#three people got baptized that day

[therooknook]

Bonding with Noble Bell 🔔

[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~ ♡

[peterspinkrobe]

Confession - priest!Miguel O’Hara x Reader [part 2]

Word count: 2,270 (oops)

Rating: mature for suggestive content. Mentions of masturbation. You have a dirty mind… tsk tsk. Religious content. Mentions of parental death (sorry for not tagging last time).

A/N: Thank you for your feral support in reading part 1! The art above is again by @Ejpuki on twt. They drew this moment from part one and JUST LOOK AT IT! They also did a pre-reading which I greatly appreciated. Go support them over there <3 I only tagged the people who explicitly stated bc I don’t want to overstep. Also, I guess I should watch Fleabag? Enjoy! part three is cookin’ in my noggin’

// Psalms 32:3-4

When I kept silent, my bones wasted away through my groaning all day long. For day and night your hand was heavy on me;

Rumbling sounds drone from the engine in a constant hum as the bus wheels roll down the asphalt, occasionally shuffling the passengers inside. Yourself included.

The wheels in your mind are conjuring images of too much skin, friction, and want. The mental pictures… different positions and other things that you’ve only read about - all featuring the same tall deacon from your small church.

You curse yourself for both your overactive imagination and forgetfulness for having left your headphones at home. Some loud music would drown out the whir of the bus and push out the flashes of lewdness that plagued you.

Reverend O’Hara, you learned that’s what transitional deacons are usually called after inquiring about the proper title on Google the second you got home from that communion, occupied the majority of your mind. He took up residence in your thoughts without even asking permission and you didn’t know the proper way to absolve your sanity of him. It had only been two weeks since you’d met him, two Sunday services, but you were hooked. This trip into the city was supposed to get you out of the house and help clear your mind of its recent inhabitant.

The methods you were currently using were certainly of no help. Nearly every night, for the past two weeks, you’d given into temptation. Allowing the streaking images of what you could only envision his toned body looked like to remain longer in your mind’s eye. His thumb on your lip, the quick swipe across - became more inquisitive of the inside of your mouth in your imagination. You pressed into yourself and thought of those long, thick fingers. You carried yourself away on highs with only his hands in mind. You yearned to baptize him in your waters.

You buried fingernails into your palms to ground yourself as the scenery outside the bus began the change drastically, pulling you out of your daydream.

Your hometown along the Catskill Mountains was enveloped by the natural world - tucked into valleys of the vast countryside. In the three weeks you’d been back home, you had already gotten used to surrounding greenery. You’d forgotten the toll that city expansion was having on the rows of vegetable and orchard farms in the surrounding areas.

Your gaze out the window watched tree lines and grassy hills give way to glimmers of futuristic architecture as the bus entered Nueva York. The rhythm of wheels on tarmac became a backdrop to the din of honking horns, shouting pedestrians, and blaring sirens. You had only recently left a city not too different from this one, but the drastic change in landscape from the mountains made your head spin. The inertia of the bus braking and accelerating over and over on the intersecting streets only added to the motion sickness. You recognize the next stop as the usual one you and your mother used when coming into the city. You quickly get off the bus, blessing the steady ground underneath as your boots hit the pavement.

Towering structures of carbon fiber and glass dominated the skyline, some illuminated by bright neon light displays, others blending into the afternoon sunshine. Advertisements for fast foods, fast money, and fast cars flickered on screens everywhere. You look to where the bus carried you from and, in contrast, the countryside stretched out, calling you back. Despite the slight familiarity in the maze of metal, the sudden change in surroundings made you slightly anxious.

The steady stream of citizens didn’t help your nerves either. You take a moment to get yourself together before following the foot traffic flow up a familiar street.

Your eyes recognize a food spot from a bygone era and you can’t help but smile. You picked up the pace as you headed to the establishment your family used to frequent. Timeless Treats is still here?! You pull on the long handled door and a wave of music, chatter, and sugar hit you at once. Much more pleasant than the waves of anxiety from moments before.

Entering the quaint eatery, you’re transported into a cozy atmosphere reminiscent of an old fashioned diner. A cheerful man at the front waves you in and shouts for you to ‘sit where ya want!’.

You recognized the vintage decor: rusted signs with cartoon mascots and ads for ice cream floats that cost only $2. Imagine! You select one of the smaller retro tables with two stools and hear a jukebox play a song you don’t recognize but tap your foot along to.

There was more to this diner than what it seems at first glance. A few more glances noticed the subtle touches where the diner had embraced the future where it mattered, with high-tech kitchen appliances that helped the staff immensely. A holographic menu pops up across the portion of the table you're sitting at and you slide your finger along the options.

This bakery specialized in delicious treats with a futuristic flare, with many favorites being popular since the establishment opened generations ago. Your eyes fell onto the pastry menu and your curiosity piqued as you ordered the ‘Time Traveler’s Torta.’

All the hustle of the city had occupied your mind until you were sitting alone at the table. Your eyes scanned the other occupants and you wondered what they were all talking about with their sugary sweets. It made you think of him again.

Dammit. A whole ten minutes without thinking of Reverend O’Hara, that’s a record! You couldn’t help the images of Miguel that fluttered now. Only this time you pictured him sitting at the table with you. The two of you share a dessert and you smile at the thought. You visualize his thumb coming to your face to wipe whipped cream from your lips only to plop the finger into his own mouth. That moment as mass replayed in your mind with differing flavors of spice on repeat.

The torta arrives and you gawk at the presentation of the treat. A classic cake with layers of light vanilla sponge, intricately placed swirls of sweet cream cheese frosting, and decadent chocolate sauce. This sweet was the perfect balance of timeless and futuristic as it sat on an oblong, ornate plate.

You savored the flavors as you ate and continued to imagine a date with the deacon. You ask yourself if deacons can even date and the thought pulls you out of your delusions for a moment. Get it together…

As you scooped the last bits of the pastry into your mouth, you pondered your dilemma. Mom always said that confession cleared a clouded consciousness, but there was no way you’d divulge this information to her. Her hypothetical reaction to your crush on a clergy member makes you shiver.

An idea comes to mind that makes you think to yourself that you’ve really gone mad.

The madness pushes you from your seat after paying for the dessert. There’s a slim chance what you’re looking for is actually there considering the cities expansions. That doubt doesn’t stop you from following a semi-recognizable path down the busy streets.

Every tall figure you pass makes you do a double take. The idea of the deacon brushing alongside you making you smile. You turn a corner as your imagination creates sweet scenarios with Reverend O’Hara and stop in your tracks. You cause people behind you to push into your back and spit harsh murmurs at you.

It was still there.

You were surprised for good reason. You were headed towards a relic of past times, nestled between buildings of glass and metal. There was some scaffolding supporting it as the building you headed towards was centuries old. Other than that - the structure you now stood and stared at jutted towards the sky in the old brick and mortar style you were used to seeing in your hometown.

But the Cathedral of Nueva York wasn’t like the humble church in your hometown. The ornate bell tower and large cross atop the chapel in front of you proved that. The only thing to change about the building was the name as the state itself saw many changes a few decades ago - including the name of the actual city.

You find yourself reminiscing on the few times you’d been to the church as you walked inside. Your family used to attend the fancy Easter services and Christmas plays. Those trips stopped after your father passed, and your mother rarely came to the city at all anymore. You remember seeing pictures of them on their wedding day at this very church. Priesthood is a tight knit group and Father Steen knew the head priest, who extended their church for their wedding services.

Given it was a weekday afternoon, there weren’t many souls inside. Despite the numerous options for seating, you sat in your usual middle pew, aisle seat.

You eyed the part of the church that had brought you here in the first place. The confession booth. Its cherrywood exterior made you think of those eyes that bore into yours that day of communion. You shake your head but the visual remains.

The church in your hometown didn’t have a confessional booth. Even if they did - why the hell would you confess there? To the subject of your lustful desires? So many questions and doubts enter your mind.

Could you really do this? Confess to a priest that you pined over a man in his chaste brotherhood? Think of the judgment!

Another thought occurs to you: their whole shtick was that only one entity could do the judging. And it was confidential. If you received some good ol’ fashioned Catholic scolding and Hail Mary’s, maybe that would be enough to get you back to your senses. Reverend O’Hara is a man devoted to God and cannot be hindered by the whims of a degenerate like yourself.

Emboldened by the potential to relieve yourself of your corrupt thoughts, you stand and approach the far right front of the church. The confessional is smaller than it looked from how you remember as a child and teen but it doesn’t stop you from nearly yanking the door open. You don’t even knock.

Thankfully no one is on the confessing side as you burst into the tiny box. The confined space became even smaller as you closed the door behind you quickly. Your mind races towards impure thoughts of the deacon pressed against you in the tight booth space. His height would force him to bend slightly over you and the visual almost knocks you onto the bench which would probably be right at crotch level…

You remember the times you’d done this before and cry out the usual, “Forgive me, for I have sinned and it has been many years since my last confession…”. Who were you even asking for forgiveness? You think for a moment about the last time you were in this booth. You felt so guilty about stealing from the general store all those years back. This was a different kind of confession. This would hopefully absolve yourself of the sinful attraction to the forbidden.

You start light, fumbling over the words, “I’ve gotten drunk and high, uh, a good bit while in college. I lied to my mother and got into major trouble as a result. I’ve been selfish and lazy.”

The anonymity and the release of it all lit a fire under you and you kept going.

“While I’m in this confession booth, and I know it is a sacred and holy place”, you sigh and hear shuffling on the opposite side of the wall, the priest waiting patiently on the other side. “I’ve been struggling with my faith and don’t believe in god…”

You hear the clergyman start to interject but the voice that comes out of you has a fierce tone.

“I’m not done.” Now it was the priest’s turn to sigh and you see movement through the small slits in the partition, but hear nothing else. You continue. The most scandalous part to admit had yet to be said.

“Father, I’ve been lustful over the deacon at my church.” There’s silence on the other end and before embarrassment can take over you continue, “I’m constantly thinking of him and having impure thoughts that drive me to-“ oh god, here it is

“Touch myself. Daily. With this deacon on my mind.” You can’t stop the heat from painting your cheeks a deep red.

“I feel guilty because he isn’t for me to think that way about. From just the two times I’ve seen him, I know he is a good man who does good things. He’s on a path towards righteousness. He’s worthy.” To your shock, you feel tears form and they begin to fall.

“I’m a sinful nonbeliever. Definitely not someone he could be with, unworthy of devotion of any kind. And I’m not good.” Your breathing becomes shaky as the tears fall harder. Despite the fact that you feel your words are the truth, you can’t help but imagine him there now. Comforting you as you cry.

Now that you’ve finished confession, you expect to hear an outburst of disapproval or at least ‘50 Hail Mary’s’ to absolve you of your confessed transgressions.

But that’s not what you heard next.

You hear your name. You hear your name in that sweet music that’s been ringing in your ears the last week or so. This time the musical tone is cautious. Your mouth hangs open in disbelief as your eyes glue to the wall where the music came from.

To confirm your suspicions, you grab the knob on the partition and yank it back.

Through the small window you see a familiar pair of eyes analyzing your face, heavy with worry.

