#post war modern cologne

[dashalbrundezimmer]

mauritiuswall // köln mauritiusviertel

time and again you come across hidden gems of modern architecture in cologne. it's worth wandering through the side streets and discovering them.

immer wieder stößt man in köln auf versteckte kleinode der modernen architektur egal welcher stilrichtung. es lohnt sich durch die nebenstraßen zu streifen und sie zu entdecken.

#brutalism #brutalismus #architecture #photography #architecture photography #design #cologne #köln #köln mauritiusviertel #nrw #rhineland #nachkriegsmoderne #nachkriegsmoderne köln #nachkriegsmoderne rheinland #nachkriegsmoderne deutschland #nachkriegsarchitektur #nachkriegsarchitektur köln #nachkriegsarchitektur deutschland #nachkriegsarchitektur rheinland #post war modern #post war architecture #post war architecture rhineland #post war modern rhineland #germany #post war achitecture cologne #post war modern cologne #post war modern germany #post war architecture germany #brutalismus germany

[ugh-yoongi]

a word from our sponsors | knj

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah, Jungkook.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s cute.”

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

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

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

“Sick name.”

“Number three, Toddler.”

“Toddler?”

“Number two, Flat.”

“Just Flat? Understandable.”

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

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

“Tabby,” Jungkook chimes in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And second of all?”

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

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

“Subbed or dubbed, though?”

“Are you trying to get me canceled?”

“Absolutely.”

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

“Talking about cats is a waste of time?”

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

“Like what?”

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

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

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

“—one should we start with?”

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

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

“Who?”

“What?”

“Who is Taryn Manning?”

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

“The Britney Spears movie?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. Weird, okay. Continue.”

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

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

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

“What? Namjoon, what in the fuck—”

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

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

“No it’s not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s that?”

“Your sun, moon, and rising signs.”

“How do I find that out?”

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

Namjoon rattles off a time.

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

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

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

“Haaa, that’s not—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To your left, Jungkook scoffs.

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

“No,” you interject.

“Can I finish?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You groan. “Oh my god.”

Ep: #183 - Namjoon is a Virgin

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

You think about the cat thing for nearly a week.

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

It’s just—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You going out of town again?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not lounging,” Jungkook argues.

“You’re manspreading all over the leather!”

“This is how I sit!”

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

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

“What?”

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

Namjoon blinks. “Watch… watch a movie?”

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

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

“Uh-huh. Anyway—”

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

“Oh! Yeah, of course—”

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

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

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

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

“What is this?”

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

“I can see that, but… why?”

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

“Jungkook, this is fanfiction about me.”

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

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

“Oh my god?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

About us.

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

“I—what?”

“It’s about us,” Namjoon repeats.

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

“Can you not—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s just a story.

Fiction.

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

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

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

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

What will they know of Namjoon, though?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a completely normal question.

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

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

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

You swallow. Hard.

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

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

He moves it an inch to the left.

—

Things are tense, to say the least.

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

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

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

Showtime.

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

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

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

“—Jungkook had. Right, Piper?”

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

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

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

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

“Are you sure? We can—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh-huh.”

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

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

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

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

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

It sounds like a challenge.

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

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

“Gummy bear?”

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

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

He continues:

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

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

“Fuck off.”

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

You’ve completely forgotten how to breathe.

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

It works. “No,” he scowls.

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

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

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

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

Then he reads—

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

—and everything goes right out the fucking window.

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

“That is why we’re here.”

“Last chance to back out.”

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

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

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

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

“This is so embarrassing,” he whines.

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

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

“See? Not as easy as it looks.”

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

“Y-yeah. Alcohol sounds good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is very, very bad.

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

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

“Mhm. Yep. Yes, please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namjoon gags. “I asked you what—”

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

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

You do not get through recording unscathed.

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

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

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

The two of you had sex.

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

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

(Unsurprisingly, that friendship had not lasted.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ve never been nervous to see Namjoon before.

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

Today, it feels more like thirty-five seconds.

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

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

Except it isn’t.

Because Namjoon looks… different.

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

Today, he wears none of those things.

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t get any better.

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

Thirty-five minutes back home.

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

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

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

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

That’ll cure you.

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

Needless to say, nothing cures you.

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

Except—you’re not.

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

“Where’s Namjoon?”

Jungkook shrugs. “Dunno. Not here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are fucked beyond belief.

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

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

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

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

“I forgot them.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Joon—”

“Namjoon, and my co-host here is—”

“Joon, that’s not—”

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

“That’s not the name of our podcast.”

“Huh?”

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

“Is it? Since when?”

“Since forever?”

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

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

Yoongi comes on Saturday afternoon to pick up Holly.

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

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

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

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

“Not with you, preferably.”

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

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

No fucking way.

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

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

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

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

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

“Podcast work, and obviously the Whitney version.”

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

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

“How weird?”

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

He shrugs. “I’m not denying it.”

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

“About you and Namjoon?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my god—”

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

“Oh my god—”

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

“Oh my god?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Min Yoongi is a bastard.

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

You want to fuck Namjoon.

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

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

And then someone knocks on your door.

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

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

“Uh, hi.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you sure?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because you’re the problem.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s no wonder you mishear him.

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

Namjoon stops dead in his tracks. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinks. “Jesus Christ.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Um—”

“Holy shit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s a beat of silence, and then—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was that okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What the fuck are you wearing—”

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

It’s seamless.

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

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

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

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

“Did you? How’d it go?”

“Perfect.”

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

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

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

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

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

[masterbaiting]

so for the past couple weeks at uni i have been wearing an outfit inspired by each of the bbc ghosts ghosts! i actually have had the time of my life putting these together, i’m so so excited to finally be able to post these!!

my favourite little details are ummm mary’s period-accurate (men’s) shirt i already had made, cap’s aeroplane cufflinks from my grandfather, pat’s arrow necklace, and julian’s buttplug-reminiscient and vodka earrings :>

ramblings and some extra pictures under the cut

robin; unfortunately you can’t see it under my (fake) fur scarf, but the necklace there is a real wallaby rib!!

humphrey; idk something a little ironic probably about the cross necklace. that ring is a little locket one which i thought fit the Plotting vibes... would have poison in it if only he knew what was going on.

mary; this one is the closest to historically accurate! the shirt is a men’s one and is based on a pattern from 1580-1600, and i handsewed it entirely!!! it’s made from linen. also love the little waterwheel house necklace :)

kitty; the pearly earrings are from the versailles gift shop website and are based on some that marie antoinette wore i believe. late 1700s tease.

thomas; the waistcoat is also handmade by me, though not period accurate or handsewn. was what i wore for my grade 12 formal lol.

cap; the army pants are real modern australian army ones i got from the op shop LOL. again the cufflinks are sooo cute and my grandfather’s, i wish i knew when they were from but they so give idk. war vibes.

pat; the scout patches are the welcome to night vale ones!!

julian; definitely my favourite outfit, though i’m pleased with all of them!! the cologne is 4711 and i wore it bc it’s my only cologne and it makes me feel sooo masc. also i wish julian would wear a miniskirt.

here is an extra thomas pic i adored bc funny and an alt pat fit! that’s a little wattle branch on the shirt.

#hi i am extremely autistic and extremely proud of these #bbc ghosts #robin #humphrey bone #mary #annie #kitty #thomas thorne #fanny button #the captain #pat butcher #julian fawcett #six idiots #idk what else to tag. litchreally d*sneybounding for bbc ghosts #my posts #outfits #ootd #cosplay #LOOK its NOT but you know #WAIT SOMEONE IN THE TAGS SAID #GHOSTBOUNDING #REALLL!!!!!

[containatrocity]

THE DESPERADO: VICTOR "ZIGGY" CALHOUN

Outrunning karma, that boy He's such a charmer. All the bugs and their larva, follow him out to Colorado. Ten dozen hearts in a bag Their bodies lying, he'll drag them down to Colorado- A modern desperado.

"Victor Calhoun- most everybody just calls me Ziggy. I'm 40 years old, and Huntsville born and raised. Up til about 12 years ago, I called Huntsville home, and as an enforcer for the local biker gang I made certain our crew was paid out to on time- through any means necessary. In April of 2012, I was arrested as an accessory to murder, And served a 10 year sentence in state prison. I've been a free man for the last eight months, and have taken a job as a long haul truck driver. But I guess that's then, and this is now. I live in town, with no job to speak of. My greatest vice has always been my Haste to act out in violence when the going gets tough."

Name: Victor Robert Calhoun

Aliases: Vic, Bear (Among the Devil Dogs), Ziggy (From the other truckers at his company.)

Age: 40 (January 22nd.)

