into your real life.

Characters: Captain Syverson

Note: double chapter friday.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

You put on the outfit Sy picked out. The lilac skirt and the matching razor back tank top are a bit mismatched in style but the colour is almost exact. You add a silver necklace to add a bit more to the top and even out top and bottom. 

You take out a pair of white keds and slip them on. As you do, Sy stand on the door mat with Aika prancing excitedly around him. He deepens his voice and tells her to sit. She obeys, still trembling with elation as he hooks her leash into place. 

As you stand, you find his attention on you. His eyes scale up and down your body as you brush your hand up and down one arm. He tilts his head and his cheek dimples as he exhales through his nose.  

“Well, let’s go,” he commands and Aika jumps to her feet as you nearly leap in place. 

He opens the door, your keys already in his pocket, and he waits for you to go ahead of him. He turns to face the door as he shuts it. He has the leash around two fingers as he slides the keys in the lock and turns. 

As he turns towards the hall, he stops and looks at you. You waver, uncertainly, cautious of a single misstep. He offers the leash. 

“Why don’t you take her, sweetie?” He says, “two of you needa get used to each other.” 

You take the leash as Aika waits patiently. At least she’s trained well. You only ever had cats so you’re not entirely sure about dogs. They’re cute, sure, but a lot stronger. 

You continue down the hall and to the stairs. Sy walks calmly beside you. You’re happy at least that the rage no longer roils off of him, though a tension remains. You sense it in the subtle twiddle of his thick fingers and the way he keeps popping and cracking his joints. 

Outside, the sun glints blindingly above, casting a shine much too bright for your mood. Aika stops and the leash tugs in your hand. You turn back as she pees in the grass and step closer to slacken the leash. Oops. You make a face. 

“It’s okay, sweetie, you’re doing good,” Sy encourages, “she can be a bit wild when she wants to. Probably more like you than you think.” 

His suggestion makes you want to frown but you won’t let him see your discomfort. You continue down the sidewalk, keeping pace with the sniffing dog as Sy lazily swaggers behind you. She stops again then crosses to the other patch of grass. You follow her. 

If it wasn’t for your company, you might enjoy the day. There’s bumblebee’s digging into stores of pollen, buzzing around vibrant petals, and birds cheeping from the interior of bushes, and wispy clouds across the sky. You might have taken a picture or two, even though your phone lens rarely catches the true beauty of the world. 

You continue around the corner and suddenly Aika darts forward. She pulls you nearly off your feet and you stomp clumsily after her, trying not to topple. You see what she sees only as she gets within snapping distance of the fluffy cat. The feline hisses before dashing away and you pull back the barking dog. 

“Aika,” Sy says firmly and quiets the canine, “good girl.” 

The silt in his voice makes even you freeze. You peek back at him and hold out the loop of the leash. You recoil as you notice the phone in his hand. Your phone. The little pearly wrist band hangs from the corner of the blush pink case. He has the lens aimed right at you. 

“Say hi,” he waves from his side of the phone, “got my girls out for a nice walk in the sun.” 

“What are you--” you quiet, realising what must be going on. 

“Your fans want to see you, sweetie,” he chimes. “Isn’t she cute? My lady. Waited for me so long.” 

He turns the camera around, holding it at arm’s length as he comes to stand beside you and faces the sunlight. You gulp as his hand goes to your hip and he pulls you close, leaning in to press his jaw to your head, angling the phone up to capture both of you. You try to smile. 

“Finally going public,” he sounds almost giddy, “military sh—stuff. Couldn't disclose it til I got home but here we are.” 

He turns his head and presses a kiss to your temple. He purrs and slowly releases you. He stands straight and backs up, once more aiming the camera at you. You feel like you might shatter into pieces. 

“We’re gonna grab some coffee. There’s a cafe around here. You’ll remember it. She did a live back in March. Got the vanilla chai, didn’t you, sweetie? I been waiting this long to get back and try it with her,” he commentates, oblivious to the people who glance in his direction. He keeps his arm extended. “Go on, Aika’s getting antsy.” 

You look down at the dog and she looks up at you. You spin and continue down the pavement. You should scream and shout and tell the world that this man is crazy. Yet it doesn’t matter. There’s probably a single viewer, if any. You realise now, he was probably your only fan. The others you’ll chalk up to bots or other weirdos. 

A trickle of ice flows through your chest. He knows where the cafe is. How long has he been here? How long has he been watching, not just on the phone? You don’t know why you keep asking. It doesn’t change a thing. 

You approach the short iron fence that marks off the patio of the cafe. You slow and Sy stands at your side, showing the tables and patrons to the camera. He rubs between your shoulder blades. 

“So how ya wanna do it? You wanna wait with Aika or you wanna run in?” He asks. 

You gulp. There is not better option. It’s all just the same. 

“I’ll get the coffee,” you offer and untangle the leash from around your wrist. “What do you want?” 

“Hm, good question,” he says, “why don’t ya surprise me. You know I got a sweet tooth.” 

“Right.” 

He takes the leash and you turn, stiffly marching through the gate and up to the door. You enter and as you’re shut in, you clutch the sides of your neck and blow out through your lips. No, you don’t know he has a sweet tooth. You don’t know him. As much as he scares you to death, he’s starting to make you really angry. It’s just how he talks as if you actually know who he is! He’s a stranger. A creep! 

You stand in line and only remember to step up for your turn as someone taps your shoulder. You mumble an apology and step up. You hadn’t even checked the menu. You look at the specials board and try to wet your dry tongue. 

“Um, white mocha,” you order in a croak, “and a uh, a lavender latte. Thanks.” 

The barista offers to add on items from the bakery. You decline and pay, already spending enough on the overpriced coffee. You shuffle along to await your order and mull your options. None. You have none. 

When your number is called, you grab your drinks and quickly spin around. You follow another customer to the door and he holds it open for you. He smiles as you step through and you thank him. 

“Not at all,” he steps out after you. “You got your hands full.” 

“It’s really nice of you,” you say as you walk just ahead of him, turning your head to glance over your shoulder. 

“Pretty girl like you. How could I not,” he says as you reach the gate, “have a good day, miss.” 

“Uh,” you’re surprised by the compliment, “you too, sir.” 

You give an awkward purse of your lips as you stand in the open gate. You look around and find Sy watching you. You go to him and hold up the drinks. 

“Um, I got the white mocha... not sure if you like that.” 

“Ooh, white mocha, sounds delicious, just like you,” he purrs, “and what did you get?” 

He takes the cup, Aika’s leash around two thick fingers. You stand dumbly, staring at the phone he keeps pointed in your face. 

“The lavender latte,” you answer flatly. 

“Well, the lady and I are gonna have our coffee date,” he says to the camera as he flips it around, “walk the pup and all that. Hope you all have a good day. Right, sweetie?” 

He once more puts you on the stream. Your lip trembles, “sure, yeah. Have a good day everyone.” 

You hold a shaky smile and he taps the screen several times with his thumb. He slides the phone into his short’s pocket and tastes his mocha. He waves you down the sidewalk and Aika takes the lead. He’s quiet as he slurps from the plastic lid. 

“That boy,” he speaks at last, “said you were pretty.” 

You blanch and turn the cup in your hand. The heat seeps through the sleeve and adds to the sheen across your skin, “er, I guess. I don’t know.” 

“Who was he?” Sy asks harshly. 

You flinch and peek up at him. He’s not happy. His entire demeanour has shifted. 

“I don’t know. A stranger. He just held the door,” you shrug, “guess he was being nice.” 

“Being nice? Shouldn’t be talking to strangers,” he reproaches. 

You nearly choke. Yeah, you shouldn’t. He taught you that well. 

“You are a pretty girl,” he says, “so I’m just lookin’ out for you. Some men...” 

You keep your eyes ahead as you fight to hold your composure. You drink from the cup, tasting the floral foam, and swallow. You force the breath from your chest and steady your nerves. 

“Sorry, I... won’t do it again.” 

He hums and reaches to grab your hand. His large one swallows yours. You don’t pull away, even as you desperately want to . He walks along with you, swing his arm slightly. 

“Isn’t this nice, sweetie?” He purrs, “you and me and Aika. Like a little family.” 

You grit your teeth and your aching cheeks fall. You can’t smile any long. You try to hide your face as you hover your mouth over the cup, “yeah,” you wisp out, “it’s nice.” 

💜

When you get back to the apartment, you’re exhausted yet adrenaline has you wide awake. Sy lets Aika off her leash and feeds her as you toss your empty coffee cup. You linger around the bin nervously, uncertain what to do next. You’re trapped again within these walls that once spoke of your freedom. 

Sy groans and stretches his neck. He runs his hands over his shaved head and combs his fingers through his thick beard. You step away from garbage before he notices you hiding. 

“Hot out, I’m beat,” he yawns, “what about you, sweetie?” 

“Yeah, uh, kinda,” you hug yourself and sway, “but um, not too bad.” 

“Ugh, one thing I was happy about was gettin’ outta the heat,” he pulls on his shirt and lifts it over his head. The fabric is darkened around the chest and arms with his sweat. More of it glistens in his body hair as he strips away the tee.  

You chew your lip and go to turn the fan on, turning it to oscillate. You sense him in the edge of your vision. He hangs the shirt across the back of a dining room chair then comes back to the living room. You stay close to the wall. 

“Er, Sy,” your heart jumps as your doubt clogs your throat. 

“Mhmm,” he flops onto the couch and leans back. He’s shameless and shirtless. His muscles flex along his arms and chest. He’s huge.  

“Do you think I can have my phone? I wanted to check my messages,” you push your palms together and twist your hands. 

“Don’t got none,” he says, “forget about that. Let’s disconnect. You and me, sweetie, let’s enjoy a quiet night in.” 

You want your phone but you know better than to push him. You’ve seen what happens when you do. You peer over at the dent in the wall. 

“Sure,” you go to him and sit on the couch, keeping a foot between you. “Do you wanna watch something?” 

You reach for the remote and he stops you. He snatches your hand back and wraps his arm around you, pulling you to lean into the couch with him. He crowds you as his scent suffocates you. It smells like sweat and generic deodorant. 

“We don’t need TV, sweetie, let’s just enjoy each other,” he reaches across you and rubs your upper arm. 

“Um,” you nearly choke, “it’s almost dinner time--” 

“It’s early,” his voice is rocky, “sweetie, it’s alright. Just relax. It’s finally just us.” 

“Sy, I... I should get some work done,” you sniff. 

“You should take it easy. You work too hard,” his hand brushes along your shoulder and to your neck. He drags his knuckles up your throat, “you’re gorgeous, you know that? This colour,” he slips his hand back down and touches the top of the tank, “looks so good on you.” 

“Thanks, I, er,” you squeeze your thigh and gulp. You can’t help the tremor that rolls through you, “Sy, please,” you reach up and grab his hand, “I should--” 

“It’s okay to be nervous. I am too, sweetie,” he rasps as he leans in, “but I can’t wait any longer.” 

He frees his hand from yours and cradles your face. He dips his head and you press your hand to his chest, helpless to stop him as he smothers your mouth with his. You let out a muffled gasp as he crushes his lips to yours, his tongue poking around eagerly. His hand crawls around the back of your head as he traps you against the couch. 

Your fingers curl against the muscle of his chest and he groans. He pulls you against him, falling back with you until he’s flat on the cushions. He brings you over him, and arm hooked around you as his other hand stays on your head. His tongue invades your mouth as you struggle to breathe past his hunger. Your brain screams at you to bite him, to smack, to do anything, but you’re paralysed with futility. 

[call-me-copycat]

Hey! Idk if you still write fics but if you do. Could you please write about Aizawa having a daughter who selfharms, but he didnt knew until one day he entered to her room and find her doing it?.

Its kind of an emergency so i would really apreciate if you wrote it 🩷

Hi! I'm really sorry for the slight delay, I've been bouncing between school during the day and work at night, so even though I saw your ask I couldn't physically write it due to exhaustion (⑉ ᷄ ⌳ ᷅ )ก

That being said, even though it's been a couple days I didn't want to leave you hanging! I got some rest and wrote as much as I could in one sitting!

I really do hope this helps, feel free to message me anytime if you need to vent or such ₍ᐢ‥ᐢ₎ ♡

What I Owe To You

*I listened to this on loop while writing*

➤ Welcome - Introduction and Request Rules (Requests are open + Some info about me)

▶ Characters: Just Aizawa and Reader

▶ Genre: Comfort + Slight Angst

▶ Summary: As the ask states

▶ Word Count: 2925

▶ WARNINGS:

- Self harm

- Depressive thoughts

- Overall lots of angst

Please don't read if any of this makes you uncomfortable!

The cycle always went on.

At this point you were afraid of what was to happen next. At the same time, the thought was pushed away by the constant emptiness that filled you through. The sticky tar-like hands of this unknown void ravaged your mind, shredding it apart piece by piece.

Leaving you constantly feeling... Hollow. It was difficult to describe it as anything else.

You walked to school everyday and went to your classes. You sat next to your classmates as they animatedly discussed the usual topics of training and what to do after school.

On the weekends, you slept. Sometimes went shopping with your father. Maybe you'd get visited by your Uncle Mic, other times you'd train.

There wasn't much variety. It was suffocating. These feelings had no place to spawn from, as your life wasn't much different from everyone else's. There didn't seem to be a reason, for all you knew. But it was there, no doubt about it. It made itself known.

-

It was a usual Friday night. You had completed all your classes and had the weekend to yourself. It felt pointless, there wasn't much to do. Nor did you have the energy for anything either.

Sitting in your room, you jumped a bit at the unexpected knock on your door. You had been gazing out of your bedroom window for who knew how long, zoning out as far from your mind as you could. You vaguely remembered that a storm was to come soon.

"Dinnertime. Wash up and come to the table when you're ready."

Your father's voice never failed to comfort you, and in a way he was one of the main beacons of light in your dark and foggy world. An unchanging pillar of strength, he held on tight to your cracking mind.

Slowly, tiredly, you made your way out of your room. As you passed by Aizawa, he couldn't help but sigh in response to your barely-there smile at him. You had a habit of doing that, possibly to keep him from worrying.

Truth be told, Aizawa always worried about you. Ever since you were young, he was on guard every second, trying to keep you from falling and scraping your knees, to keeping an eye on you during training.

Though recently, he had noticed some... changes. Your eyes began to grow dull, and their usual energy faded with each passing day. The bags under them grew more prominent, and in turn your hair began to be left more of a mess. Slowly, little things were building up, and he couldn't tell why.

It worried him sick, since the only thing he had in mind for you was for you to be happy and safe. Seeing your condition worsen with each day made him nauseous, as it was the last place he wanted you to be at. He wanted to help you, the best he could.