Reverend O’Hara had just taken your confession…

I pray you liked this, dear reader.

Tagged ppl - @friendlynbhdzero @ceoofghosts it won’t let me tag you @hoelychildofgod

[01zfan]

understanding my faith | l. at

churchboy!anton x fem!reader | 2.4k words

i wouldn’t describe this as fluff or angst but just yearning.

contains: biblical references, issues with church involving lack of faith in god, reader is compared to an angel. anton is a church boy in the choir heh

umf: part one | part two | part three

it wasn’t luck that anton met you. luck was for something random, like finding money on the ground. luck was getting on the bus and finding a seat. anton knew you were more than something random and you were more than something from this earth. anything that came to anton’s mind you were more than that. you were above this plane of existence. something far greater.

anton had been in the church choir his whole life. his first interaction with the church started off as a baby, baptized before he could remember. when he could remember, he started as a child in the congregation. standing and sitting for hours, repeating hymns and having to stay awake through the boring service. anton remembers thinking about what other kids his age were doing at this time in the morning. usually sleeping, but kids always had their sunday’s free. that’s what he was most jealous of. being able to sleep in on a sunday was something anton always wanted to do.

the only reprieve from being a perfect churchgoer was when all the kids got to have fun during breakfast in the middle of service. anton played with kids, he wasn’t an outcast. but thats only because he didn’t show his age mates his true colors. anton recalled sitting in a circle with the other kids, talking about what they loved about god. when it got to him, anton wasn’t sure what to say. without thinking, he expressed lack of faith. when he saw the look in their eyes, the look of uncertainty anton immediately backtracked. he said he was thankful for god’s forgiveness and he passed the “cross of speaking” to the next in line. anton was at risk of being a pariah, until he passed the cross to you. 

anton never understood beauty. his congregation often talked about beauty through several women mentioned in the bible. paintings of these religious figures never moved him. he could appreciate the artistry, but never understood the word beauty. anton wondered if something was wrong with him, if a little devil was working against him finding anything beautiful. when he saw you, anton understood. this is what beauty was described as in the bible. 

when you got the cross. you looked to anton. he almost immediately looked away, picking at the laces of his shoes. he hated publicly speaking. he hated feeling people look at him. here you were, looking at him with a gaze that felt more powerful than god himself.

“i don’t think god is real.” you said simply.

a pen could’ve dropped in the church hall. everyone looked towards you. a kid, with the cross in the hand saying something like that in the house of god. the youth pastor tried to save the situation, but you stayed steadfast in your opposition of god. 

ten years had passed since you left the church and people still occasionally brought you up. anton remained involved with the church, moving from the choir as an alto then becoming the cello player. outside lessons made him an integral part of the church, and the church took over his life. he was there every day of the week. if it wasn’t for choir practice, it was for a random event that was being hosted at the church. anton often volunteered. he thought it would look good on college applications, but he always felt ridiculous being so involved as someone who was closer to a nonbeliever than a believer.

he must admit, the church became something close to a sanctuary for him. with his parents being so strict sometimes the church would be the only place he could go. anton would go there after school to study. being a senior member of the choir meant he had keys to get into the church.  

sometimes anton would study, other times he would sit in the pews, in the vast room by himself. he would look up at the stained glass panels, the empty pews. he would look at the large organ, its pipes going all the way to the ceiling. anton wondered about the hands that were used to build this church, if they were hands blessed by god himself. anton would sometimes rest his head on the pew in front of him thinking about what it would take for a man to understand faith. 

anton closed his eyes, trying to imagine what god looked like. sometimes he’d open them to the sound of his mom calling him telling him to come home, opening his eyes in a dark church.

“hello?”

anton opened his eyes and saw you, standing in the aisle. he saw you sideways, his head bent oddly to rest on the pew. you were wearing a beautiful white dress. you had to wear a neutral cardigan, probably to hide the scandalous neckline of the dress. anton couldn’t help but stare at you. light came through the stained glass windows, casting a beautiful light on your face. everything about church felt so scratchy to him, like the wool sweater of his schools’ unifrom. but you looked warm and inviting.

“hi. sorry. the pastor said i could come find you for help?”

anton realized he was staring. he got up from the pew a little too fast. you were in the aisle, and he sat in the middle of the pew so he had to shuffle through to get to you. when he stood in front of you, he knew who you were immediately.

“you’re back?” anton could feel his eyes widen. you looked like the same girl anton saw in the margins of biblical text, daydreamed about when service droned on. you had the same eyes he locked with and the same smile when you acknowledged him.

“anton?” your eyes grew wide. anton’s only grew wider. you remembered him? “the pastor said the choir lead was here i didn’t know it was you.”

anton wasn’t sure what to do. when you gave him a hug that was the first time he ever felt something so deeply in the church. it started in his heart, then blossomed to his whole body, taking control of his arms to wrap them around you.

“it’s so nice to see a familiar face around here you have no idea.”

you pulled away too soon. anton had his hands at his sides now, unsure what to do. 

“what are you doing here?” anton hasn’t seen you since you left. your parents moved away, he was never sure why. of course their were rumors about your family moving. anton always thought it was ironic how the church loved to gossip.

“i moved back here with my mom and she wants me to get back into the church. i was in the choir when i left and so i thought i’d try to come back.” you fiddled with a ring on your pinky finger. anton eyed the ring, trying to remember which finger the taken girls wore, the ones that had a boyfriend.

“i am the choir leader.” anton looked at his cello sitting in the pew. he wasn’t sure if you had seen it.

“not a youth pastor?” anton remembers the two of you mocking the clean cut teenagers that were forced to wrangle the kids of the church.

“definitely not.” anton replied a little too fast. something about what he did made you laugh, booming through the empty room. anton looked around the room. the architecture of the room was designed to fill the room with sound. anton can’t believe that this room was made to amplify speeches that droned on and boring music. your laugh was the only sound that needed to be played in this room.

“sorry i’m a little loud. i forgot proper church etiquette.” you put a hand over your mouth. 

“no it’s okay. the pastor told you to find me right? to show you the music?” anton wanted you to laugh again it made everything in this room make more sense.

“yeah sorry. he said you can show me and teach me the music. if it’s not too much trouble.”

“i don’t mind.” anton was reaching in the pew for his cello while you walked to the front of the room, by all the instruments. anton saw you wander near the microphone.

“there’s extra sheet music in the stool.” anton needed you to not look at him while he set his things up. you nodded and opened the cover of the seat. “everything we’ve been doing lately is in a folder.”

after grabbing the music, you sat on the stool of the piano.

anton has never set up his cello so carefully. he was conscious of you looking at him, watching him set up his equipment. anton wondered if you knew anything about the cello, if you would ask to touch his. for some reason, his hands were shaking when he rubbed his bow against the rosin, making sure the hairs were coated.

“ah perfect.” you grabbed the folder, placing all the music on an extra music stand. you sat across from anton, looking at him waiting to suggest a song.

“we’ve been playing be thou my vision alot recently. it’s on the easier side so we can do that first. .”

“alrighty. lets do it.”

anton was about to start playing before you stuck up a finger, to get him to stop. he froze, bow getting ready to pull the first note from his instrument he watched you warmup quickly, and take a drink from your water bottle. it was new for anton to follow someone else during practice. it was always him leading everyone, even if they were older.

after you were done you nodded towards him. he started playing at tempo. you joined in exactly on time, something people in the choir struggled with. your voice was angelic, as beautiful as he remembered. it was hard for him to stay with your singing, he wanted to stop playing cello to focus on your voice. so many never took the time to learn the pronunciation of the hymns, just guessing and going with those around them. you knew what you were singing, with a conviction anton had never seen. your voice bellowed through the room, but anton felt wrapped in your voice. it was something he had never felt before.

anton hated playing cello for the choir. but he would play until his hands bled, until ever hair on his bow was torn if it meant you were singing with him.

“was that good?” you asked. did you think he’d say no?”

“you sounded amazing. like an angel.” anton wishes he was lying. you came in like an angel, sang like you learned from god himself. everything in the bible was making sense the more he looked at you.

“you’ve always been too nice to me anton.” 

you were nice like an angel too.

“i’m only telling the truth.” anton put his bow back on the stand

“i’m not just talking about now,” you were next to him now. “before my family moved you were always so nice to us. you were kind, never joined in the rumors or stuck your nose up at me.”

anton remembered the way the congregation treated your family. uninvited or not told about events. they made an example out of your family, what would happen if you expressed lack of faith. anton assumed the rumors about religious persecution being the cause of you disappearing one day wasn’t completely untrue.

“that was never me. i never thought it was that serious to be so rude to someone else because they show lack of faith.” anton felt nervous mentioning this in front of the large peeling painting of the virgin mary. as if someone was overhearing, and then his family would be the next ones getting chased out.

“are you a nonbeliever?” anton looked from his sheet music to see your wide eyes.

“no of course not! my whole life is the church.” anton wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince you or himself. 

“it’s okay if you are. i’m sure you know where i stand.” you sat in the chair next to anton now.

“you still don’t believe?” anton whispered it. maybe the paintings could hear him.

“i have been trying to practice my faith.”

“i’ve been trying to understand my faith.” anton said quickly. he said it to not make you feel alone, but he realized he had accidentally confessed. he had never said it out loud, not even to the priest during confessionals.

“what do you mean?” you asked.

“practicing it comes easy to me,” anton motions towards his cello for effect. “playing the music, memorizing hymns, understanding prayers, reciting passages. thats like second nature to me. but understanding why i do all of it is hard.” anton has wrote this in his diary many times. the one he keeps locked away from his parents overbearing eyes. it was hard to tell it to someone else of flesh and blood. but something about how the light always followed you made him believe you were made of something more.

anton watched you ponder about what he said. if it was anyone else he would’ve panicked. but he just watched you think. 

“maybe we can help eachother.” you say finally.

“what do you mean?” anton put his cello on the ground next to him.

“help me practice faith and maybe i can help you understand it. maybe i was sent here to help you. you called me an angel after all.”

“how do you plan on helping me understand it?” 

you pull a piece of his sheet music toward you, and write something on it.

“i’m sure we will figure it out.” you smile at anton and he wishes he had his cello to hide behind. you stand up, walking towards the exit of the room.