Sexuality/Gender: Bisexual Cis Man

Personality: while previously a violent, unkind young man with a propensity for bullying, harassment, and a full-willingness to get involved in a physical altercation as a way to pass time- it was the murder he'd be sent to prison for involvement in that would change him entirely. After ten years serving a sentence and doing his level best to keep his head down, he's come out the other side largely repentant, desperately trying to flip the karmic scales back into balance with what he believes is very little time remaining- Huntsville being an inescapable Hell containing the people he'd spent his early life making miserable, however, seems to have kicked the sympathetic engine into overdrive- He's desperately clinging to a measured, calmer temperament, but old habits die hard, and he has a tendency to flick to violence if a conversation becomes too difficult to solve with words and he can't beat a hasty escape.

Occupation: Unemployed handyman, largely living off what he's made trading and helping distribute the supplies he arrived with to the townspeople, former long-haul trucker.

Affiliations: Ex-Devil Dog Enforcer.

Scent Profile: He smells of cigarette smoke and leather, the still-present smell of mass produced cologne and soap he's not yet run out of given the recentness of his arrival. Vaguely of dog, thanks to Cash, as well as wood-shavings and motor oil, always somewhat dirty with one or the other thanks to the much lower supply of things like clothes he'd had with him for the drive he was making.

Aesthetic: A perfectly lacquered guitar and a baseball bat cracked and splintered, the rumble of a Harley's engine and the low din of a biker bar, the stale smell of liquor lingering. Blood and busted knuckles, bite marks and scars earned in love and war- the devil's right hand, the muscle. The bite of metal handcuffs and the murmur of a courtroom- the foreman's verdict as good as a guillotine for your freedom. Something you can't shake, about the incident that put you here. A decade of bars, a bird in a cage with a cracked and broken beak. when the door's finally slipped open, you fly free- not for long, Karma circles back- a Hell tailored to you. New names don't destroy what you damaged to start anew.

He's never gonna make it, all the poor people he's forsaken, karma Is always gonna chase him for his lies. It's just a game of waiting, from the church steeple down to Satan, karma. There's really no escaping 'til he dies.

CHAPTER ONE: LIFE IN HUNTSVILLE POST PARADOX

An incredibly recent arrival to Huntsville, Victor Calhoun- better known now by his call-sign for the trucking company that employs him, "Ziggy," Has only been free on parole for a short time, not even a full year of freedom before winding up in Huntsville once again- a place he'd called home until his sentencing in early 2012. it's a momentary detour- intending to just drive through town and see what had changed in his absence while making a long haul trip in the area to deliver the first stock truck for a CVS opening in West Virginia- he found himself circling town in the dim light of the evening- Cash growing more and more uneasy alongside him in the cab, ears pinned back and gaze set on the forest beyond.

It's on loop 3 he begins to feel as if he might be going crazy- a mental break brought on by returning home- a HAM radio no longer pinging the dispatch for his trucking company- faces starting to appear out of houses and businesses, at the heady rumble of the truck's engine. It's only when he's waved to stop that he grabs the shotgun from under his seat and disembarks the truck- demands to know what's going on- and why everyone's staring at him. It's a former classmate who barks his name first. Oh fuck me, it's Vic Calhoun. Just leave him to the ghosts, Mayor. It's disbelief, as the sheriff explains what's going on and people who's faces he somewhat remembers eye the truck like a flock of vultures.

He plants the butt of the gun in the chest of one of the approaching townspeople headed for the truck's back hatch hisses at them to fuck off- listens to whispers, murmurs of interest- of concern, about a commune, about the town- about the mayor. His head spins- He listens to Nat.

It's been only a small handful of days, now, and he's settled in his childhood home- parents long dead, brother just the same- he supposed it explains why they never wrote. His ownership over the keys to the freighter and the shipping manifest remains his only real leverage, for now, and while he's happy to help- He's made it clear that he's not about to let himself be screwed over- insisting Nat and Sunflower "work their shit out" and come to an agreement for the supplies split before a war breaks out over something only he can open...

and he wants first dip, of the townsfolk, of course.

#v.threads #v.aesthetic #v.headcanons #v.music #v.bio #huntsvilleintro #Karmic Retribution;

[kallistcs]

Sense and other specific headcanon

WHAT DOES YOUR MUSE SMELL LIKE? Usually, nothing much. He doesn't tend to use cologne or such. For when Adonis is topside, sunlight and crushed green, as if he has been rolling in newly cut grass, kind of. Vaguely, dried flowers, ever since he was little. guess why.

WHAT DO YOUR MUSE’S HANDS FEEL LIKE? Smooth, with some callouses. He'd managed to work up some in the ~two years before he died thanks to Apollo and Heracles' training. Those he kept after being resurrected and made immortal.

WHAT DOES YOUR MUSE USUALLY EAT IN A DAY? Usually, a little ambrosia and nectar, though after becoming immortal he hardly needs to eat as often as he does. It's habit! Adonis loves to snack, too, and that can be anything from more divine-type sustenance to mortal food, which, while it can be sweets or something salty because he does like that, usually it'll be things like half a cucumber, or apples or pears.

DOES YOUR MUSE HAVE A GOOD SINGING VOICE? It's... acceptable. With proper coaching Adonis can sing surprisingly well, but he's not really a natural.

DOES YOUR MUSE HAVE ANY BAD HABITS OR NERVOUS TICKS? Not anything that stands out!

WHAT DOES YOUR MUSE USUALLY LOOK LIKE / WEAR?  Ancient-wise (which would've been from post-Trojan war and forwards), whatever was current that his parents dressed him in (or that he then dressed himself in). I imagine he wore darker colours as a child because of that? Modern-wise... worn jeans, t-shirts etc. He likes it simple and is really fond of how easy that is now, since there were a couple trends and styles through history that was way too elaborate and complicated for his taste. He does pretty often dress in chiton while at home or on Olympus, still, because he likes that.

IS YOUR MUSE AFFECTIONATE? HOW SO? Adonis definitely can be very affectionate, but this is with people he already knows and are close to. Otherwise he's rather reticent.

WHAT POSITION DOES YOUR MUSE SLEEP IN? He moves around on the bed as if it's a nightly battle and he's losing. :) Back, stomach, sides... he cycles through them all at some point. Unless he's sleeping with someone else, in their arms. If you're sharing a bed with Adonis you really do want to basically be hugging him the whole night through, unless you're fine with lots of shifting about.

COULD YOU HEAR YOUR MUSE IN THE HALLWAY FROM ANOTHER ROOM? Not really, no. Not even if he's angry. Adonis isn't quiet as such, but he's not loud, either.

tagged by: @unseenking (because I wanted to, so!) tagging: @saccharic @tobedisastrous @fadedpath

#alive underground: headcanon

[banthacakes]

friday morning fic recs

sup my little pademelons. life is a lot, so i'm gonna do a weekly ish rec list of things i have read and loved. mostly it will be fic, but it might also be articles, like the one about the cows (see end of post).

Game of Thrones

Great Golden Fool, by Aviss - Post going to see Stoneheart, Jaime is a jerk with growth. Jaime/Brienne

breath and bone, by jencat - Modern AU full of GRIEF and beautiful landscapes and going home and *clenches fist*. Please have feelings here immediately. Jaime/Brienne

Succession

cashmere, cologne and hot sunshine, by allandmore99 - there's something so lyrical about this tiny story, about Gerri and Roman after Italy.

Batfam

Like a Hinge, Like a Wing, by Ultrageekatlarge - I can't describe this, hangon: The problem is that Tim’s spent the past month or so slowly getting murdered. An excellent take on the way Tim joins the batfam.

The Next Life, by spqr. In which Tim tracks down Constantine, and learns Necromancy. This one has been sitting with me for a while.

Star Trek

24 x 22 cm, by leupagus and rageprufrock. So old (2012)! A very silly AOS academy shenanigan. Comforting.

The 1000 hour sleep, by spqr. This is SNW Kirk but gave me a lot of AOS vibes. Kirk/Spock (which, despite these two recs, is not usually my jam!)

Star Wars

The Size of the Soul, also by spqr, yes I was reading their back catalogue, shit I hope I remembered to comment on everything. Full modern AU, Obiwan accidentally kills Sheev and then tries to cover it up. Ultimately Obiwan/Anakin/Padme.

Not fiction!

‘These cows saved my life’: the Queensland farm offering healing cattle cuddles

okay havagoodone

#links #ficrecs #fanfic #star wars #star trek #gotham city #batfam #succession #game of thrones

[dustedmagazine]

Alexander Von Schlippenbach — Globe Unity (Corbett Vs. Dempsey)

The Globe Unity Orchestra notched more than a few accolades. It was the first European free jazz big band, and in retrospect, the first improv supergroup. During a history that spanned over 20 years of fairly steady work and a more recent pattern of convening every ten years, it has carried a standard for concerted international effort to improve the world through the transmission of sonic energy. They didn’t call it Globe Unity for nothing; its ranks were a model of multi-national cooperation, and it traveled far from its birthplace in Germany, thrilling and outraging audiences in locales as distant as Chicago and New Delhi.

