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stevenbasic · 2 years ago

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GITJ Post 317: Friends with Benefits, p3

“I, um…don’t think that peg goes in that hole,” I said, looking again at the instructions and furrowing my brow, still struggling with this headache. I was never very good at this sort of thing, and I don’t think Lakshmi was either. I handed her a short wooden piece. “Here, try this one.”

“Haha at home daddy always used to build my furniture,” she laughed, taking the peg from me. We sat on the ground in the kitchen area of my one-room apartment over the office, pieces of what would at some point be my new “Jokkmokk” kitchen table strewed between us. After busting my old table in a fit of passion (with my back), Melissa had felt bad and apparently had the girls order me a new one on the company card. It had just been delivered in a group of large boxes, and it was the door buzzer that had finally allowed me to escape from where I’d woken on Lakshmi’s lap on the couch. She and I had then set to the task of assembling it and four matching new chairs. So here we were, the project a good distraction as Lakshmi had orders to stay with me for a bit, making sure I was okay after my health scare in clinic. So yeah…we were building a kitchen table. How hard could it be? “We are not doing too bad, right?” Lakshmi giggled.

“I beg to differ,” I chuckled, seeing as we’d - twice - had to remove legs that we’d put on backwards, and couldn’t find one piece we figured was pretty important. Plus, I didn’t have a real hammer. It was about 5pm and, wow. “We may be here all night,” I quipped.

“That is okay,” Lakshmi smiled, looking across the mess of table parts between us on the floor, her dark eyes sparkling from behind a mane of soft black hair, “I am having a lot of fun.”

I gulped, and set back to looking for that screw. Though she’d removed the shirt of her work uniform, Lakshmi had still been wearing her black scrub pants and now a brief tank which left little of her surprisingly full chest and shapely torso to the imagination. She had been a medical assistant of mine for more than two years now, and in the past I’d never thought of her as anything but a quiet, hardworking, reserved girl from a conservative immigrant family. That, of course, changed quickly since Melissa’s arrival. Like many of my previous employees, Lakshmi had seemed to blossom - in spades. She’d become very social with the girls, more focused on her appearance, and more confidently outgoing in general - though still proper and a little old fashioned, in her own way. She had also recently taken to the gym very seriously and it showed in her figure, with a nicely-muscled upper body but an absolutely devastating, lush rear end and set of legs. Her ass, I noticed, as she turned onto her side to reach some sort of table piece behind her, was likely as large as Melissa’s though the girl was a foot or so shorter. Perfectly round, shapely, enormous. Plush, something one could just sink into and gahhh…

I recalled, quickly, the moments of accidental intimacy Lakshmi and I had shared over the past few weeks. There’d been her sitting on my lap as we drove to the party downtown, or me sleeping alongside her and her friend Josie the night afterwards, and - double gahhh - the thing under the blanket in the backseat. Our relationship had obviously warmed well beyond that of employer/employee, and I was not putting up much of a fight to maintain professionalism. I was dating Melissa now, though, and felt conflicted being here alone with her, a girl who obviously fancied me and seemed to get more attractive by the week. Though that was true of just about all the girls these days…

As she turned back she handed me a washer, which I think matched the screw with which I was struggling, and smiled again, shyly. Had she caught me staring? We, uh, I had to admit, were having fun together, in our little project, but I know she’d been more-or-less assigned by the girls to watch over me. They were worried. I’d apparently passed out while examining a patient, a young one, and truth be told I didn’t remember much. I’d woken with a headache and, ugh ugh, a boner that for some reason just wouldn’t go away. I’d been doing my best to hide it and pray that it would eventually fade, but in my thin scrub pants that was easier said than done and it didn’t help that Lakshmi had been pretty obviously flirty with me this whole time. Admittedly, though, I could feel a stronger connection building between the two of us this early evening. About that I definitely felt conflicted. Again, I was dating Melissa, and shouldn’t be enjoying Lakshmi’s attention as much as I was. But she had been sent here indirectly on Melissa’s orders though, and everyone as far as I knew was aware of the, uh, accident I’d had under the blanket with Lakshmi in Josie’s car. So…nothing to worry about, right? Melissa was okay with this?

“How does your head feel?” Lakshmi asked, after a few moments of silence as we worked, each on our separate ends of the overturned tabletop.

“It’s, umm…” I began, deciding on some honesty, “still pretty crummy. That ibuprofen hasn’t done much.” It was true; my temples still gently pounded. I’m normally not one for headaches but this one was annoying and stubborn. I silently cursed it as I began to struggle with a new little blister-pack of screws that needed opening, my hands shaking. Bah why do they make these things so…hard…to…open?!

“Awww you poor thing, I am sorry,” Lakshmi lamented, watching me in my futile efforts for a long moment before reaching her hand out to me. “Here, let me do it,” she offered.

Without a thought I handed her the little package of screws and watched as she deftly peeled the thing apart. I sighed, a little, to myself, feeling once again emasculated by the women around me. Even she, ‘little Lakshmi’ (though she was probably six inches taller than me by now), had hands that were stronger than mine. “There we go,” she said, presenting the opened package back to me, blithely satisfied.

“Yeah, it´s… maybe it´s turning into a migraine, I don´t know,” I bemoaned, removing a screw and reaching for the Philips head.

“Oh, ok, I will talk to you low, nice and easy, okay?” she almost whispered, meeting my eyes with her huge, brown pools of understanding. God she was, Jesus fuck, really gorgeous tonight, in her own warm way.

“Thank you,” I replied, feeling my throat going dry. I set the screw to hole, working on the table leg.

“It is okay,” Lakshmi answered, attending herself once more to the opposite leg. She was in thought, I could feel, and I couldn’t help but watch the jiggles of her upper chest as she sat up on her knees and set to knocking in a wooden peg with a screwdriver butt that we were using as a makeshift hammer. “That girl from Minnesota really affected you huh?” she asked, when she spoke up again.

“Yeah I dunno what happened it’s….”

“You have to be careful, wear your mask in those clinics, at all times,” Lakshmi continued, taking a new tone with me, scootching a bit nearer, “Maybe you are getting allergic to the perfumes of some of the outside girls.”

Allergy doesn’t make sense, of course, I thought to myself, immediately…but then reconsidered. I did have some sort of bad reaction, and could still almost smell that ultra-voluptuous girl from more than six hours ago now. What do I know? Maybe it is an allergy to certain perfumes. “Yeah they do wear a lot, some of the girls we see,” I offered, readjusting my hips to appease the twitching swell I’d just felt in the erection pressed down my thigh. I tried to concentrate on getting this screw tightened.

“Strong perfume is definitely in style,” she said, “Here, how does mine smell?” I looked up to see Lakshmi offering her wrist across our little workspace, bringing it and her bare forearm to me. She scooted, on her knees, a bit closer to me, where I sat on my butt on the floor. I leaned in, across a bit, and she inched even closer. I took a smell of the warm skin of her wrist, breathing in the lovely perfume. Mmmmmm…yes. Now that was nice. The perfume that all these girls in the office seemed to be gravitating to was definitely a winner. It brought back memories, warm feelings, nostalgia and simpler times. It smelled like Melissa, and it made my boner surge.

I leaned in, across a bit, and she inched even closer. I took a smell of the warm skin of her wrist, breathing in the lovely perfume. Mmmmmm…yes. Now that was nice. The perfume that all these girls in the office seemed to be gravitating to was definitely a winner. It brought back memories, warm feelings, nostalgia and simpler times. It smelled like Melissa, and it made my boner surge.

Lakshmi smiled at me, seeing my reaction. “You like?” she asked.

“I, um…” I began, stammering now as my eyes were locked on hers. My heart fluttered and I felt the air crackle between us.

“Outside girls can be so aggressive with their perfume,” Lakshmi continued, “and, like, really aggressive in general. Don’t you think?”

“I, uh…”

“Do they make you nervous, sometimes?” she followed.

I paused, casting my eyes down and fumbling a bit with my screwdriver. I thought back on some other experiences I’d had with these Evolution patients - the sister of that Anderson guy, the several bodybuilders and corporate executives, a number of other young women - that had made me a little anxious. Many of them did seem pretty, uh, strong of personality, and at my diminished size they were by and large now bigger than me. So, yeah, I had to admit to myself in that moment that there had been times in the past couple weeks, in these clinics, that I felt-

“Frightened?” Lakshmi pressed, watching me impotently struggle with the Philips head.

“Well, th-that might be too strong a word,” I answered, finally finding some purchase with my task, twisting the screw in to the table leg, “they are, uh, my patients, remember, and even if I haven’t been feeling, like, a hundred percent myself these days, I still-“

“Of course,” Lakshmi stopped me, her voice unusually firm. She put down the Allen wrench she’d recently been using, and pushed her hair behind her ears. “The girls and I have been talking, though, and they wanted me to speak to you,” she began again, her mein a bit more serious, “we do not think it is a good idea that we allow you into the room alone with these patients, anymore.”

Allow? “Well, Lakshmi, I think-“

“We think one of us should be with you at all times, at least when you are in the Evolution clinic, working with their study patients,” she insisted, “It is important. It is important to us that you stay safe. Do you agree?”

Our eyes had met, again, over the strewn pieces and parts of my soon-to-be kitchen table. Into hers I looked, fighting back the impulse to just lash out, as petulant as I would probably sound, and bristled at this suggestion. ‘Stay safe’?! Not be allowed alone?! The ignominy of the idea, that the girls had been discussing me like this, making decisions about my safety - among women - made me immediately defensive. But, looking into Lakshmi’s big, liquid eyes of chestnut brown, reading the warmth of the slight smile with which she regarded me, I didn’t see any ill will or even mischief, only the benevolence that I knew was strong in her character.

As I was wrestling with my feelings, Lakshmi continued to explain. “After the election wins, now,” she began, reminding me of the onslaught of victories the New Women’s party had garnered, yesterday, “women, like the ones we see in clinic but everywhere else too, are only going to get more assertive, and aggressive. We care about you, we all do. We do not my want to see you get…hurt.”

That hit me, I felt it. An instinctual pang of…what was it? Male pride? Some survival instinct? Whatever it was, it made my cock throb again, a submissive little shiver crackling through my skin. I spoke, I think, before I even considered what I was saying. “Yeah, I, uh…well, seeing the way all you girls reacted, watching everything on the news…it was a little bit of a shock,” I admitted, watching Lakshmi nod in understanding, urging me to continue, “There’s a lot of…hormones running around, a lot of female…whatever it is. Pride?”

“Female Empowerment?” Lakshmi offered, “Women taking control, winning? Yes. Go on.” She had put her tools down, sat back on her bulging haunches, hands on her knees.

I paused, my pulse quickening a bit as I watched her dark eyes sparkle. “Y-yeah I guess does make me a little nervous…” I continued, “Like, confused? Like, what’s going to happen next?”

“It is okay that you are confused, I understand, that is natural,” she obliged, “But now that it is after the election, men like you do not have to bother themselves thinking about politics any more. Isn’t that, maybe, nice?”

What was she saying? Why was it making me shiver? Shouldn’t I argue? “S-sure,” I agreed anyway, “I never really followed politics…”

“Men have become less interested in them, it is true,” she said, “But girls are very excited, now, now that we have our chance. And we will do a good job, I promise, doing it all. All of us, we want what is best for you.”

I blinked, and fought to keep my eyes from roaming down Lakshmi’s hourglass figure. Hands still on her knees, she had her shoulders back, chest presented up. Wait. Were we talking about the girls at the office? “Yeah, n-no…I guess you’re right. they…they all want what’s, uh, best for me?”

Lakshmi’s smile bloomed, big and brilliant and warm, “Yes, of course we do!” she beamed, biting her lower lip and leaning towards me again, tempting my mettle with her cleavage.“You are lucky you have responsible women in your life that care about you,” she said, cocking her head, and considering me, “You are just going through a rough patch, with your divorce, with the practice failing, with your health. You need somebody…or a bunch of bodies…to help you.” She watched as I played with the screwdriver in my hands, fumbling again distractedly with the table leg. I looked around; I actually needed an allen wrench, now. “Here,” she said, seeing my clumsy attempts to stay focused, “let me get you what you need.”

At that, Lakshmi turned a bit and - still on her knees - stretched out to reach for a tool she’d discarded on the floor, off to the side, one hand on the ground for support and lifting her big earth of an ass into the air. Arching the small of her back, her enormous and shapely bottom drew my unblinking stare with its inescapable gravity. She paused for a moment, presenting the undeniable spectacle of her figure in profile - the tiny waist, the swell of her planetoid rear stretching at the thin cotton blend of her scrub bottoms. No words were spoken and I’m not sure she understood how exceptional her proportions were and how powerful the effect of them could be, but she must have felt my leer. I gulped, despite myself.

My cock, now, was absolutely rock-solid, throbbing down my thigh and threatening to tear through my own thin scrub pants. Blood had begun leaving my brain, feeding my loins, making my head start to swim. I think I stammered something as I watched Lakshmi sit back up.

“What is wrong Dr J?” she asked, innocently, “You are stuttering. Am I making you nervous?” The tone of her voice made me think that maybe she did understand what that huge ass of hers could do.

“n-n-no, I jUST, uh…” I heard my voice crack, like a teenager’s. Oh no.

Lakshmi giggled. “You know all us girls are just here to protect you, right? Make your life easier, nicer?” she asked, her eyes watching my face as she turned back, moved forward around the overturned tabletop, coming closer, “Including me?”

“Y-yES but…” I began, voice cracking again, not knowing what to say. From where I sat, on the ground and a bit slumped, Lakshmi rose above me, kneeling.

Lakshmi cocked her head again, to the opposite shoulder. “Lay your head on my lap,” she said to me.

“Wh-what?” I balked, once more remembering - more acutely now - what had happened last time I laid head and shoulders across her full thighs. There was a blanket, her shirt over my head, and her hand between my legs.

“Melissa said to do anything I say, right?” she beamed, expanding now, sitting up straighter. Her confidence, it seemed, had begun to swell.

“Uhhh…”

“Did you read her texts..?”

“Yes but…”

“No buts, Dr. J,” she giggled, reaching her arms out towards me, “come here, lay that head down. You know my thighs make a good pillow.”