So that's why before you even sat down to eat, he began to question you.

"Are you feeling okay, [Name?]"

Truth be told, he knew you'd say you were fine. He just needed to soothe his frantic mind.

Looking up at him, you gave him another smile. He couldn't help but grimace at how forced it looked.

"Oh, of course I'm fine." You clenched your jaw at how unenthusiastic you sounded, but it would have to do.

Aizawa only felt uneasy. Too many things added up and gave him a weird taste in his mouth to leave it at that.

"Look at me, [Name]."

The unusual tone of his voice brought you out of your foggy state of mind as you looked up at him fully. Once you met his eyes properly, Aizawa took notice of the... Saddened expression that filled yours. He knew someone was wrong, but it was being covered.

"You'd tell me if something was wrong, right?"

He needed to know if you trusted him. He needed to be the one person you trusted in life. This was all or nothing.

Your eyes went wide for a split second as your breath hitched, but you quickly shook it off. His bluntness was what caught you off guard.

"Really, it's nothing Papa." You tried smiling once more, raising a hand out a bit in an attempt to calm him. You knew it was a pitiful attempt, but you didn't have the energy to make it convincing. Alongside that, Aizawa was generally a very tough man to fool. It'd take a lot to actually pass anything through him.

Aizawa's eyes narrowed in response as he saw your reaction to his question. Your body language indicated how uncomfortable you were, and he didn't want to push you too far past your limits.

It was tough, but he decided to give it up in the end and hope you'd come to him whenever you were ready. You always shared everything with him since you were young, and he had gained a large amount of trust over you in turn.

-

Dinner was eaten in silence, and as soon as it was over you bid your father a goodnight before heading off to your room.

Aizawa stayed seated at the kitchen table as he watched you walk off, wondering what was happening to his child. He couldn't bear the thought of you struggling with something alone. He had been there your whole life to help you get through everything you passed by, so why weren't you letting him in now?

After much deliberation, he got up from his spot at the table and made his way to your room. He needed to finish this conversation, and he needed to know what was going on. His mind had been sprawled all over the place for the last few months, as he'd been observant enough to catch on to the smallest changes you went through. Seeing you go into such a decline was like a punch straight through to his heart.

His mind was in such a haze that he threw open your door without second thought, seeing as he normally takes care to knock first. The room was pitch black, but based off of the startled gasp that came from you and the clanging of metal hitting the ground, Aizawa felt his blood freeze in fear.

Quickly flipping on the light, his eyes widened at the site that laid in front of him. You didn't have any time to cover yourself, so Aizawa saw it all.

The bandages laid out.

The blades.

And most importantly, your cuts.

You felt your eyes water at the expression on your father's face, guilt and self-loathing bleeding into your mind.

Aizawa was stuck in shock for a moment. It felt as though all time was warped as he saw what was his worst nightmare laid out in front of him. He was quickly snapped back to reality at the sound of your sobs that echoed throughout the room.

He swiftly made his way towards you from across your room, and in one smooth movement he pulled you into his lap, hugging you tightly to himself.

He had known something was wrong, felt it deep in his heart, but he didn't realize how serious it truly was. His heart ached for you as his grip only grew tighter around you. Aizawa didn't want you to hide these things from him, and in a way, he felt disappointed at your lack of trust towards him. All his disappointment and anger quickly dissipated, leaving him to face his worry and guilt.

"[Name]..."

He could hear his voice tremble, but couldn't care less.

"Why? I-" He was stuck in shock. It was something he never thought he'd run into. Looking down at you, his worry for your well-being grew tenfold, but he gathered the willpower to overcome the sudden surge of emotions he was feeling.

"I want... I need you to promise me you'll never harm yourself again," He looked down at you, cradled in his arms, "I don't think I could ever bear the pain of losing you..."

He knew this was only one step of many. That it doesn't start like this. That it grows. Although he couldn't pinpoint what might've started it, he at least needed to confirm you'd be safe. He just needed this one thing to give his already worn heart a little bit of ease.

You couldn't help but recoil a bit, bringing your arms to hug your torso. As much as you wanted it to be that easy, as much as you wanted to tell your father 'okay!', you knew it wouldn't be done so fast. And in a way, that only worsened your resentment towards yourself.

"I... don't know if I can.." You avoided his gaze as you faced the ground, hating how saddened he was and much rather preferring him to be angry. It'd lessen the guilt a little bit, at least.

He needed something.

"[Name]... I can't make you promise me you'll be able to stop right away. That's foolish to believe." Heaving out a sigh, he put a hand atop your head. "But I just need you to know that I'd be devastated without you. I can truly say from the bottom of my heart, I'd never be able to live a normal life again if you were gone."

Looking up into his eyes, you saw a heaviness that swirled in them. This was coming from a man who had seen it all - numerous deaths in ways he wished he could unsee.

You hadn't realized just how much you meant to him. It never popped up in your head. The all-consuming void had blocked any sensibility or logic from getting to you, and the more you thought about it, the more you realized just how much it would affect your father. He always told you your pain was his to deal with too.

Settling your face in the crook of his neck so you wouldn't have to see the hurt in his eyes anymore, you tried your best to explain everything to him.

"It feels..." Closing your eyes, you tried imagining everything that has built up. "Like I'm running a race, yet getting nowhere. That everything I do has no effect... I'm tired."

You stayed silent as you felt your father put a hand on the back of your head. Aizawa watched as you carefully pieced your words together, and saw the true effect of everything you had been dealing with. His heart ached to relieve you of your pain, his fatherly instincts screaming at him to help save his child.

"[Name]." His grip on you tightened ever so slightly. "I want you to get this through your head, alright? You are not a failure. You're going through a lot, and it's weighing down on you. And I understand you're under a lot of pressure, but-"

Aizawa was cut off when he began to choke up, the thoughts too much for him to bear. As much as he tried to keep his composure for your sake, his walls were beginning to crack.

You heard your father pause and looked up at him, only to be brought into shock at the sight of your normally stoic father tearing up. You felt ashamed for forgetting about his pain, tearing up once more at the guilt that ravaged your mind.

He could see how surprised you were, but he couldn't help it. He always struggled to contain himself when it came to you, especially whenever you were hurt. He hated seeing you in pain.

"Do you have any idea what it would do to me if I lost you? I- ... [Name], if anything happened to you, I don't know what I'd do anymore, I'd-"

He truly couldn't help it. All that Aizawa wanted was for you to be happy. Seeing you in so much agony... seeing your only escape being to harm yourself... He felt that he lost a part of himself.

You cried out loud this time, seeing your father so torn over you. It was heartbreaking, but oddly soothing at the same time. To have someone to deeply care about you that they felt intertwined with you. He cared.

You could feel his arms engulfing you, and you allowed yourself to be swallowed in his hold. It was warm and soothing... A stark contrast to the cold you constantly couldn't escape from.

As he held you, Aizawa couldn't help but be more shocked at himself than anyone. He normally was able to easily retain his composure, so as he felt tears flowing down his face he couldn't help but stiffen. Quickly getting over it, he held you close. The room gradually began to get quieter, the both of your emotions slowing down.

You couldn't help but feel... Secure. It was a stark contrast to the constant void you felt. You felt... Warm.

Yeah, warm.

It was a nice feeling.

Closing your eyes, you finally allowed your body to relax. Aizawa rubbed your back as he gently rocked back and forth.

"I just want you to breath. Don't think about anything else."

Following his word, you kept your eyes closed and settled your breathing. You quickly noticed how much easier it was to think this way. Nothing else was getting in the way, no unwanted thoughts or fears, and you felt safe. Safe and comfortable.

The world around you normally was so chaotic. It seemed everyone was in a rush, always somewhere to be. You couldn't have time to yourself either, constantly getting pushed to and fro. There never seemed to be a place to stop. Nowhere to rest. An unchanging race.

But here you were. The world has stopped, giving you a break you so badly needed. You couldn't describe it, but such a simple hug from your father seemed to dull everything that pained you.

"I understand what it's like."

Aizawa would be lying if he said he was never in your place before. Too many nights he was kept up, worrying about working on himself. Scared of the changing future. Feeling like nothing was changing for him while the world moved on. It was isolating.

Over the years, he got better. The world's rush blurred to background noise, and he learned to appreciate his own speed in life. It was his own life he was living, after all.

Looking down at you, he saw a mirror image of himself.

"Y'know, it's not fair..." You looked up at him as he brushed away a lone tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. "You allow me to laugh with you in your happiest moments... So why do you lock me out when you're at your lowest?"

You had never heard it phrased like that before. You did enjoy having him around whenever you had something good to share. Whenever you were proud, or amazed, or just plain happy. But you understood, he wanted to be a part of it all. Every smile... And every tear.

Your voice couldn't find you, but Aizawa didn't mind. To you, he was always a hand outstretched. A guide to help you through the fog and the dark. It made the terrifying a little less daunting.

"Please talk to me when you can. Tell me whatever you'd like, I just want to know how you're feeling."

You nodded, looking at him directly. Your heart rate had gone down significantly, and you didn't know how much time had passed. If you listened carefully, you could hear the distance rumble of an oncoming storm, thunder booming on the horizon.

There was a pregnant pause before he started once more.

"Tomorrow, we'll need to get your injuries looked over-"

Seeing a look of fear cross your expression, he was quick to calm you.

"I'll be with you. The entire time. You won't have to deal with living life alone. I understand it's frightening to look at, but let me hold some of the weight you own."

You watched as Aizawa stretched out his hand, offering it to you. Looking at it, you thought back to all the times he'd helped you in the past. Every time he's offered his hand out to you.

All the times you were too scared to cross the road when you were little. Every time you felt too suffocated by the number of people surrounding you. Or even when it was just the two of you, silently walking home together in the warm afternoon sun.

He always offered you support, for every little thing life had to throw at you. Aizawa's expression softened when you gently put your hand in his, no hesitation in your movements.

Clasping his fingers over yours, you saw how your hands intertwined. And you realized, he was always there to take some of the pain from you - acting like he was a part of you.

"You get it now, huh?" Looking up into his eyes one more time, you thought you saw a sparkle in them. "Whenever you bring pain to yourself," He squeezed your hand a little tighter, "you're hurting me right alongside with you. I need you in one piece, kid."

You breathed out, everything a little clearer now. There was so much more to do. So much to go through. It was a formidable thought.

But as you looked up into your father's eyes and as you felt his hand in yours, you realized;

You weren't alone.

You really did owe him the world.

During my lowest moments, Aizawa was always a huge character I relied on to get me through it. I will always write comfort for him to anyone who asks.

I hope you have a lovely day, and I hope things get just a little easier for you, you definitely deserve it (*´艸`)ﾌﾌﾌｯ♡

➜ Please let me know if I missed any warnings/triggers in the tags or in the opening!

[linooluvr]

𖥻𖥻 - attention! (teaser)

full fic posted! i can't put urls help me >-<

pairing - professor!bangchan x student!reader

genre - fluff [smut in the full fic] minors, dni.

teaser contents - reader is referred to as she/her, explicit language, pet names [pretty, baby, doll] mutual pining, power imbalance [not explicitly written], age gap [5 years, everyone is of age!]

teaser wc - 1k + [2 screenshots]

warnings - none

notes - this is extremely self indulgent (and my first time writing smut) don't mind me :D btw i don't condone this irl! this is purely fantasy. lowercase is intentional.

chris tried to keep his staring to a minimum, but it was extremely difficult. you decided to come to class in a short, flowy skirt and a matching blouse that showed your cleavage off just enough to still be appropriate for uni. your goal today was to finally make a move on mr. bang, your professor. you waited until a friday rolled around so in case things didn’t go your way, you wouldn’t have to deal with the embarrassment of seeing him the next day.

you two have always had an obvious attraction to each other. not obvious enough to draw attention, but more than obvious to each other. you’d come into class early just to have a small chat with him before the lecture started. he’d seem to enjoy your company; always happy and open when you two were alone and he would leave his classroom door cracked so you would know you’re welcome in. you’ve developed a crush on him to say the least, exiting his class with a fluttering heart and sodden panties just from your casual conversations.

twelve minutes. just twelve minutes until your peers begin to pour out of the lecture hall and you'd be all alone with chris. your heart is pounding, nerves and excitement flooding your veins. you occupy yourself with your phone so time seems to pass quicker. your confidence dissipates as the minutes count down but you decide to stick to your plan. you pull your phone out to open the group chat with your closest friends to help calm your nerves.

before you get the chance to respond, you hear chris dismissing the class. people get up at their own paces, tidying their space up before leaving. you watch as each of your peers leave one by one. you pretend to busy yourself with packing to not look suspicious to chris or your fellow classmates. you watch as the last person exits the lecture hall and silence fills the now practically empty room. you grab your black tote bag and stand, shakily walking over to chris's desk.

"good afternoon, mr. bang" you say shyly, unsure if your presence is currently welcome or not.

"good afternoon y/n." chris says with a smile. "you know you can call me chris, right?"

"y-yes, yes i know. i'm just. i don't know. nervous, i guess?" chris looks at you with a small head tilt, slightly confused and concerned by your nerves. he watches as you place your tote on the floor and rest against his desk.

"nervous? do you know why?" he asks looking up at you. your heart clenches at his words, not exactly knowing how to respond. you think and begin to realise feigning confidence is the best way to go about this.

"because of you" you say, not exactly sure how he'd react. you see one of his eyebrows raise for a second but he regains his composure.

"me? why? oh shit, i didn't do anything to make you uncomfortable, did i?" he asks as he gets up from his chair and stands in front of you, concern overtaking his features.

"no! no no, you didn't, it's just.. okay." you say before taking in and releasing a deep breath "so. i just wanted to know if… you were single?" you ask as you look up into his questioning eyes. the inquiry seems to calm his nerves as concern leaves his face and is replaced by a soft smile.

"why? who's asking, hmm?" he hums as he inches towards you.

"chris, don't tease okay?" you whine with a pout, but his answer seems to lean towards him being single.

"oh i'm not teasing, just curious. would the person asking happen to be the pretty girl standing in front of me?" he asks, his confidence growing when he notices how you react to his words; face flushed and cheeks tinted red as you nibble on your bottom lip.

"yes, i'm asking" you look away as he seems to be getting closer and closer, his cologne beginning to waft towards you. he chuckles deeply as he takes his hand and places it on your waist softly, giving you an option to push him away.