Composer, pianist and lead Alexander von Shlippenbach didn’t necessarily have all of that in mind when he put the first GUO together. He didn’t even call it that; “Globe Unity” was just the name of the first piece it played. In the mid-1960s, he was part of a circle of musicians who had already been contributing for some time to the loosening and intensifying of jazz’s strictures in Europe. But he was not one who chose to forsake all he had learned in the process. Born in 1938, his post-war education included tutelage in classical composition, as well as a personal affinity for modern jazz. The two side-long pieces on this LP represented attempts to incorporate the sounds of free music into extent jazz and classical orchestral forms. 

When this music was first performed at the 1966 Berlin Jazz Festival, Schlippenbach combined the top German free jazz combos — the Gunter Hampel Quartet, Manfred Schoof Quintet, and Peter Brötzmann Trio. The next month, he recorded “Globe Unity” and “Sun” in Cologne. The personnel list is a heavy who’s who, and some folks might zero in on the names of the two drummers, Jaki (then spelled Jackie) Liebezeit and Mani Neumeier. In times to come, each would shape the rhythmic content of freak-forward German rock music, in Can and Guru Guru respectively. But that’s not what they played here. In concert with Schlippenbach, who played tubular bells, gongs, and both the interior and keys of his piano, and vibraphonist Karl Berger, they provided a multi-hued manifestation of otherness and density. The two bassists added as much seething presence as pulse. Sometimes dramatic, other times exotic (which was not viewed then with the skepticism that it sometimes is now), and only very occasionally swinging, the rhythm section transcended its duties within the big band idiom to contribute immensely to the music’s orchestral qualities. 

The horns, however, are what made this music massive. You don’t need the back cover action shot of players in the studio, confronted by overflowing music stands, to know that their united projection was charted out. The time when the orchestra would take on instant composition at an ensemble-wide scale was still a ways off. But by incorporating the broader tonal and timbral resources of the contemporary avant-garde into organized blocks of sound, they achieved a complex and looming sound which was matched at the time only by Sun Ra’s Arkestra. When individual voices cut through, either as breakaway soloists or connecting joints in the multi-segmented compositions, they functioned both as foci for the energy and agents of structural cohesion. 56 years on, it’s still thrilling. 

Globe Unity has gone in and out of the print since its first release by SABA in 1967, and this its return to the physical realm is welcome. This edition, licensed by the historically astute Corbett Vs. Dempsey imprint, is confined to limited CD and LP editions that recreate the original LP’s gatefold sleeve. It’s gorgeous, but one has to point out that anyone who is likely to buy a CD is also unlikely to be able to read Schlippenbach’s much-reduced liner notes unless they supplement their normal corrective eyewear with a magnifying glass. Old eyes would benefit from either a fold-out insert or an online resource. But music like this is for hearing more than reading, and this reissue sounds gloriously present and alive.

Bill Meyer

#Alexander Von Schlippenbach #globe unity #corbett vs. dempsey #bill meyer #albumreview #dusted magazine #free jazz #big band

[thycoop]

Cover of the day: Day 18: 1940s Postwar British-Germany Envelope

IM BACK BITKHES, AND I FEEL BETTER THAT EVER (Sorry for not posting for a while, first I was quite sick, then Slovenia had the worst natural disaster of the decade, and like a few months of rain fell in 12 hours, so... that's not good, but luckily my town didn't flood, so I'm fine).

Also I just bought a bunch of covers so expect some good posts over the next few weeks (7 of the 14 covers have arrived), and this is the first cover of the batch

---

Today's cover was sent... sometime in the 1940s (Probably in 1946) on the 28th of some month (February or April) from Cologne (Köln), British Zone of Germany to Chicago, Illinois.

'Wait what? British zone of Germany???' I can hear you scream.Well, The British zone of Germany (AKA The British occupation zone in Germany AKA Britische Besatzungszone Deutschlands) was one of the Allied-occupied areas of Germany after the Allied Victory of World War 2, Germany was divided between America, Britain, France, The Soviet Union, and Poland (The Polish and Part of the Soviet zones were annexed into Poland and the Soviet Union), Which eventually left 4 Occupation zones in (Modern-day) Germany (the American, British, French, and Soviet zones), The borders of these zones were decided at the Potsdam Conference:

You may be wondering: 'What's that weird country east of the French zone with the weird nordic-cross flag', Well; In February 1946, The French decided to disentangle the Saar from the Allied zones of occupation and established the separate Saar Protectorate, which was de facto no longer under the joint Allied jurisdiction. Saarland was officially established on the 17th of December 1947 (Because it is technically a different country, it doesn't count here). After a referendum in 1955, Saarland officially became a state of West Germany (The Federal Republic of Germany) in 1957. Ok Now back to Germany

On the 1st of January 1947 the British and American occupation zones were combined into the Bizone (Haha get it? 'Cause there's 2 of them), later on the 1st of August of 1948 the French occupation zone was added to the Bizone, turning it into the Trizone (Haha get it? 'Cause there's 3 of them). Later of the 23rd of May 1949, the trizone was renamed to the Federal Republic of Germany (Commonly known as West Germany or Bundesrepublik Deutschland in German).

But the Soviet zone stayed independent, eventually becoming the German Democratic Republic (Deutsche Demokratische Republik) in 1949 as a Soviet Puppet state and member of the Warsaw Pact (I'll talk about the DDR in a later post because I have a lot of Interesting DDR Covers). Well in 1989 the Berlin wall fell, and finally in 1990 the DDR and the BRD unified into the... BRD (It stayed the BRD, They didn't change the name)(That's the same Germany that we all know and love today).

What were we talking about? Oh yeah the cover. Well The stamp on the Cover is a 75 Pfennig stamp issued for all the allied zones issued in 1946. After the creation of the Bizone the stamps were overprinted with different patterns of Posthorns:

The un-overprinted stamps were valid until the 22nd of June 1948 in the trizone, and until 31st of July 1948 in the Soviet zone. Though the Overprinted stamps were only valid for a few more months (Until the 19th of September 1948) than the non-overprinted stamps.

This cover was sent from Cologne or Köln, one of the largest cities in Germany (Having a population of about 1.1 million). During the 2nd World war over 44,923.2 tons of bombs were dropped Cologne destroying about 61% of the city, and by the beginning of 1945 the population of the city had decreased by about 95%, but by the end of 1945 it had increased to about 450,000, so that's good I guess.

'BUT If Cologne is called Köln in German, Why does it say Koeln on the back?!' I can hear you scream (Please stop screaming), well; if you can't write the letter [ö] instead write [oe], the same applies for all umlauts (Umlauts are the two little dots on top of the letter) [ä -> ae][ü -> ue]. But... why do they write these letters with the little dots, if the letter has an umlaut, it's pronounced in the front of the mouth (Like the english [man ~ men] which with umlauts would be written as [man ~ män]), 'but why do they write these letters with the little dots?' I can hear you scream (Please I beg you, stop yelling), (with the help of a little thing I quickly made in gimp) well in ye olden days, if they wanted to umlaut-ize a vowel they just added an e at the end, but because Germans are weird in their cursive they wrote an [e] as two vertical lines, and because it was ye olden days and movable-type printing wasn't invented yet (in Europe) medieval scribes had A LOT of abbreviations, so they decided to write the [e] on top of the vowel, and because of the weird German cursive, it looked like two vertical lines, which was eventually simplified into two dots. A similer thing happened with [ao] and [uo] some scribes decided to simplify the [o] into a circle, which eventually became the Swedish/ Dano-Norwegian/ Sami/ Greenlandic letter [å] and Czech letter [ů]

Now let's go back to the cover: I really like how it looks, there's just something nice about it, maybe it's the sloppy address, clearly written with a bad fountain pen, or maybe it's just it's history

Anyways, Here's the cover!

Again, sorry for not posting for a while

#hotduck.gif #covers #cotd #philately #is this how tags work #germany #post war #im back #help lol #ok bye now #see you tomorrow

[dashalbrundezimmer]

niehler gürtel // köln nippes

the cleverness of the design of this high-rise façade lies in the staggered concrete parapets on the front site. this makes the building stand out very well, also because it functions as a solitaire in this location.

das pfiffige bei der gestaltung dieser hochhausfassade liegt in den versetzt angebrachten betonbrüstungen an der stirnseite. damit kommt das gebäude sehr gut zur geltung, auch weil es als solitär an dieser stelle fungiert.

#photography #architecture #architecture photography #design #high rise #moderne #rhineland #nrw #germany #german post war modern #cologne post war modern #rhineland post war modern #nippes #cologne #köln #german post war architecture #cologne post war architecture #rhineland post war architecture #nachkriegsmoderne #post war architecture #nachkriegsarchitektur #deutsche nachkriegsarchitektur #deutsche nachkriegsmoderne #nachkriegsmoderne köln #Nachkriegsarchitektur köln #nachkriegsmoderne rheinland #nachkriegsarchitektur rheinland

[musings-from-an-elder-goth]

Gothitecture

gothitecture: architecture appreciated by goths.  -Urban Dictionary

Gothitecture is like pornography.  You know it when you see it.  The Addams Family mansion, The Munsters’ house, the Psycho house, the Houses of Parliament, and Cologne Cathedral all spring quickly to mind as examples.  But it’s also that dark and hyper-modern new cabin in the mountains, or that steampunk tower in that rundown industrial neighborhood, or the ruins of that 500 year old castle on the outskirts of town.  Gothic, Victorian, Baroque, Romanesque, Dark Deco, Post-Modern - any and all of these can fall into this delightful architectural sub-genre so beloved by the darkly inclined. 