“bye anton. i think we both should be getting home. it’s late.” you say to him while walking out. 

just as you leave, antons phone buzzes in his pocket. a text from his mom saying he should be home and it’s getting late. anton can’t control the heavy beating in his heart as he looks at your phone number, writing in the margins of his sheet music. 

anton looks up to the sculpture of jesus on the cross. from this angle, it looks like he’s smiling down at him.

sacrilegious masterlist

[dndadscharacterpolls]

Hello there ! I'm Aether (it/its) ! You can find me on my main, @justablah56 I just thought it'd be fun to have dndads specific polls, so why not do it myself ?

this post will be constantly updating , so if you want to keep up with what's happening make sure to check in here every once in a while !

all current poll information will be above the cut, and then general rules for this account in general will be below :]

the current poll is favorite character headcanon , which will start its first round on April 28 at 3 pm MST ! we'll then have a day between rounds 1 and 2 , so round two will probably open on April 30 at the same time :]

CURRENT ROUND : ROUND 1

everyone with the Scam Likely voice is related to the Likely family (ex. the bleeding elf) vs borderline personality disorder Lark

Bipolar Lark vs Terry Jr never learned to drive after rolling a nat 1 at the end of s1

Henry has a mullet vs Lark and Grant's Top Secret Fight Club

transfem Daryl vs Ron is a furry

transfem Lincoln vs Grant and Marco met online playing video games together

Morgan and Glenn were love at first sight vs Ron doesn't believe in WiFi

Jewish Cassandra vs bi4bi Carol and Daryl but they're in denial about it

genderfluid Hermie vs Glenn carried Scam and Jodie's kid

Henry, ordained minister of the Church of Life, officiated Marco and Grant's wedding vs transfem Hero

adhd Normal vs transmasc Ron

transfem Margarita vs Nicky is biologically related to all three parents (Jodie, Glenn Morgan)

autistic Hermie vs Nicky has loved Lark since he was 12

Lark has an amethyst that Mercedes gifted him vs Sparrow studies medicine

Ron knows exactly what taxes are and how to pay them because it's the one thing Willy taught him vs Glenn and Morgan gave each other stick and poke tattoos and all of Glenn's disappeared after the trial

disabled Taylor vs transfem Normal

genderfluid Scam vs Nicky is part of a system

adhd Nicky vs Gerry is named after Grant and Terry Jr

audhd Henry vs Terry Jr is fluent in French bcs Terry Sr immigrated from France

pansexual Jodie vs arospec linc

Sparrow has terrible eyesight but refuses to wear contacts on missions vs Lark keeps his hair short out of paranoia

Scary uses stamp-on eyeliner bcs she can't do winged eyeliner herself vs Grant left the Catholic church but still finds comfort in the rituals

transmasc Henry vs aro Taylor

transfem Sparrow vs Daryl and Carol go to couples counseling post s1, but end up amicably divorcing

polycule teens vs nonbinary Hero

Carol and Darryl get divorced post s1 but still live together out of convenience vs dyslexic Scary

Henry baptized Lincoln vs Normal needs glasses but doesn't know it

discalculic Sparrow vs Glenn struggled with self harm after being in prison, specifically scratching at phantom shackles on his wrists

Willy is a trans man who transitioned bcs he was so misogynistic he didn't want to be a woman vs genderfluid Glenn

autistic Normal vs trans Scary

Nicky heavily considered erasing one of the timelines from his memory with the memory syringes when they were younger vs Glenn proposed to Morgan at their junior prom but Morgan's parents said no and they had to wait til they were 18 after graduation

Lark and Sparrow have heterochromia vs Henry got Vine famous due to Rock Rock and then got famous on TikTok where he has a gardening series in addition to his Rocks Rock series

Jewish Stamplers vs dyslexic Nicky

Normal paints his nails in the Teen High colors vs Daryl thinks Slim Shady and Eminem are two different people

Glenn merc'ed Jodie in their heaven cell vs transmasc Normal

Sparrow commits prescription fraud to get meds for Lark vs Gerry was Scary and Linc's wedding gift from Scam

Wasian Marlowes vs t4t oakworthy

transfem Glenn vs autistic Linc

Bill Close was/is a coke-head vs transfem Hermie

Indigenous Rebecca vs Terry Jr had a goth phase in highschool

ocd Grant vs Glenn has been celibate since Morgan died

Lark and Sparrow have lavender eyes vs Taylor's sword cane is a mobility aid

nonbinary Terry Jr vs he/they Sparrow

Lark and Grant have semi colon tattoos for each other vs queerplatonic married gothcleats

it/its Lark vs Nicky loves cats even though he's allergic to them

transmasc Nicky vs Lark has slept with all of Sparrow's partners out of a "have to be the same" compulsion

t4t hencedes vs Nicky is actually a great cook since Glenn was never there to cook for him

Lark is Normal 's biological dad vs Terry Jr has sandy blonde hair bcs he bleaches and dyes it

Sparrow has chronic nightmares about Lark dying vs adhd Scary

Sparrow/Rebecca/Lark polycule vs demisexual Glenn

t4t Nicky/Cassandra vs trans Taylor

Nicky goes by Nick Freeman after his mom as an adult vs nonbinary Hermie

ace Terry Jr vs the Swallows-Oak-Garcia family stays with Henry for a bit post canon after their house burned down

Lark is the older twin vs Sparrow had to come out as cishet bcs everybody else is some sort of queer

Sparrow is the older twin vs Nicky is legally blind without contacts

each poll will have 3 days of submissions, and then each round will last a day. then there will be one day of break, and then the next day there'll be another poll to pick the next competition and so on and so forth :3

poll submissions are always open , so if at any time you have a poll you'd think would be fun feel free to send it in !

any poll we've done previously is fair game , there are quite literally no limits for what polls you can submit , so send in your ideas !

current poll submissions :

aroallo

ace

best Daryl fact

best Lincoln fact

best Scary fact

best Taylor fact

best Jodie fact

coolest npc name

favorite s2 episode

favorite niche/unpopular ship

best s1 arc

favorite song intro

biggest saddest eyes

propaganda is 100% welcome ! feel free to send an ask or bribe via art requests, and if you make a post just tag me and I'll reblog it here tagged with " *poll* propaganda" if your propaganda is in a reblog , make sure you write it on the post rather than the tags if you want it reblogged here !

I don't just post polls on this acc ! I also reblog fanart , fandom events , and other polls including dndads characters! for fanart I use the tags "not a poll" and "fanart" , for events I use "fandom events" , and for other polls I use the tag "not my polls" , so if either of those are things you don't want to see , feel free to block those tags :]

Previous polls (as of our come back in February ! )

best Normal Fact : ep29 - he is the most published author in the teen high fanfiction tag on ao3

favorite headcanon : Taylors sword cane is his mobility aid for his balance issues that come and go

best Glenn fact : Glenn still considers himself married to Morgan even though she's dead

best npc : Terry Jr Stampler

best non-song intro: ep27 - Glenn and Ron on shark tank for the elevator button

funniest npc name : Sexcallibur Horsepower

if you want to know who won what before the hiatus , you can find those here !

if you have any questions about the blog in general or anything else , feel free to send in an ask and I'll do my best to answer it !

[anonymous-dentist]

Werewolves are born when a son is born after a couple had 6 daughters, but it can be prevented if the kid is baptized by the oldest daughter before their first transformation when they reach the age of 13. The werewolf can also spread it around by their blood or bites!

They don't transform according to the moon cycle, and instead transform weekly on the night between thursday and friday, but on lent(Is this right? Im relying on the powers of google translate for this one) their transformation gets a little out of whack. Their transformation also has some little rituals they must do before they transform that includes: knotting 7 knots on their shirts and rolling on dirt. Peeing on the shirt optional.

To cure a werewolf is a pain in the ass, so say it mildly. So first, you can stab it with a steel blade, but you can only make them bleed a single drop of blood. This also varies, some say it can cure while others say it only brings the werewolf back to their human form. Other way is to stab them with the thorn of a orange tree that was planted in a graveyard and/or on a friday. All of this while they are on their beast form.

So… thats a little something? Brazil is very big and the folklore has lot of variations, so some things may not fit other the tales of other regions, but I still think this is quite a good number of nuggets of trivia.

(Pt.2 and final)

Okay so, fun fact, not everyone in the Brazilian Werewolf Pack is a Brazilian-style werewolf!

I’ve done some research, and I’ve decided that traditional European werewolves and Brazilian werewolves- Lobisomem- are different creatures. For reference, Pac, Mike, and Felps are Lobisomem. Forever was human, but he got bit by a werewolf when visiting his sister in France in college and so he’s Different. (He’s not like other wolves)

I’ve been kinda mixing and matching Brazilian werewolf lore in my fic just because it’s REALLY hard to track down specific canons in English. But I’ve asked some Brazilian people and I’ve looked around in some websites and books, and here’s what I’ve more or less settled on:

Pac was bit and turned because he was kind of wasted one night and he tried petting a ‘dog’. Said ‘dog’ was Mike. They’re besties fr

The three Lobisomem chill with the weekly transformations (see: Cellbit commenting one time in the fic that he helped clean blood out of Felps’ car every weekend), but they also go out on the full moon with Forever so he doesn’t get lonely

Forever trying to stab Cellbit with that ‘Holy Stick’ in chapter 4 came from what I found on a website that I’m not sure google translated properly? It basically said that someone could be cured by being injured by a Holy Thing within 12 days of them being bitten, and Forever is friends with Max, who is “friends” with Sapo Peta, who is quite literally a demigod and who had pretty easy access to Holy Things

The Guys thought about turning Cellbit back in prison when they were all briefly getting along, but then they realized that A) he was somehow already baptized despite the Everything about him and thus lowkey immune to Lobisomem Things and B) he was kind of a fucking maniac

Richarlyson is baptized, but, just in case, Cellbit usually gets custody of him on Fridays and on the full moon. Unless he looks particularly Rough. Then they give Richas to Bad or Baghera to watch. (This is unfortunately common considering who Cellbit is as a person)

Forever, as previously stated, is a traditional European werewolf because he got his dumb ass bitten by a French Werewolf. So he does the usual once a month thing. He chills

[gisellelx]

Every once in a while, I reread one of your stories and I can’t help but check your website for any updates for One Day 😇 Just curious: are you still working on it? No pressure whatsoever of course!! I love the way you portray Carlisle in that fic & am already super thankful for those first 8 or so chapters! Anyways, hope you are doing well & thanks for providing us with so many high-quality fics!

- Sannehale

Ah, this ask made my year. (Also now I realize your two blog names. Sneaky!)

Yes., yes I am. It was actually open on my laptop even as this ask came in. My prereader is asking about it too--I stopped giving her chapters because I was realizing that I got a lot of enjoyment out of sending them to her and that was filling enough void that it cut off my writing mojo. I'm thrilled though, that she can't see where it's going.

I'm stuck on chapter 16 (of likely 23-25) at the moment because a whole bunch of dominos have to fall in order to get to several reveals that are going to happen in very fast succession to move the story out of the second act. Also the second act/B story was hard because I am not a romance writer! 😆 It's not the genre I read and I'm not very good at writing it, but the middle of this story called for a romance and so there is one. Or so I hope.

I've also gone back and shored up some things that needed shoring--introduced a few of the characters who turned out to be important earlier on, and added another character in Bella's research mentor, Amy Jackson. I'm worried that I'm under-utilizing her at the moment.

This ask, though, prompted me to back out to the card view in the Scrivener project and I realize I actually did leave myself the breadcrumbs necessary to get myself out of here. Maybe I'll put my shoulder to the wheel and see what happens if I just follow the outline I laid out.

Anyway. I feel like I shouldn't end an ask without giving a little bit of some of the over 40,000 words that are written and not posted. So here's a tiny bit. This actually may not stay in, and in any event doesn't spoil anything--it's also the headcanon behind this chapter of Montage, though this scene was written years ago and my headcanon about Carlisle's name and his parents' names goes back over fifteen years now.