"and why are you asking?" chris asks looking down at you "is it maybe because… you want me y/n?" you look back up into his darkening eyes and nod slowly. his touch sets you ablaze and his gaze melts you from your heart to your core. "oh, so is that why you dressed so pretty today? trying to get my attention, baby?" you nod and this gives chris the green light to continue his teasing, his hand now softly gripping your waist as his unoccupied one reaches up to gently take your chin between his index finger and thumb, tilting your face up when you take a moment to respond to him. "i asked you a question, pretty"

"yes, you're why i dressed up. wanted your attention" your voice already seems to be softer than usual and chris takes note of that.

"but you already had it, baby. you just needed to ask" chris speaks softly as he searches deep into your eyes, already seeing how they're hazy and clouded with lust.

"can i kiss you, doll?" chris whispers, your faces mere inches apart. you whimper and nod rapidly, eliciting a deep chuckle out of chris before he closes the gap between you two. his kiss is so soft and tender, it makes your head spin. you bring your hands up to wrap around his shoulders as the kiss deepens slowly, the action causing your chests to press together.

notes - okay so, this is just a snippet cause i just wanted to see if anyone would.. wanna read this? 💀 this is my first time writing anything really so i'm a bit nervous to see how this will do. please give me any feedback, good or bad! if you'd wanna read the rest (i have some pretty nasty smut planned) please lmk ^^ thank you!~

©linooluvr 2024 | translation or reposting of the author’s works is strictly prohibited. author’s work is protected under copyright laws and policies. tumblr is my only platform! if you see my work posted elsewhere, please report it and let me know right away! please do not plagiarize my work! thank you :)

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Five Fics Friday: August 2/24

Happy August Long Weekend to my Canadian friends, and horrah it's Friday to everyone else!!! Let's start off this weekend with these great fanfics!!! Enjoy!

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[iamthemain-character]

Sankt Milo

platonic! The Crows x reader

gender neutral pronouns (reader is referred to as “you” and the occasional “Y/n”)

TW: show-based, non-canon compliant, 2014-Avengers-Tower-fic-type of writing

a/n: milo is my favorite character. that’s all.

Shadow and Bone Masterlist

You had been absent for almost a week.

Sunday afternoon, you simply disappeared from the club and hadn’t returned since. The only reason the Crows hadn’t completely panicked yet was because you had left notes for all of them saying you had to leave but you would return (each with a special indication that you did not write this as you were being kidnapped). Nonetheless, The Crow Club felt emptier without you, and each member missed you terribly.

It was storming late that Friday, and after closing the club post-another successful night, all 6 crows were gathered around a table, enjoying a drink together. With a clap of thunder the group heard the back door slam open, then shut again. Everyone drew their weapons, hearing heavy footsteps slosh their way across the wooden floors. A figure, cloaked in shadow, stopped in the entryway from the storage rooms, and everyone waited with baited breath to strike.

With a flash of lightning, the figure’s shadows were cast aside, revealing you. A very drenched and bedraggled you, but you nonetheless.

“Y/n!” 5 voices cried out.

“Milo!” Jesper’s voice carried over the others, for even more astonishing than your return was the furry, black and white animal you carried in your arms.

The Zemeni man quickly crossed the room, but not without Nina, Inej, and Wylan on his heels. The latter three took your hands, throwing a dry blanket over your shoulders and Jesper carefully took the goat from your arms, pressing kisses to it’s head over and over.

“Oh Milo, I have thought of you every day.”

The group helped you sit down at the table, bringing more towels and blankets, and Kaz pouring you a strong drink. But despite your shivering, you couldn’t help the smile that cracked across your face as you watched your friend reunited with his emotional support goat old friend.

Wylan turned to you, an incredulous look on his face. “That’s Milo?”

Nina and Matthias had matching confused expressions on their faces, but it was Nina who spoke up. “So did you disappear without a trace for the goat or was that just a happy accident? Also why is Jesper in love with a goat?”

With a laugh, some help from Inej, and some quips from Kaz, you told the newer Crows of the treacherous and disastrous journey the group had taken through The Fold and how Jesper had formed a trauma-bond with this particular goat.

Jesper came back to your table, Milo still clutched in his arms, just as you were explaining yourself.

“Jesper was so sad to say goodbye to Milo, and I just wanted to get him back. But I didn’t want to tell you guys that’s what I was doing in case I wasn’t successful. But thankfully that sweet barmaid had sent him to her father’s farm, and I was able to buy him back.”

“Please tell me you didn’t spend too much for that goat.” Kaz’s voice cut, head turned with his classic look of disapproval.

No longer able to be scared by Dirtyhands, you waved him off. “No price is too much for our little Milo.” With a smirk you turned back to the club owner, “Perhaps we should rename this place The Goat Club?”

The table roared with laughter at the pure look of disgust upon Kaz’s face at your simple suggestion. Inej reached across and scratched Milo’s chin, a smile upon her face. “That’s not so bad, after all, Milo is like our own little Saint.”

Nina clasped her hands together, delighted at the Suli girl’s suggestion. “Sankt Milo! Oh how perfect. I am all for the changing of the name.”

Kaz’s voice broke through the laughter. “We are not changing the name, and we are not keeping it.”

Despite what he said, Wylan found himself grateful for Jesper’s arms around him as they fell asleep, because otherwise the former feared he would have fallen of the edge of the bed. Somehow, one small goat seemed to take up half the bed.

And even though Kaz swore that the goat would be sold in the morning, everyone turned a blind eye when he placed a plate of waffles down for Milo in the morning.

That was, everyone turned a blind eye until Nina realized they were her waffles.

[arlana-likes-to-write]

We'll Be Alright

Summary: The life of an Avenger was never easier. The life of being the daughter to Iron Man and loving the Black Widow was harder, especially when the world calls for their sacrifice.

Warning: major character death, angst with no real happy ending, grief, Endgame spoilers

Word Count: 990

Note: This is not the story I had plan to finish and post today but sometimes you finish a story quicker than you think. You can blame the 400 tik toks I saw today for this one. I have some real angst fics coming up so get ready.

You covered your eyes from the blinding light that came from the Infinity stones. When your eyes adjusted, you watched as Thanos and his army turned to dust. Swept away by the wind but you and the other Avengers remained standing. “Dad!” You rushed over to the man as he stumbled to the ground. Rhodey and Peter were already by his side and his best friend pulled the emotionally distrusted teen away from him to give you space. You fell to the ground, ignoring every ache and pain in your body.

“Hi, angel,” he softly spoke. He tried to smile but it turned into a grimace. Half of his body was burnt and his eyes couldn’t stay focused. You saw Pepper fall to her knees next to you. “Pep,”

“FRIDAY?” You asked, placing your hand on his arc reactor. He covered your hand with his.

“Life functions critical,” the AI sadly said.

“Tony, look at me,” he groaned but turned to look at her. “We’re gonna be okay.” Your head snapped to look at her. She was smiling, desperately turning to keep her tears at bay. How could she say that? You were far from okay. His breathing became labored, wheezing as it hurt to get air into his lungs. “You can rest now.” Tony forced his head to look at you as if he was waiting for your permission. It wasn’t fair. Natasha was gone. Vision was gone. Loki, too. Why was everyone leaving? But you forced a smile.

“Yeah,” your voice cracked and Pepper rested her hand on top of his. “I’ll make sure they’re okay,” you wanted to grab him by the shoulders and scream, ‘Get up! Get up! Don’t leave me too.’ “I love you, dad.” There were sounds and smells you associated with everyone, you were sensitive to both. For your dad, he smelt like coffee and oil. There was always a quiet humming around him that came from his arc reactor. Sometimes you would lay in his lab or on the couch to listen to it, it was a nice reminder that he was here. But now you couldn’t hear it and the reactor was cold. Tony’s hand fell to the side and he was gone, another name added to the list. Pepper kissed the side of his head, burrowed her face in the crock of his neck, and sobbed.

It was as if time froze around you, your hand remained on his chest. You looked down and the tears began to run down your cheeks.

*

The funeral was a blur. You barely registered what was happening around you. Some of the Avengers came up to you, offering their condolences for Tony and Natasha but you couldn’t remember if you said anything to them. The only thing that grounded you was the hold Morgan had on your arm or Pepper whispering reassuring into your ear.

But now the funeral was over and Peter took Morgan off your hands. You put one of Natasha’s sweatshirts on over your black dress and sat by the creek edge. Your relationship with the Black Widow started rocky, with both of you dancing around your feelings for one another. She was afraid to make a move because you were Tony’s daughter and you thought the redhead was too far out of your league. You came together after the team’s fight against Ultron. She was shaken by what she saw and you provided the comfort she so desperately needed. Tony questioned her intentions with you but he came to accept it.

Your relationship was put to the test during the Accords, being on the run, and fighting with her other family to bring down the Red Room. During the 5 years of the Blip, you split your time at the cabin with your father and Natasha at the compound. You watched two of the most important people in your life grieve the loss of their family. Now they were both gone. What the hell were you going to do now? “Mind if I join you?” You heard Wanda ask behind you. Wordlessly, you pointed to the spot next to you. The Sokovian sat down with a sigh. You had no energy to talk, there was a numbness washing over you.

‘I’m sorry about Vision,’ you spoke through your thoughts. She smiled, nodding her head.

“And I’m sorry about Nat and Tony,” Was it ever going to get easier to hear their names? To think about them and not feel pain. “What do you need?” You shrugged, looking down at your lap.

‘To hug them one more time. To hear them say they love me,’ you said. ‘To-’ your throat burned as you fought to keep the tears at bay. ‘I want things I can’t have because they are gone.’ Finally, you looked at her. Her eyes mirrored your own, glossy and red from shedding so many tears. ‘What do you need?’

“The same things you want,” she sighed and a single tear rolled down her cheek and she pushed it away. “Sometimes I wonder who I angered to deserve this pain. It’s like I get my footing and the rug gets pulled out from underneath me.” You saw her grieve her brother, her country, and her actions in Lagos. “How do you move on?” You sighed, taking in the scent of Natasha’s hoodie. She smelt like gunpowder, peanut butter, and the brisk autumn air.

‘I don’t know,’ you said. ‘I’m still trying to figure it out. But life and love wouldn’t be beautiful if it was easy, you know?’ You held out your hand for you to take it. “I think,” you spoke out loud, each word you spoke shook. “The love we shared with Vision and Natasha shaped us, gave us the strength to be okay.”

“Do you think so?” She whispered, taking your hand in hers.

“Yeah,” you smiled. “I think we’ll be alright.”

[mediumgayitalian]

fic rec friday

hi!! welcome to fic rec friday. every week, i pick five fics i have bookmarked and rec them with a little review. check them out!

let there be light, let me be alright by annaaperson

His words stopped short as he, along with the rest of the cabin, stared in wonder-filled horror at Will. Specifically Will Solace. More specifically, his hands. His hands that were glowing a soft golden light into the night’s bleeding darkness. (aka, 5 times Will freaked people out by cracking his joints and lighting up like a glow stick and the one time he doesn't)

this was very sweet. glowstick will solace is such a funny fucking character trait and it does not have the spotlight it should have. loved the will & lee and will & clarisse. and i am a 5+1 truther why are those fics like actual crack

2. Death Boy by percyspandapillowpet

The three times Nico said he hated the nickname Will gave him and the one time he didn't.

okay full and fair warning i WILL be talking about this author all the time. they carried the pjo fandom in 2016 truly. and this fic is so tooth-rotting!! love fics where nico slowly warms up to having friends as he deserves truly

3. The Thing You Need Most by @wintersky101

When he's finished in the infirmary, when he's finally done all that he can to keep himself distracted, Will staggers into the Apollo cabin and immediately crumples to his knees, tears already springing to his eyes.

no this one is so important bc sometimes i feel like this fandom falls into the repetition of sad-nico-comforting-will and while thats not necessarily bad!! its nice to have some variety. and having nico be there for will when will cant be is so important and lovely to see. this fic does it so well!!

4. I swear by Apollo the physician, and Asclepius, and Hygieia and Panacea and all the gods and goddesses as my witnesses, that, according to my ability and judgement, I will keep this Oath and this contract: by @nicostolemybones

Will breaks the entire Hippocratic Oath.

i read this fic months ago and i literally think about it all the time. the quiet bitterness. the rebellion borne of a deep deep love for everyone around him. the backbone made of steel. william andrew solace i would die for you

5. Beautiful pain by Phantomxlegend

Will can take the pain of others and bear it himself. Half the time it’s not even a conscious decision and he doesn’t even know he did it... until later when the pain hits.

is this a little out there? yeah. a little wumpy?? yeah. but what is the point of fandom otherwise. this fic is exactly what it advertises

thank you for joining me this friday!! happy reading!!

[s-nebul0sa]

Puntastic Groceries

Full fic on AO3

Lena has had a long, rough week. Monday started with an emergency investor meeting because there was an issue with the numbers. She was grilled by them – especially the ones she usually adores most for their critical thinking that she now experienced the other side of – for hours. After struggling to wrap her head around what happened with the numbers, because they were fine when she had last seen them before they were sent out, it finally clicked. Somewhere, someone, made a typo and it messed up the entire file.

Crisis averted, mostly, but she had to take the brunt of it because of course nobody was happy something like this happened. So the rest of the day and Tuesday morning she had to spend finding out when exactly this mistake snuck in and who was responsible. 

She never likes having difficult conversations about work performance and mistakes with people. As someone raised in a household where mistakes were forbidden and immediately penalised, she wants to create an environment at L-Corp in which it is okay to make mistakes and to learn. But a mistake like this is not one that can come without consequences. Even if the consequence is just being told to be more careful next time. The repercussions are to big to let it go without any at all.

If this happens a second time, she might even have to be more strict and tie real consequences to the mistake, and she would hate to have to do that. So it is better to just have the conversation now and prevent it from happening again in the future. 

On Wednesday, she had to have the difficult conversation in question. Later, during lunch, she spilled her salad dressing on her blouse and nearly tripped at the top of the stairs, ungracefully saved herself and breaking an expensive heel in the process.

Thursday she finally had a chance to catch up on some of the work that she fell behind on by cleaning up the mess created on Monday. But it was so much and with several important deadlines in the future, she had to stay late at work for the fourth time in as many days. And even when making the most of her time, cancelling less important meetings or asking someone to sit in for her, skipping lunch break and eating a meal while bent over a stack of papers, she did not know if she was going to even make the first deadline of Friday at noon. Let alone all of the ones after.

So, Lena stayed until well past midnight. Until Kara forcefully brought her home, wrestled her into sleep clothes and nearly had to push her into bed. At the crack of dawn, Lena was back at work already. She did make the deadline. But only by a minute, and she hates irking that close to the line. To top it off, there was no relief or satisfaction in sending out these document because more work was waiting for her and it only grew more with each passing minute. 