Even as a lad, my eyes would fall upon certain architectural styles and linger upon their lines and sensibilities.  They seemed special.  They seemed ‘right’.  Passing through a neighborhood of cape cods, ranches, and split levels, my eyes would glaze over in disinterest, but as soon as that rare Victorian cottage sprang into view, my mind would jump to life - my eyes drinking up every little detail of the ornate gables, the cast iron fence, the moldings beneath the eaves.  These rare beasts seemed to possess a unique quality that made them seem so special.  These buildings embodied personality and grace.

Overly introspective as most goths tend to be, I’ve often wondered as to the origins of this fascination and I may have sussed it out.  When I was crazy young, 3 or 4 years of age, my mother was friendly with an old woman who lived in a very modest, yet decidedly Victorian, house.  It isn’t quite large enough to be called a mansion, but it’s close.  Amazingly, it still stands, although I’m sure the little old lady is long gone.   Located in a severely rural area of North Carolina, it lacks the ornate finery of similar homes from even the smallest of towns, but anyone who looks upon it would agree:  Victorian. 

In it’s day, it was likely one of the grander residences of the county, but that day has long passed.  To me, it is and always will be special because of the memories that reside within.  Visiting the woman who lived there was a special occasion and my mother would make me wear nice clothes and sternly instruct me to be on my best behavior.  I was to say, “Yes, ma’am,” or “No, ma’am,” and to otherwise keep my mouth shut.  Not the best behaved of children, I was nevertheless happy to comply because of the wonders that hid inside.  The house was filled with antique furniture and decor, most of it Victorian vintage.  I can still recall being entranced by the a stereoscope viewer complete with image cards from the late 19th century.  I remember the intricate crystal candy dish upon the coffee table that held horrid hard candies which might also have been of Victorian vintage.  I was obliged to force one down each visit out of politeness, but it was like eating glass.  It was worth it because as soon as the women set themselves to the serious business of chit-chat, I was shepherded into a separate room - the room with The Toy Box.

I don’t recall precisely what The Toy Box looked like, but it was large, simple, and painted.  Within, were wonders untold.  At least 75 years worth of toys lived inside, all in excellent condition and each eager for a child’s attention.  My tiny hands fell upon tin soldiers, Jacobs Ladders, hand puppets so old their once heavy cloth was reduced to gossamer wisps, hand carved and painted tigers, horses, elephants, and spring-loaded cannons with accompanying tiny cannon balls.  A battered tin Spitfire airplane spoke of the little boy form the war years who ran through the yard holding it high over head so it soared through the clouds.  A faded rag-doll recalled the little Edwardian girl who used to hold her close and call her ‘My Dolly’ - it never left that little girl’s side until one day, it did.  I’m sorry dolly, I don’t know where your little girl went.  Perhaps she’s the old lady in the next room?  I seemed to fall into that toy box for weeks at a time, although it was probably less than an hour at a go.  Everything seems so much bigger when we’re young, especially time.  But not all the toys were happy.  There was one that scared me.  It was a Jack-in-the-Box. 

Allow me to clarify: it scared the hell out of me.  I don’t know what it was about that thing, but I only ever cycled it once.  The music the crank produced was old, sickly, and twisted.  The spring rusty and diseased.  It didn’t so much pop out as lurch forth.  It was a nightmare in a box.  I quickly shut it, latched it, and buried it beneath the other toys, but it would continue to make occasional evil sounds whenever I shifted the other toys about.  I imagine it’s still there to this day, patiently waiting to terrorize another child.  It’s what it does and that’s all it does.  But for me, it was an evil contained.  I knew it wanted to torment me, but I wouldn’t let it, so I was free to enjoy the wonders of The Toy Box.  Such strong memories must carry weight, correct?  Is this the reason my eyes linger lovingly on Victorian houses to this day?  Perhaps.  But what of gothic revival structures, or  Romanesque, or Post-Modern?  I never spent time inside one of those as a child with a magical toy box.  Introspection can sometimes twist into a Shining Maze.  Best not to stay too long - you may become frozen inside, forever.

Gothitecture can also spring from a place rather than a form.  Take a simple A-frame cabin in a dark wood.  We goths do love a good, dark wood.  Perhaps a light rain falling from an overcast sky.  Ravens caw and circle above.  Some forest creature runs by, unseen in the underbrush, but definitely heard - perhaps a wolf?  Tendrils of fog drifting across a forest path.  As night falls, broken clouds waft past the sickle moon.  An owl calls out questions to the shadows beneath the trees.  And late into the evening, we gather around a fire pit as the mountain cold wraps about us, and stare into the hypnotic, dancing fire.  I’m so there.

Perhaps we cast our thoughts favorably upon these styles because that’s where we belong and we full well know it.  We’re meant to drift about within these halls and upon these grounds.  The sounds of our heavy black boots upon stone floors is a thing meant to be.  The whisper of long dark coats as they brush across walls is a sound intended.  It’s a symbiotic relationship.  What’s a Gothic cottage without a goth to reside within?  How lonely it must be.  Those gargoyles perched upon the gables are not just there to ward off evil spirits, they’re also there to welcome home long lost friends.  When you look up at them, give them a friendly smile.  They know their kith and kin.

Standing before one of these dark masterworks of space and form, one cannot help but be transfixed, but play the appropriate music to accompany these edifices, and the experience becomes truly profound.  Let The Sisters of Mercy, or Switchblade Symphony, or The Damned echo within these halls, and perception becomes sublime.  All the pieces fall into place and all is right within our dark world.  Goth music was meant to be played within gothitecture while the shadowy forms of goths dance about within.  All becomes right with the world.  

Perhaps then, even evil toys are lulled into slumber within the forgotten toy boxes of the Counties of Caroline. 

creaturesfromelsewhere  12-29-2021

#gothitecture #goth #gothic #dark deco #romanesque #victorian #elder goth #a-frame #post-modern #baroque #musings-from-an-elder-goth #the addams family mansion #the munsters mansion #the psycho house #richmond old city hall #bryant park hotel #the sisters of mercy #switchblade symphony #creaturesfromelsewhere #darkly inclined #spitfire #jack-in-the-box #jacobs ladder #tin soldier #rag-doll #toy box #shining maze #north carolina #the counties of caroline #the damned

[bridenore]

HD Wireless 2020 recs

Here are some of my favorite fics from @hd-wireless  2020. Listed in alphabetical order.

***

Between Myth and Man by  @slytherco [16k]

Draco, lost and a little broken, navigates post-war reality convinced that people like him should not be allowed to make their own choices. To solve the problem of his self-sabotaging tendencies, he starts taking a few drops of Veritaserum every morning.

A story about the complexity of choices, repressed desires that come to the surface when we least expect them, and the utter hopelessness of truths built on a foundation of lies.

Follow the Water by  @xanthippe74 [38k]

Harry Potter’s life is fine. Maybe a little dull and predictable, but he shouldn’t complain about that, right? When he unexpectedly finds himself at Luna’s house one afternoon, Harry gets invited to join the secret wonderland that she’s creating with a surprising group of friends. Maybe a summer outdoors is just what a former hero needs to bring some zest back into his life.

I Grow Fonder Every Day by @drarrelie [21k]

Draco still doesn’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse, sharing a flat in Muggle London with Harry Potter.

It’s all Draco’s ever wanted — more than he’d ever wished for. And if it entails suppressing his inconvenient feelings for the man, so what? He’s perfectly happy with his life as it is, perfectly content with just having Potter close and enjoying his company.

That is, until one Friday evening at the beginning of April when the end starts.

If Sex Is the Drug, Then What Is the Cost by @eva-eleanore [3k]

For quite some time, Harry has been seeing Malfoy. Well... Actually, he's hired Malfoy, to keep him company, in his bedroom. It's only sex — honestly — and since Malfoy is the best, he's the only person Harry wants. That's all it is, right?

Modern Love by @tackytigerfic [61k]

Harry Potter, of all people, knows that life isn’t always fair. And no one gets to be happy all of the time. But surely there’s something more—something better—than a rubbish Ministry job, and a lonely old house, and that feeling that everyone out there is doing a better job of living than Harry is.

And it really doesn’t seem fair that Draco Malfoy is back in Harry’s life, all of a sudden, and even though he’s wandless, and living with Muggles, and making his mother cry with his lifestyle choices, he’s happy. So what's he doing right, that Harry isn’t?

Because things don’t really change, do they? And if Harry can’t be happy, he’ll settle for a good night’s sleep, some posh antiques, and the opportunity to find out what Malfoy has been up to for all these years.