With hands now about my shoulders, she eased me back, down. If I struggled I don’t remember, and voiced only maybe the meagerest of protests. As the distance between us, between the back of my head and the softness of her big thighs grew smaller, so did my resistance. She’d taken me onto her lap, her plush girl’s lap, and I gazed up at her from it.

She smiled down at me.

“Oh, Dr. J, I am so glad we are alone here,” she said after a moment, brushing my cheek with the gentle fingers of her right hand, “I have wanted to…protect you, have time with you…so much.”

“I’m…I’m glad you’re here too,” I found myself saying despite the swarm of misgivings buzzing through my head, “I kn-know you’re looking out for me, and I’m glad I have you to talk to.”

As Lakshmi held me there in her lap like a tender young mother, I could feel her affection redouble upon itself. I was saying everything she wanted to hear. “You know you can always talk to me…” she said, her voice soft but latent with excitement and a building ardor, adding “…or Melissa, or any of the other girls.” She paused, and gathered something, courage. “But it is me that is here now,” she finished, “so tell me how you are feeling.”

I laid there, in the lap of this warm, beautiful girl that smelled really good and meditated for a moment. I thought about the last few days, weeks, months, all as Lakshmi peered down at me, holding my head with one hand, caressing my cheek with the other. I struggled with the feelings of insecurity and guilt inside of me, but also with anger and a bit of fear feeling that so much about this place - this office, this world in which I used to feel so safe - was coming apart. I began to tell her, I began to say it all, opening up in ways I’d never really done to anyone except you, dear reader. Lakshmi seemed kind enough to give me a shoulder - or a lap, as it were - on which to cry. And I think I did, a little. Cry. There was something about her manner, and her perfume, that just let me open up to her so freely.

Lakshmi was now cooing down to me, cuckling and coddling my emotions and letting me vent. Tenderly she caressed my hair, rubbed my knee, stroked my thigh. I spoke to her of my mistakes, my weaknesses, my failed marriage and failing health. My boner was, yes, readily apparent straining up against the right leg of my scrubs, but neither of us seemed to pay it any mind, for the moment. I was almost beyond the embarrassment of it. It was more the fact that I was now so vulnerable that upset me. Was this the image I gave to everyone? Women seemed so attentive and indulgent around me. Was it pity? Were they showing sympathy for me because I seemed so misfortunate?

“No, oh no no no,” Lakshmi assured me, having taken with me now the tone of a mother to an upset young child, “You are not pathetic. You are still a man. If you are strong enough to open up to me, you are strong enough to handle all of this. I am here, Melissa is here, we are all here.” I looked up at her, she down at me over her maidenly bosom. “All of us, together, we are on a journey. We can handle this. This…and more. Whatever comes, we will all be together,” she continued, “You will not be beaten by life, if you embrace it, let us help you.”

“b-b-but…” I answered, trying to keep from blubbering but taking her words in and feeling how - yes, like her lap - they felt like a big, soft nest. I could…I could just sink into it, like I had into Lakshmi. But still! “…but I feel so s-small.”

Lakshmi cocked her head and looked at me, tut-tutting. “You know, you should stop thinking people are looking down at you because of it,” she spoke, “They love it, actually. It makes them feel like they can help. And that’s all we are trying to do. We are just trying to help.”

I was still upset. “B-but…but that’s easy for you to say - look at you, look at all of you,” I began again, “You’ve all gotten stronger, taller…”

“...We’ve gotten bigger these,” she giggled, pushing back on her shoulders and out on her chest, emphasizing the new dimensions of her boobs.

“oh my god…” I groaned, despite myself, feeling my erection surge and more blood leave my brain. I couldn’t even joke about it, the effect big breasts like hers now had on me.

She giggled, but then she hushed me. “Shhhhh….shhshhshhh,” she said, “Just settle your mind and think about the good things that are happening to you. Think about Melissa. You two are falling in love, aren’t you?”

“Y-yes,” I admitted, “I think so…”

“She is gorgeous, isn’t she?” she said patiently.

“Oh my god, yes,” I replied, as eager images of Melissa filled my head. Her height, her body, her beauty and strength. There was…a lot to love. But was there, in fact…too much? Could I handle her?

“Have you told her all this?” she asked, “What you have been telling me?”

“W-well…no, I guess not.”

“Dr. J,” Lakshmi began again, “You should. You should open up to her like you are doing with me.”

That made me think. Why…why hadn’t I been as candid or forthright with Melissa? Were we…just not there yet, in our relationship? Or was it…well…

“Does she scare you, a little?”

That gave me pause. Some of the things she said to me, when we were together? “Well I dunno. Maybe? She is…so strong. And can be very, uh…aggressive, when she gets, uh…excited.” Jesus…remember why we were sitting here, building this thing? She broke my kitchen table. But it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t that she made me feel small and weak and so fucking fragile, whenever she held me. In fact, I’m loathe to admit, part of me actually liked that. “And it’s also like…why does she like me, why does she want me? Why does she need me? Look at me. I’m old, I’m boring, I have, like, no money. And I’m a…I’m a twerp.”

“Oh tsktsk listen to you!” Lakshmi scolded, slapping my thigh playfully, “You are just being insecure. Nobody likes that!” She hugged my face, suddenly, to her trim belly. “And, Dr. J, everyone likes you.”

Did that make me feel any better? I don’t know. “No, really, Lakshmi,” I said as she released me from her playful hug. I was being more open and honest with her than I’d been with myself when I continued. “She told me she was moving, earlier this week. I offered to help. She said she didn’t need it.” It’s true; it was just a casual thing, an offer for help but her refusing? “That had hurt a bit, made me feel a little…useless.”

As I lay there in her lap, treading in a pool of my own self-pity, Lakshmi nodded. Her voice had taken on a strange, tentative concern. “Did she tell you why she was moving?”

“Um, not really,” I admitted, “Some sort of trouble with her landlord she said?”

Lakshmi paused again, thinking to herself. “I guess that is sort of true,” she said, sounding satisfied. She bit her lower lip and looked down at me. “You know, Dr. J, we have known each other a long time. I have been working with you for more than two years. I have really enjoyed it, I really look up to you. I love being your medical assistant. But I feel that, now, I am not only your assistant, I am also a friend. Is that okay? Am I being too…assumptive? Because I would hate t-”

“N-no,” I stopped her, “I…I do feel, recently, that we’ve become, like…friends.”

That made her smile. “I would like it if you could come to me if, I don’t know, you need advice, help, or you just need someone to listen, okay? I know you have Melissa but…she cannot be with you all the time.”

“n-n-no…that’s true…” I agreed, my heart - goddamn me and this thing between my legs - starting to quicken with the promise in her voice.

“And you need someone all the time, don’t you?” she asked, rhetorical, “That is why you have us. That is why you have me, here, tonight.”

I watched as her left hand left my thigh and took hold of the drawstring of my scrubs. On instinct, my own hand went to grab her wrist. “Lakshmi, w-wait…’

“Shhh…Dr. J,” she whispered, undeterred and now pulling on the string, releasing the knot of my waistband. As the tension from my pants lessened around it, my nine-inch erection rose to tent my thin pants, and Lakshmi cooed. “Melissa wants me to do this,” she explained, as she pulled now at the waist of my scrubs, loosening them further, “She told me. I need to help you get rid of your…headache.”

“L-Lakshmi, please…” I begged as I tried to rise, a bit, bringing my shoulders up off her big left thigh.

Her wrist breaking free from my weakened grip, she suddenly grasped my shaft through the thin cotton blend of my scrubs, taking it into her soft but strong hand.

I groaned - “nnnnngh..!” - my whole body immediately tensing as pleasure shot through my bones in a shockwave and bringing me to curl forward even further. “n-no…” I somehow managed, “y-y-you don’t need t-”

“Oh, but Dr J…I want to…” she implored, squeezing me through my pants, bringing another spasm to wrack through my body.

I didn’t, now, have the strength to resist. “oh god, oh god…Lakshmi…okay…” I moaned, now collapsing back, back onto her lap, my body going limp.

Lakshmi purred. “Good boy…” she lauded, and though my eyes were now closed I could feel her smile wash over me and my giant, obstinate boner. “I would like you to know that you are not alone,” she began, as she squeezed me gently, then began to gently massage me through my scrub pants, “You can always count on me. Or come to me if you need something.”

“y-y-yes, okay…” I acceded, lost already in the indulgent comfort of her hand. God, I’d forgotten how bad this erection was, how much I needed relief. And this was all from that girl, from Minnesota…Thalia?

“Let me take it out,” she offered, and released me for the moment to further, carefully loosen my drawstring, and then pull the waistband of my pants and boxers down.

“Oh my,” she softly exclaimed, as I opened my eyes and saw it myself: my enormous penis, coming into view, revealing itself in all its swollen, vein-pulsing glory. It had a certain nobility about it, I guess, a horrific majesty that seemed to dwarf me and my thin waist and legs. “I have never really seen it for real, like this, your erection,” Lakshmi marveled, as she moved my clothes a bit further down my frail hips, “only through your pants…”

“I’m…I’m sorry…” I began, aghast at the monstrosity of it. To take and appease this thing was a task, good god, not for the faint of heart.

“No I love it,” she answered, and I saw - in glancing up at her - that she was laser-focused now, rapt on my throbbing organ. “It is okay. I am here to take care of you. Melissa says so,” she repeated, as she opened her expectant hand wide to take hold of me again, “We are friends. She wants us to do this…”

At that, I groaned again anew and arched my back, thrusting up into her hand as she gripped me full around the shaft. I moaned her name and fell back, and allowed her to begin her ministrations. Oh. My. God. Oh my god.

“There you go, there you go….good boy,” she purred, delighted with the ease with which she had me cowed, paralyzed, acquiescent on her lap under the command of her equanimous hand. She took to stroking me, slowly at first, cooing at me as she watched the waves of pleasure that she was bringing me run over my bones, through my body, transporting me. “That’s right, Dr. J, just lay back, let me do this for you. Let me bring you back…”

At the moment I had no thoughts, no perspective, no presumptions complicating my mind aside from what I was being gifted, this young girl’s warm hand on my cock. But now, as I write and read this to you, I know exactly what was happening. This was Lakshmi, worker bee, performing her instinctual duty to bring me back to the thrall of the home, of Melissa’s hive. I had been exposed to an outside influence, the pheromones of another, and I was suffering for it. Nothing, at this point, that couldn’t be remedied, but something that had been causing me discomfort. I groaned. Not in pain, now, but in the pleasure of being brought back to the yoke.

I groaned again, bringing Lakshmi to tut and coo. “Awww…!” she clucked, seeing the consternation on my face, as my mien tensed and scrunched. I looked as if I was struggling. “Would it be easier if I showed you a picture? I might have some, of Melissa, on my phone…”

I could only grunt, shake my head, clamp my eyes shut, concentrate. Her hand, still rhythmically stroking my cock, demanded all my attention.

“No? Okay, how about a picture of my butt then?” she <giggled!>.

“Ohhh g- g- g-... Lakshmiiiii…”

“No? Oh gosh you are so close, aren’t you? Here, you can just look into my eyes, open up,” she enjoined, bringing me to open my eyes once again, look up at her over the swell of her bosom, “You need this to clear your head…”

With that, her wrist, of her right hand, was in front of my nose again. “Breathe…” she instructed me, and I took a deep breath of her sweetly flowerful perfume. Immediately I felt a wave of even greater pleasure wash through me, and I sighed. My climax, now, began to really build. “There you go, that’s nice, right?” she implored, “Breathe deep, smell that. That is us. That is Melissa and your girls. We take care of you, now.”

“oh, christ, oh god….” I groaned, breathing in again and letting myself be drawn away on another wave of pleasure, out into their warm ocean, where her hand and their hands and their soft hair and skins and smiles welcomed me into the depths, the dark dark depths where I could be safe and…nnngh…safe and….nnngh…safe and…

“Safe, Dr. J, you are safe with us,” Lakshmi cooed, her hand now inexorably guiding me through to my final release, jumping, pumping, pumping. I felt it, she felt it, it was right…there, so close. Her wrist - she drew it back from under my nose, and moved her right hand now up, under her top, under her bra, “Safe and protected, safe and warm, safe and sound…” Her hand was between her breasts, rubbing her skin, gathering her scent stronger from her dark humid warmth. She slid it back out and when she removed her hand she clasped it, now, fingers and palm over my mouth and nose. My eyes shot open and I breathed in and it was all her and-

“NNNNNNnnnnnnnNNNNNNNNNGGGGHHHOHHHM-m--m-m---my goddddd…..” I finally groaned, and felt myself explode, my hips lurching upwards, my legs spasming and shaking, my whole head swimming and diving down drawn down until I gasped, filling my lungs with the perfume from her breasts from her hand and drawing it in drowning drowning. Come shot from my cock, I felt it first splatter hot and wet on my chest and neck, and I heard her start to coo.

“Oh, Dr. J, yes, yes, yes…” she extolled, with exalted excitement, hand still clasped around my face, “come for me, yes, get it all out. Get it all out for me….good, good, good boy…yes…”

“Lhkshmuh oh mh gdd…” I gasped, muffled into her palm, my breath rattling, body spasming, coming in rope after rope of hot jism through the air and onto my torso, “oh my god Lakshmi…”

“Shhhhh sweet boy, shhhhhh…” she purred, gentle left hand still pumping me through my climax, urging as much pleasure for me as she could make while her right hand held my face immobile, clasped over my breath. “Breathe me in, breathe us in…there you go, good boy…”

I grunted, I groaned and moaned, headache forgotten but climax still rolling over me. Lakshmi urged and guided me fully through my pleasure and though she would bring me to final aftercare I would pass out quickly there, several minutes later, asleep in the lap of luxury, once again in the hands of the hive.

==========================================

#growing into the job

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anna-doll · 1 year ago

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For the longest time…

I’ve come across reblogs of TheGrandHorizontal’s tumblr posts on other tumblr’s pages and in doing so, was continually reminded that I, for some reason, got blocked…

And for the longest time, I’ve asked myself WHY..?

And for some reason, it has eaten at me like a parasite chewing on my flesh… Mainly because I couldn’t figure out what I did to be shut out in such a premeditated way…

And then I discovered THIS…

…and that “THIS” really pissed me off..!!!

So… indulge me this rare rant if you would like to, or just keep scrolling down to my next post 😜

First off, Mr or Mrs (but definitely A MISS) “Grand” Horizontal… Your Highness… You are anything BUT grand..!!!