If Jess, Sam, everyone else at work and Kara had not sternly given her a talking to about spending the weekend away from work and not working from home in secret, she would have been at L-Corp hours ago. But since she is banned from working – Jess even confiscated her laptop and changed the password to her work email, the sneaky imp – she might as well enjoy her weekend.

This Saturday morning, she wants nothing more than just stay in, lounge around in her pyjamas and do as little as possible. If she could, she would do a negative amount of things.

Kara, however, has a different idea. Long before Lena is ready to get up, Kara opens the curtains and turns to Lena with the brightest smile on her face. And any other day, Lena would love that smile but today she groans because this smile also means Kara wants them to do something. Wants to go out together.

Lena curls up tighter, pulling the covers over her with a fierce grip and ducking her head into the blanket burrito she just made herself.

Read the rest on AO3 because this story is too powerful for tumblr (aka too long at 2909 words)

[cozy-mp3]

proving grounds

tashi donaldson x reader, patrick zweig x reader

summary: patrick takes you out to meet his 'friends'. all things considered, you think it goes pretty well.

word count: 3.9k(ish)

warnings: nsfw (minors will be blocked), probably not suitable for gn!reader, readers sexuality isn’t specified but they're dating a man and fuck a woman, no penetration, one (1) face slap

a/n: my first fic in so long, everyone say thank you luca guadagnino! i’ve forgotten now to add warnings so if there’s anything i’ve missed please lmk!

you’re being scrutinized, you have been since the moment you’d sat down to meet patrick’s ‘friends’. you mentally cuss him out again for how nonchalant he’d acted about the whole thing, how he’d given you no indication that you’d be sitting across from his super rich and almost-household-name level famous tennis friends. what’s worse is that he’s abandoned you with the excuse of needing some guy time with art at the pool table, whatever that means.

you’ve been quiet since you arrived, a little late because traffic downtown on a friday is always a nightmare that you’re never quite prepared for. it’s easy being quiet when patrick is around, he talks enough for the both of you and he somehow opens up more around art and tashi. in any other situation you might’ve cringed at how his loud voice carried across the bar despite it being full, but tonight you’re glad he’s stealing some attention from you, that you could sink a little into the cracked linoleum of the booth seat you’re sharing and only answer direct questions.

tashi has been quiet too, but that’s because she’s been looking at you all evening. at first you’d thought she was judging you, she looked so out of place in her neatly pressed dress pants and a sweater that’s probably eye wateringly expensive; you’d arrived fifteen minutes late in a work blouse from target and a pencil skirt you’d dripped cesar dressing on during your lunch break. the environment almost adds to the mortification, you can’t believe patrick invited this rich, important couple to a bar like this, one that is staffed almost entirely by college students and only gets away with refusing to update their decor because they pay for the hd sports channels and have great happy hour deals.

you feel as though you’ve been blushing since you sat down, torn between embarrassed and intrigued by the way she stared first at you, your face, your chest, the little white stain you’d tried to scrub from your thigh using hand soap in the office bathrooms before you’d left and then at the drink you’d ordered, sweet, strong and fruity. she’d raised her brow when you’d mumbled the name of the cocktail, strawberry peach something, and declined patrick’s offer to order one next round by simply gesturing to the whisky she was nursing and giving him a look you didn’t quite know how to interpret.

it’d been going ok, you think. art seemed easily impressed by you, somehow looking interested when you explained your job (customer liaison for a fancy interior design company.) and how you’d met patrick (an office party at said company, he’d arrived with one of your co workers but had left with you, you’d had the decency to feel a little embarrassed retelling the story, patrick had not. art had even chastised him for sharing some of the more colorful details from the night you’d met when your flustered squeak and elbow to his ribs hadn’t deterred him.)

tashi is harder to read but you think your original assumption had been wrong, you don’t think she’s being rude-judgemental, it’s more like overprotective-judgemental, like she’s been deciding if you’re good enough for her friend. it might be sweet if she wasn’t so intimidating. she’d reclined back into the booth when art had left, her legs crossed and her elbow draped over the back of the seat, her eyes fixed on you now that patrick wasn’t there to divert any of her attention.

“patrick mentioned you’re coming to his match next week,” she says eventually and you nod, happy to engage in some conversation to alleviate the silence and equally eager to impress her, you can prove you’re good enough for patrick, good enough to join their friend group, “that’s good,” she hums, finally quirking her lips into a smile, “tennis is important to him, it’s good he wants to include you, means he’s serious.”

“i’ve never been to a match before, i’m excited to see him play,” you reply, allowing your own lips to lift. it’s nice to have some reassurance that patrick is really into you, for all his overconfidence and shamelessnes you really do like him too. “you’re his coach, right?,” you ask, although you already know that she is, patrick oscillates between praising her in a way that almost makes you jealous and pressing his forehead into the curve of your neck and complaining about how hard she pushes him.

“i am,” she answers, taking a long sip of her drink, “it’s nice to see my hard work paying off,” she adds while glancing towards art and patrick where they stand at the pool table, heads pressed together in conversation. you don’t quite know what she means by that and you won’t ask, you’re not even sure she’d answer if you did, instead you wave shyly to patrick when he glances over at the table and duck your head embarrassed when he makes a show of blowing a kiss towards you in return.

“i’m sure you do a great job, he talks about you a lot,” you mumble before sucking the end of your straw into your mouth to distract yourself from the way your cheeks are heating up again. tashi doesn’t respond but gives you a look you don’t quite know how to read, like she’s coming to some sort of conclusion about you that she isn’t going to share. it leaves you wanting, almost desperate to ask what she’s thinking but despite not knowing her well you can tell that would be a bad move, she’ll tell you when she decides. it feels very much like you’re a passenger in her presence, like there’s a game she’s playing that you’ll have to learn the rules of before you can join in properly.

the two of you lapse into silence again, your eyes flitting between the ice melting in your drink and your two boys at the pool table and her eyes on you. you tense when you feel the rounded tip of tashi’s heel brush against your calf but ignore it studiously, you rationalize it as a mistake, she was probably just adjusting her legs or something. you’d skipped tights this morning and it’d been nice in the office, the aircon had broken last week and you didn’t need any extra layers but you curse your decision now as you can feel the warmth of tashi’s ankle when she brushes against you again.

this time you glance up at her questioning but she only raises the corner of her mouth into a brief smile and continues her path up your leg. you hope you don’t look like a deer in the headlights as you hold her gaze, your lips parted around the straw that still sits in your mouth as you try to process the fact that tashi fucking donaldson is about to have her heel pressed between your legs within shouting distance from her husband and your boyfriend.

you blink harshly and tear your eyes from tashi’s to look over at patrick again and his eyes meet yours instantly. he’d already been watching, pool cue tucked beneath his chin as art makes a show of pondering his next move, the fact that he glances up and meets your eyes betrays that he must’ve been watching as well. you startle when tashi finally presses the toe of her shoe to your core, your thighs clamping around her leg in a way she must find amusing because she huffs out a laugh.

you feel hot and cold all at the same time, needy and aroused and confused. patrick, the asshole, winks at you before he turns his attention back to art who has apparently taken his turn. you can’t be sure, you’re so flustered you don’t think you could give today's date if someone asked. it must take at least thirty seconds for you to kick start again, for your muddled brain to string together some excuse about reapplying your lip gloss so you can excuse yourself to the bathroom.

you get up with as much grace as you can manage, tugging down the hem of your skirt where it’s ridden up and making your way across the bar as fast as you can without running. you can feel tashi’s eyes on your back as you go, it’s hard to decide if you want her to follow you or not.

you suck in a deep breath as the bathroom door shuts behind you and press your hands to the cool edge of the sink basin. it’s hard to resist the urge to splash your face with cold water, but you can’t remember if you’d used waterproof mascara this morning and you’d rather not go back out there looking like you’d given yourself two black eyes. you glance up at yourself in the mirror and grimace slightly at its dingy edges before focusing on your face, you feel warm from the alcohol and the phantom touch of tashi between your legs. you wonder again if you’re passing the silent test she’s conducting, you hope so.

closing your eyes, you take another deep breath to clear your mind. you have a decision to make here and at this point it probably isn’t too conspiratorial to think that’s by design. asking patrick to take you home and explain all of this is probably the most rational course of action, you aren’t quite sure that you want rational. it’s like tashi has a magnetic pull that you can’t escape, there’s something about her that leaves you feeling open and wanting.

absentmindedly, you think you might be beginning to understand why people join cults and the thought is so ridiculous it almost startles you into laughing. it’s as you’re thinking about her that tashi strides in, her nose wrinkling much the same way yours at the state of the mirrors as she stands at the sink next to you, her hands fixing the strands of hair that frame her face.

“next time we go out, i’ll pick the bar,” she tells you, her eyes meeting yours in the mirror, she shares a smile that you reciprocate shakily and it feels so good every time she does that, like you’ve worked hard for her approval and it means something when she grants it, “patrick has never been great at choosing where to take his girls out,” she says and before you can ask what she means by that she’s standing behind you, her chest pressed to your back and the blunt ends of her neatly cut bob brushing your temples.

“tashi,” you whisper, only a little humiliated by how wide your eyes have gotten in your reflection. she doesn’t bother responding to you, instead reaching around to hold your chin in her hand so she can tilt your face at different angles. you watch her instead of yourself, the serious set to her jaw and the slight pinch between her brows, you wonder what she’s thinking, if she thinks you’re pretty or if she’s cataloging imperfections. you hope it’s the former.

“you’re better than the last one,” she says and your breath catches in your throat. you don’t know if you should feel flattered or disgusted, you could push her off easily, her hand is still loosely gripping your chin and her other hand is now resting on your hip but there’s enough space for you to slip from between her and the chipped basin. you have a choice, you can leave and grab patrick by the wrist and make him drive you home, he’s only been drinking diet coke, alcohol isn’t included in his strict diet plan, or, you can remain pliant as tashi examines you.

you can tell she’s waiting for your reaction, it’s another test, you realize, part of her game. you still don’t know what it is about tashi that makes you want to succeed, to obey, to win, but you do so, so desperately. you don’t move, you allow her to press you closer to the sink, to tilt her head closer to yours so you can smell her shampoo and feel the shape of her thighs and breasts where they press against you. she smiles again and you know you’ve passed.

“does,” you begin, though you have to pause to clear your dry throat, “does patrick know this is happening?,” you ask and she hums noncommittal, shrugging one of her shoulders and repositioning her hand so that it’s cupping your cheek.

“he suspects it, i think,” she tells you with the same self assured nonchalance she seems to carry constantly, “he won’t be upset, if that’s what you’re wondering,” she adds when the unsure twist to your lips doesn’t let up. you nod and choose again to believe her, easing your grip on the basin where at some point it’d turned white knuckled.

tashi strokes the pads of her fingers against your cheek and you can feel as it heats against her skin, the slightly rough calluses you feel at the base of her fingers matching the ones you feel on patrick when he cups your face in his hands. her hands are smaller though, her fingers longer than your own but far daintier than his and her touch is less desperate than the way patrick usually touches you, as if he needs but tashi only wants.

“does art suspect too?,” you ask. you sound more breathless than you’d intended but you can’t help it when tashi has used the hand at your hip to tug your loose work blouse tight against your skin, the shape of your breasts and the curve of your waist now obvious in the mirror as the buttons strain to remain closed over your chest.

“no, art knows,” she replies simply as her hand leaves your face to trace where the lace edged cups of your bra now show prominently through the thin fabric of your shirt. you don’t know what answer you’d expected but it wasn’t that and to your embarrassment your breath hitches again, you wonder if art is telling patrick what’s happening in the bathroom, if their heads are pressed together again as they discuss in whispers if they think you’ll go along with whatever this is.

you nod in lieu of a verbal response, you don’t really know what to say, you don’t know if you’ve ever been this tongue tied in your life. tashi seems satisfied enough with your answer though since she doesn’t press for more, you suspect if she wanted a verbal response she would demand one.

“tell me now if you want this to stop,” she says after a short pause, her thumb stroking over the first of the plastic pearl buttons that hold your blouse closed, “i won’t be mad,” she adds when you don’t respond immediately. you open your mouth but words escape you so you rest your hand atop hers and press the pad of your finger over her thumb, applying enough pressure that beneath the two of you the button slips from it’s eyelet and the one beneath follows suit under the swell of your breasts. tashi’s hand slips from beneath yours and returns to your jaw where she forces your chin up to meet her eyes in the mirror, her pupils are just as blown as yours, the only indication that she’s as affected by any of this as you.

“i told you to tell me,” she reminds you, her neatly manicured nails digging into your skin, you can feel the slight chill of the rings she’s wearing as you mumble an assent, “tell me properly,” she demands and this time she uses her hand to angle your head backwards so she can look into your eyes directly.

“i don’t want you to stop,” you breathe and god, it feels as though all the blood has rushed from your head to your cunt, you can only imagine how wet you are, you’re surprised you haven't felt it dampen your thighs yet.

“good,” tashi replies and she squeezes your jaw with what you can only assume is affection, “i want you to finish undoing those buttons,” she tells you, making no move to remove her hands from where they currently rest. you obey as fast as you can, silently pleading with your motor functions to cooperate as you try to be quick and alluring at the same time.

you aren’t sure how successful you are but tashi seems satisfied as she strokes her fingertips over your now exposed breast. after you’ve untucked your shirt from your skirt you clench your fists, unsure of where to put your hands before tashi reaches down to rest them on the edge of the sink again. she strokes her thumbs across the backs of your knuckles before she trails her hands up your body again, stopping at your chest and meeting your eyes in the mirror again as she tugs the cups of your bra down and under your breasts.

you want to say something but you don’t know what, you want to say something but you can’t. you want to ask her if she likes what she sees, you want to ask if she feels as desperate as you. but you don’t, you wait, nipples hardening in the cold air, for tashi to make the next move.

“you’re doing well,” she reassures you, she can probably see the desperate, wanting look in your eyes, maybe you should feel ashamed, you don’t. she leaves you aching for a few moments longer and just as your resolve is beginning to crack she smooths her hands over the waistband of your skirt and down your thighs where she begins to tug the fabric upwards.

“tashi, ‘m gonna make a mess,” you warn once your skirt is bunched at your hips and her knee is trying to press between your thighs, “they’re gonna know,” you add, though it’s pointless as she forces her knee between your legs and instantly angles upwards, pressing the firm length of her thigh against the seat of your damp panties.

“they already know,” she reminds you and she seems uncaring of the mess you feel seeping through the sheer lace of your panties and onto the dark material of her pants. maybe her lack of caring is how she shows her desperation, maybe the way she allows herself to be disheveled by you means she wants you as urgently as you want her.