Of course, I knew a lot more than most people who were hunting down a relative from the 1600s. I clicked on the link for church records, and then delimited my search. If Carlisle was 367, that put him in 1644. That seemed reasonable. I filtered the results by the location, London, and then 1640 to 1650.

CULLEN, I typed. CARLISLE.

Zero hits. I frowned at my screen for a long moment and then practically slapped myself in the head. Of course there were no hits for Carlisle Cullen. Wasn’t this the very thing we’d been arguing about for months, now? I backspaced over the first name, and changed it to WILLIAM.

There were only three hits. Astonishing. I had assumed that Carlisle would have done his due diligence. He’d had hundreds of years to track this information down—why hadn’t he? William Cullen number one was in the baptismal records of St. Luke’s Catholic Church. He had been baptized in 1642. That would make him nearly the same age as Carlisle, no luck there. William Cullen number two, however, was on over seventy pages of documents—the records of St. James Aldgate, listed as parish pastor. And William Cullen number three almost caused my heart to stop.

Born 17 February 1644. Died 8 August 1667.

Twenty-three years old.

My heart, pounding, I clicked on the church register, enlarging it so that it filled my screen. The handwriting was old, faded and pixelated, but it was tidy and easy to read. Carlisle Cullen, it read, with William crammed onto the line before the first name, in the same handwriting but obviously a different pen—the lines were narrower, slanted slightly differently. Born and baptized on February 17, 1644. Father, William Cullen number 2. And mother…

My heart sped. There, in the same scrawly hand—his father’s hand, I realized, it must be—was written the words, Sarah Cullen (Crawforth).

A quick “Open in New Tab” allowed me to pull all the records from the 1600s from St. James Aldgate and in five minutes, I had a birth date of November 15, 1620. And a death date, which was of course expected, of February 17, 1644. But it was the annotation here which was breathtaking—in a different handwriting, written by the midwife? Some other member of the parish?

Died babe in arms.

Tears sprang to my eyes, and with blurry vision, on a hunch, I ran one last search. Then I printed the pages with the documents, shoved them in a folder, and headed for my car.

[cry-ptidd]

Could I tell me about Laura's background? Family, ethnicity, etc? What her her skills, if she has any?

More Laura lore (lau-re lol)

Laura is French and her ethnicity is European. She was born on December 24th 1735 in La Besseyre-Saint-Mary (in the department of Haute-Loire in central France) and baptized three days after. (Her lightly tanned skin comes from her peasant family adapted working in the sun in the fields.)

Her parents’ names are Jean Chastel and Anne Charbonnier. She was the oldest of 9 siblings (although they will be born a few years after her). They were both peasants, but they made enough of a living to not worry much about money.

She was her father’s favorite child (even though she was a daughter and not a son), mostly due to the circumstances of her birth. Her mother had extreme complications during the birth, and Laura herself was pronounced dead a few minutes after birth, but then suddenly regained consciousness in the arms of her mother. That and the fact that her mother miraculously survived the difficult birth, made her father believe she was blessed by God and named her Laura (meaning ‘Laurel’, a tree associated with victory). Her mother recovered fully and was able to bear 9 additional children a few years after.

Her father was literate and taught her how to read and write. She was a devout Christian and attended church regularly.

Her early life was pretty calm, and she got along very well with her father, although her mother prioritized her siblings over her due to the favorable treatment of her father. She asked to remain celibate as a result of her faith, which both of her parents accepted. Her younger sisters were thus wed before her.

She was sometimes teased for her rather androgynous behavior, working ‘men’s jobs’ and being her father’s preferred child rather than his sons. Some people teased her saying she would play the man’s role and get with a woman due to her disinterest in men and behavior. (Which is true as she is a lesbian, but didn’t accept it until much later). She didn’t let the teasing get to her though and was known for being peaceful and just.

She was extremely diligent and always got her work efficiently on time, and sometimes helped her father at the inn he owned.

Her father wasn’t the most well-liked man, and some people said Laura and her mother were into witchcraft. (Those were just rumors, and Laura didn’t let the insults go to her head and made sure to protect her family’s honor.)

One day however, on March 31 1760, she was out herding cattle in a clearing, where a werewolf attacked her. She was bitten on the forearm and her lower stomach was scratched. Some of the villagers heard her cries and drove the beast away, and tended to her the best they could. No one believed her story of the werewolf, believing it to be just a very agressive wolf. It was all downhill from there to be fair.

(I will divulge her full backstory in a later post.)

Skills

By skills I’ll assume you mean both powers and everyday skills ?

Werewolf skills:

Immortality

Superhuman Senses

Superhuman Strength

Superhuman Durability

Superhuman Speed

Superhuman Reflexes

Regeneration

Impenetrable skin (at the exception of silver)

Transformation (into a werewolf)

Invulnerability

Intangibility

Self-Disintegration

Extreme pain tolerance

Her skills are about the same as Hans’, at the exception of her greater durability and truly gigantic wolf form.

She is a very powerful foe, and that is why Alucard decided to recruit her. He sometimes tries to pick fights with her due to her being very powerful but she turns him down, as she isn’t interested in the thrill of battle like Alucard is.

Everyday skills:

Excellent cooking

Organisation and cleaning

Knowledge in literature, theology and psychology

Sharpshooting skills

First-aid and basic construction

Basic sewing and darning

Driving

Unbreakable will and determination

Most of these (aside from the cooking, cleaning, and ‘book’ knowledge) were taught after she was recruited into Hellsing as part of her maid training (as well as being polite enough to be hospitable)

Despite her general grumpiness and disdain for being alive, she is pretty well-mannered and still maintains some old-timey language.

[thepastisalreadywritten]

SAINT OF THE DAY (February 1)

On February 1, Catholics in Ireland and elsewhere will honor Saint Brigid of Kildare, a monastic foundress who is – together with Saint Patrick and Saint Columcille – one of the country’s three patron saints.

St. Brigid directly influenced several other future saints of Ireland, and her many religious communities helped to secure the country's conversion from paganism to the Catholic faith.

She is traditionally associated with the Cross of St. Brigid, a form of the cross made from reeds or straw that is placed in homes for blessing and protection.

Some Eastern Catholics and Eastern Orthodox Christians also celebrate her feast.

St. Brigid has been profiled many times by both ancient and modern writers.

However, it is notoriously hard to establish the historical details of her life, and the various accounts make many conflicting claims.

According to one of the more credible biographies of Brigid — Hugh de Blacam's essay in “The Saints of Ireland” — on which the following account is based, most historians place her birth around the year 450, near the end of Saint Patrick's evangelistic mission.

Brigid was born out of wedlock, the daughter of a pagan chieftain named Dubthach and a Christian slave woman named Broicsech.

The chieftain sold the child's pregnant mother to a new master but contracted for Brigid to be returned to him eventually.

According to de Blacam, the child was probably baptized as an infant and raised as a Catholic by her mother.

Thus, she was well-formed in the faith before leaving Broicsech's slave-quarters at around age 10 to live with Dubthach and his wife.

Within the new circumstances of the chieftain's household, Brigid's faith found expression in feats of charity.

From the abundance of her father's food and possessions, she gave generously to the poor.

Dubthach became enraged, threatening to sell Brigid, who was not recognized as a full family member but worked as a household servant to the King of Leinster.

But the Christian king understood Brigid's acts of charity and convinced Dubthach to grant his daughter her freedom.

Released from servitude, Brigid was expected to marry. But she had other plans, which involved serving God in consecrated life.

She even disfigured her own face, marring her beauty in order to dissuade suitors.

Understanding he could not change her mind, Dubthach granted Brigid permission to pursue her plan and material means by which to do so.

Thus did a pagan nobleman, through this gift to his illegitimate daughter, play an unintentional but immense part in God's plan for Ireland.

While consecrated religious life was part of the Irish Church before Brigid's time, it had not yet developed the systematic character seen in other parts of the Christian world by the fifth century.

Among women, vows of celibacy were often lived out in an impromptu manner, in the circumstances of everyday life or with the aid of particular benefactors.

Brigid, with an initial group of seven companions, is credited with organizing communal consecrated religious life for women in Ireland.

Bishop Mel of Ardagh – St. Patrick's nephew, and later “St. Mel” – accepted Brigid's profession as a nun.

According to tradition, the disfigurement she had inflicted on her face disappeared that day, and her beauty returned.

St. Mel went on to serve as a mentor to the group during their time at Ardagh.

Around the time of his death in 488, Brigid's community got an offer to resettle.

Their destination is known today as Kildare (“Church of the Oak”), after the main monastery she founded there.

Brigid's life as a nun was rooted in prayer, but it also involved substantial manual labor: cloth-making, dairy farming, and raising sheep.

In Ireland, as in many other regions of the Christian world, this communal combination of work and prayer attracted vast numbers of people during the sixth century.

Kildare, however, was unique as the only known Irish “double monastery” — it included a separately-housed men's community, led by the bishop Saint Conleth.

From this main monastery, Brigid's movement branched out to encompass a large portion of Ireland.

It is not clear just how large, but it is evident that Brigid traveled widely throughout the island, founding new houses and building up a uniquely Irish form of monasticism.

When she was not traveling, many pilgrims – including prominent clergy and some future saints – made their way to Kildare, seeking the advice of the abbess.

Under Brigid's leadership, Kildare played a major role in the successful Christianization of Ireland.

The abbess' influence was felt in the subsequent era of the Irish Church, a time when the country became known for its many monasteries and their intellectual achievements.

St. Brigid of Kildare died around 525.

She is said to have received the last sacraments from a priest, Saint Ninnidh, whose vocation she had encouraged.

Veneration of Brigid grew in the centuries after her death and spread outside of Ireland through the work of the country's monastic missionaries.

[walkswithmyfather]

‭‭Acts ‭9:1‭-‬22‬ (‭NLT‬‬). “Meanwhile, Saul was uttering threats with every breath and was eager to kill the Lord’s followers. So he went to the high priest. He requested letters addressed to the synagogues in Damascus, asking for their cooperation in the arrest of any followers of the Way he found there. He wanted to bring them—both men and women—back to Jerusalem in chains. As he was approaching Damascus on this mission, a light from heaven suddenly shone down around him. He fell to the ground and heard a voice saying to him, “Saul! Saul! Why are you persecuting me?” “Who are you, lord?” Saul asked. And the voice replied, “I am Jesus, the one you are persecuting! Now get up and go into the city, and you will be told what you must do.”

The men with Saul stood speechless, for they heard the sound of someone’s voice but saw no one! Saul picked himself up off the ground, but when he opened his eyes he was blind. So his companions led him by the hand to Damascus. He remained there blind for three days and did not eat or drink.

Now there was a believer in Damascus named Ananias. The Lord spoke to him in a vision, calling, “Ananias!” “Yes, Lord!” he replied. The Lord said, “Go over to Straight Street, to the house of Judas. When you get there, ask for a man from Tarsus named Saul. He is praying to me right now. I have shown him a vision of a man named Ananias coming in and laying hands on him so he can see again.”

“But Lord,” exclaimed Ananias, “I’ve heard many people talk about the terrible things this man has done to the believers in Jerusalem! And he is authorized by the leading priests to arrest everyone who calls upon your name.” But the Lord said, “Go, for Saul is my chosen instrument to take my message to the Gentiles and to kings, as well as to the people of Israel. And I will show him how much he must suffer for my name’s sake.”