You’re more like The Grand Wizard of Was…

You present yourself as though you’re some great curator of an online museum, wherein the truth is, all you’ve done is taken other (more interesting) people’s works of art (like EVERYBODY else does and has, since the beginning of the internet) and posted them as though you’re some amazing professor of art history that’s due all the credit…

But you’ve done so in a most ungracious way, you pompous pile of platitudinous purloining puss.

Bahhhh..‼️

Your ridiculous pinned post says it all… A round file of righteous rhetoric, written solely to make yourself sound intelligent and omnipotent…

TAKE THIS you talking head… you’re nowhere close.

You write “my posts don’t necessarily reflect my sexual predilections” and AGAIN, “Posts are not endorsements of the philosophies communicated in them”…

What a true coward are you… (rhetorical question).

“You’re not here for conversation”, yet you need everybody who has the “fortunate luck” to see your blog to know what doesn’t, but obviously does, turn you on… True babble from a boring bumbler.

You don’t advocate what you post..? Yet you post what you do…

Why..?

…It’s obvious… You post other people’s creations because you DO endorse their messages…

Or is everyday “opposites day” where you live (in your mom’s basement)..?

The ONLY thing I do agree with you on is that YOU DO REPEAT YOURSELF… to a fault.

But the very worst thing about how you portray your grandiosity is that you’ve set up a dynamic that is so very contrary to your own words. You come across as a downright scary person who judges those who are, and aren’t, worthy to view works of art that you did not create.

You equate half of America and Americans, and everyone else on earth, to being Nazis… Republicans = Nazis..?

I’m not defending either group, but that’s not true. Republicans are Republicans… and Nazis are Nazis. It’s two different things… Duhhh..!!! You do history a disservice but idly throwing around partisan catch phrases in order to make yourself sound better than everyone else.

You’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem… Everyone is entitled to their belief systems as long as they aren’t hurting others… Who are you to judge who’s worthy and who isn’t, ESPECIALLY using art as your gavel..? If anything you should try and enlighten people if you disagree with them and not use your self fulfilling platform to disparage others…

You’re the emperor with no clothes.

Personally, I’m neither Republican or Democrat… It may be obvious to some that the only “2 Party System” is the Haves and The Have Nots, and The Real President is CASH MONEY… But you’ve taken the tactless tact of alienating instead of including… A cheap parlor trick that’s popular with the people you claim to dislike… Conquer and Divide..? Judge, Jury and Executioner..? “Because ALL you people are impossible”..? “Do US all a favor”..?

Who is “us”..? And who are “you people”..?

From where I’m sitting, it’s just YOU, you weak minded uninteresting DICKtator.

You ban Nazis huh..? How many real Nazis from 80 years ago attempt to follow your blog..? And really… how many white supremacists, skin heads, neo-nazis, klansman and bible thumping conservatives have tried to follow your tumblr, for that matter..?

Is it 75% or 50%..? You brag that you’ve blocked 75% of the people who have tried to follow you, but clearly 49% of Americans voted Republican.

30 people in one morning..? …And you’re proud of that..? What a complete CREEP..!!!

Follow THIS professor… Math isn’t your strong point, and now YOU’RE being graded.

F+

You don’t let “Nazis” follow you huh..? Yet, interestingly enough, you post images with real nazi regalia in them… Shame on you.

Case in point…

You’re a complete hypocrite, a carpet bagger, a fraud and a charlatan…

You “shouldn’t have to make dumb posts like ‘this one’ yet…”

Well GENIUS… You shouldn’t have, but YOU DID.

The ONLY redeeming quality about YOU that I can see NOW, is that you DID block me.

Thanks JERK..!!! 😛

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pashterlengkap · 1 year ago

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Man has screaming tantrum in Petco because of its gender-neutral bathroom

A video has been making the rounds on social media of a man having a meltdown inside a Fairview, Ohio Petco because the location had a private gender-neutral bathroom. The footage depicts the man yelling at employees: “This is stupid! People have had enough of that crap. I don’t care what your policy is.” In the meantime, his terrified (and perhaps embarrassed) dog tries to pull him in the opposite direction. --- Related Stories Conservatives admit that Bud Light & Target boycotts are about making Pride “toxic” to corporations Anti-LGBTQ+ trolls Matt Walsh and Michael Knowles finally said the quiet part loud. --- One employee then tells him to “ask to speak with somebody.” Get the Daily Brief The news you care about, reported on by the people who care about you. “I just did!” he screamed, gesturing toward the person behind the desk at the grooming department. “She just told me it didn’t matter. She’s about to talk to me like that?” He then begins to walk out. “Stop with the gender-neutral sh*t,” he says as he heads toward the exit. “Men and women are different.” He then demanded the employees “pass it up the chain” because “people are tired of it.” As he says this, an employee stands at the door and emphasizes that he needs to leave. “You’ll have to do that because it’s your concern,” the employee says. As the man repeatedly tells him to “pass it up the chain,” the employee again responds, “I don’t have a problem with it so I’m not going to.” @rach.arianna Gender neutral bathrooms. Screaming at employees over gender neutral bathrooms. @Petco employees handled this so well, major props to them! #makeracistsafraidagain #snowflakes #republicansoftiktok #pride #publicfreakout ♬ original sound – Rach The incident comes on the heels of a chaotic Pride Month during which conservatives repeatedly called for boycotts of any company that expressed support for the LGBTQ+ community or sold Pride merchandise. In addition to posting videos of themselves walking the aisles of stores like Target and being outraged by rainbow clothing, some even threatened violence, with multiple Target locations receiving bomb threats. http://dlvr.it/SsldDM

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ohulancutash · 2 years ago

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Heya Jules :) I am certainly no religious leader, just someone checking whether their own post fit in the pagan tag or not, but in case it’s helpful I thought I’d reply. I believe the right term for me is an ‘eclectic pagan’, which I think is a great term, very glad to be eclectic, which means I have pagan beliefs but don’t follow a particular denomination of paganism and sort of take bits and bobs into my belief system that make sense to me. This works well for me partly because I think I foundationally believe in a very varied spiritual/supernatural nature to the world with no ‘right way’ to engage with it, and an importance in emotions and individual experience in guiding how we do. I see my spirituality as an exploration of how best to live my life, and of all the ways I can richly engage with the world, without an end-goal in mind, so e.g. although I have beliefs about what might happen after death, I don’t feel any need to direct my spirituality in mind to steer toward a particular outcome. I believe very centrally that all life is sacred, including non-human life, and I try to live with that in mind, although I recognise the limitations to my ability to live without impact on other lives. So like, I’m vegetarian but of course plants have been uprooted to feed me, and of course the medicines we take destroy microbial life and that is okay. (Medicines are good, what a take). I think for me this boils down to a couple of things, which is that I know my life (and y’know, other humans eating carrots and taking antibiotics) is also sacred and its nourishment and protection are also sacred needs, and that ‘all life is sacred’ has a complicated meaning but does not, to me, directly translate to ‘this life should be maintained no matter what’. More like, ‘this life deserves respect as another important part of the flow of life through this world’, although, like I said, it’s complicated because I would place things like nature conservation and preserving life where possible as important parts of it. I also have a collection of beliefs about how I think the world works (e.g. the nature of souls, life, time, what happens after death) that I hold slightly more lightly, but are still important to me. I believe that there is a spiritual matter, like a soul, to everyone and everything in the world, but I see it as something quite fluid; a rock can have a spirit that is also part of the spirit of a place, a city or stone circle or railway can gather in meaning and therefore spirit. I believe spirits can communicate to each other, so I believe in spiritual communion between people and places, and that forms an important part of how I practice my spirituality. I believe that emotional expression can be an important part of that, so a big thing for me is that, well, I morris dance - I don’t know which ideas about morris dancing you’ve heard, if any, but there is this idea floating round that it’s all some pagan ritual, and I would say actually only a minority of morris dancers are also pagan; I don’t believe morris dancing follows some grand pagan tradition, historically speaking it doesn’t, and for plenty of people it’s just a fun hobby, but I am happy with the idea of it acquiring new spiritual meaning for those of us who do engage in it like that. For me, dancing to celebrate a place, or a time of year, or both, is a spiritual act of emotional connection. And a fun hobby. I believe in a spiritual existence beyond death, but because I have a conception of a ‘soul’ as quite fluid, I believe in something like ghosts and something like reincarnation simultaneously, as different parts of a spirit being reintegrated with other parts of the world in different ways. And again, all of this is pretty much just me (so I don’t know how helpful this is to your question tbh). I mean I’m certain there are people out there with similar beliefs and I’m very aware that I’ve been influenced by other people’s ideas and spiritualities, but like, I’m not engaging with them myself as parts of an organised religion. I suppose that’s another thing, because I can think of at least some christian denominations that are different - for me, I don’t see being in a community of believers as a necessity to conducting my spiritual activities or growth. It’s definitely nice to have friends to share things with, obviously, and that’s a good way to grow as a person, but it’s not a structural part of my spirituality.

Hello my name is Jules and I am very curious about religion.

I would love to learn about different religions, specifically by the leaders of a religion. I come from a place of curiosity and not judgement. I am from a multi faith family that was taught to love all. Idk if any one will respond to me but I would love to hear about your faith.

#dunno if that's at all helpful #but I hope it is #eclectic pagan #long post

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asklittlepip · 2 years ago

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After the last post, I am going to bring up something else that is frequently complained about in Fallout 4, and almost universally in error as well.

You do not have 4 choices in every conservation. You have at least FIVE.

Now, you’re thinking, how can that be? There’s only four on-screen, and you can’t activate conditional choices beyond that! Except, that you can.

Every single dialog in the game has code and unique voice lines for if you were to walk away or otherwise interrupt what’s being said by the person you’re talking with. This means there are thousands & thousands of lines of speech that you will NEVER HEAR unless you scoot away in the midst of a chat. While in minor situations, such as asking a vendor in Diamond City about the town, this just results in them resuming where they left off when you ask again (and possibly making a snarky remark while they are at it), this can also provoke wholly unique outcomes that, again, you would never see otherwise.

Let me give you two good examples. The Silver Shroud quest. At the end of it, you’re tasked with rescuing Kent Connolly from the clutches of Sinjin, the ghoulish Raider leader. Normally, you’re supposed to stop him from putting a few rounds into Kent’s head, and get a sadder ending and the inability to upgrade the superhero’s costume if Connolly dies. This can be done in many different ways, including clever use of the Syringer to stop the worst from happening.

But what if you didn’t do any of them? What if, while Sinjin was threatening you, that you simply put a bullet in Kent’s head yourself? You CAN do this, and there’s a unique scene that plays out, where he and his allies freak out at your ruthlessness, and you can cause them to literally panic & cower in fear by doing so. It’s a super evil route, but, it’s there!

And these exist throughout Fallout 4, but because you’ve been trained to just select the options given, many rarely think of doing something like this.

I couldn’t find a good video for that, but I was able to for this next one; Robert MacCready’s vulgarity. You can discover that the formerly foul-mouthed former mayor of Little Lamplight swore to not curse any more when he grew up, because it bothered his lover and mother of his child. After she died, it became a solemn vow that he is loathe to break.

But almost every companion in Fallout has a point where they can’t take the player’s actions anymore for moral or philosophical differences, and he’s no different. All of them also try to give you a last chance to make things right, with the speech being different if you happen to be involved with them romantically too.

MacCready will say “fuck you!” if you walk away when he’s trying to do this (or to “go to hell!” before then), because it demonstrates you don’t care at all, and are a cruel, callous person at heart, as your actions murdering innocents or committing other heinous deeds just to get to that point have already proven.

This next video can be a bit disturbing, even Preston’s (!) death, but especially Piper’s, so please be aware of that before you click onward. But it does also demonstrate the player triggering some of these unique lines by not even giving the characters the dignity of exclaiming their feelings before they’re slain.

My point is, that Fallout 4 has way more depth than most give it credit for, and there’s systems and other content within it the developers created that so many missed, and berate the entire game for. I hope knowledge like this can help you appreciate not just this, but many other games out there that have more to them than what you can see on the surface.

Btw, Fallout 76 also does this, but since it’s an online game and interruptions more likely, it tends to simply reset conversations to the beginning and wait for you if ya walk away in the middle.

#fallout #fallout 4 #fallout 76 #game design

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sugarmaplewings-fics · 4 years ago

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Booty Shorts

Pairing: BNHA Boys x fem!reader

Warnings: Groping and lots of making out. No-no language in Bakugou's. Idk just general vulgarity, I guess.

Author's Note:

I don't really know what I was thinking when I came up with this, but, uh, here it is. I made this.

Anyway, my idea behind this was something along the lines of an insecure and/or modest reader who normally dresses kinda conservatively around other people but one day she decides that she's comfortable and puts on some booty shorts and a tank top (spicy spicy) more or less for her boyfriend. That's literally it. They're all a bit different, though.

I am throwing my dignity out the window here, okie? It's all for you guys, so enjoy (ya horny fricks).

Enjoy some more BNHA trash from me!