“these are cute, were they for patrick?,” she asks, ignoring the way your thighs try to clamp around her at the reminder of art and patrick outside, waiting for her to be done with you, the two of them just as obedient as you.

“answer my question,” she demands when your only response is a choked whine. her voice has an edge to it that can only be arousal which has your thighs tensing again. tashi is meaner in her demand this time, hooking one of her fingers in the waistband of your panties and letting them snap back against your skin as her hand returns to shake your jaw, as if you’re in a stupor she can jostle you from.

“yes,” you gasp, choking on a mortified moan when tashi slaps the plane of your cheek, the skin blooming with a tingling warmth that her fingers pet over soothingly as you open your mouth to answer again, “yes, they were for patrick,” you rush, your hands leaving the sink to grip her forearm in both palms. her skin is warm and you can feel her pulse beat steady where your thumbs are pressed to her wrist.

“it’s a shame they’re gonna be a mess when he sees them then,” she replies, the mocking edge to her voice softened by the fact her own voice has caught a breathless note now, “you’re going to cum in these panties and show him what a mess i’ve made of you when he tries to fuck you tonight,” she says and all you can do is nod. you feel pathetic as she angles your head toward the mirror to watch as she slides her hand into your panties, your cunt clenching desperately at nothing and soaking more of your arousal onto her thigh.

she seems to have concluded her game for the most part as she wastes no time wetting her fingers with your slick and rubbing fast, demanding circles around your swollen clit. her eyes meet yours as her free hand curls around your neck, her fingers pressing lightly against the sides of your throat at first. you manage to nod at her silent question, tilting your head backward onto her shoulder and squeezing imploringly at her wrist where your hands cling desperate, palms sweaty as you hurtle towards an orgasm.

it all happens quickly from there, tashi’s fingers squeeze around your neck and her hand somehow quickens between your legs, her thigh pressing upwards to meet your hips as they buck helpless against her. you feel the rush of blood to your head when she eases up on your neck and hear the squeak of your sensible black work shoes against the tile as your legs scramble for purchase. you can’t voice your impending peak as tashi presses her lips to yours, licking into your mouth to dampen the loud moan that escapes you as you cum.

tashi is considerate, she pets your cunt as you shake through it and uses her thigh to hold you up, her hand leaves your throat so her arm can wrap around your chest where she presses you tight against her. it takes a minute for you to finish riding it out but when your toes finally uncurl she helps you stand upright against the sink and starts to redress you herself.

“good girl,” she hums as she tucks you back into your bra and begins rebuttoning your shirt, “let’s get you back to your boyfriend, hm?, i’m sure he’s missing you,” she continues with a hint of amusement while she rolls your skirt back down.

“yeah,” you reply, voice spacey even to your own ears, tashi smiles though so you do too, “thank you,” you tell her as she uses her thumb to fix your smudged lip gloss. she only pats your cheek in response, taking your hand in hers and tugging you towards the bathroom door. it’s hard not to be mortified when you glance down at her thigh and notice the mess you’ve left on her, a large dark patch that only grows more noticeable under the bar’s lighting.

art and patrick are waiting at the table, art nursing a second pint and patrick using his straw to push the ice around an empty glass of diet coke. they both perk up when they see the two of you, like if they had tails they’d be wagging and this time you completely understand the look tashi shares with you, a little fond and a lot exasperated, as if to her they’re the most predictable people on the planet.

“she’s a keeper,” she says in lieu of greeting, keeping a gentle grip on your hand until you’re safely deposited in the booth next to patrick. you feel yourself blush as patrick tucks you into his side and art pushes a coaster with a glass of ice water perched on top of it towards you. you manage a grateful smile in his direction before you turn your warm face into patrick’s neck to escape the knowing look he’s giving you. whatever game tashi is playing, you think you’ve passed this round.

[ssuperficialspacecadett]

Have Your Cake And Eat It Too

Chapter Nine of the Through the Scope series | Chapter Ten

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 5.5K

Chapter Overview: Wednesday brings a date and Friday brings an unwelcome fate

TW: Oral (f&m receiving), Fingering

Notes: hey everyone !! sorry for the delay to my unofficial posting schedule ! i was battling writers block and life threw a bunch of bullshit at me this week. in better news...i got a kitten today ! my friends were fostering four kittens and I fell in love with one and now we are basically soulmates. ANYWAY... there has been a small resurgence for my One Condition (reader x Din Djarin) fic recently which has made me smile ((: i updated the tag list so let me know if i missed you/ you want to be added ! as usual...my asks are always open & happy reading <3

*no use of y/n & female presenting reader*

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Frankie’s house hasn’t been this clean since he first bought it. He isn’t a dirty man, he is probably one of the cleanest he knows if he's being honest, but suddenly everything looked dull compared to your sparkle. The chemical fumes from all of the products he is using have made him light headed. He just cracks open some of his kitchen windows and keeps on working. He has been deep in soap and suds since he got off work today at 7:30 P.M.. So far he has managed to vacuum off of the carpets and rugs, wipe down all the sinks and scrubbed the toilet (he even made sure to put the seat down), cloroxed the stove and the countertops, fluffed the couches pillows, and put fresh sheets on his bed.

Last night after his ‘work meeting’, he ran to the grocery store to pick up some ingredients for your date this Wednesday. You both decided on a quiet night in since your weeks have been surprisingly busy. Neither one of y’all had the energy to battle the busy crowds of a restaurant. He left the store with chicken, potatoes, asparagus, and some extra spices he didn’t already have. As soon as he got home that evening, he began making a marinade for the chicken so it could soak overnight. He spent his entire lunch break today sifting through dozens of different recipes on how to best prepare asparagus and calculating how much time he would have to put all the food together before you arrived tonight. When you texted him to confirm that 9:30 was still a good time for you to come over, he answered quickly saying ‘yes, but take your time closing with Benny’. He was filled with a combination of happiness and stress when you told him that Benny graciously told you that you didn’t need to help close tonight because you had a date. Damn, there goes the extra padding of time he thought he might have. He wanted to see you so badly, but he also wanted to be finished before you arrived so he wouldn't be distracted by cooking. You were the only thing that he wanted to give his undivided attention to. 

***

You’re practically vibrating in the front seat as you pull up to Frankie’s house. Much to your dismay, he refused to tell you what he was preparing for dinner. If you didn’t know what the two of you were eating, the option of buying a wine to pair with it was obviously out of the question. Well, when in doubt, make a chocolate chip bundt cake. Your only worry now is that he had already made something sweet. You park in his driveway like he told you and you take the cake’s carrying case from the passenger seat out of the car with you. After setting the dessert on the roof of the car, you look down at the casual dress you decided to wear. It’s comfortable and flowy which fits the warm Florida weather perfectly and the color of the fabric compliments your skin effortlessly. You didn’t want to over dress since the date is only at his house, but you still wanted to look nice for him to show that you care. Figuring that there isn’t any point in dwelling on your clothing choice since there is no time to go home and change, you pop your trunk to grab the overnight bag that you packed. Frankie not so subtly mentioned that by the time dinner was over it would be ‘too late to drive home’ and that it would be ‘much safer’ for you to spend the night. Who were you to argue with his bulletproof logic? You swing the bag over your shoulder, collect the cake, and walk yourself up to his front door. The mouth watering smells coming from inside have managed to leak their way past the door and tease you and your empty stomach. You knock with your foot as your hands are a bit occupied by what you’re currently carrying.

When he opens the door the two of you are quiet for a split second as you take each other in. His hair is on full display now with the absence of his cap. You suspect that it might have something to do with the shower he took. The ends of his curls are still damp from the water. He’s wearing jeans that you don’t think you have seen him in before and a crisp looking white henley. 

“Wow.” Frankie feels exactly the way he did when he first saw your photo on Benny’s phone. “You’re beautiful.”

“You don’t clean up too badly yourself.” You blush.

He leans down and kisses you, but as he pulls away you notice that he slipped the cake carrier out of your hand.

“Hey! You don’t have to-”

“But I want to. Remember?” He gives you a playful wink before waving you inside.

If you thought it smelled good on his front stoop, there are hardly words to describe how it smells inside. The whole house is warm with the scent of cooking chicken. It’s the kind of smell that feels like it's wrapping your whole body in a hug. While restaurants are wonderful, nothing compares to homemade cooking. The two of you walk into the kitchen and you spot an electric grill on the counter with four thick chicken breasts cooking on it. As you walk further in, you see that he has two trays of food heating in the oven. 

“You did all of this yourself? It looks amazing!” You say walking over to set both your purse and your overnight bag down by the couch. “Can I help with anything?”

“Uhhh,” An alarm goes off on the oven as he starts to flip the meat on the grill. “Actually, help would be great. Would you mind taking the potatoes and asparagus out of the oven for me while I handle this? I have mitts that you can use to grab them in that drawer right there.”

You locate the drawer and take out a set of oven mitts and two pot holders. The pot holders you place on the counter beside the oven so the trays will have a place to be set so they can cool. You open the oven and take each tray out carefully and set them down in their respective spots.

“Okay, what next?” You ask.

“I printed out the recipe I’m using for the asparagus. It should be over there by you.”

“You printed out the recipe?” You laugh, turning to look at the man next to you.

“What? I like to have a physical copy of things. The text on my phone is just too small to read sometimes and it's annoying that it turns off when I’m in the middle of looking at it.”

“Those aren’t bad reasons.” You confess as you pick up the paper. “Have you thought about getting glasses? You know, so you can see your phone better?”

“I don’t want to get glasses.” You have to stifle another laugh because he sounds like a grumpy child right now.

“And why is that?” You walk around him to grab the lemon in his fruit basket that the recipe calls for.

“They are going to make me look…” He mumbles the last word in the sentence so you can't hear it clearly.

“They are going to make you look what?” You press while slicing the lemon in half so you can squeeze its juice over the vegetables.

“Old.”

“Frankie!” You stop what you’re doing and face him directly. “You are not going to look ‘old’ with glasses! You aren’t even old to begin with.”

“I’m almost 45.” He counters. “Hold that plate for me, please.”

You do as he asks, but you aren’t done with this discussion. “I’m a few years shy of 30. Do you think I’m old?”

“No! Of course I don’t think that!”

“Then what’s your point? You only have a couple years on me.”

“A couple?” He raises his eyebrows.

“Shut up and finish plating the chicken will you? The bottom line is that you won’t look old. If anything you’re going to look even more handsome. I like the way glasses look on men.” You smirk.

“I’ll think about it.” He blushes. “For you.”

“Do it because you want to see, Frankie! Now help me over here.”

The two of you talk back and forth while you finish the asparagus and he prepares the baked potatoes. This is a different kind of intimacy than you are used to. The intimacy that you had come to associate with partners was skin on skin contact and hands tangled in hair, but this is seemingly more personal. You could have sex with anyone you wanted at any time you wanted, but fucking someone doesn’t make you compatible with them. You don’t have to talk during sex, like really talk. Standing shoulder to shoulder with someone while you cook and casually talk about summer vacations you each went on as children or pets you had growing up was intimacy that you didn’t know you were lacking, that you were craving. This was the kind of intimacy that you only thought lived in between the pages of a book. 

“Oh my God! This is so good! I haven't eaten like this in forever!” 

Dinner finally found its way to each of your plates along with a cold beer to wash it down. 

“It’s just a hobby, but I’m glad you like it.” He smiles, cutting another bite of food for himself. “The guys and I sometimes take turns cooking dinner when we go over to each other's places when we watch the game or before beach trips.” 

“Benny was telling me about those a few weeks ago actually! He said that y’all haven’t had one in a while because life has gotten in the way. What would you say if we went during a weekend in March? My friend Robbie, the one I told you about last weekend, is coming down to visit me then and what better way is there to introduce her to Florida?”

“That sounds really nice. It will be great to go with you, Robbie, and the guys. God knows we could all use a break.”

Speaking of the guys,” Questions that have been plaguing you since you first looked at the contents of his room swim to the tip of your tongue. “What did all of y’all do when you were in the service? Like your jobs?”

“What a question.” He reclines back in his chair. “Let’s see…Pope was the man with the plan. He was always plotting the best entry and exit point for us on missions. He was usually the one that found us the job in the first place too. Will was the one who kept us all on task and on time. I've never met another person alive who keeps track of things the way he does. He has actually kept count of every single speech he has given at the VA.” He chuckles.

“Why am I not surprised?” You love how he looks when he is discussing his friends. He’s so full of love and pride.

“Benny was the guns. We can all shoot really well, I mean that's what we were trained to do, but Benny can shoot ridiculously well.” He stops to take a sip of his beer. “We had a captain as well. His name was Tom, but he was Redfly to us. He was the one who led all of the missions we went on.”

“Is that the man in the group photo that you have in your bedroom?”

“You saw that, huh? Yeah, that’s him. He,” Frankie clears his throat. “He moved away about a year ago and unfortunately we fell out of touch. But, that's what all our jobs were.”

“And you?” You’re resting your head in the palms of your hands with the look of curiosity painted across your face. ‘What did you do?”

“I was- I was the pilot. Whatever needed to be driven or flown on a mission, I was the man to do it. Vehicles are nice, don't get me wrong, but flying? God, there isn’t anything else like it in the world.”

“What does it feel like?” Your dinner grows colder, but your heart grows warmer as he talks. 

“I don’t think I can do it justice, but I’ll try. When I’m in the cockpit of a helicopter, I feel so at peace. It sounds weird to say that operating a machine that weighs tons of pounds can give me that feeling, but it's the truth. Nothing can take it away either. Not the guys yelling over the headsets that we have to wear inside, not the chaos of whatever mission we are currently on, not even the millions of beeping sounds coming from the controls. It's just me and the open sky.”

“What’s been your favorite view?” You could listen to him talk about this for hours.

“Apart from the one I currently have right now? That's going to be hard to pick.” You have to temporarily look away from him to hide how hard you’re blushing at his comment. “I would have to say it was when I was piloting a helicopter over some mountains. The mountains themselves were beautiful, but as soon as we got close enough, the sun peaked out from behind them. It made the mountains look like they had halos.”

“I would give anything to see something like that.” You say wistfully.

“I could, if you wanted, show you sometime.”

“Oh my God! Really? Frankie, are you serious? You would do that?”

“Of course I’m serious! I want you to experience it first hand.” His million dollar smile slips for a fraction of a second. “It might take me a while to get my hands on a helicopter though.”

“I don’t mind waiting.” You rest your hand over his on the table. “At the risk of sounding corny, the best things in life are always worth the wait.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” He turns his hand over so that your palms are touching. “Do you want to cut some slices of cake and curl up on the couch to watch some TV?”