And that’s what starts it all.

Seven Days to Monday by  @static-abyss [11k]

There are seven days before Harry has to meet Draco for the final signing of their divorce papers. It's been months and the surprise at finding nothing but more cold sheets and an empty pillow next to him still catches Harry unawares. He doesn't know where they go from here. Whether it's possible to go anywhere after everything that's happened between them.

Though Your World Is Changing, I Will Be The Same by hephaestiions [15k]

“I shower after work,” Harry had told him once, when Draco had asked what cologne had such longevity as to be effective after a full day of gruelling Auror work.

“For me?” Draco had asked. Teased, just a little. There had been a smile lingering on the edges of his consciousness, threatening to traipse onto his mouth.

“For Ginny,” Harry had said, voice flat. “She hates it when I come back sweaty and crackling with other people’s hexes. Did you know magic has a smell? I didn’t, until she told me.”

–

It's all fun and games, till somebody falls in love. Given his luck, it's obviously Draco who has to go and do it.

***

I hope you enjoy these stories as much as I did!

#my recs #drarry #drarry recs #drarry fest #HD Wireless

[aphroditestummyrolls]

This is some Nile!POV Joe/Nicky cuteness that is also the start of the sequel Brother of My Heart and Sono Qui (and Feed My Soul, but there’s no smut here). I wanted to have this posted today, but I’m depressed as fuck and have about 1500 words to go on this lil ditty, so I’m posting a snippet. For shameless validation purposes. Let me know what you think <3 

Joe led the way into a cozy back room, flooded with morning sunlight. The back doors were flung open, and Nile could glimpse the trees that she had seen poking out the top of the garden wall before. They were heavy with orange fruit that matched the bowl on the kitchen counter. 

The walls were a soft white, reflecting the sun’s rays and turning the whole space to gold. The dark wood of the rafters reminded her of Provence, and she smiled. 

“Did you build this one, too?” She asked while the coffee percolated. Joe hummed, shaking his head. 

“The foundations of this one might even predate us.” He replied, choosing a tangerine from the bowl and digging his thumbs in to peel it. “We didn’t buy this place until after the Second World War.” 

“From the way you guys talk about it, I thought it must’ve been your oldest place— your first place together, or something.” 

“Nicky had a hell of a time in the Pacific theatre. And then as a medic in France through the end of the war.” He popped a segment of fruit into his mouth, “We were separated for a long time— longest ever, actually.” 

“You didn’t serve in World War 2?” That didn’t sound right to Nile. They fought for what they thought was right, they were an army of four— but Joe skipped out on the biggest war in modern history?

“Joe and I worked in intelligence.” Andy cut in while Joe chewed, “More covert work.” 

Nile just nodded, swallowing the thousands of questions bubbling up her throat and filing them away. It was too early. 

You ask one question, and suddenly everything‘s a story— she thought, How do people not immediately know you guys are old people? I feel like I’m talking to my grandma.

Not that she was complaining. She had loved her grandma’s stories— it was why she loved history, and wanted to study art. Her stomach clenched, and not for the first time, she remembered what Andy had said— I don’t remember what my mother looked like… or my sisters… 

Nile didn’t want to forget her grandma. She didn’t want to forget a minute— the Sundays in the kitchen after church, the smell of earl gray and Werther’s caramels, the peace lily she watered every day after Dad’s funeral.

Hearing stories of all the things they remembered was reassuring. At least they didn’t forget everything. 

“Nile?” Joe’s voice shook her out of her thoughts, “Coffee?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks.” She took the mug with a deep breath, “Sorry, I’m still a little tired. You were a spy?” 

Joe smiled like he understood something unspoken, nodding “Yes. Many times in my life— but I’d never been away from Nicky like that. Three years, it was Hell.” 

“It was Hell to listen to your pining.” Andy nudged his shoulder, smiling into her mug. 

“You barely even saw me!” He tsked, wagging a finger at her before turning back to Nile, “Anyway, a couple years after the war was over, we decided we needed a break. We picked Malta simply for its position— smack in the middle of the sea between Italy and Tunisia. We didn’t expect to love it as much as we did, but it was a buyer’s market, and…” he started out shrugging, looking down at the orange in his hand, but when he glanced up, he did a double take. 

At first, she thought he was looking at her, but he couldn’t be. His gaze was too soft, his smile too charmed, his quiet laugh seemed too practiced for it to be for her. Andy snorted into her mug, her eyes doing that thing that you would expect of a person seeing a baby animal. 

“Good Morning, my heart.” Joe cooed, his smile beaming. 

Nile looked over her shoulder, and sure enough, Nicky was at the foot of the stairs on the other side of the living space. 

He was a sight, all ruffled and tanned, blinking sleep out of his eyes. He was wearing thin shorts and a singlet tank top that must have been Joe’s. It was stretched out just the littlest bit too much for his lanky frame, but what really made Nile choke on her coffee was his hair. 

“Finally!” Andy greeted as Nicky plodded his way through the living room to the kitchen, “After 196 years, the long hair returns!” 

Joe grinned and Nicky chuckled, running a hand down his face like he could scrub the sleepiness away. “Yes, and it needs to be washed.” 

He came up beside Nile with one of his big, warm hands and squeezed the back of her neck, wrapping her into a hug that smelled like detergent and Joe’s sandalwood cologne. She squeezed him around the waist, her smile curving her lips without a thought. He shuffled around the room to Andy, murmuring something soft and Italian that made her smile before hugging her too. 

Andy curled her hand around the back of his head, petting through the long strands and humming in contentment. Joe grinned, his eyes catching Nile’s across the counter. 

“When my Nico first cut his hair, I think Andy was more bereft than I was.” He said it like a stage whisper, making Nicky snort, unwinding from his friend’s arms while Andy lazily flipped Joe off. 

“Don’t worry, Andy, Joe made a very persuasive argument for keeping the hair.” Nicky grinned, turning to the man in question and pressing a soft kiss to his lips. He slipped around him behind him, looping his arms loosely around his waist. Nicky sandwiched himself between Joe’s back and the kitchen counter, making the other man hum and lean into him. He peeled off a slice of tangerine and held it over his shoulder for his love. “And yet, now I am the one who wakes up alone in our bed,” he tsked, even as he took the offered bite, “very rude, Yusuf.” 

“And what did you expect of me? We have guests, Hayati.” 

“You could have woken me and told me we had guests.” He shook his head at Nile in a universal gesture that said can you believe this guy? Even while Joe did the same thing, rolling his eyes in a long suffering way toward Andy. 

There was some grumbled Italian kissed into Joe’s neck. It made his eyes crinkle as he laughed, holding out another orange slice. 

Nile rolled her eyes fondly, sipping her coffee and wondering how these two soft, sleepy men could possibly be the hardened warriors of epic battles and old paintings. 

“I was just telling Nile about how we came to own this palace.” Joe said, slipping out of Nicky’s arms so he could pour another cup of coffee. Nicky hummed, nodding. 

“You told her how much I hated it here at first?” He smirked, just a tiny flicker of a thing as the other man pressed a mug into his hand. 

Every few minutes with these people, Nile felt like she heard a record scratch. There was always something deeper with them, even in a nondescript little house on the edge of the sea. 

“You hated it?” Her eyebrows shot up to her hairline, “But I thought this was your spot.” 

“It is now, but there was baggage for me in Valletta that we didn’t know until we got here.” He shrugged, “By then, I figured it must be fate— God telling me that it was time to fight that particular demon.” He looked over at Joe, whose smile had gone tender. Andy nodded at the dregs of her coffee, leaning into Nicky’s side. “The core of this life is learning to change, Nile.” 

The silence hung heavily for Nile, but she had the feeling that this was normal for the others— it had been in Provence, too. Every once in a while, something jogged a memory and pulled a feeling or a thought right out of the depths of them. It didn’t matter what time of day, or where in the world they were, sometimes things just hit them. Like Chicago. 

It was weirdly comforting.

Times like this usually meant a story, and Nile wanted to hear this one. She needed to hear this one. 

“But how d’you keep changing without forgetting?” She finally asked with a voice that was smaller than she wanted it to be. 

Nicky smiled. Like Joe, he looked softer than he had in the church or the lab or in Provence. There was an ease in the set of his shoulders, and the circles under his eyes were less like bruises. He smiled at her, and she almost believed that he was just a 30 year old man. 

How did they do that? Act their age, while also being indescribably ancient? Being her friend, while also being like her brother, and her grandma all at once? 

“I’ll trade you a story for an onion.” He said. Andy snorted, and Joe choked on his orange slice. 

“What?” 

“I’m going to make omelettes— chop half an onion and mince some garlic for me, and we can chat about Valletta.” 

She smiled, “Deal.” 

#joe x nicky #nicky x joe #kaysanova #the old guard fanfiction #the old guard #my writing #continuation of the To be Human series #Nile freeman #im writing but im depressed #hahaha fun

[nakey-cats-take-bathsss]

Love of a Traveling Soldier 

Bellarke AU (One-shot)

A modern take on Clarke's Post-Praimfaya radio calls.