-Sugar (from prolly four months ago. This one is kind of old and I was debating whether or not I should post it, but I’m starting to get really tired of letting it sit in my drafts and I edited it so it wasn’t quite as atrocious as the original on Wattpad)

Jesus forgive me <( ‘-////-)>

↞┉┉┉↠

Characters: Bakugou, Kirishima, Kaminari

Bakugou:

● You made your way up to Katsuki's dorm, cautiously making sure no one saw you

● You were wearing shorts that left little to the imagination and a hoodie, which you planned to discard soon after reaching your destination

● You knocked on Bakugou's door, which he quickly answered

● At first, he didn't even notice anything different, until his eyes slipped down and fell upon your bare legs

● He sucked in a breath and pulled you into his room, quickly shutting his door

● He pressed your back against his chest, his hands moving from their grip on your hips down to stroke your exposed thighs, then back up to squeeze your butt

● You knew he had a slight fascination with it, since you were constantly catching him watching you while you were turned away from him

● You had finally decided to give him exactly what he wanted, and you could tell he wasn't complaining

● "Did anyone see you?" he whispered in your ear, a possessive tone creeping into his voice

● "No," you breathed

● "Good." He gave you a light slap, enjoying watching the resulting jiggle

● He started guiding you towards his bed, where he pushed you down onto his mattress

● "What made you decide to tease me like this today?" he asked, bending over you, his hands going back to caressing your legs

● You shrugged nonchalantly, ignoring the flush that had made itself present across your cheeks

● He smirked and met his lips to yours in a searing kiss, his tongue quickly entering your mouth

● You sucked on it, pulling him closer as his lips moved to press against yours

● You halted your makeout session to pull your hoodie over your head, revealing a spaghetti strap tank top and no bra

● Katsuki kinda lost it; it being too early in your relationship to have been very intimate, so it wasn't like he'd seen your skin so much before

● His hands don't know where to go, wanting to be everywhere at once, touching and feeling every inch of your skin beneath him

● He palms one of your breasts, causing you to whimper into the kiss he had given you

● He decides to take his shirt off too, repaying your gesture

● The sight of his toned body causes your breath to catch in your throat and he grins at your reaction to him as you reach up your hands to touch him

● You make out for a long time on his bed, hands brushing over anywhere they could reach

● After several minutes, it comes to an end, the two of you pausing to catch your breaths

● "Why did I come over here again?" you ask no one in particular, your voice still breathless as you lay against Katsuki's pillow

● "To see me, dumbass." He settles himself beside you, his eyes occasionally dropping back down to your rising and falling chest

● "Well, yeah, but weren't we going to do something?"

● "You checked out of that when you showed up to my door in those shorts."

● "Like what you see?" You smirk

● "Of course, you stupid nerd. What did you think?"

● You chuckle and ruffle his hair, making him scowl. "Come on, weren't we going to watch a movie or something?"

● "I don't know."

● "Well we can't exactly make out all night—"

● "Says who?" Katsuki's eyes take on a familiar dangerous gleam

● If there's one thing you'd learned from your relationship, it was to never challenge Bakugou

● He straddled you once more, bending down to kiss your nearly bare chest, then worked his way back up to your collarbone, nibbling at your neck

● "Tonight," he said, his face still pressed into your skin, "I don't want to do anything that doesn't involve you up against me. And I'm not taking my hands off you until tomorrow morning."

● You swallowed and nodded, allowing him to plant more kisses against your body, worshiping your skin below him

● After another long round of making out, he finally got up and turned off his lights, sliding back into bed with you

● "You stopped touching me."

● "Fuck off." He laid his head on your boobs, tangling his legs around yours. "Good night, Princess."

● You smiled. "Good night, baby."

_______________

Kirishima:

● You and Kirishima had just come back from a late-night walk and decided to go up to your room for the night

● Kirishima had left to go get ready for bed while you did the same; brushing your teeth, washing your face, etc

● When it came to putting on your pajamas, you looked over to your tank top and shorts

● You shrugged, deciding to go through with wearing them for the night, knowing you would be more than warm enough with Kirishima pressed against you

● When you came out of the bathroom, Kirishima had already let himself in, and was now waiting for you on the bed; his hair down, in gray sweatpants and a loose t-shirt

● He turned when he heard the door open. "Hey, babe. Are you ready for—Woah."

● He stops when he catches sight of your exposed body, a dopey grin lighting up his features as his eyes slowly rove over you, taking everything in

● You're still standing by the door, a little bit shy

● He gets up and strides over to you, running his hands from your shoulders all the way down your arms, finally taking your hands in his

● He leads you to your bed, turning off the overhead light on the way, leaving your room lit only by the warm glow of your bedside lamp

● He sits back down on the edge of your bed, pulling you onto his lap

● He presses a few sweet kisses against your lips, eventually moving down to your jawline and then onto your neck

● His hands feel up the outer sides of your thighs, exploring the uncovered skin until he reaches your butt, experimentally giving it a gentle squeeze

● He finally picks you up and turns, laying you down onto your bed so he can kiss your collarbone, trailing more kisses all the way down to the exposed tops of your breasts

● You inhale deeply at the sensation and he notices, nuzzling his nose into you like an affectionate puppy

● You finally shiver and let out a little whine. The shock of if made the two of you pause and giggle

● Eijirou sighs and settles his head on your chest, reveling in the feeling of your soft skin against his face

● "What's with the wardrobe change?" he mumbles against you

● You shrug, threading your fingers through his soft red hair. "Just felt like it."

● He chuckled, the sound traveling into his chest and ending as a bit of a growl. You shivered again at the sound, your body barely held still by the weight of Kirishima

● "I like it." He kisses you again

● "I feel comfortable around you now," you say. "I don't have to hide."

● Eijirou turns his head and opens his eyes to meet yours. "You're beautiful, (Y/N). You really are. You have nothing to be insecure about, especially around me."

● You smile softly, caressing his cheek with your fingers and pulling him back up to your face for a kiss

● He grins and pulls away from you. "I'm glad you are, though. Comfortable, that is." He reached up to flick off the lamp

● Now plunged in total darkness, he goes back to hugging you, pulling your chest flush against his while you let him rest his chin on the top of your head

● The warmth you share is heavenly; limbs comfortably wrapped around one another

● You cuddle each other asleep, the soothing rhythms of each others' bodies lulling you both into a state of tranquility

_______________

Kaminari:

● You slide on a pair of short shorts, frowning at yourself as you study the way they make your legs look

● Finally you give up on them, turning around and jutting out your hips to check your posterior

● At least they make my butt look nice

● You were trying on some clothes you had just gotten from your recent outing with the girls to the mall; glad to finally be alone in the solace of your room so you could look ever what you’d purchased.

● Your door suddenly flew open, catching you by surprise and making you jump

● "Hey, (Y/N), do you want to—woah."

● Denki had just barged into your room, totally catching you checking yourself out in the mirror

● He hastily shuts the door, making sure no one saw you

● You bite your lip, completely aware that you were only in a tank top and shorts

● "You look great," Kaminari says, coming up to wrap his arms around you from behind, his chin resting on your bare shoulder as he gazed at the two of you in the mirror

● Of course he'd fantasized about you in outfits like this before, but dang, you most certainly did not disappoint.

● "I don't know . . . ."

● The grin he had been sporting faltered. "What do you mean?"

● You squinted at your reflection as though it had done you a great personal wrong

● "Don't you think this is a little . . . much?"

● "No," he answers truthfully. "I like it." His hands start to move before he catches himself. "I'm allowed to touch you, right?"

● Your eyes widen at the idea, excitement flickering in the pit of your stomach at the thought of his hands on you. "Sure. It's fine."

● His grin returns in full force as he begins to slide his hands up your sides, wasting no time to seize your chest with both hands, feeling the weight of your breasts as he lightly bounced them in his palms

● After kneading and massaging them to his temporary content, he ran his hands back down your sides to cup your ass, moving himself back a step so he could see, giving you a light smack

● He hummed in satisfaction and spun you around, pulling you into him so your body could lay flush against his

● He guided your face to his own, pressing his lips against yours while his hands made their rounds again; rubbing your back, squeezing and caressing your butt, even trying to dip down enough to feel the smooth skin of your exposed thighs without breaking your connection

● He pulls back, his eyes shut as he whispers against your lips, "You really are beautiful, (Y/N). You should show it off a little more."

● You chuckle at his suggestion, his hands never ceasing their quest to memorize and explore every curve and angle of your body

● "Maybe not this much though, you have a point," he admitted, pausing to meet your eyes. "This is just for me, right?"

● You smirk and ruffle his hair. "It's for me too, ya dork. These are actually hella comfortable."

● Denki smirked, pressing a quick close-mouthed kiss to your lips. "Perfect," was all he said.

↞┉┉┉↠

A/N: If you want more characters (Shinsou, Midoriya, and Amajiki), feel free to check out my Wattpad (linked on my navi post), but only at your own risk (＞д＜)

Taglist: @basicaegyo @iiminibattlehero @katsugay @nabo39 @pyrofanatic @sendhelpimstupid @xoxopam4

#bakugou katsuki #bakugou imagine #bakugou katsuki imagine #bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #kirishima imagine #kirishima eijirou imagine #kirishima x reader #eijirou kirishima x reader #denki imagine #kaminari imagine #denki x reader #kaminari x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #reader insert #sugar fics

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jaskiersvalley · 3 years ago

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Your safari au. Please. I need it. Water my crops with tigers and hyenas and witchers. Grabby hands and pleading faces in abundance here.

You are after my heart, Nonnie. And considering I've only talked about the Safari AU on Novigrad, I will happily assume you're lurking on there and I love you for it. Tweaked a little to add in a hyena just for you.

Lions and Tigers and Bears

Taking over a park was no easy feat, especially not when it came with a reputation like Nilfgaard had. Eskel scratched his head as he poured over the various financial reports, wondering just how much of it could be trusted. The problem was Nilfgaard had been a shining beacon in the animal conservation world, exceptional facilities, high enrichment for the animals and a successful rehabilitation rate. If there was ever an animal in need of a place, Nilfgaard had been first choice for years. All that came tumbling down in light of the revelation that Nilfgaard had been trading illegally, their animals sold to private owners as exotic pets or, even worse, hunters who wanted a guaranteed, easy kill. The place had been shut down immediately, a skeleton crew kept on to tend to the animals but nothing more. Management was on trial and Kaer Morhen had won the bid to take over. Though small and mostly unknown, nobody else had wanted to touch the remnants of Nilfgaard so they were quite uncontested in their bid. What had seemed like a good idea at the time, an noble because it was in the interest of the animals, now was an absolute headache.

Between the three of them, Geralt, Eskel and Lambert could split most of the urgent work. They had Jaskier working on rebranding, Yennefer managing the board and Vesemir as the head. It left them free to run the day to day of the park, learning the animals as well as the people who they had kept on. But they were going to need more people to actually help the place flourish and regain its standing in the community. Which meant asking the heads of departments for who should be kept on and what roles to recruit for from scratch. The easy ones were things like hospitality, Zoltan had a firm grip on the needs of the park and its visitors, knew all the catering firms and how to run a tight ship. So it was one less headache for them. Eredin had stepped up as Head of Security readily once it was proven he had no knowledge of the animal smuggling. Again, his familiarity with the park was a boon, as were his connections, putting together a security team that could be trusted. Much more messy was the animal welfare section. Fringilla, much like Eredin, had stepped up to become interim Head Zookeeper and was doing her best. While they were understaffed, Geralt, Eskel and Lambert helped out where they could but much of their time was spent getting to know the routine of the park and its many animals.

"We need to know who we can trust," Lambert grumbled, leaning over the table where they had personnel files open. "It's impossible to know who was in on things and who wasn't."

Though, in all likelihood, none of the lower level workers knew that when they helped usher one of their beloved animals into a crate, they weren't sending them off to another facility or a happily ever after. But it was something they just couldn't risk.

"May I?" Fringilla asked, eyes roving over all the files. At Geralt's gesture, she began pulling some of them out. "You'll want Triss, she was a vet here, promote her to senior or chief or whatever you call it. She's solid. And Sabrina, she's great, works well with Triss. Retain Istredd, Mousesack, Calanthe and Eist too. oh, and Letho for the reptile house." As she spoke, she kept looking with a small frown.

"Missing someone?" Eskel asked. Nodding, Fringilla frowned. Without much care for manners, she walked to the cupboards and began pulling out files until she hit the folder of resignations and terminations. From there, she pulled out one last file.

"You'll want him."

The folder was taken from her and the three peered at it with varying levels of frowns.

"You want us to hire someone who was terminated for gross misconduct? Whose notes suggest he abused animals and has blacklisted from working with animals?"

"No. I want you to meet the whistle-blower. Cahir's the one who found out about the trafficking and reported it. Nilfgaard didn't take kindly to it and retaliated."

Not sold on the idea, Lambert crossed his arms over his chest. "His file doesn't look exceptional. Personally, if he applied for a job, I'm not sure he shines enough to even be called in for an interview."

It was a sentiment echoed by the other two and Fringilla had to fight to hold back a sneer. "Invite him in and judge for yourselves. Just because his record doesn't have a quantifiable or gradable measure of commitment doesn't mean he won't be fantastic. If we ever have a new animal in that doesn't need to stay hospitalised, I wouldn't want anyone but Cahir to help settle it in. Especially the younger ones and babies."

Against their better judgement, the three decided to follow Fringilla's advice and e-mailed Cahir an interview offer. The reply was terse but assured them that he would be there at the agreed time.

First impressions were, to put gently, not great. Cahir looked rumpled, bags under his eyes and his attitude was rather sullen. It didn't bode well as they sat in the office, Cahir an odd mix of defiant and subservient. At least Fringilla had the grace to push the interview forward as much as she could until even she sighed and leaned back.

"Why don't we walk through some of the enclosures? Make sure you still remember what's where."

As they walked, Eskel ended up next to Cahir, who seemed content to not talk. That didn't stop Eskel from trying to initiate conversation.

"So, what have you been doing in the three months since you left here?"

"Tried to survive."

The blunt answer had Eskel blinking, there were many things he expected but not that. "Oh?"

For the first time Cahir actually looked at him, sadness bleeding through his half glare. "I used to live on site, worked for Nilfgaard from the age of 15, took a full time post at 18 and moved into the small cottage in the southern corner of the land. They fired me, I lost everything."

An uncomfortable silence settled between them as Eskel tried to figure out just how much of Cahir's so story was an exaggeration. "Have you been living with friends then?"

"For a few weeks, yeah." Cahir actually scoffed. "I've been trying to get a job and living in a hostel off savings. Turns out, only having in-house qualifications does not bode well for prospects in the world at large."

Fringilla led them into an enclosure where the grass was high. From the looks and smells, Eskel would have guessed it was a tiger's habitat but he wasn't familiar enough with the park yet to know. He would have hesitated going in, especially in a group like they were but Eskel had to trust Fringilla as she came to a stop and they stood in a loose circle.

The house Cahir had mentioned was one Eskel was familiar with. They had often wondered why it was empty yet well kept. It had felt like a life interrupted when they had a look round, nothing personal there yet it didn't have the empty, unlived-in feel of a show home. In a way, Eskel was regretting just how poorly Cahir's interview was going because he could easily see them offering his house back as part of a contract.

"So why are we here?" Lambert's words broke Eskel's reverie. "I thought we wanted to go on a walk."