So Ananias went and found Saul. He laid his hands on him and said, “Brother Saul, the Lord Jesus, who appeared to you on the road, has sent me so that you might regain your sight and be filled with the Holy Spirit.” Instantly something like scales fell from Saul’s eyes, and he regained his sight. Then he got up and was baptized. Afterward he ate some food and regained his strength. Saul stayed with the believers in Damascus for a few days. And immediately he began preaching about Jesus in the synagogues, saying, “He is indeed the Son of God!”

All who heard him were amazed. “Isn’t this the same man who caused such devastation among Jesus’ followers in Jerusalem?” they asked. “And didn’t he come here to arrest them and take them in chains to the leading priests?” Saul’s preaching became more and more powerful, and the Jews in Damascus couldn’t refute his proofs that Jesus was indeed the Messiah.”

“Deeply Known” By In Touch Ministries:

“Have you been so changed by Jesus’ love that you are willing to follow Him anywhere?”

“Yesterday, we explored the glorious truth that no one is beyond God’s reach. His love can rescue anyone, no matter how far the person has fallen. Along those lines, let’s consider Saul of Tarsus, who was later known as the apostle Paul. On the road to Damascus, which Saul walked while “still breathing threats and murder against the disciples” (Acts 9:1), he met the Savior, and everything changed.

Jesus called him by name, saying, “Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting Me?” (v. 4). But the persecutor couldn’t respond by addressing the Lord, because he didn’t yet know Christ. He didn’t have to wait long, however. “I am Jesus whom you are persecuting,” the Lord told the soon-to-be apostle (v. 5). And it was then that the great work began. Paul began “proclaim[ing] Jesus in the synagogues” and “proving that this Jesus is the Christ” (vv. 20, 22).

In John 10:27, Jesus said, “My sheep listen to My voice, and I know them, and they follow Me.” The knowing between the Savior and His servant became so deep that Paul, the “chosen instrument,” bore Christ’s name “before the Gentiles” and “suffer[ed] in behalf” of it (Acts 9:15-16). Paul listened. He knew the voice of his Savior, and he followed. May we do the same.”

[Photo by Marcos Paulo Prado at Unsplash]

[feedingtheflockministry]

Stay Alert Have you ever let your guard down when you shouldn’t have? Maybe you got lazy. Maybe you got distracted. Maybe you cared too much about someone else’s opinions. Maybe you got tired of standing your ground. Peter, one of Jesus’ closest disciples, would understand. He left everything to follow Jesus. He loved, trusted, and believed in Jesus. But when being associated with Jesus threatened His own security and reputation, Peter denied Him—three times. Thankfully, Jesus forgave him, restored him, and even empowered him to preach at Pentecost—the day that 3,000 people were baptized and the early church began. It was that Peter who wrote: “Stay alert! Watch out for your great enemy, the devil. He prowls around like a roaring lion, looking for someone to devour. Stand firm against him, and be strong in your faith. Remember that your family of believers all over the world is going through the same kind of suffering you are.” ‭‭1 Peter‬ ‭5‬:‭8‬-‭9‬ ‭NLT‬‬ If we’re going to resist the enemy, we must stay on both the offensive and defensive. The Offensive: Stay alert. Stand firm. Be strong. Read God’s Word. Seek God-centered community. Fight for time and connection with God. Remind yourself that there are others fighting this battle with you. The Defensive: If someone is twisting the truth, call it out. If you notice an injustice, do something to help. If your enemy the devil is wreaking havoc, have the courage to fight for good. For the times that you’ve already let your guard down, don’t allow yourself to stay stuck in guilt or shame. We’ve all had moments where we’ve slipped. Ask for forgiveness and keep moving forward. What did Jesus do after He was raised back to life? He found Peter. In fact, he cooked breakfast on the beach for Peter! He gave Peter another chance, and even established him as a leader. So stay alert. And remember: God is also fighting for you. YouVersion Bible Verse of the day devotional

[awholelottayeehaw]

Mandalore Reunited? (spoilers)

After marinating in the ending of this season the last three days I think another issue I have is over how people are just... okay with the darksaber being destroyed that easily. I've seen people argue about the symbolism of it no longer being needed to reunite Mandalorians and lead, but I honestly think it'll do the opposite and I'll be surprised if I'm wrong with any upcoming season/show that reflects on the planet's future.

Bo-Katan led to the planet's current state after disagreeing with her pacifist sister on how they should rule the planet. For Satine, it was with peace. For Bo, it was through their warrior heritage. The problem with Bo now being Mand'alore after so long of trying is that... we still haven't seen her character growth. She hasn't atoned for what she's done nor has she been honest and open about her actions with the people who's about to rule. The show could/should have had Bo mention Satine and, in a single sentence, both honor her dead sister's wishes and show her growth by verbally confirming that she was going to lead by combining their ideas of democracy to form a perfect balance of both. Bo-Katan just last season was still racist with terroristic tendencies and that doesn't just... go away. There was a reason why her fleet abandoned her the moment she couldn't get back the darksaber for the Nth time.

So my problem overall with it is that we don't KNOW if Bo has reunited Mandalore yet. Lighting the forge, Axe battle crying his nationalistic pride, and the Mandalorian version of clapping doesn't equate to peace amongst Mandalorians. If anything, it reminded me of how we all united to help one another during and shortly after the horrors of 9/11. For a moment, we all were just people helping each other. Then came the surge of xenophobia and Islamophobia that presented itself in a way that we hadn't seen before and it only got worse since. Yes we had xenophobia, religious prejudice, and racism before; but everything after 9/11 just felt... different. More intense.

Will that happen with Mandalore? It may not. But I have a hard time believing, after so many years of division and prejudice, that the Mandalorians from Din's covert, Bo's fleet, and the Survivors would magically get along no problem. There's already Mandalorians, like the survivors, who were there before the Purge and their nostalgia may make accepting any different political outcome difficult. You have Bo's fleet who believe you have to be pureblood to rule or be considered a Mandalorian, and then you have Din's covert whose strict ideas of The Way are reminiscent of a spiritual community that anyone can be baptized into and not born into. If that were the case we wouldn't have wars or conflict, or even have future conflicts in Star Wars.

Are Mandos going to be okay with others not wearing their helmets all the time? Are Mandos going to be okay with sharing space with people who never take off their helmets? What is the weight of Ragnor's baptism for those not in the covert? And if there's no darksaber anymore to determine who the ruler is, then what are the plans moving forward for leadership? There's technically never been an established order of leadership, the planet had always been led by Warlords and Satine was (I believe) the first to inherit her father's titles after his death and that was extremely controversial. Paz and Axe couldn't even peacefully argue over a game of SW chess, it's naive to assume a moment of unification to take back a planet will erase that decades long prejudice. Not even Din has been able to get over his droid thing that he's had since he was a kid.

Honestly, putting it to words, I won't be surprised if this caused another civil war. The prior one was fought between the New Mandalorian peace movement and traditional nationalists (Satine vs Bo) and with three very different sects of Mandalorians uniting on the planet for the first time in years, I can't fathom the peace lasting long. I can't imagine people not arguing about what The Way is, or overcoming decades long prejudice and resentment after the purge all because they got a planet back.

It's sweet and idealistic to imagine this would be the case, Mandalore as a planet deserves it. Future Mandalorians deserve to not live under warlord leadership. But that would require Bo to not only overcome her own prejudices and the lack of patience she has for diplomacy (ex: the robot bar and the Ugnaughts), and it'll take time for us to see if she learned anything from Din and his people during her time with his covert. And although Bo not needing the darksaber to rule or unite the planet and its people is a sweet idea rich in symbolism, it's naive to accept it as a final truth when Mandalore and Bo-Katan's complex histories loom over the future of the planet regardless of turned leaves and open minds.

Again, I might be completely wrong. Maybe they took the easy way out and decided, for once, Star Wars can just leave out the Wars part regarding Mandalore? Maybe Bo did learn her lessons and with The Armorer she's able to find a middle ground for everyone? Maybe everyone is able to put things aside for the planet and won't need Din and Grogu to come and play diplomat between everyone again? I guess we'll see, and despite all of this, I am excited and curious to see the future of Mandalore moving forward in this show and others (and movies!) that take place in the future.

[imnotkosmic]

The Way, chapter one: 'A Voice in the Wilderness.'

It had been three weeks. John had been stuck in that dark, dingy, rat infected prison for three weeks. His followers where scattered throughout Gailiee, even making their way to Nazereth. Andrew, son of Jonah, was one of those followers. His older brother, Simon, had told him it was a stupid idea to follow that rouge Baptizer. Now that he was in prison, Simon had told his brother to stay away from him. Andrew thought about how he could see John in prison without his brothers knowledge, when someone yelled his name, "Andrew! Andrew!" the man in question turned around to see one of the other followers of the Baptizer running toward him, waving. "Tobias?" Andrew asked. "What is the matter?" Tobias grinned broadly, "Its John! He's finally out!"

~~~

Simon put the last of the fish into the barrel and called out to James, "I've finished! How much do you have left?" James looked at his net and back to Simon, "A whole nets worth." Simon laughed. Even without their younger brothers, they got all the work done. Well, Simon had gotten all his work done. "Go back to town," James said, "I'll meet you there when I've finished." Simon nodded, said their goodbyes, and started walking into town, hoping James would put both of their barrels of fish into market this time. As he walked into his home, he saw his wife, Edah, standing at the counter, cutting vegetables, probably for tonight's dinner. He put his hand on her shoulder and leaned forward and pressed a kiss into the side of her head. They talked, and then Simon went and changed. "Have you seen Andrew?" he asked as he walked into the big main room. "Not since last Shabbat." his wife answered.