425 days without a sign, no phone calls, no emails, as far as Clarke knows, Bellamy left on this classified mission and is never coming back. But she can't think that, can't live with that, not when she had Madi to consider. So she hopes, waits, lives on. Makes a phone call every night, always reaching his voicemail and always leaving a message.

Maybe one of these days, he'll finally be able to answer, will finally come home to them.

***Posted below and also on AO3 (link in reblog)***

“Momma, how many sleeps till daddy gets home?” Madi asked, wide dark eyes half-lidded, the worn ear of a stuffed bear tucked in her mouth. She was on the edge of sleep, probably only a few minutes away from a world of dreams. Clarke’s heart broke at those words, another piece shedding itself and flying off into the wind. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“Only a few more baby girl,” she whispered, smoothing back her daughter’s wild, dark curls, identical to the ones on Bellamy’s head and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. Madi deserved dreams full of sunshine and rainbows and hugs from her dad, not a giant ticking clock marking if she would ever get to see him again.

The weight of sleep proved to be too strong, too comfortable, and Madi drifted off, curling her little body into a small ball before she could ask further, delve into the specifics of when she would get to have her bedtime hugs again.

Bellamy and Clarke had fantasized about these moments, sitting in a dugout during cold desert nights. The Navy had seemed different to them back then, they were young, had no responsibilities at home, just a passion for justice and the kind of fearlessness you needed to run into a sleeper cell of terrorists.

She had never planned on marrying a fellow soldier, of living a life waiting for the other to come home. But Bellamy had been rugged and gentle, a hero, the man of her dreams. They fell hard and fast, stole moments together during those dark desert nights. They’d laid out, looked up at the stars, talked about their future, dreamed up a house full of kids and fantasized about doing boring things like watching TV together and doing dishes.

And for a while, they had that. There was no war, they just lived, got married, had the most beautiful little girl in the entire world and got to have their boring fantasy.

But things never stayed simple for long.

“Hey, it’s Bellamy, leave a message,” her husband’s familiar voice instructed, the same soft, gravelly voice she had heard a million times before.

“It’s been 125 days since you got deployed, I don’t really know why I do this. It’s not like you have cell phone service wherever you are right now…I guess it would defeat the purpose of a classified mission if you did. I like hearing your voice though, like the idea that maybe you’ll hear these someday. It just makes me miss you less—”

A beep sounded, indicating that she had gone over the length limit for the message. This always happened, it shouldn’t really surprise her. Part of her wanted to call again, just to hear the sound of his voice message, but she didn’t want to risk filling the mailbox, couldn’t let go of this nightly tradition just yet.

***

“Only a few more sleeps baby,” Clarke whispered against Madi’s hair, pulling her closer into her side as her breathing evened out. She was so tiny, it was easy to forget sometimes, especially since it felt like she had aged years since Bellamy’s departure.

In a way, Clarke was glad that Madi always asked about her dad, even though the question never failed to break her heart. With the uncertainty of this mission and the no contact rules, she was worried Madi would lose the bond she had with him, forget all the nights spent making pillow forts and making smores.

For now, this countdown was all she had.

Picking up her phone, Clarke dialed the familiar number, taking the time to type it out by hand rather than using the contact information. This was all she had these days, she was going to drag it out for as long as possible.

She closed her eyes at the sound of her husband’s voice, pretending for a moment that he was lying beside them. The bed felt too big without him, too wide, too cold. If he was here, he would wrap them both under his arm, pulling her to his chest, pressing a soft kiss to the back of her ear.

 “Hey, it’s Bellamy, leave a message.”

“It’s been 142 days, today was a good one. We went to the aquarium and I told Madi all about our first real date. She’s so smart Bell, so big, you’re going to be so proud when you see her. I miss you, we both do, please take care of yourself.”

The beep sounded just as she finished, like a harsh, clinical reminder that her husband wasn’t actually on the other end.

Keeping her phone pressed to her chest, she leaned her cheek against Madi’s head, trying to ignore the cold space beside her, the ache of where a warm hand should be resting on her waist.

***

Today was…harder than most.

Her head throbbed, back ached, Madi puked all over the upstairs carpet, leaving pieces of breakfast and orange juice to seep into the floor. She was sore and tired and so, so lonely. All she wanted was to fall into Bellamy’s arms, to smell the spicy scent of his cologne, hear him tell her that they had lived to see another day, that the world would keep turning.

That was what he always said, believed it so strongly that he had the words tattooed into his skin, in Greek, because it was Bellamy after all.

God, she missed him so much.

 BUZZ, BUZZ, BUZZ

Her phone rang against the coffee table, causing her to jump, sending a wave of bile into her throat. It was a visceral reaction, an involuntary fear reflex, you never knew which call would be, the call.

The panic rose higher when she realized it was an unknown number.

With a deep breath, she pressed the green button, preparing herself for a line of words that could change her life forever.

“Clarke Griffin-Blake, I am calling to inform you that your husband’s mission is still on-going and at this time, they have suffered no fatalities,” a deep male voice said, professional and to the point, typical.

Thank God.

They had, in fact, lived to see another day.

It still felt weird to not have them call her by her rank, the sting of it radiating all the way down to that damn plate in her spine. The plate that had retired her at 28 years old, as much as she hated it, it was the only reason her daughter had a parent home with her at all, truly a blessing and a curse. But she thanked the man on the other end of the phone, taking extra care to be kind to him even though he had scared the shit out of her, it wasn’t an easy job to make these calls.

She was one of the lucky ones today, she knew that never lost sight of that.

Despite the comforting news, the phone call shook her up, had sent a wave of adrenaline through her body she just couldn’t shake. Even while she was scrubbing vomit out of the carpet and pressing a cool rag to her daughter’s forehead, she could still hear the phone vibrating against the table.

Madi fell asleep without her story, body drained from being sick, the countdown to her father’s return too distant of a thought to cloud her mind right now.

 “Hey, it’s Bellamy. Leave a message.”

“I love you…” she whispered into her phone, waiting for the beep, relishing in the small comfort that even though Bellamy couldn’t hear her, he was okay. Too grateful for his survival to burden him with her terrible day, even if it was just for a few seconds, even if he couldn’t hear her.

She fell asleep on the floor of their closet, her back pressed up against the wall, the smell of Bellamy’s old dress shirts lulling her to sleep.

***

Clarke lifted Madi’s sleeping form from Octavia’s couch, running a hand over the ridges of her spine, rocking her back to sleep. It was nice to see her happy, laughing, jumping, playing with her cousins. The sight of it made something in Clarke ache. They wanted a big family, lots of siblings for Madi, enough kids for their own softball team.

She hated this mission.

As much as she knew it for the greater good, knew that her husband was going to save hundreds, if not thousands of lives, he wasn’t here.

They were supposed to have been done, taken their medals of honor and ridden off into the sunset. Bellamy had had only a few more months left on his enlistment when he got the call, the call that sent him off to an unknown place, shipped him off with barely a few days for them to say goodbye.

It could’ve been her, should’ve been her.

It just as easily could’ve been Bellamy here, with their daughter, making memories and going to school plays.

If it weren’t for the three metal disks, square in the middle of her back, sitting up against the curve of her skin, a constant reminder that she would never be a soldier again…not in the way she wanted to anyway.

She drove aimlessly, watching the lights flicker off in different windows, symbols of life in every home. Maybe there were others in there, other people waiting for their loved ones to come back. From a party, from soccer practice, a business trip, people were waiting who would never get the relief of hearing the door click open and others who would take the click for granted.

Clarke sent out a silent prayer for them all, all the waiters, the worriers. She had never been very good at waiting, too restless…this was a new emotion, one that she didn’t like. There was no way to truly squash the worry, no door click.

They ended up at the beach, the waves a soothing comfort to the chaos in her brain. This was their place, she had a picture of them together here on her desk at work, the day they had gotten engaged.

“It’s been 200 days since I last saw you, 200 days since we heard your voice. I don’t like to tell you when I have bad days, even if you can’t hear me, this time is so precious. But today sucked. It is terrible that I miss the act—”

The message cut off, rattling on about how she could delete her message if she wanted to, but she hung up before it could finish, throwing her phone down in the sand, leaning heavily against the hood of her car.

“I miss the action. I’m stuck here, there’s nothing I can do, no way I can help. I just have to wait, to wonder, to hope you make it out of this alive. I’m mad at you for leaving even though it’s not your fault and I’m mad at my stupid spine for making it so that I couldn’t go instead. She’s growing up Bell and you’re missing it. She has a loose tooth and is learning all these amazing words, she’s a caterpillar in her school play. I want you to come home so badly, want you to see all this, to give her the siblings she deserves. I’m just so…frustrated and angry…I—” she finally broke down, letting herself really cry for the first time since Bellamy left. The phone didn’t make a difference, he could never hear her anyway, but yelling out into the universe just felt less intimate.