It was by pure chance that Eskel caught Fringilla's smirk at Cahir and the slightest softening of that stern expression in return. Clicking his tongue, Cahir shot Lambert a look. "Tell me, have you ever been stalked by a tiger before?"

"No."

"You sure about that?" Cahir clicked his tongue twice and the world burst into motion. From the long grass a tiger pounced and Eskel was not ashamed to admit he let out a surprised yell. He wasn't the only one though, Lambert gasping, hand at his mouth and shoulders up as the tiger took Cahir out. They went tumbling and only Geralt looked like he might lurch into action, taking half a step towards the animal and Cahir. It would have been hopeless though, the two were wrestling on the ground until Cahir was on his back, tiger hunched above him.

The first thing Eskel noticed was how Cahir's face was creased into a happy grin. He looked younger, relaxed and happy ever as the tiger licked a large stripe from jaw, up his chin to his hairline. All Cahir did was laugh.

"Yes, yes, I missed you too, Princess," he said. fingers loosened from the fur in the tiger's neck and petted along her nose with the ease of familiarity.

"What the actual fuck?!" Lambert all but screeched. "What the fuckity fucking fuck?"

Eskel had the sense to look to Fringilla for answers, even if he wanted to watch Cahir with the tiger. The change in the man wasn't something he could have predicted. Gone was the sullen, defensive and standoffish air, replaced by an easy smile and a look of serene happiness as Cahir looked at the tiger, checking her over out of habit, muttering about dirty ears and mucky paws as he went.

"That is what you won't ever learn from a CV and qualifications," Fringilla said. She was absolutely looking smug. "Princess came to us at 9 months old, from a circus. Had terrible separation anxiety and a host of other issues too. She wasn't doing well despite our best efforts. At least, not until Cahir took her home and cared for her during the nights rather than leave her in a hospital cage. He introduced her to independence, slept out in the open with her for a few weeks when she was ready to transition to outdoors." Much more quietly, she added, "She's not the only animal he'd done that for. To find out some of his beloved children have been sold hit him hard. I don't think I'd ever seen him cry before then."

Turning back, Eskel watched as Cahir was sat on the ground, tiger with her back to him. The slightly strained "oh no you don't" from Cahir was lost as the tiger pushed up onto her hind legs and flopped backwards. Had she been smaller, Cahir would have probably caught her like a baby. As it was, he grunted as the weight crashed across his legs and he had a happily chuffing tiger's belly to tickle.

"I assume you'd vouch for him?" Geralt asked.

"In a heartbeat." Fringilla grinned at Cahir but it was lost on him, so focused on Princess as he was. The others might as well have stopped existing. That was the moment Eskel knew his heart was in danger. It didn't get easier as time went on. Hiring Cahir was proving to be a good decision. He just got on with the work, never finding anything distasteful or below him to do. If it needed doing, he got it done.

Over time he opened up too, Eskel found himself wandering down to the southern corner of the park to the little house that was now full of life. He got used to Cahir usually having a baby or two in his care. Sometimes he babysat for Letho's hatchlings, content to have baby snakes trying to look around his arms as they learned how to cope with being handled. The friendship between the two was one Eskel couldn't claim to understand but they seemed to make it work.

"Knock knock," he announced himself by the open back door.

"Come on in," Cahir called as he wandered out of the kitchen. "I'm just finishing making dinner, care to join me?"

That was new too, Cahir was inviting Eskel into his life more and more. It made Eskel feel even better about what he was planning to ask at Fringilla's instructions.

"I wanted to talk to you about tomorrow. There's a new arrival that we think will need your assistance."

Cahir cocked an eyebrow and held up an empty plate in question again. At Eskel's nod he began loading. "Anything you can tell me about it?"

"Not much. Private collector got raided, had a few animals in his less than tender care."

"So they'll be part socialised, part traumatised. I can work with that."

Somehow, Eskel had no doubts about that. But he was holding back some information because Fringilla had told him to keep it a surprise. The next morning the transport van rolled in, a small group of them ready to handle the newest arrivals. There were a couple of pythons for Letho to bring into his fold, a parrot for Guxart to train into swearing. Last was a large crate. As interesting as it was, Eskel's eyes were on Cahir, the way his nostrils flared as he caught scent of the hyena. The box opened and the animal cautiously peered out.

"Dave!" Cahir exclaimed, all semblance of quiet professionalism gone as he hopped off the top of the crate he'd helped open.

If his reaction had been exuberant, it was nothing compared to the hyena's. They collided next to the box, all over each other.

"I missed you buddy." There were tears running down Cahir's cheeks as Dave alternated between butting into him and running tight, excited circles around him before settling down and trying to bodily press into him. Glancing up, Cahir gave Fringilla a wobbly smile. "How did you find her?"

Her? Last Eskel checked, Dave was a male name. Still, he wasn't going to interrupt the tender reunion with such a dumb question.

"She was part of a collector's hoard. Didn't have the right permits so he was made to give her up to those who could offer her proper care."

A broken "thank you" was whispered in her direction before Cahir buried his face in the hyena's neck. Eskel watched with so many questions. Thankfully Fringilla didn't miss that fact.

"She was born in captivity, originally assumed to be a boy, needed to be hand reared after mum rejected her. She never understood that she wasn't human and as a result has spent most of her life living with Cahir. We've tried so often to introduce her to a pack but she never took to them, content to stay with them for a day, two at a push before she starts pining. When Nilfgaard sold her, that's when Cahir got suspicious, did some digging and realised she hadn't gone to another park. So Dave is a catalyst for this whole fiasco if you will."

Watching them, Eskel nodded. He had a hyena to befriend if he wanted to keep Cahir in his life it would seem.

#pre-Cahir/Eskel #fringilla vigo #cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach #eskel #lambert #geralt #safari au #tldr: nilfgaard is a disgraced safari the kaer morhen idiots take over

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svenotes · 4 years ago

Text

drabble #1

❝ the one where your one night stand turns out to be your boss ❞

[ PAIRING ] : jeon jungkook x reader | bff!hoseok x reader

[ GENRE ] : office au (not the tv show lol) + crack, smut (mentioned)

[ WORD COUNT ] : 1.7k

[ WARNINGS ] : mentions of sex, a lot of banter, jungkook only appears for like two seconds so this is more best friend!hoseok and oc bickering

[ AUTHOR’S NOTE ] : i’m trying to get back into writing, so here’s some funny banter w plot

drabbles | masterlist | wattpad cross post | ao3 cross post

“Besides, when have—!”

“No.”

Hoseok frowns, eyes narrowing on you. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

Going through your mental checklist, you neatly place the documents in your hands on your boss’s desk. Today has been a hectic day at the office. It was a miracle that you even managed to finish everything by the end of your shift. On days where you can barely tell the difference between left and right, you found yourself clocking extra hours. You suppose you have Hoseok to thank for that. By some grace of God, he was assigned on the same project as you and as annoying as your friend could be, he also knew when to keep things professional.

He’s already set to leave for the day, waiting for you to finish up. Since the days are getting shorter, he’s made the habit of walking you to your car after work. He stares at you with a dubious look in his eyes, and you hold it for a moment before you walk towards your cubicle to pick up your keys.

“I know you,” you start, grabbing your purse and keys. “I know what you’re going to say because I know you.”

Hoseok scoffs at that, crossing his arms over his chest. A part of you hopes he stops his questioning and drops the topic altogether. However, you know Hoseok. Dropping a subject isn’t his specialty, even if the world demands that he should.

As you try to leave your office, Hoseok blocks your path. “Y/N.”

You keep a straight face. “Hoseok.”

“I am your best friend—!”

“Debatable.”

He ignores you and continues, “And I love you—!”

“Also debatable,” you murmur.

“—which is why I cannot for the life me understand why you would keep secrets about your sex life from me.”

He catches the attention of a few of your co-workers. You brush them off with a smile, wishing them good-night before you pull Hoseok inside an empty office by his loosened tie. He lets out a choked cough as you drag him in and shut the door behind him, keeping your conversation away from prying ears.

“Are you trying to kill me?” Hoseok hisses, rubbing his neck. “I just want some details about the new guy you’re screwing. How’d you meet? How long has this been going on? Why was I never informed you were dating someone?”

You close your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose. “For the millionth time, I am not dating anyone. And there’s nothing to know—!”

“You’re lying! Again!” He points a finger in your face. “You left the bar with someone on the night of Ellie’s birthday and you’ve been secretive ever since.” He narrows his eyes. “Who are you hiding?”

You swat his fingers away, brows furrowed. “I’m an open book. I have nothing to hide.”

“Bullshit. You're as open as Yoongi.”

“How is Yoongi?” You ask, not-so-subtly deflecting. “It's been a while since I’ve seen him. You need to stop keeping him all to yourself. I miss my ex-roommate.”

Hoseok and you have known each other for as long as you’ve been working for the company. He sat in the cubicle beside yours and over time you became good friends. Yoongi, your roommate at the time, stopped by the office to drop off some lunch and met Hoseok before you could introduce them.

At first, the two despised each other, their personalities crashing — Hoseok too bright, and carefree and Yoongi more mellow and conserved. However, things began to shift between them over time and now Hoseok walks around with a ring in his jacket pocket at all times.

Hoseok’s cheeks dust pink. “I haven't proposed yet if that's what you're wondering.”

“Just let me know who’s best man I’m going to be,” you laugh.

“None of ours, ‘cause I’m going to ban you from the wedding—!”

Your eyes widen, appalled. “Why—!”

“Who are you dating?”

Your mouth clasps shut, glaring at him. “No one.”

It’s not a lie, Jungkook and you are not dating. Your relationship with him was far from romantic. However, Hoseok doesn’t know that and you’re not sure how you're supposed to tell him. Especially when it seems as though your past is trying to relive itself in the form of another man. You worked hard to move on from when you fell in love with your co-worker — you’ve worked so hard to put the past behind you and keep your professional life separate from your personal. Yet, it’s as if all of that hangs by a thread, threatening to slip through your fingers because history is trying to repeat itself.

How were you supposed to know your kind-of one-night stand was the youngest heir of Jeon Enterprises? You wouldn’t have dared to take a bite of the forbidden fruit if you knew.

A headache forms at the very thought of Hoseok’s lecture once you explain to him you unintentionally fucked your boss. It’s why you’ve been avoiding him and deflecting his questions throughout the day. You sigh, meeting his eyes.

What Hoseok doesn’t know cannot hurt him, right?

His eyes narrow on you, mouth opening for a rebuttal, but the knock on the door silences him. Your attention turns towards the door and you forget to breathe at the sight of the man at the door.

Jungkook's eyes immediately find yours, a small smile tugging on his lips. He looks sweet — innocent, even. Nothing like the man who feasts on you like fine cuisine. Your breath gets caught in your throat when you vividly remember the sinful things he can do with those lips — that mouth. You push the thoughts to the side, mirroring his smile despite the rapid pace of your heartbeat.

“Mr. Jeon,” Hoseok speaks first, clearing his throat.

Jungkook's eyes widen a fraction as he finds Hoseok standing a few feet from you, mirroring the shocked expression you wore moments ago. As if he didn’t even notice Hoseok’s presence.

“Please, call me Jungkook,” he starts, sheepishly, running a hand through his hair. “There’s no need for formalities.”

Hoseok simply nods. “Right. Jungkook.”

“I — uh,” you clear your throat, ignoring the heat that rises to your cheeks as Hoseok's scrutinizing gaze flickers between the two of you. “Did you need anything?”

“Ah,” Jungkook’s eyes flicker towards Hoseok. “Nothing in particular. I was going around trying to get to know the team better. You just seemed preoccupied earlier and I didn’t want to disturb you, so I thought I’d catch you now.”

“Oh,” you say, stupidly.

“We were was just about to head home,” Hoseok adds, glancing between the two of you. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

"I see,” Jungkook hums and his lips curl into a frown momentarily. “It was nice meeting you today. I look forward to working with you both.”

You hold his gaze for a moment before you respond, “Yea, likewise.”

“Me too,” Hoseok deadpans.

Swallowing, you ignore the look Hoseok sends you. It’s clear, he knows; he's put the pieces together. You will the heat in the apples of your cheeks to dissipate as you keep your composure.

“Goodnight.” Jungkook nods at Hoseok before returning his attention to you. “I’ll see you later.”

“Night.”

As he leaves, his gaze lingers on you for a second too long before he walks away. You let out a breath of air you didn’t realize you were holding, hand resting against your thundering heart. Hoseok waits for the door to shut and for Jungkook to round the corner before—!

“I’m not going to lie,” he begins, leaning against the desk, “that was painful to watch.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re fucking him.” It wasn't a question.

“We slept together a few times,” you sigh, pressing your fingers against your temple. “He said he worked at his father’s company, but I didn’t know his father was CEO of Jeon Enterprises. It didn’t even piece together that he was the Jungkook our team manager was talking about until I saw him this morning.”

He lets your words sink in, humming as he studies you. “He was totally gonna ask to fuck you tonight.”

“Shut up.” You throw your keys at him, but he catches it with ease. “We’re… supposed to meet tonight.”

He raises a brow. “To fuck?”

“Mhm.”

You’re supposed to meet tonight for a date, but Hoseok already knows too much. Telling him you decided to humour Jungkook for a date will only worsen your headache. Mainly because Hoseok will tell you the only reason you’re humouring him is since you like him.

Only two weeks have passed since you first met and look at the mess it’s already created. What should’ve been strictly a fuck-buddy relationship has turned for the worst.

“You probably shouldn’t.”

“I know.” You slouch, defeated as you lean against the desk beside him. “I know.”

“Wow — wait.” Hoseok’s shock turns into a frown. “You bailed on me Sunday night for mediocre dick, didn’t you?”

“Not mediocre dick,” you sigh, reminiscing the last time you went over. Although, it doesn’t last for long — “Ow! Hoseok, what the fuck?”

“That's for bailing on me,” he snorts before flicking your forehead again. “And that was for telling me his dick game is good.”

You roll your eyes, scoffing, but that doesn’t stop the rush of memories from last weekend. Limbs entangled between sheets, hands grazing every inch of your bodies and lips twined with yours. Your body still remembers the comfort of his warmth as he brought you to euphoria over and over again. A mere memory makes your knees weak.

Your phone buzzes in your hands and you suppress your groan.

[ 6:14 pm ] jungkook (dude w the nice dick): you still coming over?