He takes your squeal of excitement as a ‘yes’. You work together to pack up all of the leftovers and load the dishwasher. He tries to cut the cake himself, but you shoo him away.

“You have done enough work for one day. Let me take care of the cake at least. Why don’t you go relax on the couch and find something for us to watch?”

You cut two hearty pieces and set them on plates for the both of you. It's shocking how natural it feels to exist with him like this. There isn’t a label on what y’all have, but you don’t mind right now. All that matters is that you’re enjoying yourself and you wouldn’t want to spend your Wednesday night any other way.

“Alrighty.” You set down the plates along with two forks on the coffee table. “What did you find?”

“How do you feel about Narcos Mexico?

“I’ve been meaning to start that one actually!” You plop yourself down on the couch next to him. “Robbie and I binged Narcos when it first came out. We finished it in a matter of days. It was probably a little unhealthy now that I think about it. She had the biggest crush on Murphy, but I was partial to Peña.”

“Should I be worried?” He hits play and adjusts his arm so that it drapes over the back of the couch. His fingers are able to brush over your collarbone rhythmically. 

“I wouldn’t say so.” You look up at him. “Lucky for you, I prefer the real thing over something fictional any day.”

“Lucky for me indeed.”

He takes the hand that is toying with your collarbone and uses it to gently tilt your chin up towards him. Your lips are captured by his in a kiss. Without warning a low moan comes from your throat. It had only been two days since he had touched you last, but why did it feel like a lifetime? His free hand slides up your thigh, taking the hem of your dress with it. He can feel your pulse quicken and your breath hitch when he moves your underwear to the side and starts to rub circles on you. His voice is strained and raspy when he speaks to you.

“I missed the way you felt around my fingers, mi estrella.” One of his fingers finds its way inside of you. “So tight I can barely move.”

His words have you clenching around him and gasping for air when you feel yourself stretching to allow another finger in. Your back arches off the couch as he makes contact with the spongy spot inside you. 

“Do you know what you’re doing to me? I could hardly get any work done these past few days because you’re all I can think about.”

Your head falls back against the plush pillows of the couch. He presses sloppy kisses along your jawline as your mouth parts to allow shallow breaths and quiet moans to escape. 

“Look at this beautiful neck.” His tongue charts a warm, slick path up it. “God, I wonder what it would look like with my hand wrapped around it?”

You stretch your neck out for him as if to silently say ‘come and find out for yourself’. 

The hand that he initially used to tilt your head up comes to snuggly wrap around your throat. With each squeeze, pump of his fingers, and rub of your clit you can feel yourself start to gradually lose control. 

“That’s it, pretty girl. I want you to soak my fingers.”

Even with his hand restricting your airway, your moans have gone from quiet to boisterously loud. You can hear him groaning in your ear as he watches his fingers disappear inside your wet pussy over and over again. 

“That feels so fucking good.” You gasp out.

You can feel your legs starting to shake and the fire in your lower belly aching to be put out.

“Let go for me.” He whispers.

You cry out as your orgasm rips through your body. He guides you through your bliss with honeyed words.

“So fucking pretty coming all over my fingers. Such a good girl for me.”

When he reluctantly takes his fingers out of you, you grab his wrist with your hand and bring his drenched fingers to your waiting lips. You can see him watching you with lust clouded eyes from your peripheral vision as you take them in your mouth. You allow your tongue to glide across and lick them clean of the mess that you just made. After you are content with your work, you pull them from your mouth with a satisfying pop and lazily roll your head so you can face Frankie. 

“It’s your turn.”

“Oh?” He’s breathing almost as hard as you are.

“I want you in my mouth next.”

“Oh.”

Without breaking eye contact, you lower yourself onto your knees and situate your body in between his legs. He scoots down deeper into the couch and opens his legs wider. His lids hang low on his eyes as he undoes his belt for you. When he’s done, you take over by unbuttoning his jeans and pulling the zipper down. Your mouth starts watering when you pull him free from his boxers. As you take him in your hand a guttural moan comes from the man in front of you. You tap the tip on your tongue a few times before wrapping your lips around it. Beads of pre come dissolve in your mouth as you begin to suck.

You take your time with him. Only taking him deeper into your hot mouth every once and a while. His hand comes up to pull your hair out of your way. His words go from slurred to unable to understand when you attach your lips to his balls. Your hand continues to pump him while you kiss and suck below the shaft. His thighs twitch and jerk with every touch you grant him. Licking a long stripe up his length, you connect your mouth to him again while your hands work in tandem. You dare to take a peek at the man coming undone above you. God, he’s breathtaking. Once perfect hair, now going every which way, sweat making his forehead shine, and plump lips being pushed out by his ragged breathing. You can feel yourself grow wet for him all over again. 

“Fuck, I love the way you look with my cock in your mouth.” He fumbles out. “It feels like your mouth was made for me.”

Even with your hollowed out cheeks beginning to burn, you keep pushing yourself. You want him to feel as good as he makes you feel. When his stomach starts to heave, you know he’s close. You take him all the way down your throat. The coarse hair at his base brushes against your nose and you can feel tears trickling their way down your cheeks. 

“I’m gonna come.” He speaks frantically.

You place your hands on his thighs and keep him deep inside your mouth. Immoral sounds erupt from him as he spills down your throat. You hum as you feel it going down. You pull off of him, but softly lick him clean as he lays disheveled against the cushions. He watches with intense infatuation as you use your finger to gather some of him that is left on your lower lip and push it to your tongue. You smile contently at him as he reaches down to pull you into his lap. He wastes no time tasting himself on you. In some possessive corner of his brain, he can’t help but feel like you are his now. He hasn’t said it out loud yet, but he hopes you can feel the genuine care he has for you in the way he kisses you. He hopes you can feel it in the way that he touches you. 

“Let’s go to bed.” You breathe into him.

“Something tells me we won’t be getting much sleep.” He says standing with you in his arms. “I don’t mind one bit.”

***

The majority of your Friday shift is spent selling tickets for the fights this evening. You were excited to attend this week's match on Frankie’s arm. Honestly, you were excited to see Will and Santi as well. Between juggling your dad and trying to see Frankie as much as possible, you hadn’t had any quality time with your other two friends. 

“I have a problem.” Benny pokes his head around the brick wall that separates you from the rest of the gym. “But I think you can solve it. If you don’t kill me first that is.”

“I feel like I’m going to regret asking this, but,” You spin your chair around to face him. “What can I do for you, Benny?”

“So you know my regular ring girl? The one that has those cool purple streaks in her hair?” You nod in confirmation. “Well, she just texted me sayin’ that she has the flu.” 

“You’re kidding.” You know exactly where he is going with this.

“I wish I was.” He’s now standing awkwardly in front of you. “However, like I said before, I think you can help me.” 

“Are you asking me to be your ring girl for the night?” 

“Please!” He has his hands clasped together as if he’s praying. “It would only be for one night! I know that you were plannin’ to hang out with the other guys, but I really need you!” 

“Benny, I- I don’t even have clothes to wear.” You gesture down to your current attire. “I don’t think this would suffice.” 

“That’s where I come in.” He says proudly. “My other ring girl is about the same size as you and the new outfit that I ordered for her just so happened to be delivered to my house last night.”

“You’re the one that orders the outfits?” 

“Well, she technically picked it out, but I just ordered it so I could put it on the company card. So, what do you say?”

“Let me see the outfit first.”

Much to your chagrin, he heads back into his office and comes back with the package and a pair of black thigh high boots. “Go change! I’ll be waitin’ right outside for you!” 

You snatch the items out of his hands and head back into the locker room. As much as you hated that so few women came to the gym, it was nice to have the whole room to yourself. You set the boots on the ground and tear open the package. The top is an extremely high cropped white collared shirt that ties in the front and the skirt is pleated with a red and black checkered pattern. You can’t do anything else but laugh when you finally pull the fishnets out. The things you do for friends.

“Okay! I’m coming out!”

Benny can hear you before he sees you. Your new heeled boots echo throughout the locker room as you exit.

“God damn.” He lets out a low whistle. “Fish is one lucky man.” 

“I feel like Britney Spears in her ‘...Baby One More Time’ music video.” You rest your hands on your hips.

The skirt's short length is accentuated by the fishnets and how tall the boots go up on your thighs. The shirt’s tie sits above your belly button. This whole look leaves very little to the imagination.

“Well, I think you look great!”

“It’s not too much?” You twirl to give him a 360 view. “It’s kinda fun to wear.”

“See?! I promise it’s just for tonight, unless you want to give it another go?” 

“Let’s just take it one week at a time, okay?”

“I can live with that.” 

He starts to head to the front desk when the doorbell chimes out, but you call after him.

“Benny?”

“What’s up?”

“Can you- I don’t really know how to ask this- can you watch me tonight? Like make sure no one tries to bother me?” 

His face softens at your request. You know that he understands who you’re talking about. “I promise that the guys and I won’t let anythin’ happen to you. You’re our girl and we’ll watch you like a hawk.”

“That means a lot to me.” 

You hurry yourself back into the sanctuary of the women's side of the locker room before you give the guest waiting at the front desk a preview. Before you take your new outfit off you take a picture of yourself and send it to Robbie. She responds by firing off multiple messages that should never be allowed to see the light of day. Robbie always had a unique way of making your ego flair up. Armed with your newly gassed up confidence, you send the picture to Frankie. He responds almost instantly.

Frankie: What are you wearing?

You: What? You don’t like it?

Frankie: I never said that.

You: Benny’s usual ring girl is sick. You’re looking at Brass Knuckles ring girl for the evening.

Frankie: I’m looking alright. I hope Benny knows that he’s not getting that outfit back after tonight. 

You: And why is that?

Frankie: Because I’m going to tear it off of you piece by piece. There won’t be an outfit to give back.

You rub your thighs together anxiously as you see another text bubble pop up.

Frankie: How am I supposed to focus for the next few hours with this photo of you living in my head?

You: You better figure it out because if you don’t, you will be to busy playing catch up to fuck me after the fights.

Frankie: You’re going to be the death of me, you know that?

You: I know (:

Giggling to yourself, you change quickly so you can resume desk duty. Hopefully you can stay focused for the rest of the day despite Frankie’s words swimming around in your mind. 

***

You and Benny see the guys pull into the parking lot in their respective cars 15 minutes after closing. 

“Would you look at that? They actually got here on time to help.” Benny hums as he throws the last of the dirty towels into the basket.

“I’m gonna go say ‘hi’!” You shout over your shoulder, already darting towards the front.

You bust out the door right as the group of three are walking across the middle of the parking lot. 

“Hey Will! Hey Pope!” You rush out as you make a beeline for the man in the center. 

You leap into his arms and wrap your legs around him while snuggling your face into the crook of his neck. His exuberant laugh reverberates through your whole body as he clutches onto you. If it were anyone else, you would feel foolish for greeting them like this. But it just feels so right to be held in his arms. It doesn’t matter where you are. You feel him let out a heavy sigh into your hair as he cups the back of your head with his hand.

“What the fuck are we? Chopped liver?” Pope jokes. 

“I totally greeted you, you whiny baby.” You laugh, face still hidden from the world.

“Who are you calling a ‘whiny baby’?” 

You turn to face him, already knowing that he has his hands on his hips. “You!”

“You hearing this shit?” He turns to Will who has been silently snickering.

“Every word of it, Pope.” Will comes up and pats you on the back. “Good to see you, hon.”

“You’re going to let her talk to your best friend like that, Catfish?” Pope pouts. 

Frankie carefully sets you down and readjusts his cap. “I couldn’t control her even if I tried.” He shrugs. 

“Come on, Pope.” You lightly push him in the shoulder. “You know I love ya’.” 

Before he gets a chance to respond, a car pulls into the lot extremely fast. Frankie quickly scoops you up and moves over to the side of the parking lot that is closest to Brass Knuckles. You didn’t even have time to process what had just happened, yet the rest of them reacted just as quickly as Frankie did. 

“What kind of idiot drives like that?” You say, trying to get your bearings as you feel your feet touch asphalt again. 

“The kind of idiot with a bone to pick.” Pope mutters. 

When you look around, all three of them are watching the car park in a spot that's a few spaces down from theirs. Nervousness starts to rear its ugly head when you see them all exchange quick glances, followed by nods of their heads. Will is the first to break the silence.

“Why don’t we go inside?” His eyes look like they are pleading with you. “You can show me what still needs to be set up before people start arrivin’ tonight, huh?”

“Wait, what?” 

“That sounds like a good idea.” Frankie confirms, his gaze still fixed on the now unmoving car. He doesn’t sound like himself. “Take her inside.”

“Frankie? What’s going on?” 

He must have heard the quiver in your voice because he turns his attention to you. “I’ll be there in 5 minutes. I just need to take care of something first, okay? Everything is fine.”

“Let's go, hermosa.” You feel Pope's hand come to rest softly on your shoulder. “Please.” He whispers in your ear. 

You have never seen any of them act like this. It’s causing your stomach to turn violently. Three of the toughest men you have ever met getting skittish doesn’t sit right with you. 

“Al-alright.” Pope pushes your body towards the door, but your eyes stay on Frankie. “I’ll be right inside if you need me.” 

“I know, estrella.” A car door slams hard somewhere in front of y’all and his face hardens. “Get her the fuck inside the gym.” 

For the third time in a matter of a few minutes you’re being carried. This time it is compliments of Will. Before you know it, you’re being ushered inside and taken back into the gym. Neither Will nor Pope stop until they approach Benny who is in the middle of cleaning the heavy bags. 

***

The only thing that matters to Frankie is that you’re away from the catastrophe that he knew was about to ensue. He steels his emotions as he watches her round her car from the driver's side. With how quickly she is marching there should have been flames kicking up behind her.

“Francisco fucking Morales!” She screeches. “We need to talk!”

He starts walking towards her. “Yes, Rochelle. We do.”

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

{tag list: @cutesyscreenname @rsquared31 @smol-beb @bitchwitch1981 @avastrasposts @hoeslingz @saltybutteredtoast @javicstories @c-justhere @pimosworld @modernperplexity @beboldbebravethings @mxtokko @moonliqhtszn @tanzthompson @megcads @myloveistoolittle @casa-boiardi @jitterbugs927 @partyofone3413 @pedrit0-pascalit0 @golden-library @pati-et-vivere @mashomasho @lilmizmoz @angstylittlepascal @sofiparallel @selflcontrol @adriennemichelle98 @painitemoondust @pedritosgirl2000 @tpwkmera @romanarose }

[late-to-the-party-81]

You can ring my bell

AN: this is what happens when you see a headcanon on tumblr, share with the group and then get affectionately badgered into writing it…it’s just silly.