~~~

"You brood of vipers!" John the Baptizer exclaimed to the group of Pharisees. "Who warned you to flee from the coming wrath? Repet! Don't think you can say, 'we have Abraham as our father' I tell you, that God could make children of Abraham out of these stones!" The 3 Pharisees that had had interrupted John's sermon, Josiah, Asher, and Levi, had been asked by the higher ups of the Sanhedrin to question the rouge Baptizer. So far, no luck. After a few minutes of arguing, the quiter Pharisee, Josiah, asked a question: "Are you the Christ?" John looked at the him, "I am not the Christ." "Or perhaps Elijah?" "No." "The Prophet?" "I am not." The Pharisees were getting angryer by the second. "Then, who are you, man?!" they asked. "I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness, make straight the path of the Lord." John said, qouting Isaiah. "Then why do you baptise if you are not the Messiah, nor Elijah, nor the Phophet?" one Pharisee, named Levi, asked, pointing his finger in John's face."I baptise with water," John said, his voice getting louder, "but among you stands One you do not know. He is the One who comes after me, the straps of whoses sandals I am not worthy to untie." The Pharisees, being quite fed up with the Baptizer at this point, looked at one another, and started to leave. Most of the crowd did the same. John's followers came up to him, "Rabbi," they said, "the people are starting to leave, we should try again tomorrow." John paused, looked at the crowd starting to depart, and said, "Very well."

~~~

The three Pharisees that had questioned John the Baptizer earlier, Levi, Asher, and Josiah, had just got a earful from the High Preist, Caphias. They managed to get nothing from the Baptizer, and on top of that, actually had drawn more people to him. They had orders to go back the next day. "Ugh! How much longer?" Asher asked. He, Josiah, and Levi were on their way to the Jordan, were John proformed most of his sermons and baptisims. "We're nearly there, sir." the man who was driving them there answered. "I can't believe we have to go back to that mad man!" Levi huffed. Josiah just sat there, staring out the flap of the carriage. He, being the newest out of the three, didnt see John as a 'mad man'. Maybe a little weird, but not dangerous. Soon, they heard the Baptizer's loud voice when they got to the Jordan. They made their way out of the carriage, and quietly into the crowd. John and his dicsiples were baptising in the river. Suddenly, John started to look at a tall man coming his way. "Behold!" John cried, "the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world! This is the One I meant when I said, 'a man who has come after me has surpassed me because He was before me'! I myself did not know Him, but the reason I came baptising with water was that He might be revealed to Isreal." The crowd watched as the Man came down to the river, took His sandals off, and went into the river. "Rabbi.." John said. The Man smiled and put His hands on His cousins shoulders. "Shalom." John paused, realising what He was doing there. "Have You come to be baptised by me? Shouldn't You be baptising me?" He smiled, "You don't realise now what I am doing, but later, you will understand. This is the Fathers will." John nodded. Then he lowered his cousin into the water, and baptised Him. Suddenly, something like a dove came and rested just above the Man's head, and a loud voice came from heaven, "This is My Son, in whom I am well pleased."

[my-brothers-corrupted]

“Guess I can't break up with you now,” she says, and it makes JJ laugh.

The baby's such a chonk. She's also heard Marvin refer to him as a “butterball,” and Chase calls him “roly-poly” when he kisses his face, and it's all damn good, cause this baby's too fat to be touched by original sin, or that's what Jackie said when JJ joked (?) that he would baptize him one way or another.

“Got to have that fat baby content,” JJ signs at her, settling his nephew against his lap.

“Got to,” she agrees. “How does it feel to be an uncle?”

JJ strokes his finger along Rajah's cheek. “I'm an uncle already.”

“You don't have memories from Hunter and Izzy's early years,” she acknowledges to him, touching his back. Her fingers find the knob at the top of his spine and press against it. She loves his spine. She resists a weird and sudden urge to kiss him there, to take her mouth up from the back of his neck to the place where his hair starts, just to tell him something she can't quite put into words in that moment. She thinks she likes seeing him with the baby; she thinks she likes him so at ease. She'd probably have his kid if he ever married her, she supposes, and she tamps that down because it's the sort of 'hold-your-horses, kid, you've only been dating him eight months' sort of reaction she keeps having lately. She'd be such a terrible mother anyway.

JJ must notice the darkening of her mood – he always seems to, attentive son of a bitch – because he turns to her with those big clear eyes.

“I like it,” he says. She likes his crooked front teeth, so she gives him a kiss on the mouth. He flutters his eyelashes at her like he can't believe he got a kiss from her. Rajah curls his hand around his uncle's finger.

“Well, good,” says Quin, picking up the diaper bag. “Cause Jackie's in the other room. Take the baby, we're getting out of here.”

“We're kidnapping my own nephew?”

“It's always the people you know, man. Come on, Rajah, you want to come home with us for our entertainment, don't you?”

“I heard that,” sounds a loud voice from the other room.

“Chill with the super-hearing, jack-ass,” Quin snaps back. “What's your problem? I can't kidnap your son?”

Jackie steps back into the room, handing off gin and tonics to both of them. “Not today, banana-pants. Maybe next time it's three in the morning and we've slept zero hours total, I'll call you.”

'Crazy-town banana-pants' is by and far the worst nickname she's ever gotten from a boyfriend's family members, so why does it make her want to grin? She takes a drink and supposes, to herself, that it might be because it's nice to see Jackie happy too. Not just happy, actually, he's – what is he?

Stable, she thinks. He's rooted like a tree, and now the tree has born fruit. Jackie throws himself down on the couch with a smile and gazes at his brother with his son like he was born to exist in just this moment. Yeah. Max will come home later, she knows, and then he and Jackie will wrap up around each other, and never mind the bad sleep and the diaper changes, they'll hold Rajah between them and close their eyes for a few minutes, and in doing so, ascend to something she has no access to.

It's not about the baby, she admits to herself. It's about JJ stabilizing. Putting his roots down. Stretching his branches. Every day he grows closer to someone who will realize he does not want her.

She needs his attention. She makes way for herself on the arm of the loveseat where he's holding Rajah, and she curls herself around them, and closes her eyes.

.

“Don't make me do this,” Cedar begs her, teeth gritted together, clinging to the door. “I am not this sort of man.”

“You're not any sort of man,” she snaps at him, shoving his back. “You're a coward.”

“Seems harsh for not wanting to see the Barbie movie,” he wheezes.

“Cedar! You promised me you would get out of the apartment this week, and you didn't. Now you have to take me to a movie, and you should be so damn lucky!”

“I don't want to third-wheel with your stupid boyfriend again.”

She gets a grip on his ear and he yelps. “He's not stupid. And he's not going! Can I spend some time with you or what?”

“What, he's not coming? You've been clinging to him for weeks.”

She'd smack him in the head if they weren't working so hard on healthy siblings relationships. “Have not.”

Cedar finally abandons the door frame and stumbles morosely out onto the pavement, shaking out that mess of gold hair. He puffs out a breath and straightens up, sighing. “You're allowed to be into a guy, Adrienne, but does it have to be this guy?”

She wishes, honestly, that he would think at all about how good JJ's been for her, but it would sound childish to say that out loud, so she shuts it down. “He's never done anything but help you, and you've hurt him. Now you won't even give him a chance.”

Cedar growls. “Sorry I don't want to see my sister with – ”

“With what?” she snarls, cutting him off. Her venom is so potent she sees him stop in his tracks, glancing over at her.

They stand in silence for a long moment. They're going to be late for the movie, but this is bigger than Barbies.

“You two are both trying to fill emptinesses in yourself,” says Cedar finally. “Maybe you should be more careful not to be a means to an end.”

Adrienne feels her face rush with heat. She's so angry she almost storms back into the apartment, but she needs to unclench her fist first, or she might hit him before she does.

“He's not always well, Adrienne,” Cedar tells her, a little less firmly. “Maybe – ”

“You think I give a fuck that he gets sick?”

“Maybe the two of you are just moving a little fast, that's all,” Cedar presses on doggedly, though his face twists up as he says it. “You spend a ton of time with him and his family.”

“Well, who else am I going to spend it with, my family?” she snaps at him. “You want to talk about not being well?”

It's his turn to be surprised. “I'm perfectly fine.”

“You still won't even examine yourself, Cedar, you – agh! Do you know how frustrating it is that you can see everyone else's little weaknesses and then can't even admit you have some yourself?”

He turns away pointedly, his mouth turned sharp and thin as a turtle's.

“Besides,” she says, shoving past him. “You won't even take me to the fucking movies.”

She's halfway down the stairs of their apartment building when she hears him call roughly afterwards.

“I want to go with you,” he manages, hoarse and loud at the same time.

She hisses out a sigh and crosses her arms, forcing herself to stop in place. After a moment, Cedar trudges down the stairs afterwards and stands at her side.

“I want to go,” he says again.

“Alright,” she says, pushing a strand of hair from her face. “Let's go.”

He offers her his arm and she takes it.

.

She tries not to cry, and she hates that it's difficult.

“Can you just sit down for me, baby?” she asks, gripping at his shoulder a little, her other hand set solidly at his waist, scared he's going to fall. “Or look at me a little?”

It's not fair for her to feel nauseous when he's the one who's stuck. They've been going out long enough, he's told her everything, she's researched, all of it – she's supposed to be calm when this happens.

But she hates it so bad when he gets trapped. His head's bowed low and he's frozen near to her dresser, clinging to the wood with red-clenched fingers, and his body's a mannequin to her, a stranger. She pulls his fingers carefully from the dresser, but even as she takes his hand it doesn't release its taut position, clutched like there's a blade there, and she wonders how badly it hurts.

She's pulling out her phone before the embarrassment can register. Hi, Schneep, she thinks about saying, I can't take care of my own boyfriend, please help me.

“Henrik, hi,” she croaks instead, setting her hand down on JJ's hair, petting him carefully. “Hey, you're back home from Peru, right?”

“Adrienne, what's wrong?” he asks her.

“Um, um,” she says, not sure why it's hard to explain when Henrik has been with JJ through a lot more than she has. “JJ's having a catatonia. Having – having catatonia? Which is it?”

“Is he sat down?” asks Henrik grimly, and she can hear him moving on the other side of the phone. Marvin shouts something.

“No, he got stuck while I was making him something to drink, and now he's standing by my dresser,” she says, wiping at her eyes. “But he took his medication and everything just an hour ago.”

“Well, that's – it's – it's great, Adrienne, but I can't be the first person to tell you his medicine only helps so much, some days.”

She bites hard on her mouth. She thinks they did talk about that, a little, about positive and negative symptoms and about how some go away and some don't. She had to call Jackie and Marvin just two months ago to help get in touch with James's psychiatrist about a delusion he was having at work, something about messages on his phone that weren't really there. But that felt like something she knew how to handle. This doesn't.

Henrik's there twenty minutes later, and JJ hasn't budged. Schneep steps inside her apartment without looking at her and pushes on to his brother, immediately getting a gentle hand on the back of JJ's neck and leaning down to peer into his face, check his pupils and taking his heartrate. He murmurs to him in German and pulls him flush against his body, and then, in a careful crouch – or fall, or grip, or carry – he's able to bring him to the ground, stiff against his chest. JJ's arms just stay extended, motionless, beside them, and Quin moves forward to touch him, to pull down his hands and try to rest them against the floor.

“Okay, my darling,” murmurs Henrik, and he gets out a needle, sticking it between his teeth while he uncorks a medicine vial. He's sliding it into JJ's arm without hesitation a moment later, but Quin turns her head away.

“What's that?” she asks distantly.

“A benzo,” he answers.

“Should I have some around?”