You don’t realize Hoseok leans over to read your text until —!

“Booty-call.”

Flicking his forehead, you ignore Jungkook’s message. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Alright,” he says, following after you. He keeps quiet until you’ve both entered the elevator, away from other’s prying ears. “Are you going to visit him tonight?”

“I don’t know.”

Your thoughts are torn between right and wrong — your career and pleasure. Meeting him tonight and ending things would be the right decision, but you’re not entirely sure you would be able to avoid his advances if you tried.

You’re screwed.

It’s been long since you crossed the Gates of Eden and sunken your teeth into the divine fruit, and now you’re addicted to the taste.

You are so incredibly screwed.

#jungkook imagine #jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #hoseok imagine #bts imagine #bts #jungkook #jeon jungkook #hoseok #jung hoseok

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yeojaa · 4 years ago

Text

( SOMETHING COMFORTING. )

Jeon Jungkook loves Overwatch, drinking games, and Halloween. What he loves more than that? You.

pairing. gamer!jjk x named f!reader.

genre + rating. idol!au set in room filled with bunnies and a cotton candy machine that’s exploded. it’s just that fluffy. (but also explicit cause why not.)

tags / warnings. established relationship, gaming (overwatch), dorky weeb references, mentions of drinking, yugyeom makes an appearance (!!), fingering, soft soft soft love making in the shower.

wc. 9.7k

beta reader(s). the lovely @kerikaaria read through this to make sure i didn’t get too nerdy. tysm! 💛 i may like further changes once my beloved @hobi-gif gets her hands on it but i’m a potato who wanted to post this quickly. oops...

author note. this fulfills the “jeon jungkook” square of @btsholidaybingo‘s bts holiday bingo 2020 and this is the couple from angels & airwaves. while this story isn’t super plot-driven, it’s meant to be a little peek into the lives of a couple that live in my mind rent-free and continue to make me soft and gooey inside. i hope you enjoy it!

You don’t know how he talked you into it or how it really happened. You remember, faintly, the mention of a party. Something about it being a small thing - just a few close friends, the members, etc. He’d said it so offhand, like commenting on the sky or asking for another package of Choco Boys, so you hadn't given it a second thought. If it was important, he’d bring it up again and if not, well, you hardly remembered it anyway. Win-win or whatever.

So you’d given up some intelligence points, traded them for space to fit more gaming knowledge. Somewhere along the line went your memory too - the conversation wiped from your brain like Will Smith had lasered it clean.

“Zarya’s one! Zarya’s one—“ You’re not sure how many times you can repeat yourself, shrieking through comms to a team that doesn’t seem to want to listen. You’re blasted into oblivion, Mercy’s prone body launched across the map as you watch your Rein fall too. There’s an irritation bubbling in your stomach, fizzing uncomfortably like the Japanese honeydew soda you’d had at lunch. “Zarya’s actually one!”

No one cares. She’s healed by the time you respawn and make it back across the map.

“Jesus—“ Your push-to-talk remains off for that flippant comment, distaste colouring your words a bitter shade of blue. You almost want to let your Ashe get headshot by the enemy Widow, only switching the stream from damage boosting to healing when your teammate starts spamming their hotkey.

I need healing! I need healing!

What you need is a team that listens to your calls or at the very least communicates in some way. Doesn’t seem like it’s going to happen though. There’s near radio silence in the voice chat, the only other person remotely helpful being your bouncing booping Lucio that’s trying to keep a flanking Tracer off point. Stupid. You almost feel bad for him, Guardian Angeling to him when no one else seems to want to offer any support.

Ah, the life of a support player in masters ranked. So infuriating and yet— nope. Just infuriating.

You lose the first round with 1:56 to spare, to no one’s surprise. Okay, maybe to your Reinhardt’s surprise. He’s being surprisingly chipper in text chat, sending WP and a dorky smiley face. You think he must volunteer at the local animal shelter and buy coffee for the people behind him in the drive-thru. He’s far too well-adjusted, not shooting off a single accusation to anyone on the team. A silver lining, you suppose.

Your second round starts well enough. Your comp is solid - as much as it can be in the current off-tank dominated meta. Hog, Zarya, a private profiled GM Widowmaker, Tracer, Lucio, and you as Ana. You’d prefer to play Mercy - find the most comfort in her skill set - but on an attack map, you’re not risking a headshot right out of spawn. Broken maximum damage good stuff means healers are squishy and you don’t have your usual DPS to boost. (He’s off doing god knows what - maybe filming an ad for Samsung or breaking the internet with his permed man bun.)

You make it through the choke without much ado. The enemy Rein is wildly out of position, eager to make some big brained play that goes terribly wrong. Your Lucio chuckles through voice and you join him, tossing a nade when your Zarya looks like she’s about to die to a poorly executed 360 shatter.

“You winning?”

It’s your boyfriend peeking over your shoulder, so close you nearly scream, mouse launched across your desk with the intensity of your reaction. You hadn’t heard him come in, the stupid sneaky bastard as quiet as a mouse.

(It’s not your own fault. He knows you can’t hear anything when you’ve got your headphones on, the noise cancelling in your state of the art Sennheisers not something to scoff at.)

“Jeez, Kook!” You want to be more mad. Really, you do. You’re scrambling across your desk to retrieve your mouse, squeaking a quick apology into team voice when your hero stays in one place for too long. Luckily, Hog - previously sweet kind Rein - throws his big fat piggy self directly in front of you, effectively saving you from an otherwise miserable death at the hands of Torbjorn.

“What?” Jeon Jungkook has the audacity to look scandalised, shiny eyes so wide and innocent they feel more as if they belong in an early 2000s anime.

You’re not even looking at him when you huff - too invested in your Overwatch game to give him the hell he deserves. All you manage is a swift don’t scare me like that! as you pump your tanks back to full health.

You notice Jungkook hasn’t moved away, still peering curiously over your shoulder. You know he hasn’t had much time to play lately, too involved with appearances for their comeback, his schedule too packed even for you some days. You don’t blame him when he pulls his chair up behind you, rolling into place so he’s just within your periphery.

It’s a little distracting; he smells good, like his - and by extension your - favourite laundry detergent and a fruity, nectarine-heavy shampoo you’d picked up for him when he’d run out of his usual. You notice then that his hair is wet, just the wrong-side of too damp with droplets beading over his neck. Moisture soaks into the top of his shirt and you think it might be more soaked than you can see; it’s hard to tell when it’s a jet black shirt, one of the many he keeps in your closet for the nights he stays over. You realise then that he must’ve been home far longer than you’d thought, if his freshly washed pink cheeks are any indication. (Because he takes seriously long showers, nearly doubling your water bill in the year you’ve been together.)

You want to ask what he’s doing here - you’d sworn he was busy for the next few days - but can’t find the adequate brain power to do so. You’re playing an incredibly high skill character (your words) and if you don’t get this goddamn shot on your Lucio to keep him up, your team is going to die (your ego’s words).

‘Ask Kook about his day’ gets scribbled on a paper on the desk in your head and filed away under To Do Later in your overflowing brainiac filing cabinet.

“Can we pleaaaaase focus their Zarya? She has grav.” Though you offer the tidbit of information, you don’t assume it’s going to be relied upon. Your team is well on their way to taking first point - surprisingly - and there’s still nearly three minutes left on the clock. If the six of you idiots can keep it together and kill that goddamn Zarya, there’s no doubt in your mind you’ll win the game.

Alas, fate is but a cruel mistress and said Zarya gets said grav off, sucking your own Russian tank and Tracer-turned-Soldier into her hell void. Not even your well-timed nade can save them from the Genji that dragon blades directly into their faces. Your poor Lucio dies to the same ult and you imagine you or your Widow are next. Your Hog’s just respawning, his lumbering silhouette not even on screen.

“Rip,” says your boyfriend - like the sound, not the letters - from beside you, a droplet of water splashing across your wrist when he shakes his head. He looks disappointed - as if he’s the one that’s lost the match. It makes you laugh, the sound tripping off your tongue despite the overwhelming rage you’re currently battling.

“Rip is right,” you mumble back, tossing yourself off the map. If you’re gonna die, it'll be on your own terms. Jungkook chuckles at that.

By the time you respawn, both you and Widow are joining a fight that looks like it’s going surprisingly well. There’s no one on point and you’re capping uncontested. Widow even headshots a wayward Moira.

“You should go top left.”

You don’t turn your head. Jungkook’s always been a bit of a backseat gamer, whether he’s watching your stream while he’s out of town or sitting right beside you. Sometimes, you love it; other times, you hate it. Most times, though, he’s right. He has surprisingly good game sense, despite being lower ranked than you (something you remind him of constantly, without shame).

“Can we go top left?” You parrot into your speaker.

For once, your team listens, most of them running up the sidewall with Widow right down main. Not for the first time you wish you were playing Mercy, if only to be able to damage boost your sniper while she distracts the enemy team. Still, you make due, taking your boyfriend’s next piece of advice when it comes, unsolicited. “You should be back right by the stairs. You can see up the hall and still heal Widow on top.”

You’d kiss him if you weren’t so intently focused, unable to tear your gaze from the screen when the enemy team seems to pluck their strategy directly from Jungkook’s skull and hold conservatively on point. Amazing.

“Your Zarya has grav. She’ll probably throw it on point so you should nade as soon as you get in and Widow can pick them off without full charge.”

If he were anyone else, you’d probably be giving him hell for mansplaining your favourite game to you. As it stands, you follow his instructions to the letter and the Team Kill marker flashes across your screen.

“Told you,” he quips, ever the snooty dork you adore.

“I was going to say thank you.” Just not right now. You can’t multitask quite like he can.

If you could look over, you think you’d see him grinning from ear to ear, buck teeth and dimples on full display. “I know.”

As it stands, the other team has trouble getting on point fast enough and you’re left with a whopping 3:56 left on the clock. Thank freaking god. You can win this, you think. Easy. No problem.

“Go Ana on defense.” At some point, Jungkook had gotten up to find a snack and he returns now, bag of shrimp chips in his hand and packet of matcha Pocky held between his teeth. You open your mouth for a stinky tasty treat and he shoves four crisps in, unceremoniously and with his signature dummy grin.

You manage to crunch crunch crunch through it all but shoot him a glare the entire time. He only smiles wider, all perfectly white enamel and enough cuteness to make your heart skip a beat.

“Do you just want to play?” You don’t mean it seriously. You don’t mind him watching and you know he enjoys pretending like he’s better than you. It’s a strange give and take but one that’s uniquely yours, built over nearly a year of online friendship and another year of a real-life relationship.

“Nah, I’m snacking.” He punctuates his response as a child would, shoving a handful of chips into his mouth. You wonder, briefly, why you love him so much when he’s a certifiable goon.

The third match begins and you’re not too proud to say you spend most of it following Jungkook’s directions. He tells you to sleep the enemy Genji trying to scale the right wall - you do. He tells you to nade once their Rein gets in because your own Rein is going to shatter - you do. He tells you to do the macarena and— okay, that, you don’t.

You sweep the match, leaving the other team without a single tick.

When it comes to the final round, he seems to have lost interest in the game, instead rolling himself back to his computer with a parting, wayward ruffle of your hair. You don’t blame him but you thank him nonetheless, blowing a kiss before he settles his headphones over his ears.

You, of course and unsurprisingly, win the game. There’s nothing like using a Sym portal onto point when they’ve got a Bastion set up off point and no shield to protect him from the back.

Satisfied, you don’t bother requeueing and instead force yourself into your boyfriend’s personal space, draping your arms across the idol’s neck as he scrolls through YouTube like a zombie. “We won,” you sing-song into his ear, proud and a little smug.

“Of course you did.” He sounds equally smug and you suppose the win does belong to the both of you. He’d been a great coach.

“What’re you doing here?” It’s pure curiosity offered in the form of a kiss to his cheek, fingers locked across the broad expanse of his chest. He’s delightfully warm beneath you, familiar and unyielding as you sink over the back of his computer chair. (You can feel the chair creaking as it reclines. You don’t care.)

“Whaddya mean?”

The look he levels you with makes you think you’ve grown a second head.

“Your schedule said you had a thing tonight.” You remember, because you’d been disappointed. Halloween was one of your favourite holidays and all you’d wanted was to watch some campy horror movies and use him as a personal eye shield and security blanket combo.

“We have a thing,” he states, like he’s talking to a moron. You know it isn’t meant meanly, too emphatic and amused to hurt your feelings.

When you echo his words (“We?”) you swear you see him roll his eyes in the reflection of his computer screen. Luckily, he laughs, sweet and cracky, somewhere high in his throat - a barking hyena. It’s so cute - your favourite thing in the world - that you don’t have it in you to shame him for it.

“Yeah, we,” Jungkook repeats around something close to a snicker. “Halloween party, baby. Seriously— you forgot?”

It’s then and there you have two crises: (a) you don’t have a costume and (b) Halloween party? You didn’t think idols had those. Weren’t they all too hip and cool to get together to dress up and act stupid?

(You know the answer is no. Exhibit A being the costume-wearing dance practices BTS put out.)

“I don’t have anything to wear.” It’s truly the one thing holding you back, creasing the soft skin between your brows to resemble a peach. It’s also nearing seven in the evening and you’re absolutely certain you’re not going to find something so late in the day.

To your surprise. Jungkook looks flabbergasted, that same you-have-two-heads stare wrought across his face. It’d be endearing if it were directed at anyone else but with it trained on you, it’s rubbing you and your confusion the wrong way. Why’s he looking at you like that? Why’s your memory so bad? Why hasn’t he said anything to answer all of life’s questions?

“You said you’d go as witch Mercy.”

All at once, you’re pulled back to the offhand conversation, the pleading in his eyes, your half-asleep acceptance. It’s the memory you’d lost somewhere along the way in upgrading your in-brain video game storage. A conversation had in bed, his cheeks so big and full of joy they’d waned his eyes into crescents, and your uncoordinated answer because you’d just wanted to go to sleep and not think about anything after indulging in a few too many mochi cream buns.

“I— don’t remember that.” You’re lying through your damn teeth. Your parents would be devastated, all their hard earned money wasted on the braces-straightened enamel that was now letting lies pass.