Thanks to my cheer-reader @lavenderbuckyy, my beta @alwaysabrighterdarkness and @gay-jewish-bucky for the inspo

This fic also covers the September Adoptable for Stucky Bingo round 5 - “You look so pretty like this.” in place of square G2 on my card (sorry Ice Skater AU) @stuckybingo

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

Master list | Stucky Bingo Master list

Summary: Steve has a Pavlovian response to seeing Bucky tie his hair up.

Word Count: 1.2k

CW: Crack fic, Post EG AU where everyone lived, no-one died and nothing hurts, Horny super boyfriends, Tony is done, implied sexy times, everywhere, they are an HR nightmare, referenced 1940’s homophobia, brief references to Hydra control, Bucky is a little shit, Steve is so gone on Bucky, Nat knows what’s up (when does she not?)

It wasn’t hard for anyone to notice, now that the final battle against Thanos had been won and the world was getting slowly back onto an even keel, how happy Bucky and Steve were.

Neither of them could believe that they got to live openly together now and with Bucky being (mostly) recovered they were taking advantage of it whenever and wherever they could. 

Loudly.

Often.

Sometimes in places around the compound they really shouldn’t.

Tony had mentioned, in one of his dressings-down to the two of them, that he was starting to think that Sexual Harassment training had been invented because of horny supersoldiers. Apparently now there were ‘things he couldn’t un-see’… Which is why, he said, pink-faced, that whenever the two semi-stable centenarians weren’t in the privacy of their own rooms he had FRIDAY discreetly keep track of their vitals, and block others entering the area Steve and Bucky were in if their life signs… elevated. Tony also announced that he’d given the cleaning staff a raise. Bucky and Steve should have, in theory, been sorry, but they weren’t. Bucky still remembers how he and Steve had just looked at each other and started giggling, much to Tony’s disgust.

Even when they were keeping it “safe for work”, they were still always touching each other. A hip-pat here, a shoulder clap there. The odd, chaste kiss to the other one's cheek. Movie and game nights were more ‘R rated’, with kissing, cuddling and canoodling. More than once the pair had an empty soda can or cushion thrown at them by one of the others, accompanied by jovial shouts of “Get a room!”. 

Bucky normally flipped whoever it was his middle finger while still making out with Steve and grinding down on his lap. He was enjoying being with his man and couldn’t care less about who knew it. He also didn’t remember the last time he and Steve had seen a group movie all the way through. Normally one or other of them got too wound up and ended dragging the other back to the privacy of their own apartment.

Bucky had heard some of the others talking, debating who was the bad influence on who out of him and Steve. Ha! Nat was the one to point out that the two of them were as bad as each other. As usual, she wasn’t wrong. 

Bucky couldn’t resist Steve when he was trying to concentrate on something, his stoic mask on his face as he tried to be serious. Bucky always wanted to do something - anything - to bring a smile back to Steve’s features. And Steve couldn’t get enough of Bucky, apparently. Steve was a morning person and Bucky was a night owl, something that dated back to the late 1930’s and hadn’t changed over the intervening years. And while Bucky did love his lie-ins, he was never, ever, gonna get upset if Steve woke him up with blowjob, or more.

However, now that they had the opportunity to fully indulge themselves without looking over their shoulders, it didn’t take Bucky long to figure something out about Steve and his sex drive. Apart from the obvious that is. 

Steve had always been ‘hot to trot’, even when he’d been only one hundred pounds and Bucky could tuck him under his arm if he became too uppity. That hadn’t changed post-serum, other than the fact that he, and now Bucky, had a near zero refractory period. No, what Bucky noticed was something different, but just as fun, and was something they would have never discovered back in the day.

Bucky had decided to keep the long hair that he’d grown-out in Wakanda. He’d always liked caring for and styling his hair, even back in the 40’s, but there was something so indulgent about having hair that floated around his shoulders by choice. The ritual of washing, conditioning, detangling and drying his hair helped him to relax and if he was having a bad day, just having Steve brush it for him helped immensely. 

However, long loose hair, no matter how sexy it looked in movies and pornography, just wasn’t practical for sex. Especially super-serum enhanced marathon sex. This meant that whenever he and Steve were getting hot and heavy - hands roaming, clothes loosening - if Bucky’s hair was down, he’d immediately slip the hair tie from his wrist and put his hair up. His go-to was normally a loose bun, but Steve was very fond of a ponytail. For reasons. The tying up of Bucky’s hair signalled to Steve that things were getting serious in the best way, and after that point their activities got a lot more ‘Rated -E’.

What Bucky noticed though, was something that happened one day when they weren’t already at first or second base. Steve was sitting on the sofa, reading through a book on art history. Bucky had been over in the gym, and with his adrenaline high was feeling horny. He’d returned, had a quick shower and then, as he walked out into the lounge, made sure to catch Steve’s eye and then, very pointedly, tie his hair up. For good measure, he’d licked his lower lip too.

The effect was almost instant. Not-so-little-Stevie made his presence known, straining against Steve’s grey sweatpants before Bucky had even made it into the space between Steve’s legs. By the time Bucky’s knees hit the carpet, Steve’s cock was at full mast, ready for whatever was about to happen. Bucky didn’t think much of it at the time - he was rather… busy - but it was an amusing observation all the same. 

A few days later though it happened again and Bucky wasn’t even trying to be tantalising. Steve was in their small kitchen, starting the preparations for dinner, and because most of Steve’s culinary skills were linked to either boiling or over-boiling things, Bucky decided for the sake of his stomach to help out. He stepped up beside Steve, and tied up his hair so it didn’t get in his face. Steve immediately pulled him in for a rough, needy kiss before uttering “You look so pretty like this” and dropping to his knees, hands grabbing at the tie on Bucky’s sweatpants. They ordered take-out that night instead.

However, the first time that Bucky really put two and two together was in the most innocuous of places - the conference room. Tony was talking through the plan for the upcoming mission, in the long winded way only Tony could. The room was stuffy and Bucky was starting to feel a bit warm, so he pulled a hair tie from the pocket of his pants, and looped his hair up. From the corner of his eye he saw Steve shift. That in itself wasn’t an indication of anything, but a few minutes later Steve shifted again. Then uncrossed and recrossed his legs. Then he coughed. Or rather, as Bucky noticed, he let out a small groan that he covered with a cough. 

Bucky turned his head, an inquisitive look of boyfriendly concern on his face, but when he saw what the problem was he thanked god for his poker face, because Steve was sporting a grade-A, top tier boner. It was obscene even though it was still fully covered by Steve’s pants. Bucky wished it weren’t. 

His own dick twitched, and he had to employ all of his old training to stay calm and collected. However, he wouldn’t be James Buchanan Barnes, Little Shit Extraordinaire, if he didn’t take advantage of the situation.

Bucky moved his chair so that he was facing Steve more, but still able to view Tony’s presentation. Then, oh-so-slowly, he slipped off his shoe and stretched his leg out under the table. Steve twitched in his seat as Bucky’s foot met the back of his calf and his eyes were firmly riveted forward indicating to a very amused Bucky that he was desperately trying to keep his composure.  Steve’s brow furrowed and his neck started to flush a delicious shade of pink as Bucky’s foot slid up, and up, and then round. He curled his toes over the top of Steve’s cock, trying not to smirk as Steve coughed again.

As Tony droned on, Bucky kept rocking his foot back and forth, and toying with a lock of his hair, coquettishly. He wasn’t looking directly at Steve, but could feel the heated glances flashed his way, and by the time the meeting came to a close he was finding it difficult to hold back a grin. When the others stood up and started to file out, Bucky removed his foot, grabbed the case file that was in front of him, opened it and pulled his chair up close to Steve’s.

“Steve, I think we should go through our part of the plan. Make sure we’re 100 percent in sync.” Bucky pointedly ignored the knowing eyebrow Nat raised at him as she strolled out. 

“Good idea, Buck.” Steve’s voice was sinfully low and rough, and Bucky knew this was going to be good. Hooray for lube packets that could be as easily stashed as knives…

Five minutes later FRIDAY put the conference room into lockdown and deposited a bonus in the cleaning staff's accounts.

From then on, Bucky had to think very carefully before he put his hair up. It wouldn’t do for Steve to be getting a boner in the middle of a battle, but  afterward, in the jet? Well that was another thing altogether, even if Tony did chew them both out afterwards.

Tag list: @km-ffluv, @christywrites, @alexakeyloveloki, @doasyoudesireandlive

To get on my tag list, see my master list.

[wordsofhoneydew]

happy friday!!

put on your fucking seatbelts y’all because these fics will have you screaming, crying, throwing up, hyperventilating and climbing the fucking walls

read the tags. some of these have kinks that not everyone is into, so just make sure you know what you’re stepping into! the other half of these are just fluff fluff fluff!! enjoy!

home is where i’m with you by @luainthewild

where alex seeks the meaning of home and finds it in Henry's arms.

OR: Henry has to spend Christmas alone; Alex refuses and invites him to Texas. Ensue family crack, a lof of fluff, sexy dancing and love confession on a christmas card.

(We) Loved Her First by @hgejfmw-hgejhsf

When I thought about all of the things I wanted to say to you both today, my initial urge was to write a letter. I could borrow Dad’s fountain pen from his top desk drawer and watch the ink soak slowly into the cardstock paper, to blow it dry and carefully crease it in three places before sliding it into an envelope and sealing it with the wax seal Papa bought a few years back, that he said we could use to send our Christmas cards to Sandringham in a more formal way so that Uncle Pip wouldn’t expect to find us wearing matching Christmas tree onesies inside.

But then I realized, a letter isn’t your style. It isn’t our style. Your story, the same story weaved together countless times throughout my life into a tapestry of your love that blanketed me at night whenever I needed comforting, was told through a series of pixels swirling through the air and crossing the void of space and time within moments. So, I decided it was only fitting to continue that tradition and to follow in your footsteps…an email, it is.

OR

Alex and Henry's daughter sends them an email just before they walk her down the aisle on her wedding day.

we might just get away with it by smc_27

Henry is the most gorgeous man Alex has ever seen. And Alex has seen a lot of gorgeous men. He’s a fucking model.

“This is Henry Fox-Mountchristen,” Prada’s current PR lead says, and Alex smiles and pushes his hand out. “He’s a journalist covering the merger.”

Alex doesn’t know what merger or what it would have to do with Paris Fashion Week. But he does know that Henry holding a glass of champagne as he shakes Alex’s hand is maybe the sexiest thing ever, and there is just no explanation for that.

“Hi. I’m Alex.”

Henry says, “I know,” and then does this weird, forced smile at Bianca and walks away.

Alex doesn’t know how to like, not be completely obsessed with things he wants.

OR, Alex is a model. Henry is a journalist, and a bit of an asshole. Alex wants him anyway, even when it doesn’t feel good.

Leave A Message by @sherryvalli

"This is Alex Claremont-Diaz's phone. If it's a business matter, I don't know how you got ahold of this number, but if you have my number that means you probably have Zahra's. Call her instead. If you're friends or family, just text me. If you're anyone else, I'll call you back as soon as I can."

Or: Alex's voicemail message over the years, and the messages people leave for him.

in the dead of night by @littlemisskittentoes

“Hm, am I still dreaming, or is there very pretty boy playing with me under the covers?” Alex’s voice is gruff. Its edges are coated in lingering sleep, and the drowsy-slow pull of the words lulls them to a deeper accent than he usually lets slip through. The syrupy drawl skitters the length of Henry’s spine.

or, Henry knows he can always rely on Alex to tire him out when sleep is far off.

[yearnforag0ny]

The MD and DVM; Chapter 1

Author’s note: hii omg this is the first fanfiction I’ve written in about five years now loool…I wrote this because I’ve never seen a harvey fic where the farmer is a veterinarian, and I have seen many questionable things said about farming. I work on a farm, and I am working towards going to veterinary school, so I felt my knowledge might contribute to a unique Harvey fic lol correct me if I’m wrong, tho, and please let me know if I should continue this! Crossposted on ao3 under xxdeaduniverse.

spring 1

You had always loved your grandfather’s property. His death almost broke you. However, you were delighted to find that he had left you his farm, Cinnamon Meadow. It was a quiet slice of heaven nestled away in Pelican Town. It still had all its old charm, just some added overgrowth and a lack of crops and animals. 

You graduated from veterinary school a couple of years ago. Visiting your grandfather’s farm ignited your love for animals, and it only grew the older you became. After eight years, you earned a bachelor’s degree in animal science and were officially a doctor in veterinary medicine. 

Since your veterinary school was near Zuzu City, you picked up a job offer at a clinic in the heart of the city and worked almost exclusively with dogs and cats. It was incredibly fun; however, you had forgotten your initial dream of working with farm animals instead of small ones. So when your grandfather died, you were happy to see he left you the farm in his will. While living in Zuzu City, you would visit Pelican Town every so often to say hello to your grandfather, but more so because Marnie was a client of yours. She called you whenever her animals were having the slightest of health issues. You were happy to answer her calls because it meant you would see cows, catch up with Marnie, and say hello to your grandfather. 

You sighed while you stood on the porch of your grandfather’s old house, which was technically yours now. It was a beautiful spring day. You didn’t realize how much you had missed the sounds of birds chirping. 

Marnie interrupted your peace by slamming the front door on her way out of the house. 

“Whoops! Didn’t mean to let that door slam,” She chuckled. You smiled at her. You were so grateful she agreed to help you move your stuff today. 

“Well, that was the last box,” She sighed in relief. “I’ve gotta run. Shane has to work a shift at JojaMart, and I need to watch Jas. You should stop by Robin’s house today so she can start building you a coop!” Marnie exclaimed, smiling at you.

 “Yeah, I probably will. I want to get this place up and running as soon as possible,” You said, looking out onto the land again.

“I’ll be at the saloon Friday night. You should stop by and introduce yourself to everyone then,” suggested Marnie. 

“That’s a good idea, actually. Gives me enough time to do some work and mentally prepare to meet all the new people,” You chuckled. Marnie rolled her eyes. 

“They’ll love you. Just come by whenever you’re ready, okay?” She winked at you before walking off towards her farm.

You waved goodbye and groaned once you realized you would have to clear some overgrowth to build a chicken coop. You cracked your knuckles, grabbed your axe from the porch, and got to work.

A couple of hours of hard work later, you had a small clearing of land by the farmhouse. You decided that would be enough hard work for today, you weren’t sure when Robin would close up, and you haven’t unpacked anything in your house at all. You set the axe back on your porch and made yourself look somewhat presentable. You noticed your cat, Horace, had already taken a liking to the new digs. He had plopped himself on top of a pile of boxes. Horace was a fat, tuxedo tabby cat and essentially your best friend since you had adopted him your junior year of college. You gave him a pat on the head before heading out to Robin’s.