She loved her country, respected the sacrifice of service, knew what an honor it was to be married to someone so brave, but right now all she could think about was how badly this hurt, how real the possibility was that she would never get to see him again.

***

“Mommy, I know you said there were a lot of sleeps until daddy got home, but how many sleeps is a lot?” Madi asked, reaching out to hold the small frame by her bedside, the picture of her and Bellamy at her daddy-daughter dance.

The weight of the question sat heavily on Clarke’s shoulders, not knowing how to answer the question without lying to her. Madi was so young, so innocent, she didn’t need to carry this burden, not yet.

“Baby…I don’t know. But I do know that he misses you and thinks about you every second of every day.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re the little dipper and daddy is the big dipper, remember?”

“We’re always in the sky together,” Madi finished, holding the frame to her chest.

“That’s right, you’re always together, even when you’re apart,” Clarke assured, climbing into Madi’s little bed with her and holding her close to her chest.

It took Madi longer than usual to fall asleep, her body restless, still holding the small plastic frame even though the sharp edges were digging into her side.

 “Hey, it’s Bellamy. Leave a message.”

“It’s been 300 days, almost a whole year since we’ve seen your smile. Wherever you are, I hope you’re looking up at the stars, the same stars that we’re looking at here and you’re thinking about us, because we’re thinking about you. Love you to the stars and back Bellamy,” she whispered into her phone, hanging up the call before the beep this time.

***

“We’re eating pancakes for dinner?” Madi squealed, running a lap around the kitchen, a handful of blueberries stuffed in her mouth.

“We sure are…It’s the Fourth of July,” Clarke grinned, shaking the can of Reddi Whip and spraying it generously on the stack of pancakes, lifting the noddle just a little to squirt a bit of cream on her daughter’s shirt.

Madi yelped, eyes wide in shock as she took in the cream before she scooped it back up and came running at Clarke in full force, smacking the entire handful against the thigh of her jeans.

“Oh, you’re going to pay for that kiddo,” she teased, grabbing the can and chasing Madi through the kitchen.

They made a mess, but it was the most fun Clarke had in months. For the first time in a long time, there was a sense of normalcy in their house, the walls full of life and laughter, the empty space just a little fuller.

Today was the Fourth of July, a reminder of the reason why they were fighting, the marking of their freedom.

Clarke clinked her beer with Madi’s can of soda, a rare treat for them both, paired with full bowls of ice cream. The thick, hot summer hair left a sticky film on their skin, completely consuming them while they sat on the back steps, as close together as the heat would allow.

The sky filled with crackling sparks of color: red, white and blue plumes exploding through the inky night air. The grass was cool against her toes and she flexed them, enjoying the soft press of the earth, a visceral kind of joy.

She didn’t call Bellamy that night, just sent her nightly message into the universe, staring up at the stars, lying in a sleeping bag beside her daughter. It had been 400 days and she hadn’t received another call. To say it was disheartening was an understatement, but she couldn’t lose hope, couldn’t let herself believe that Bellamy wasn’t out there, sharing the sky with them.

In truth, this felt like the most authentic way to connect with him, he loved the stars, knew all the constellations. This had been the way they dated, backs on the red dessert dirt, looking for Capricornus, Lyra, the north star.

The fireworks continued throughout the night, it was oddly comforting when a burst would cut through the crickets and the cool wind, a mixture of red, white and blue mixing with the night sky.

***

Clarke flopped onto the couch, Madi had been restless tonight, needing multiple glasses of water, stories, a snack. It felt like she was stalling, like she had desperately wanted to stay awake for some reason.

It had been quite the fight, but sleep had won in the end…at least for now.

She spun her phone between her fingers, crossing her legs underneath her body as she contemplated whether or not to call. One of these days, his voicemail box was going to fill up and then she would really lose this last connection, the only thread that made her hope that they would get to see each other again.

The calls had grown more spaced out, she was alternating between just talking out into the universe and leaving blurbs for him in these messages. She wasn’t sure which one helped more, but they were both a comfort in a way, even though he never talked back, it made her feel like he was beside her.

She pressed each number slowly, clicking the phone to speaker while she sagged back against the cushions, letting her body fully relax.

 “Clarke?”

She jumped, almost falling off the couch in her haste to pick up her phone. Was that? It couldn’t be. Maybe she was finally losing her mind.

 “Clarke?”

It was Bellamy’s voice. He was alive. Her eyes filled with tears, voice barely a choked whisper when she finally gathered herself enough to answer.

“It’s actually you,” she said, tears running down her cheeks.

“It’s me, I just got debriefed. I was going to surprise you,” he laughed, voice broken, cracked with emotion.

“This is so much better trust me.”

***

He crumpled in her arms in the doorway, both of them falling to the ground with the force of their reunion. This was it, they were not just in the same country, but in the same house, the same room, in each other’s arms.

She kissed him, relishing in the feeling of his lips against hers, of his arms around her back, the woodsy scent of his skin that was distinctly Bellamy.

He had a cut above his eye, still a little raw, a little dirty but he was alive, living, breathing, kissing her.

“I love you so much, thought about you and Madi every single day when I was in that bunker, you two are what kept me going,” he murmured against her lips, fingers digging into her sides like he was trying to bury under her skin, pull her as close as possible.

“I love you,” she replied, barely able to get the words out with the force of her emotions. This was it, Bellamy was here for good. His last tour, their last separation. He had always been a hero, but he was just their hero now.

***

“Baby…” Clarke whispered, rubbing her hand gently down Madi’s back. They hadn’t wanted to wake her last night, needed those hours to make up for lost time, to look up at the same stars and love each other.

“No more sleeps till we see each other again,” Bellamy said, kneeling down in front of his daughter to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. She was so big, suddenly no longer a baby. His hearted ached for the days he had spent without her, but the second her eyes flew open, all the pain melted away.

She screamed, face crumpling with tears as she lunged out of bed, wrapping her skinny arms around his neck as tightly as she could, burying her face into his neck.

He sagged into it, cradling her like a baby, his baby.

“I’m dreaming,” she murmured against his skin, voice heavy with tears.

“I’m here little dipper and I’m not going anywhere.”

He held his arm out, gesturing for Clarke to tuck herself against his side. The three of them together again, a family.

#bellarke fic #bellarke fanfiction #Bellarke AU #bellamy x clarke #ao3 author #ao3 fic #I've never written a oneshot before #I'm nervy about this #also obviously couldnt resist the kidfic

[another-sonic-blog]

Stages: The Cake

Stages: Acquaintance Pt.1: The Cake (Chapter 2)

Pairing: Amy & Shadow (Friends or lovers you decided) 

Slow-burn/2K

First part: https://another-sonic-blog.tumblr.com/post/189990806500/new-years-dress-shadamy

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"Please, just give me one more week! I'll pay!"

"I am sorry Ms. Rose but we have been patient enough. The government needs this facility."

Amy tried to keep calm, she didn't want to lash out of the government worker. She needed to stay calm if she wanted him to give her more time.

"Look, Zen, we have known each other for some time now." Amy touched his shoulder and smiled seductively. "Don't you think it will be better to talk about this with some coffee?"

Zen, a black cat, and government worker smiled at the pink one.

"Friday?"

"Saturday night?"

"Very well then, I'll see you." Zen then was quick to shout out to the rest of the employees who were already inside the Resistance. "Let's go, boys, we will come for this place later!"

With that, the workers stopped from dismantling the Resistance HQ.

Amy smiled and waved at each worker as they left.

"Well, who could have thought that Amy Rose could use her sex appeal to get the things she wants?"

Amy turned around to find Rouge waving at her. "I am so happy that you learned something from me."

"I had to put your teaching into practice," Amy added. "How are you doing? I haven't seen you since the ball."

"I came to see how you were doing after G.U.N paid you." Rouge took a look at the outside appearance of Resistance HQ. The painting was going away, the wood was decaying and it was just falling apart overall. "What did you do with the money, anyway? Everyone was happy with your cakes, I am sure G.U.N paid you extra even."

"I had to pay the members of the Resistance." Amy added, "And the rest is going to the monthly payment of the Resistance...I'll work more shifts at the restaurant this week to make up for the rest of the payment."

"Why would the government even want this place?" Rouge and Amy began to walk inside the Resistance. They greeted the few members that were there. "I mean no offense but...this place is trash."

"Yes, but one day, I'll have a lot of money and I'll make this place what it used to be before!" Amy said excitedly, she opened the door of the Main Room, where her desk was waiting for her.

"I just don't understand honey, you are a war warrior, you helped save the world and this is how they pay you?" Rouge was angry, she knew better than anyone that Amy went through to hell during that period that Eggman attacked with the Zombot virus. "All heroes worked here, Sonic, Tails, Team Dark, Whispered, Tangle, everyone  currently working at G.U.N."

"Don't remind me," Amy said as she typed on her computer.

"Honestly, with your experience, you could land a job at G.U.N. and easily-"

"G.U.N. charges people, people who may not have money so they can send their agents to help them." Amy rolled on her chair to look at the white bat, "I don't want that for this place."