“But you did!” He’s like a kid being denied candy, rounded bottom lip dropping into a pout that should, frankly, be illegal. It’s far too powerful on him, paired with those Bambi eyes that scream don’t eat (hate/deny/etc.) me! You can only scowl at him, because you know your own puppy dog eyes only work 100% of the time half of the time whereas his track record was immaculate.

“Okay, but I forgot to get the—“

“I have it!”

Jeon Jungkook has an answer for everything, it seems.

“I picked it up on the way here. It’s in your room along with my costume.”

The knowledge of his own intrigues you, squarely centring your curiosity on that and not the fact that you apparently need to get tested for early onset dementia. “Who’re you going as?”

“You’ll see.”

Your costume is spectacular. You can’t even find it in yourself to put up much of a fight when your boyfriend reveals it like you’ve won the lottery, throwing his arms wide in a flourish.

It’s incredibly well made, intricately tailored in a way that makes you worry how much it costs. (When you bring it up to him, Jungkook simply shrugs. You think it’s as much a gift for you as it is for him.) It’s witchy and eye-catching, the belt hung across your hips clipped with an actual book - hollowed out, thank god but also poor thing. The hat that sits on your head is neatly crumpled, sitting at such an angle you worry whether you’ll need to avoid too-low door frames. Your wings - well, you’re almost too afraid to touch them; Jungkook has to help you pull them over your arms, falling into near hysterics when you twitch your elbow the wrong way and smack him right between the eyes.

“I don’t think I can pull this off,” you state, somberly, despite the fact that you’re not terribly self-conscious. (You were, once. Being in a relationship with someone that worships your body has helped with that.)

The top of your outfit is fitted, boned and ribbed and snapped together in all the right places. Leather stands in stark contrast to your skin - summer-soft and gently golden - and hugs curves that don’t quite exist, falling short in a way that has you glaring down at your own chest. You’ve never wanted a Playboy body but in this sort of costume, it practically demands it. (You try not to dwell on the fact that you’ve been conditioned to want to look like an impractically designed video game hero.)

From the foot of your bed comes a snort, a derisive sound that draws your attention. Jungkook’s unabashed in how he admires you, stare roving over every inch like he’s about to devour you. You’re not sure how you can feel so soft for him when he looks completely the opposite, jaw set and expression sharp. A Greek god carved from hardened honey, dressed in Balenciaga blue. “You look great, angel.”

Your heart skips a beat - plays a funny little game of tag with itself - and you can’t help the smile that comes, brought to life by his reassurance. It isn’t necessary to rebuff him then - eyes rolling, laugh spilling - but you do it anyway. “You have to say that. You’re my boyfriend.”

“I don’t have to say anything,” he retorts, levelling you with a look that has your insides molten. It’s the look that reads don’t test me but also I love you and you’re my idiot. It’s your favourite look in the world, lending wings to your flimsy heart. “You look great because you always look great, no matter what.”

“What about when you found me in the shower ?”

Jungkook hesitates then. He’s no liar and he had almost had a heart attack the first time it’d happened. He’d been minding his business, half-asleep and battling the need to piss, when he’d noticed you curled up in the bathroom. How he hadn’t realised you were missing from bed, he’s not sure. All he knew was that you’d terrified him, mentioning something about invading refrigerators when he was pulling his dick out of his boxers.

His scream was what had woken you up; yours was what had him bashing his head into the wall, foot slipping on the soft pink bathroom rug. You could laugh about it now but at the time, you’d thought he’d cracked his skull right open, shouting his name so loudly the neighbours had complained.

(Lucky for you two, they were a nice elderly couple who sometimes had you babysit their grandson. They’d laughed it off when you’d apologised with a loaf of fresh bread and a bandage wrapped around your boyfriend’s head.)

“Okay— that was scary. I thought you’d crawled out of the drain or something.” A shudder rolls through Jungkook’s body, shaking him from his shoulders all the way down to his knees. It’s a strangely adorable reaction from someone who looks like he could bench press you.

“You’re calling me the Grudge?” You’re deeply offended, gloved hands clasping over your chest as if to pull out the treacherous dagger he’s just lodged there. He only rolls his eyes, leaning forward to catch you in his arms; he’s relentless as he drags you to him, side of his face pressed to the bare skin of your thigh. His cheek’s searing but you’re not surprised; Jungkook ran hot, keeping you warm in winter and sweltering in summer. (Ah, the price you paid for love.)

“Yeah, you haunt me in my dreams.”

“That’s not the Grudge, Kook.” Your scoff earns you a pinch, right where the top of your stockings end. It blooms red beneath his fingers, a little reminder of his competitive I’m-never-wrong nature. You swat his hand away, not too bothered when it only finds a home elsewhere, hooked behind your knee. Jungkook had a habit of needing to be in constant contact. A little quirk of his you adored.

“I’m serious. You look—” You should clock the look on his face, the wiggle of mischief up his nose. A dead giveaway shining bright - a beacon. “—bewitching.”

If the book weren’t attached to your hip, you’d be clobbering him with it. Instead, you’re left to whack him with the equally intricate Caduceus staff, booping it over his shoulders. You feel like a certain shamanic mandrill, Jungkook the idiotic lion that’s asking for an earful.

“Shut up!” You’re laughing despite yourself and he is too, holding you so recklessly close it’s hard to hit him without hurting yourself. All part of his plan, you suppose. “You’re so freaking corny.”

“It’s because I’m a-maize-ing, ang—”

Another wap! to the head, shielded only by a tattooed hand that curls over his ear.

“Okay! Sorry!” Except he doesn’t look very sorry. More pleased that you’ve stopped the assault, dark hair pushed back from his forehead as he stares up at you. You hate how he’s so handsome - how you forget yourself when he smiles that smile, nearly yeeting your whole heart directly into the sun.

“Are you going to put on yours yet?”

It’s quarter past nine already and all you’ve done is rope him into eating some chapaguri - you’ve been obsessed with it since a few weeks ago - and play real life Witch Barbie. You have a feeling if you don’t get him into his own costume soon, you’re never going to leave the apartment. (Not that you really mind.)

Your boyfriend - bless his heart - pretends not to hear you, suddenly intently focused on an indiscernible spot past your hip. It’d be more believable if he was glued to his phone or doing anything remotely interesting. Instead, you stare down at him and count the seconds until he realises just how silly he looks. It usually comes around six, paired with a forced chuckle and that lisp you love.

Today, it comes after the fourth count.

“You’re gonna think it’s lame.” Well, of course you will. As his girlfriend - and one of his best friends, you’d like to think - it’s your relationship-given right to shame him for his more often than not absurd ideas. It’s what you deserve for suffering through all his bad jokes and 3 AM Instagram spams.

With a hand on his cheek, you squeeze the apple like you’ve seen a certain member do a million times. “So?”

He’s not really sure how to respond to that, mouth drawn into a pout that reminds you of children’s television show about penguins. It’s unfairly adorable. Still, you push. Jungkook’s bad at saying no to you - always has been, even before he really knew you. From “one more game!” to “bring me bingsu”, you always got what you wanted.

(Which wasn’t to say you asked for a lot. You were happy - more than that, ecstatic and over the moon - with the bare minimum. A selfie while on the plane, some shoddy cinematography during dance practice, a voicemail to wake up to. You didn’t love Jungkook for all the things he gave you; rather, you loved him for who he was, who he’d always been even before you knew who he really was.)

“Don’t laugh.” By the look on his face, you’re worried it’s something awful. The cheesiest thing in the world come to life to haunt you on your beloved spooky holiday.

It turns out to be the opposite: one of your favourite characters realised in the form of your achingly handsome boyfriend. He looks so good you’re not certain whether it’s your attraction to him or him in that particular guise that’s stronger. You figure it doesn’t matter one way or another. For tonight, they’re one and the same.

“Joker? Seriously?” You can’t hide the delight. It colours every syllable, sets them glowing like a neon sign.

Your boyfriend only rolls his eyes, as if he’d predicted this reaction. Dressed as he is, the movement is impossible to miss, brought into focus by the white domino mask. “Don’t sound so excited.” It’s an actual concern of his. He’s seen you sink upwards of ninety hours on the video game, playing it in the early hours when he’s fast asleep and you’re battling another night of insomnia.

Once, he’d asked whether you loved him or Joker more. He hadn’t liked the answer (joking as it was) and had spent the better part of the evening pouting.

This time, you’re sweet as pie, eyes so dark and twinkly he wonders whether he’s staring at the night sky. You wonder the same yourself almost every night, lost in the constellations of his irises. It’s the most intimate form of stargazing you can afford, a luxury you indulge in frequently. You’ve mapped the different formations, named them in honour of all the special moments you’ve shared; you think to label one for this night too.

“You look so good.” You don’t hesitate to brush his hair from his eyes. It’s still relaxing from the perm he’d gotten days ago, curling like classic calligraphy over his eyes. It’s surprisingly soft between your fingers, silk despite the constant heat styling. Bastard. “I can’t believe you’re going as Joker. You don’t even like Persona 5!”

By how Jungkook looks at you then - the same way he did the first time you met standing on the street corner in Dotonbori and a hundred more times since then - you realise it doesn’t matter. He’s dressed this way because you like the character.

“Oh,” you say, because there’s not much more to say. Nothing that needs to be said as he grins down at you, so heartbreakingly handsome you’ll never get used to it.

“Yeah,” he parrots back, a little smug.

Bangtan’s golden maknae is having the time of his life. He’s four cups deep into a game of beer pong that’s played like the Wimbledon classic, back hunched, jaw set. You’d think he was battling it out for the title of God of Beer Pong if you didn’t know better. (You suppose he is.)

“Angel, come here!” He’s giddy - slightly glazed in the eyes - as he waves you over, a red-gloved hand beckoning you to his side. Despite how good he looks in the costume - every weakness of yours encapsulated by the intricate dress shirt that hugs him like a second skin - the gesture is decidedly adorable, an eager puppy seeking unconditional love. There’s simply too much affection in his voice, so much sugar-spun love that you can’t deny him (even as you consider jumping his bones at a party full of people).

He’s shining as bright as the sun and you want nothing more than to live within his warmth.

With your fingers twined, he pulls you to him, drawing you tight against his side like he doesn’t need that same hand to throw another ball. You don’t mind. You know he’ll sink it even with his left hand.

“I’m winning,” he states, as if it weren’t wildly obvious by the fact all cups remain untouched on his side.

Across the table, Yugyeom’s eyes roll so far back you want to laugh. Jungkook’s competitive side is endearing at best and infuriating at worst. Luckily, his competition is enjoying himself too much to give him shit.

(He’s also probably too drunk to, given how badly he’s doing.)

“I see that.” You’re not a big drinker yourself but you like seeing Jungkook in his element. He thrives in this sort of setting, showing off all the talents he has and then some. It’s just another stage to him, somewhere he can prove himself (even if it’s over something as small as how good his bounce-shot is). “How many games have you won?” Because he’s been at this table for the last hour, dropping his competition like flies.

“All of them.” God, his ego. You know you shouldn’t stroke it but you can’t help it, brushing a hand through his tousled hair in the way he likes best. Fingers over his scalp, thumb rubbing soothing circles across the nape of his neck. He nearly melts then, tilting his head into the gentle caress.

“Good job, Kook.”

You’re so lost in your own little world that poor Yugyeom has to pull you both from it, launching a poorly-aimed white ping pong ball at the two of you. To no one’s surprise, it careens past your heads, hitting the wall behind you and disappearing off to god knows where.

“Can we play?” Again, that eye roll, visible just past the bandages that loosely wrap his cheeks. You know he’s only teasing, that he’s actually quite a fan of your and Jungkook’s dumb coupling (he’s told you), but you return his mockery with a raised hand, thumb and forefinger waving in salute.

“Losers don’t get to complain.”

The idol throws a hand to his chest, the gesture bordering on sloppy from the liquor that threads his limbs. Still, it’s cute, earning a sweet laugh from you and a witch’s cackle from your boyfriend. (How fitting.) “I’m hurt, Yoojin-ssi.”

It’s Jungkook’s turn to tease, brattiness flipped on like a haywire lightswitch. “No, you’re just bad at games!” He’s a sniggering schoolgirl, lines wrapping the delicate skin of his nose, streaking joy into the wrinkles beneath his eyes. Slightly-too-big front teeth are on full display, his expression the embodiment of an “uwu” emote.

That riles Yugyeom up, powder puff of hair bounding over to you before you have time to blink. In the next moment, your boyfriend’s half-wrestling with him, their arms locked around each other like some sort of weird four-limbed octopus. (Video game protagonist vs. hot mummy— who will win?) You jump back just in time, avoiding a wayward fist and laughing merrily. Idiots, the both of them.

“You guys have fun.” And then you’re gone, off to busy yourself with people who won’t accidentally give you a black eye or knock over the nearest thing not bolted to the ground.

You can still hear them tussling when you latch yourself to the back of a certain blond. He’s dressed like one of your greatest nightmares - an actual clown, drawing inspiration from a certain 2017 blockbuster - and yet somehow still manages to look good. You don’t understand it and frankly, you’re a little envious, but such was life.

“Jimin-ssiiiii.”

“Ahhhhhh, stop!” It’s the same reaction he always has, paired with wiggling shoulders and sweet laughter that bounces around the room and stirs to life your own. Indisputable and lovely, the sound is brighter than the sun or the lights that currently swing through the chandelier lights above your heads. “You two are ridiculous.”

“He’s ridiculous, not me!” You know it isn’t true. Separately, you and Jungkook were idiotic enough, finding humour in the silliest things (funny threads on r/Relationship_Advice and four year old Vines). But together? It was a two-person circus, graduate professors at clown college.

You absolutely loved it.

“Sure, sure,” the dancer hums, delightfully disbelieving as he takes another shot. One of three lined up across the counter, clear in little orange cups made to look like pumpkins. A whiff tells you they’re strawberry soju - your least favourite flavour. You decline with a wrinkled nose and waving hand when he offers you one. Jimin shrugs and downs the next, delicately wiping the corner of his mouth when he misjudges the pour. “Aren’t you drinking?”

You wiggle the half-empty Cass bottle in your hand in response and receive a scoff, different bottle - green, unopened - thrust into your other.

“Drink this!”

“You want me to drink an entire bottle?” You’re incredulous. Jimin’s seen you on the edge of intoxication and more than a little sloppy, giggling like a schoolgirl. It’s not unbecoming - you know better than to get blackout - but laughable nonetheless. Something to record and post on Snapchat with a voice-altering filter.