You admired the peace on your walk to the mountains. At some point, the hours must have melted away because three o’clock. You finally noticed how tired you were from moving in and doing physical work on the land. However, your dreams of dozing away were cut short. The walk to Robin’s was not as long as you had anticipated, though, as her house suddenly appeared hidden behind pine trees. You took a moment to admire her house, assuming she had built it herself. Wooden with a blue roof. You liked it. Once you spotted the telescope on the left, you immediately wondered how beautiful the skies must be here. You hadn’t seen a sky free of light pollution in years.

You cautiously opened the front door to see a counter with a ginger woman standing on the other side reading a newspaper. She looked up when the door opened, smiling at you. 

“You must be Y/N! I’m so glad to meet you finally. I heard someone was moving into Cinnamon Meadow, but I didn’t know so soon. I’m Robin,” She said, coming out behind the counter to shake your hand. You shook it, happy to realize she wasn’t startled by some stranger entering her home. You smiled at her.

 “Hi. Marnie said to come see you if I wanted anything built, so here I am,” You chuckled. Robin looked delighted. 

“Well, sure! What were you wanting to have built?” She eagerly questioned. It was easy to see she was excited; not many villagers in Pelican Town needed new construction. 

“I’m going to get Cinnamon Meadow up and running again, so I’ll need a new chicken coop. And then a barn. And probably house renovations. I need a lot done,” You sheepishly rubbed your neck, wondering if this was too much to request all at once. Robin defied you and lit up even more. 

“Great! I can get started on the chicken coop tomorrow!” She exclaimed. 

“Deal.”

~

After paperwork and settling payments, you returned to Cinnamon Meadow to continue yardwork. You felt so relieved that the coop wasn’t too expensive to build. You had been saving up since you paid off your tuition, and you were finally happy to invest some of the funds into your future. Around six o’clock, your exhaustion won over your ambition, and you decided to settle down for the night. You unpacked enough kitchen supplies to scrounge up some frozen dinner, took a hot shower, and promptly fell asleep with Horace in your small bed around eight.

You slept better than you had in ages. You even had a dream where your farm was complete, cows and all. But you knew something was missing. Or rather, a special someone. What was the farm if you had no one to share it with? You thought to yourself within your dream. You had always told yourself you didn’t need to be with someone, that as long as you made yourself happy, it was all that mattered. But you still ached for it. Your dream was cut short by a particular fat cat lightly smacking your cheek. 

“What the–Horace!” You exclaimed.

 “I was sleeping so well…” You sighed. You checked the time on your phone. 6 AM? Might as well get up now and get some yardwork done I guess… You thought to yourself with an elongated yawn. You realized you were a little sore from all the work yesterday. You groaned, knowing there would be more to come today. Slowly, you pulled yourself out of bed and organized some food for Horace. As expected, he flew to his breakfast and you figured you should do the same for yourself. A cup of coffee and one granola bar later, you pulled on your favorite pair of overalls and stretched. Today was going to be long. You intended to clear more of the land and buy and plant seeds.

You headed outside to start working and saw Robin hammering away at the coop. Her enthusiasm for her work made you smile. 

“Morning, Robin! Any coffee for you?” You greeted. 

“NO THANKS!” She yelled back with a smile. You wondered why she was screaming before noticing she was wearing headphones. You chuckled, grabbed your axe, and went straight to work.

Around one, you figured you should take a break to go to the store. You briefly recall Marnie mentioning a place called Pierre’s. After trading your axe for your wallet, you started heading in the general direction of town. It was another beautiful day. Are all the days here going to be as lovely as they have been? You wondered, smiling to yourself. You noticed that the change of scenery from moving here had already positively affected you.

You walked into town and focused on the square before you. It's small but adorable. Lamposts and trees lined the square, along with a few buildings. The one before you was the doctor’s clinic, with Pierre’s store on the other side. You briefly wondered about the town doctor for a moment. You knew you should get yourself checked up sooner rather than later. After doing farm research in your undergrad, you unfortunately found out the hard way that farm work was no joke. You filed away this thought for later and walked into Pierre’s.

The general store was small but had everything you could ever need. The older gentleman with glasses behind the single register smiled at you.

 “You must be the new farmer! Y/N right? I’m Pierre. It’s so nice to have somebody new in town!” He exclaimed. You wondered when the last time somebody new moved into Pelican Town. 

“Yeah, I’m Y/N. It’s nice to meet you,” You smiled back. 

“I’m so sorry to hear about your grandfather. He was a great man. Sold me the best crops,” Pierre sighed. You felt a tinge of grief bite at you, pushing it away immediately. 

“He was a good man. I fully intend to restore the farm, though, so I’ll have some crops for you,” You chuckled. Remembering what you came here for, you grabbed a bunch of random seed packets and essentials for your kitchen. You accidentally bumped into a woman with bright green hair in one of the aisles. You quickly learned she was Pierre’s wife, Caroline. 

“You should come to the aerobics class here on Tuesdays! Great way to get to know everyone,” She smiled. The thought of any more exercise than you already had to do on the farm made you cringe. 

“Maybe,” you tentatively said before mentioning it was good to meet her and heading to checkout. You went right home afterward, excited to plant your new seeds. You may have been a little ambitious when you started tilling the dirt; the field you created was large. You also knew if you wanted to make money anytime soon, it would be from crops.

It took forever to till, plant, and water the field. By the time it was 6, you were wiping sweat off your brow and decided that was all you could take today. You headed into your house to make a proper dinner from the groceries you picked up at Pierre’s today: homemade pizza. You savored every bite—your first meal in your first owned house. The thought made you smile. After a shower, you watched TV, cuddling Horace before finally falling asleep for the night.

The following two days seemed to blur together. At some point, you went to Marnie’s to catch up and buy chickens after Robin was done with the coop. You were overjoyed to finally have animals back on the farm and made a mental note to return to Robin’s on Monday to have her start building a barn. However, today was Friday. The day you were going to the saloon. You thought about it–stressed about it–while doing your farm chores that morning. Was everyone going to like you? Would they insist on kicking you out of Pelican Town? Or would you drink enough to forget these irrational thoughts and let go? You decided on the latter. 

By the time five o’clock rolled around, you had showered and started getting ready for your first night out on the town. You threw on your favorite pair of jeans and a sweater with some jewelry. After a little makeup and tweaking your hair, you decided you were ready.

Walking out the door, you felt a cold spring breeze on your back. You were immediately grateful you picked a sweater. As you walked towards the saloon, you looked up at the sky. The sun had just begun to set. It was your favorite time of day. A part of you felt like having drinks on your porch alone instead of being crowded by strangers in a bar, but you knew better than to be a hermit tonight. You had told Marnie you would be there, so you would. 

You could hear faint music and laughter inside as you approached the saloon. A warm glow of light emitted from the windows. You took a deep breath and walked in. The villagers were having so much fun not many even noticed you came in except Marnie. She sat in the center of the bar, smiling and waving at you. A wave of relief washed over you. You smiled and sat down 

next to her.

“I’m so glad you came! I’ll have to introduce you to everyone,” She said, handing you a glass of wine—even more relief. You gulped to soothe your nerves. One by one, Marnie introduced you to some people in the town. You knew you would struggle to remember some of their names after tonight. You met Emily, tending the bar, along with Gus. Leah, an artist who had also moved to the valley from the city. Pam, who seemed like the local drunk. Willy, a sweet fisherman. Marnie pointed out other people; you determined Demetrius was married to Robin because they were dancing together. Some younger kids in the other room were Sebastian, Sam, and Abigail. A young woman with glasses suddenly sat herself next to you.

 “Marnie, is this the new farmer we’ve all been hearing about?” She questioned, smiling at you. 

“Yup! Y/N, meet Maru,” Marnie motioned to her. 

“Hi,” you shyly said with a smile.

 “Y/N is a veterinarian,” Marnie blurted out. You nodded. 

“Good to have another scientist in town,” Maru giggled. “Dr. Y/N, then?” She asked. You laughed. 

“Oh, no, please don’t call me doctor…except when I’m looking at your animals,” You winked, and they laughed. Maru looked in the other direction of the bar, and you saw something go off in her brain.

“I should introduce you to the only other doctor in town,” Maru giggled. 

“Oh, sure, I’ve meant to meet them, actually,” You nodded. Maru took your hand and led you to a table near the jukebox. At the table sat two men having wine. One had long hair and wore a reddish coat, the other with glasses and a mustache wearing a green coat. Before you had time to think further, Maru set her hands down on the table. 

“Gentlemen, this is Y/N. She just moved into Cinnamon Meadow. Harvey, she is also a doctor,” Maru said with a smirk. You briefly wondered which one she was talking to before the man in the glasses smiled. 

“Is that right? I’m the town’s doctor, Harvey,” He introduced himself. You were taking him in. Handsome. Really handsome. It didn’t help you had a thing for mustaches, but he was also smart, evidently. 

“I’m a veterinarian. I planned on getting my MD for a while but decided I liked animals more than people,” This raised a laugh out of them all. 

“Good to meet you, doctor Y/N,” Harvey said, sipping his wine. The man with the long hair introduced himself as Elliott. You immediately let his name slip your mind because you were considering how you would further get to know Harvey. Marnie interrupted your thoughts by calling for you from the bar. 

“Y/N! Come here, you gotta tell me what breed of cows you want to invest in!!” You blushed. 

“I suppose I’ll see you later,” You said, mainly to Harvey. You could feel the alcohol working its way into your system, so it was probably best you get away from him now before you were completely drunk. Harvey looked a little disappointed. 

“Be sure to come see me some time to get checked up,” He quickly mentioned. You nodded, smiling; maybe you weren’t just delusional, and he thought the same about you. You walked back to Marnie, but every fiber of your being wanted to stay and have another drink with him.

[barbex]

Happy Friday! I'd love to see some Hawke and sibling of your choice with the prompt: "The pain of parting is nothing to the joy of being again" - Charles Dickens

Thank you for this prompt for @dadrunkwriting! It's been sitting here since... August, oh dear.

Somehow, it turned into a Carver x Nathaniel fic. Funny things happen when I start writing.

---

Weisshaupt is a fortress, massive and cold. Its whole appearance is not welcoming, telling any visitor to stay away. Carver patrols the upper battlement, glancing through the gaps between the crenels. It's not a very exciting assignment. Rarely does anyone travel though the desert or tries to climb the jagged edges of the Broken Tooth. He focuses on where he places his feet, there's a crack going through the stones, like the wall had been hit by lightning. It's an ancient wound, dirt has settled in the cracks and plants dug their roots in. There's even a little tree sprouting.

"We have to get that tree out," a voice says somewhere in the shadows. The sun is setting, providing convenient hiding places for capable rogues. 

"Nathaniel, Sir," Carver says, straightening his back.

"I'm off duty, don't Sir me."

"Sorry." Carver glances back and forth, wondering what one of the highest ranking wardens is doing out here. Not to mention the prettiest, which is Carver's very personal opinion. "Do you want me to rip that tree out?"

A smile plays on Nathaniel's lips. "Rip it out? Just like that?"

Carver falters. This would be something that Hawke does, loud and confident. Hawke would grab that tree and even if he failed at ripping it out, he would laugh and make a big show of it and everyone would laugh with him. But Hawke isn't here. He glances back at Nathaniel. The warden still watches him with that pretty smile. He doesn't smile often. Carver takes a breath. "I can try."

"Knock yourself out."

Nathaniel leans against the wall of the tower, crossing his arms with a sceptical smile. Carver leans his sword against the wall and flexes his gloved hands. Bending his knees, he goes low, grabs the small tree right above the base and uses the strength of his legs to push himself upwards, keeping his back straight. The tree resists, the roots holding firm, and Carver takes another breath and pulls once more as he breathes out. With a sound like ripping paper, the tree gives up, roots snapping as he stands up and pulls it from the crack.

"Maker's breath." Nathaniel's voice is closer than he expected, right next to him. He left his watch post at the tower and his hand almost touches Carver's arm.

Nobody can blame him that he flexes his muscles just a bit more. 

"You are... what is that?"

Reeling from the sudden change, Carver blinks against the sun, looking in the direction Nathaniel is pointing at. "A rider."

"He looks like he's gonna fall off his horse any moment." Nathaniel strides towards the tower, gesturing for Carver to follow. "Let's see who it is." 

Nathaniel doesn't have his bow, trusting Carver to protect them both. It's possible that Carver puffs up his chest just a little bit more. At the gate, Nathaniel stands at his elbow, close enough that he can smell him. It distracts him for a moment, more than he likes to admit, but then — the horse comes to a stop in front of them, the rider hanging over its neck. But even from that angle, the shoulders, the hair, the beard — he would recognise this man anywhere.

"Hawke?"

Nathaniel's head snaps around. "Hawke? Another Hawke?"

Carver is at the horse's side in an instant, dragging his brother down onto his feet. 

"Water for horse and rider!" Nathaniel calls out and soon there's a bustle of activity around them, someone taking the horse, someone handing him a water bottle and Carver just can't let go. Regardless of the many fights they had and the horrible way they had to part in the Deep Roads, now he can't let go. 

"Hey, little shithead," Hawke mumbles after finishing the water bottle, leaning heavily on Carver.

"Hey, you stupid lump." He wraps his arm tighter around the man, ignoring dirt and poky armor. "I thought I'll never see you again."

"You know me, I'm hard to kill." 

"Garrett Hawke, I presume," Nathaniel says, his eyes flitting from one brother to the other. "I'd like our healers to take a look at you and give you a chance to clean up before you tell me why you're here." 

Carver loosens his grip on Hawke's shoulder to step back. That's how it's always been, Hawke the centre of attention, Carver watching his back. He doesn't miss the interest in Nathaniel's eyes as he looks at his brother. That's also how it's always been. 

"Wouldn't mind a bath, that's for sure," Hawke says. 

Nathaniel waves someone over, sending them off with Hawke towards the healer. Carver starts to follow, more out of habit, but Nathaniel calls him back.

"Carver."

"Sir?"

A gentle smile spreads on Nathaniel's face. "Still no need to Sir me. I wanted..." His gaze glides away, up the tapestry with the warden symbols on the wall. "I know you probably want to spend time with your brother but I wanted to ask you if you'd have some time, later on, for a pint or two."

"Me?" He must look quite dumb, because Nathaniel smiles at him.

"Yes."

Now he can't help but smile too. "Yes, a pint with you, that sounds great."

Nathaniel brushes his shoulder as he walks past. "Looking forward to it." 

With a swing in his step, Carver goes to find his brother.