Rouge sighed as she understood Amy's ideology. G.U.N was a private agency after all and their revenue mostly came from rich people who paid for the missions or anonymous, members who were interested that kept in existence G.U.N.

And so, what happened to the people who were in trouble and didn't have the money to pay?

"I am just saying, that I could buy you this place, it's honestly no bother. -"

"We have talked about this Rouge," Amy smiled. "Thank you, but this is something I want to do by myself."

Rouge went towards Amy and she placed her hand on her shoulder, "Same old Amy...Well, if you are going on a date to save this place, then let's make it the best out of it."

. "Plate for table number 3!"

"Going!"

"I am ready to pay!"

"Yes, ma'am!

"Plate for table number 7!"

"Going!"

"My food is cold! Could you heat it up?"

"Yes, sir!"

It was just like any other day at the restaurant, Amy was busy like always but still gave the best of her. She heard the door of the restaurant open, she was busy and after attending one client, she went ahead to attend the new guest.

"Hello, how may I help you-" Amy placed the restaurant's menu on the table. The person was wearing a long black coat with a black cap. Although he was trying his best to go unnoticed, Amy knew exactly well who it was.

"Shadow?" Amy whispered.

"Shh...how do you know it was me?" Shadow said as he looked around the place, making sure no one was paying attention to them.

"You reek of your cologne."

"What? I don't wear any." Shadow added, "Anyways, I am here on an important mission.

"And that is?"

"I need one slide, wait no, a whole dark chocolate cake. Like the one you made at the ball."

Amy giggles a bit, Shadow really took the 'keeping his cool' very seriously. "A whole cake? That's going to take a while."

"I can wait."

Amy nodded, she gave Shadow water while she attended the other tables. Shadow watched Amy work, it was a weird sight to see. He always saw her as a leader and one to not take orders from anyone.

"Must be hard to be an owner of a restaurant," Shadow whispered to himself but a sight distracted him.

"Could you hurry up? I've been waiting for ten minutes!" Said grey fox boy, who was sitting with a group of friends. A blue wolf and a red bird.

"Yes, sir!" Amy said as she headed over the table. "How can I help you?"

"We want three burgers, making it a combo for all of them. One chocolate milkshake and two vanilla. Hurry." Said the fox boy.

"Yes," Amy said as she finished writing the order on her notepad and began to walk away.

"Ops." The wolf boy said as he purposely threw off the water cup. "Hey, waitress! Clean this up, now!"

Amy tried to control herself, she perfectly knew what they were doing but she really needed this job.

"Yes." Amy took an old rag that was in her mantle and bent down to clean up the mess. When she was done, she bends back up but that exact moment, she felt her butt being smacked.

"Well, you do have a really nice ass to be a waitress!" The red bird boy said as he laughs, "I should come here more often."

Shadow expected Amy to take out her hammer and send those guys flying out the restaurant.

But she didn't.

"Thank you." Shadow heard her said and she walked away back into the kitchen.

.

Amy came back with some plates full of food for the groups of jerks. However, she found that they had felt the table. She noticed that some that they had paid their food however and left her a very nice tip of...

"500 rings?!" Amy almost screamed, there has to be some kind of mistake.

"Amy?" Amy turned her body around to find Shadow behind her. "G.U.N. called me, I need to go. Save me the cake for later."

"It's almost done, are you sure?"

"Yes, just send it over my apartment later," Shadow said and for some reason, he seemed to be in a hurry. Amy thought that it must be something really important for G.U.N.

"Alright, I will!" Amy smiled, her mood changing completely after that tip. "Wait, I don't know where you live."

"I send you my address over a text message."

"Alright!"

With that Shadow nodded and walked towards the exit. Amy went back to the kitchen to put the extra plates away but remembered something.

"Wait, you don't have my phone number!"

But Shadow was already gone.

.

It was 11:30 p.m and Amy was finally done with her shift. She puts on her pink coat and said goodbye to her boss before leaving the restaurant. She walked a few meters down until she passed a large dumpster.

But she stopped immediately after she heard someone moaning in pain on the inside of it. She opened it and checked on the inside.

And there she found them, two out of the three guys who were troubling her at the restaurant. The fox and wolf boy.

"What are you two doing here?"

"That guy...with the black coat..."The grey fox said in pain. "He just came to our table and said 'trash belongs in the trash."

"I don't even remember what happened." The blue boy said as she looked at his friend, who was trying to gain his consciousness back.

"Shadow?" Amy asked loudly, more at herself, more surprised than anything.

"Shadow as in Shadow the hedgehog?!"

Amy heard a voice come from above, she looked up and she found the red bird who harassed her being hanged from a light pole by his underwear.

"My dad is a private member of G.U.N!" The bird said angrily, "When I get down from here, he is so going to pay!"

Amy sighed, a bit embarrassed, "Let's try and make a deal."

.

Shadow had to admit that he was really looking forward to that cake. However, he decided to leave the restaurant as soon as he could as not to give Amy any more problems.

When Rouge told him that Amy worked at a restaurant, he imagined she would be the boss or manager due to her good leadership skills. But tonight he learned something new, that Amy was a hard worker and really could contain her feelings when the situation required her too.

She had his respect.

He was ready to go to sleep but he heard the door ring from outside his apartment.  

He sighed frustrated as he went back to his living room and angrily opened the door, "At this time? Who the hell do you think you are-" "Oh, Amy." Shadow instantly changed his tone of voice as he saw Amy standing in front of his door.

"Sorry, Shadow. I just thought to give you these extra cakes I made to you." Amy smiled as she showed Shadow the plastic bags she was holding, three dark chocolate cakes in each one.

"Extra cakes?" Shadow asked.

"Yes, I just made them."

"Alright, come in." Shadow opened the door for her and she entered, taking a look at Shadow's apartment.

"When Rouge texted me you lived in a small apartment, I thought she meant something different," Amy added, Shadow's apartment was very modern. Wooden floor, crystal stairs, bright lights, and beautiful black kitchen.

"Well, I'll be taking my leave now," Amy said as she placed the bag of cakes on Shadow's kitchen counter.

"Let me pay for the cakes, I'll bring my wallet," Shadow said and walked away from a few steps before Amy stopped him.

"No need! After you left, a lot of clients came and..." Amy looked around nervously, "Asked for dark chocolate cake but didn't eat them, so don't worry they are free!"

"Six clients asked for the same dark chocolate cake?"

"Yes."

"And out of those six, none eat the cake they paid for?"

"Do you want the cakes or not?" Amy asked annoyed, she placed a hand on her hip and Shadow rolled his eyes.

"Would you like some?"

"I would love to, but I can't stay too long. Tomorrow I need to go to work early so I can clock out earlier to go shopping. "Amy was just tired by just thinking about the long day that was ahead of her.

"Shopping?" Shadow wasn't expecting to ask that, he honestly didn't care about Amy nor what she does. The question came out of his mouth without thinking.

"Yes, with Rouge. She is insisting that I buy clothes for dates I don't even want to go." Without thinking, Amy sat down on one of the kitchen chairs.

"Dates?" Shadow said as he opened a small cabinet and pulled out two forks and handed one to Amy.

"Yes, I need to go on a date Saturday with a jerk to save the building of the Resistance," Amy said as she opened one of the boxes that contained the cake and placed it in front of both of them.

"To save...The Resistance?"

"Yes, I am trying to buy the building...but as you can see, I don't have much luck with money." Amy added, "The mortgage guy comes every month to charge me the payment...I was late this month and to give me a little bit more time to get money, I told him I would go on a date with him this Saturday."

"That's a nice strategy," Shadow said as he took a bit of the cake. Very delicious indeed. "Sounds like something Rouge would do...don't do it too often, it could bring you trouble."

"Indeed, and next Friday I also need to spend two whole hours with that bird boy! Thankfully, it's just a movie."

"Bird boy?"

Damn it, Amy was speaking too much.

"Oh look at the time!" Amy said as she looked at the kitchen's clock.  "I got to go now, don't worry stay here, I know my way out!"

"It's late, don't you want me to give you a ride? We could take my bike." Shadow asked as he opened the door for Amy.

"No need! I'll take the last bus!"

"Have it your way, then." Shadow didn't want to insist. Amy smiled at him and calmly left his apartment.

Shadow went back to his kitchen and began to eat his dark chocolate cake once again. He thought for a second and laugh,

"As if I'd let her ride my bike."

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Next part: https://another-sonic-blog.tumblr.com/post/190053368955/stages-the-bike

A/N: I still don’t know if I should make this a series or just small one shot series in which I will be developing Amy and Shadow’s relationship. Oh well, I think that’s what a slow burn story is all about. I enjoyed writing this, so expect a new chapter really soon!

#Shadamy #shadamy boom #shadamy au #Amy Rose #amyrose #Amy the hedgehog #shadowxamy #shadow and amy #shadow the hedgehog #shadow x amy #sonic fanfic #sonic fanfiction #romance #frienship