“It's okay just to call me,” Henrik answers, and she bites back a sigh. It's not like she could just administer a dose like that, and he probably can't just give her benzos. But at the same time, Henrik's not always around. He seems to sense the thought, adding, “Or an ambulance.”

“Does he need to go to the hospital?”

“Not if the benzo helps. If it doesn't, or if he's been stuck for more than an hour, then yes.”

The benzo does help. She watches as JJ slowly comes unglued, like he's melting, his head dropping back against Henrik's neck and his limbs thumping to the floor. His face rushes red with blood and his poor stiff hands unclench at last.

Henrik's whispering to him, rocking him a little in place, petting his hair. JJ's eyes are closed; she's not sure if he's awake.

“Can he stay here tonight?” asks Henrik.

“Of course,” she says. “What do I need to do?”

“Just let him rest, call me again if he enters catatonia again.”

“Why don't you just stay too?” she asks, and then she's not sure why she said it. She doesn't want Henrik here. She wants to be able to look after JJ herself. She's supposed to be able to by now. Is she never going to be able to?

He looks relieved that she offered, though, and he nods. “Yes, that would work. I can sleep on the couch.”

But she's already shaking her head, backing into the doorway of her room. “No, sleep in here with him. He and I don't share a bed anyway.”

Henrik smiles as though she surprised the grin out of him. “Ja, that's my JJ, he's pretty religious, you know.”

“Yeah, we just can't touch for that long,” she says, and then realizes immediately that she's over-shared by far. She bites down on her mouth hard. “Okay, good night.”

“Quinnie,” says Henrik, but she doesn't want to hear the rest of what he has to say. She shuts the door and steps into her bathroom, locking herself inside.

.

He knows how to make eggs just the way she likes them.

She only likes eggs one specific way, so maybe that was an easy target for him. Still, when she wakes up to the smell of eggs cooking, she knows he's making them just right.

She's stiff from sleeping on the couch, stretching as she rises and shrugging off an old crocheted blanket that belonged to her mom. Somebody put this on her, but it could be her brother, her boyfriend, or her boyfriend's brother, at this point. Great. Maybe she needs to make some girl friends.

“Hey,” she says.

JJ's in her little apartment kitchen, poking at her omelet. He turns to look at her with those big doe eyes, and then looks away again, tentatively sprinkling cheese over the top of her breakfast. When he sets the plastic bag down, it falls on its side and spills cheddar into the sink.

“Jay,” she says.

She comes up behind him and takes a breath of him. He smells like her bed and an old library, and she wonders faintly if he tried to Reverse what happened last night. But what could he do? He took all his medicine (she checked), and the catatonia came while he was completely relaxed with her.

I can't be the first person to tell you the medicine only helps so much.

“Jameson,” she murmurs, setting her head down against his shoulder. He dashes chopped green onions over the eggs. “How are you feeling?”

“Embarrassed,” he signs back immediately, and then he sets the spatula down too hard, touching his head and hissing out a sigh.

She presses her forehead to his spine. She loves his spine so much.

“Can I feel you?” she whispers.

He grabs her hands where they're lacing around his stomach and squeezes. So she closes her eyes and works her magic.

He's told her she smells like calla lilies when she casts. She remembers thinking to herself, who knows what calla lilies smell like? but then, of course, there was Marvin, always handing out plants like pieces of himself, presents for his brothers. In JJ's house there were always endless flowers, and Henrik and Chase shouting to each other from across the house, and cats in a variety of colors. Today, he feels like humiliation to her, which is worse than embarrassment, because it requires an observer. She grabs him tighter – too tight, probably – and presses her mouth beneath his ear, whispering to him.

“James, don't be embarrassed – ”

“I'm sorry I'm sick,” he says, or at least she comprehends the emotion, if his hands didn't say it. “I'm sorry I'm always going to be sick.”

“Please don't ever be sorry for that,” she signs against his stomach. She moves around him to kiss him hard on the mouth. She's never kissed him so unromantically. She just wants him to understand. She wishes he could use her magic and understand her the same way she understands him. Then she could convince him that she couldn't give a fuck if he had a catatonia every day of his life if it just meant she could have him.

“I'm sorry I can't take care of you right,” she says with a waver in her voice, and when he kisses her back, she Understands that he thinks of himself as the problem.

She would rather he was angry at her. He flips her omelet and puts it on a plate. When they sit down to eat at the kitchen table, both Henrik and Cedar come out of their rooms as though released, and they look at JJ and Quin like they're not sure whether or not they're supposed to be doing damage control. Adrienne isn't sure either.

.

“Don't you dare.”

“Don't I dare?”

“Don't you – Chase!”

Quin hears Ash erupt into screams on the other side of the lawn, tussling with Chase in the grass. He's just smeared whipping cream across her face, which is cute, or whatever. She fake gags and looks at JJ, who looks back at her warningly.

“So, what?” she asks, stealing more of his fries. “Is Chase going to marry her?”

“That's the question,” muses Marv, sitting on the lawn with his legs crossed, playing with the dandelions. They keep circling around his fingers in pretty bands, leaving yellow streaks across his knuckles.

“Let them have fun,” Max tells them all, bouncing Rajah on his knee. “Chase is a little impulsive, Ash thinks he's the best thing since sliced bread, I know. But they won't jump into anything permanent unless they're ready. They're just enjoying each other.”

“Easy for you to say,” Quin tells him. “You already locked your Jackson brother down.”

Max grins. “I did, didn't I?”

Jameson's got his arm wrapped around her waist, so she feels it when he laughs.

“Well deserved,” he signs, and Max reaches down to mess up his hair.

Cedar leans over to whisper to her. “Can I please go home now?”

She shoves his face away. “No. Socialize or else.”

Cedar winces and pushes his gold curls out of his face. She smiles at him a little wearily and wishes he weren't so handsome. He's sharp, tall, powerful. He became arrogant so easily. Became dependent on the parts of himself that didn't matter, when really, all she had ever needed him to be was kind, and selfless enough to take care of her. She would have taken care of him.

There's a fucked-up part of her that's been wondering what it would have been like to be Anti's with Cedar. If Anti had put her with her brother to care for him, would Cedar have learned to love her? Would he have the perfect affinity for self-sacrifice that Jameson, Marvin, Chase, Henrik, and Jackie all carry like a cross across their shoulders? Would Cedar have ever laid down his life, his health, his sanity for her like these five have done for each other again and again? What gives her the right to enter their family like she and Cedar – selfish, unkind Cedar – have any place at all here?

At least Ash is funny. Something about the way she tells stories always starts everybody laughing, and she and Chase are always coming towards each other like planets in the same orbit, giggling in the other room like teenagers.

Quin's just a screwed-up kid wishing for she had the sort of trauma that made her relatable instead of exhausting.

“What?” asks Cedar.

She turns back to him, blinking. If JJ had a voice, she's pretty sure she would have assumed it was Jay who said that, not Cedar.

“What?” she repeats back to him.

He squirms in place, playing with the label of his beer bottle. “You made a face like you were upset, all of a sudden.”

She stares at him.

“What?” he says again, more like a squawk, this time.

“Nothing,” she replies. “I just didn't think you noticed that sort of thing.”

He sets his beer down and rubs at his head. “Come on,” he says. “You are my only sister, after all.”

Jameson leans in to both of them, freeing his hands to speak.

“Football!” Jackie shouts from the other side of the lawn, interrupting everybody. He's so loud Quin sees one of the cats flee from under the raspberry bushes. “Get on teams before I put you on teams. Max – ”

“I have the baby,” calls Max.

Jackie sulks visibly, kicking the ball away. “He can play on your back!”

“We are not giving our son a concussion trying to play football with him.”

“Whatever. Marvin, you're on my side. And Quin, she slide-tackles like she was born to do it.”

Quin cracks up despite herself, shaking her head. “I'm on JJ's team or else.”

“Okay, fine, JJ. And then Cedar and Chase and Ash – ”

Cedar looks at her with an expression of total despair. She can't help it. She laughs til her face turns red. JJ drags her to her feet and then onto the impromptu soccer field. When it comes time, she slide tackles Cedar remorselessly, and the ball flips into the air. She thinks maybe Marvin gets it, sprinting off towards the other side of the lawn, shouting threats at the goalie – Henrik. But it doesn't matter. She's on the ground, her side bruised, laughing hard, and next to her, Cedar is flat on his back, laughing til he cries.

“Fuck you,” he says.

She gets up just enough to shove him into the grass, trying to stain his face green. He screams and pushes at her hands. She Understands that he's trying to get better, maybe for the first time in his life, and he loves her. She loves him too. Noodle comes over and steps on top of Cedar's chest, purring warmly at both of them and blinking his big gold eyes.

.

Their nine-month anniversary comes like a wave rocking against a boat, steady and unremarkable, and she feels silly for even knowing it's today until JJ comes over and asks her out to dinner. They walk downtown together, holding hands, and neither of them speak. She feels so connected to him, like she Understands every thought without speaking, but she's holding so many things back from him at the same time. Maybe he gets it, because he keeps squeezing her hand and looking over at her with a soft gaze. In the evening light, he's haloed in a glow of gold, and he looks young and eternal at the same time. Okay, okay, so maybe she romanticizes him in her own head. But isn't that love? And what if it was true – what if Jameson Jackson really was the most beautiful person alive, in that moment? Why couldn't he be?

She wishes she could make him Understand. She Understands him, mostly. Doesn't she? She holds his hand against her belly and leans her head against him.

They end up at a Jamaican restaurant, picking apart a huge platter of jerk chicken fries. He speaks to her in sign. She loves this about him, the secrecy of their own language. Maybe she shouldn't. It's probably wrong for her to enjoy the way no one else in the restaurant knows what he's saying to her, but she can't help it.

“You're giving me that look again,” he signs, pausing to take a sip from his lemonade.

She blinks. Was she? “What look?”

He laughs faintly, shaking his head. “I don't know, Q. You might have to tell me.” She frowns, holding up her hands to sign back at him. “Come on. Aren't we just having a fun evening?”

He shrugs back at her, hands raising. “We can. If there's really nothing wrong. But sometimes, I feel there is. And you don't tell me about it.”

She picks at her fries. Really? He wants to do this now?

“Calla Lily,” he calls her, which is so unfair. “If this isn't working – ”

“It is working,” she blurts out, aloud. Her face turns red, and then so does his, in this pleased, shy flush he gets sometimes, which isn't fair either, of course.

“So what's the problem?” he signs.

“Oh, fuck,” she curses aloud.

He makes a sign that's not a real sign, something along the lines of “I can still hear, darling.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she says, throwing her hands up, and he mimics the sign back at her, rolling his eyes. She reaches over to pinch his arm and he smiles at her. Dammit. He's so... he's so...

“Look, James,” she says. Oh no. She's not really going to admit this, is she? “It's not you. It – it's about me. I've been thinking lately – I've been thinking things that I shouldn't.”

He sets his hands down, frowning. She groans and covers her face for a second, breathing in deep.

This is what people do, don't they? They communicate. They tell other people... how they feel. They tell them they love them.

“Lately,” she signs, concentrating hard, closing her eyes for a second. It's so easy to Understand him, and so hard to express herself. “Lately I've been sort of thinking to myself that... that maybe I'd like to marry you.”

She clenches an unused fork in her hand and sucks in a deep breath. When she dares to look up at him, he's smiling at her too.

Those big blue eyes are just a little more damp than usual. It takes the air out of her chest.

“Quin,” he says, and his hands are so tender that she really thinks she would give him anything, anything he asked for. “I've been... wanting to marry you too.”

The floor disappears from under her. She grips hard at the table, mouth tightening. No, no, no, no. She will not cry in public. She will not leap across the table and kiss him in public. She breathes in deeply, shaking her head.

He wants to marry her too? So... is this... is he...?

But no. He's squeezing his own hands together across the table, flaming red in the face.

Oh, fuck. She Understands.

“But we can't marry each other,” she signs.

He laughs weakly. “We can't. No. Not yet.”

“Right,” she agrees.

It's in that moment that the waitress comes by and fills up their lemonades. JJ sits and looks at Quin. Quin sits and looks at JJ.

The waitress leaves.

JJ grabs at his mouth, trying not to smile.

They both devolve into laughter.

“We're not getting married,” she says out loud.

JJ's dissolving, his face bright with the joy.

“We're not getting married,” he agrees.

“We're not – we can't – ”

“We're both too infatuated – ”

“We're both too used to being alone – ”

They reach across the table like one body and grab each other's hands. JJ's laughing enough that she can hear the air hiccuping out of him, and his whole face is alight with it.

“What's wrong with us?” she asks out loud, and he bows to kiss the back of her hand, smiling at her.

“Nothing,” he conveys, looking at her directly. “I love you and you love me. So nothing's wrong.”

She sighs in a rush of air, closing her eyes. “Even if I can't take care of you well?”

“You take care of me when I'm sick, as best you can,” he says. “And I will take care of you when you're sick, as best I can. And that will be all. And that will be enough.”

“You'll be my family,” she signs at him. “And I'll be yours. I'll love your brothers and you'll love mine.”

“And that's enough? You're sure?”

“That would be the universe made into a present for me.”

“I don't make you sad? I don't make you scared of what I might become?”

“No,” she says, and she means it so much it hurts. “No. Never. I love you when you're unwell. I love you when you're laughing.”

He smiles at her. He's aged, she realizes belatedly. How can he have aged only in the nine months since she's been with him? But she likes him this way. She likes him as a grown man. Both of them will become grown-ups together, she thinks to herself. I'll find my way and you'll find yours. You can hold my hand.

“Do you know that you saved me from myself?” she asks him.

Something twists in his face. He shakes his head and kisses the back of her hand again. She Understands him completely.

They pay for dinner and leave together, hand in hand. She used to worry that if she held his hand, he couldn't speak. Tonight, though, she doesn't worry. He looks at her and she looks at him. They walk along the beach, and the sun brings down its light, golden against them. There used to be somebody who hurt you, she thinks, and now there's me. There used to be somebody who hurt me, and now there's you.

“Thank you for saving me,” she whispers to him. “Thank you for letting me save you.”

His blue eyes flicker. He leans in and kisses her mouth. She touches the side of his face, holding him firmly, tenderly, against her body. He holds her too, and she Understands that, for the first time, he does not feel anyone else touching him when he touches her. There is no other memory left.

“You're older,” she whispers to him. He closes his eyes. She kisses the place at the side of his head where his hair has turned grey. His hand wraps around her own.

“And that's enough?”

He nods against her. Yes. And that's enough.

[luckquartzed]

𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐄 .

Share at least 5 songs that you associate with or remind you of your muse!

1. Victim Or Survivor, Citizen Soldier & Icon For Hire

I've got more skeletons than cemeteries hold, that made just living life feel like a funeral. The kind of traumatized no one will ever know, that made me fantasize about just letting go. Until I saved my soul, with what I can control. When it rains you can drown or you can be baptized, when you hit rock-bottom, you can cry or climb. Crutch or a crown, only you decide. Victim or survivor? Be born by the battle or just wave a white flag, deciding not to die, that might be all you have. You can make that choice or you can be your past. Victim or survivor?

2. Vices, MOTHICA

Feel like I’m just passing by. It’s not love, it’s just a guy, & it's got me feeling right for the night. But in the morning, when he's gone, I'm alone with all my thoughts, so I gotta drink 'em up 'til I'm numb & ooh, it's never enough. Pass me the cup, got nowhere to run, so pour me another one. I'm taking it all, I'm getting lost. I'm making a fool of myself with all these vices. I really don't know why I'm like this, & I just don't care what the price is. 'Cause I need these vices, oh-oh-oh. If it’s not drugs it’s drinks, if it’s not drinks it’s things, if it’s not things it’s people, places I don’t wanna be, these vices. I don't sleep too much these days & I hate being awake when the sun's out. Lock my door & shut the blinds, they can't see my bloodshot eyes, I got habits I can't hide in the light & ooh , it's never enough. Pass me the cup, got nowhere to run. So pour me another one. I'm taking it all, I'm getting lost, I’m making a fool of myself with all these vices.

3. Poltergeist, Corpse Husband & Omen XIII

Cross my heart & hope to die, I can’t fucking sleep at night. Blew up for the thousandth time, guess I’m always ‘lucky’ right? Pop some shit, then fall behind, I jump the gun & take what's mine. Looking like you seen a ghost, moving like a poltergeist! I'm like, "Wait, what's his name?" I'm like, "Huh, what'd he say, bitch?" I don't want your two cents, you ain't even paid, bitch. We are not the same, I dropped out in seventh grade, bitch. Came up from the grave, fuck everything you claim, bitch. I don't sleep, I'm a freak, when I wake up, I see concrete. Risk my life on concrete, it’s too hard to starve me. Feast, feast, feast, feast! All I see is options, everyone’s got problems, anyone’s a target ( fuck my life ). Can't pay the price 'cause I bet it, thinking ahead, I expect to see dead ends. Count money, count blessings & tuck you a weapon. Somebody knows something you don't, can't be guessing. Where I'm from, we don't think about tomorrow, keep two fingers crossed, nothing is promised. Nobody knows how I feel when I go out, that’s what I learned, 'cause I came from the bottom!

4. Debt Collector, Jhariah

It's all catching up to you now, hope you can run. 'Cause soon your past will come and drag you, down, down. You scammed your way into heaven, 'til the angels realize you're not one of them. Here comes the debt collector, seems you owe him again. Dollars & coins can't cut your cheque this time around. Here comes the debt collector, & you owe him again. Kind words & lies won't save your head, this time around, 'round, 'round. Gravedigger. Cordial killer. Your payment is due, they're looking at you. We’ve done what we can, it's out of our hands, sooner or later, it comes back again.

5. Live Fast Die Young, Hollywood Undead

Here in the city, where the sun beats down on the streets, my demons talking to me, & they're just trying to eat. Sunset's pretty when the waves crash down at my feet. Ain't this life so sweet? Cruising a hundred & three. I'm in my fast lane, I'm moving rapid, & it's do or die, you need to catch back up, man. I'll never slow down, just like a ghost town. James Dean, curtain call, silver screen showdown. I'd rather burn out than fade away, living day to day. I was born an outcast, but who are they to say, what I do is wrong, & I keep moving on? You might choke on these words, but you sing along. So if your heart stops or your hands tied, be the rainfall, cause a landslide, & if they condescend, then something's wrong with them. I've been off, now I'm on again.

I just wanna live while the feeling's there, a hundred on the highway, put the top down, feel the air, kill the snare. Life's a movie, we're the directors. We're the star, don't bother us, no time for the lectures. Many memories, I wouldn't trade for the planet. Life is short, I never take it for granted. God, take me now, in the place that I'm standing. I got no regret, & that's the way that I planned it. I know you all will remember me in pages of history. Oh no, no, maybe we were born to die young. Live fast, then we die young. Live fast, then we die young. We live fast, then we die young.

It's never been in my faith to run, I was born to chase the sun. Mama always told me I was like no one. But I'll know when the time comes. It's never been in my faith to run. I was born to chase the sun. Mama knew I wouldn't be here for long & I'll smile when the time comes.

Tagged by: N/A

Tagging: @barxlupin, @gemkun, @finalism & idk I only did this because @fortifice peer pressured me.

[officialyourdailyinspiration]

Luther, Calvin and Zwingli on Christmas by Will Graham

The leading Protestant Reformers –Martin Luther, Ulrich Zwingli and John Calvin- had different perspectives regarding the celebration of Christmas Day. Their three viewpoints are all alive and kicking in the contemporary Evangelical world. Today we are going to briefly outline what our three acclaimed Protestant forefathers thought regarding the festive season.

1.- Luther, Pro-Christmas Martin Luther. Luther, the fieriest, funniest and most charismatic of the three Reformers loved celebrating Christmas and he often preached upon the birth of Christ as 25th December drew near. Given that Luther embraced the normative principle of worship, namely, that all that the Bible does not prohibit may have a place in the church, the German felt entirely justified upon celebrating the incarnation of the Son of God in a special way at least once a year.

In his sermon entitled ‘To Us a Child Is Born’ (preached on 25th December, 1531), Luther honed in upon the faith of the shepherds who, “in spite of what their five senses told them […] concluded: this is the King, the Saviour, the great joy of the people. There was nothing great in the hearts of those shepherds save for the words of the angel. In fact, they were so great that except for them the shepherds saw nothing else. They were filled with those words just like drunkards and they made them known without being in the slightest bit concerned about what the great lords in Jerusalem and the Sanhedrin would have to say. On the contrary, without an inkling of fear, they preached of the poor Christ”.

The sermon, which was characterized by a sweet pastoral spirit, makes much of the perfect righteousness of Christ as the source of a Christian’s justification before God. “In and of myself I am a sinner,” preached the German, “but in Christ, in baptism and in the Word, I am holy”. That is the real message of Christmas. He who is Wonderful and Counsellor cleanses us from all sin by means of his expiatory death and resurrection. Luther took advantage of the festive season to declare the Good News that had so enthralled the Bethlehem shepherds.

2.-Zwingli, Anti-Christmas Ulrich Zwingli. At the other end of the Evangelical spectrum was Ulrich Zwingli. There can be no doubt that he was the most radical of the three leading magisterial Reformers. Nevertheless, the even more radical Anabaptists ended up splitting off from the Zurich preacher for two reasons: 1) Zwingli continued baptizing children; and 2) Zwingli did not believe that the church had to be independent from the State.

According to van Dellen and Monsma, Zwingli got rid of every ecclesiastical festive day in Zurich. Given that Zwingli embraced the regulative principle of worship, that is, churches should only do that which is explicitly commanded in Scripture, he opposed any celebration which was not mentioned in the Bible. This conviction, of course, is one of the key differences between Lutheran and Reformed churches.

It was this same belief regarding the regulative principle that led the Scottish Presbyterians and English Puritans to do away with Christmas celebrations. When the Protestant Oliver Cromwell served as Lord Protector of England, Scotland and Ireland between 1653 and 1658, Christmas was outlawed on a national scale.

3.- Calvin, Neither For Nor Against John Calvin As in the case of the Lord’s Supper, the one who had to mediate between Luther and Zwingli was the French refugee John Calvin.

Although Calvin accepted the regulative principle of Zwingli and not Luther’s normative principle, he believed that each local congregation could decide how best to celebrate (or not celebrate) the festive season. In spite of the fact that some have asserted that Calvin was in the anti-Christmas camp, the Frenchman wrote two letters in January 1551 and March 1555 outlining his stance with respect to Christmas.

In the January 1551 letter, Calvin explained that the Geneva authorities had done away with festive days before he arrived in the city whilst openly confessing that he did –personally speaking- celebrate “the birth of Christ”. In the March 1551 letter, Calvin hit out at those who criticized certain churches which opted to commemorate the festive period. According to the Geneva Reformer, such questions were “matters of indifference”. Each church could take the best decision after mediating long and hard upon the issue at hand.

In other words, the church has the liberty to decide whether or not to celebrate Christmas. But by no means should any church slander another congregation which takes the opposite course.