“It’s Halloween!” The pumpkin shot glass makes you go cross-eyed before he’s knocking it back too. “Live a little!”

Who are you to say no to the recent birthday boy? It would simply be bad manners and you were nothing if polite (though, you’re sure some might beg to differ - Yoongi, maybe?).

The remnants of your beer are swallowed down in the next moment, so quickly you almost choke on it. Your life flashes before your eyes, Jimin’s hand on your shoulder as he beats breath into your body. “Don’t die!” He cries, despite the fact that it’s his fist that’s making it worse, doubling you over with hacking coughs.

“K-Kook’s g-going to kill you—”

“No, you’re fine.” He’s reassuring you just as much as himself, laughing too loudly as you straighten up. You wonder how red your face is when he takes your place, slapping his own knee as he shakes with amusement. “Your face, oh— Your face.”

It’s not meant to be offensive but your buzzed brain demands payment for each giggle.

The base of the green bottle collides with the back of his knee - gentle, gentle - just hard enough to have him properly toppling over, collapsing onto the carpet like a frail old grandpa without his cane. You can’t help the snicker that careens off your liquor-laden tongue.

That is, until he’s pulling you down with him and the two of you are a giggling, giddy mess, tucked beneath the edge of the bar as you laugh together. It’s a chorus of sound, unrelenting and building the longer you both sit on the floor. Jimin’s practically hunched over, head caught between his propped up arms. You imagine it’s a funny sight - two people in their twenties acting like college freshmen.

“Baby?” It’s your boyfriend, amused and confused as he stares down at your and Jimin’s prone bodies. He’s got that dent between his brows, the colour of his eyes all but swallowed up by the way his cheeks press wide with his smile. “What’re you doing down there?”

“Just hanging out,” you answer, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. At your side, Jimin’s still trying to collect himself, parroting your words around his lungfuls of quieting laughter.

“Are you drunk?”

You’re not, but that doesn’t stop you from gasping, overdramatic and with your unopened bottle of soju held aloft. A modern day olive branch. “No?”

Jungkook snorts and then all at once, he’s close. Too close - smelling of beer and your favourite cologne of his, citrusy and woodsy and every other nice thing you like. It fills your senses just as his smile does, blindingly bright and bunny-like. Even behind the mask, his good looks take your breath away. You must be staring up at him idiotically, all one hundred and sixteen pounds of ooey gooey tenderness. “You sound drunk, angel,” he teases, warm red-covered palm coming to cradle your cheek. It sears heat everywhere it touches, guiding the same hue over your skin. It creeps up your chest and over your ears, standing in contrast to the material of his gloves. “Pretty.”

(He really is, you think.)

“Get a room,” comes Jimin from beside you. There’s no malice in his voice - just soft affection for a couple of lovesick idiots.

“That’s the plan,” Jungkook replies, as if he’d been waiting for the moment. It skips off his tongue and settles into your ears, tipping your head curiously as you stare at him. He’s never been very shy about wanting you - at least, not since you’d made things official, so many months ago - but you’re surprised by the insinuation. When he speaks again, you realise your brain has been rolling around in the gutter, fallen out of your ears like candy from a worn pillow case. “Want to head home?”

You do. You really, really do.

When you stumble into your apartment - the same one with the polka-dot welcome rug and crisp white paint - you realise you were perhaps wrong about how drunk you are. Everything’s coming at you quite quickly, the ground beneath your feet somehow suddenly rushing at you like Mach Five.

“Whoa—” There’s an impossibly solid warmth against your back, fingers locked around your wrists that feel more like flimsy chicken feet. “Careful.”

Your boyfriend’s keeping you upright while stepping out of his boots - impossibly expensive supple dark leather - and you’re giggling all the while, practically sinking against him as he does his best to shuffle his shoes away and get you further into the hallway. “Sorry,” you offer in a terrible stage whisper, smiling wide when you catch sight of his, small and endlessly amused. It slips across his face even as he tries to bite it back, warring with the patience he holds in spades.

“Let’s just get these off.” He means the boots - the intricate, vaguely absurd things that creep up almost the entirety of your leg, neatly wrapped and knotted midway up your thigh. Dexterous as he is, it’s a task to unravel the strings and thread buttons when you’re weighing on him like a bag of bricks.

You’re fumbling for the tops, haphazardly smacking his hands away. “Here, let me.”

Somehow, you manage to get them off in what feels like record time. (In reality, it takes a good five minutes of futility before they’re left on the ground and Jungkook’s swept you into his arms, seemingly over waiting for you to do much else.)

“Oh, my prince charming,” you tease, clinging to him like a koala. You’re locked around him, practically suffocating him, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s used to it when you’re this way, just a little too much liquid courage turning your level of affection to eleven. “Or are you the court jester? That’s what Joker is, right?” It’s a joke and a bad one at that. Still, your boyfriend indulges you, depositing a forced laugh against your shoulder as he navigates to your bedroom.

“You’re drunk.” He says it more kindly than you expect. Perhaps even more kindly than you deserve. You know he’s not exactly sober himself, his gaze verging on heavy-lidded. There’s sleepiness blending seamlessly with intoxication, softening the edge of his jaw, the narrow of his stare. It’s terribly tender, skipping your heart when you look at him dead on.

It comes without thought. You have to tell him. Your drunk brain and your puppy dog heart demand it. “I love you.”

Jungkook returns the confession with humour, eyes sparkling despite the haze of alcohol that dims them down. As always, he indulges you, giving you support in the form of his heart and his hands. (Literally, he’s still holding you even though you’ve reached your destination.) “Love you too.”

“Is it time for bed?” You’re surprisingly tired, despite the fact that you’d slept until late in the afternoon. You certainly wouldn’t mind falling face first into your mattress.

“You need a shower first.” It’s a simple statement of fact, you know that. You’ve got at least ten pounds of makeup on and your hair’s the furthest thing from soft and silky, carefully coiffed to mimic Mercy’s signature style. You still pretend like you’re just a bit offended, scowling into the face of your boyfriend even as he rolls his eyes, already somehow able to read the words written into your expression. “I meant we and no, I’m not calling you stinky.”

He’s stolen your thunder, as he so often does. You pout, as you so often do.

“Okay,” you relent, finally, moving to rest your head against his shoulder. You could get down - walk on your own two tired feet - but you’re enjoying the closeness, how warm and real he feels in comparison to the swimming surroundings. “Will you wash my hair?” You don’t really need to ask but do anyway, because you like the sound of his voice when it’s so close.

“You know I will.” Because he always does when you shower together (and it falls on a designated hair washing day - that was important).

You offer your thanks with a kiss, laid right over the jumping pulse in his neck. When Jungkook hums in acknowledgment, you feel the way the muscles constrict, his Adam’s apple jumping beneath your lips. You zero in on it with laser precision, mouthing over his throat. Somewhere above you - against the shell of your ear - he exhales a laugh, breath hot.

“We’re showering, baby.” As if that’s meant to stop you. He, more than anyone, should know how adamant you get, singularly focused on whatever’s got your attention. He’s been on the receiving end of it more than enough times, strung into playing another one, two, ten matches of Overwatch or hunting down the limited edition Funko Pops that now sit proudly on your white shelf (and behind your plants and on the ledge by the front door).

“We can shower and have fun,” you mumble into the expanse of his chest. He’s so pleasantly warm, unyielding and firm and so, so comfortable. You think you could live in the feeling of his arms. (You’re lucky you get to.) You don’t even mind the sudden cold of the counter or the space that forms between you when he sets you down, because he’s still caging you in where it matters most. “Right, JK?”

It’s a nickname you rarely use now - one that only comes out in times of desperation. You’ve never quite understood why it affects your boyfriend the way it does, stuttering the rhythmic beating of his heart, but you love it nonetheless. It makes you grin, high on power and giddy with nothing but sweetness.

He’d explained it to you once. Jay was how you’d met him, the version of himself you’d loved first. Jungkook was the side of himself he’d wanted to give you but couldn’t. JK was the in-between - the chaos and the calm. Hearing you say it brought back all the memories of year one and he liked that. You could only laugh at his sentimentality and tuck the piece of knowledge somewhere deep, to be pulled out in instances like this.

“Right, angel.” You don’t miss the colour on his cheeks - so pretty you reach your hands out to cup them, squishing them between your palms like an old grandmother testing a watermelon. You continue to hold him until he pulls your hands from his face, guiding them to the edge of the counter with gentle pressure. “Gotta get undressed to shower,” he chides, that twinkle in his eye that makes it hard to look away.

Really, how can he expect you to do anything when he’s got an entire unexplored galaxy hidden in his irises? It’s an absurd ask.

“Or I’ll help you.”

Your clothes fall away while you’re still staring up at him.

First, the gloves, peeled from your fingers with utmost care. Kisses fill the spaces between each finger, passed from knuckles to wrist, all the way up to your elbow. You squirm when his teeth graze the sensitive underside of your bicep. He stifles a snicker into the skin.

Next goes your cape and wings, hung on the door handle. His mouth warms the suddenly bare skin, pressing affection into the line of your shoulder, up over your neck. You don’t squirm this time, instead humming a noise of delight. You hardly notice when the corset goes next, undone by surprisingly nimble inked digits. There’s hardly a moment to savour the freedom - you can finally breathe - when his hands replace the cups, palms eager over your chest. He doesn’t hesitate to hold you, pinching your perked nipples with a sly grin.

“I thought we were going to shower.” The words are barely out before turning breathless, stolen by the way he easily palms your breast, dropping his face into the crook of your neck.

“We are, angel,” Jungkook teases, rolling your bud between his thumb and forefinger, other hand moved to splay across the now-bare small of your back. It’s almost embarrassing how easily you fall into him, drawn against him like a moth to a flame. “Just need to get you warmed up first.”

“The shower’ll be warm,” you say - or think you say, anyway. It isn’t quite articulated, half your brain left somewhere at the party (or maybe caught dead centre in the coil that’s tightening in your stomach).

“Do you want me to stop?” It’s so quiet you almost miss it, too distracted by how he slips the rest of your costume off. Shorts, thong, stockings, silly witch’s hat. “Tell me if you want me to stop, baby.” Ever the gentleman, he’s patient, meeting your glazed stare with something close to concern. You almost laugh in his face then - stopping short only when you note just how serious he is, the tell-tale set of his jaw shining like a familiar beacon.

You return your hands to his face, palms cradling his chin like he might break otherwise. “I never want you to stop.”

That’s all Jungkook needs before he’s slotting himself between your legs, mirroring your motion with hands creeping up the side of your neck, fingers ascending into the roots of your hair. He holds you close and kisses you like it’s all he’s ever wanted. “I love you,” he breathes, speaks against the corner of your mouth.

You parrot the words back at him and he grins, stepping away in the next moment. He laughs when you pout, offering a kiss in apology as he undoes the buttons of his dress shirt, slipping the soft cotton off. You stop then, entranced by the revealed skin, how it shifts with each adjustment of muscle, sinew tight over his arms and shoulders. You wonder, not for the first time, how you’d managed to luck out so spectacularly.

“Start the shower.”

You hop down with the direction, slipping past him to do exactly that. You don’t miss the way he rotates, brings himself closer as you move away. The magnetism is undeniable - always has been.

“I love you,” he states, again, bare against your back as you hover by the edge of the glass door, one hand stuck past to test the slow-warming stream. He’s solid, familiar and comfortable, as he slinks his arms back around you, heat burning the shape of his hands over your ribs, the shape of your hip. You think he might mark himself there, just as neatly as the floral ink does. You wouldn’t mind.

The water is welcome, bathing the both of you in steam when you step inside. It’s an incredibly relaxing feeling, being caught between the spray and the hard body behind you. You hum a noise of pure delight, turning your face toward the one that nuzzles itself into your neck, and bring your hands to rest over his, fingers slotting between ink.

“Hair?” You’re not in a terrible rush but you like redirecting his attention (pretending to, at least) - the teasing that formed the base of your relationship presenting itself in the quiet reminder. It earns the laugh you expect, muffled into your hair, featherlight over the delicate shell of your jewelled ear.

“Patience, baby.” It’s something Jungkook tends to say a lot, whether waiting in queue in Overwatch or in bed, with you a complete mess. He repeats it easily, like he’s the poster boy for the virtue. (He isn’t.)

“What am I waiting—” The question dies, swallowed whole by the gasp he draws from you with a wandering hand. Fingers slip across your stomach, digits deftly seeking out warmth as if you weren’t already enveloped in it. It’s a touch that’s tantalisingly slow, unfairly light, but it still makes you keen when it drags over your lips. A single digit pushes past muscle - so shallow you’re not sure you’re not just imagining it - before retreating, dragging your slick back up to your clit. The moment the pad of his finger makes contact with the sensitive bundle of nerves, you almost jump. Would, if he weren’t caging you with his other arm.

You feel the cold of his teeth bared against your neck then, the throaty laugh that pulls out of his chest and deposits itself into your hair. “Patience,” he repeats, swirling his fingers over your clit, his mouth moving in tandem with the twist of his wrist. He peppers love and affection in the form of kisses, presses devotion with the edge of his teeth, soothes all your nerves with a sweep of his tongue.

“Kook,” you sigh, already well on your way to being a boneless mess. There’s tingling in your toes, fizzing in your stomach, butterflies in your chest. A whirlwind of emotion and sensation that he stirs to life effortlessly.

“Relax for me.” You do so because it’s easy, because he’s so devastatingly good to you.

The figure eights skating over your clit cease, fingers dropping further down to nestle against your cunt. He pauses there, almost experimentally flexing against the muscle that aches and clenches around nothing, eager for more. You think he’s smirking by the way his lips form with his kisses, a little lopsided and devilish. (You wish you could see him.)

A single digit enters you then, to the third knuckle as if your body was made for this, for him. (It was.) He coos against your neck when a garbled mess skips off your tongue and nearly laughs when another slips in alongside it, turning the mess into nonsense. Despite how badly you want it - need it, really - it’s a sensation that’s too much and not enough all at once, toeing the line between pleasure and pain.

It was how Jungkook loved you - recklessly, shamelessly, in no half measures. With more love than you could ever hope for, giving you things you didn’t even know how to ask for.

“Relax, angel,” comes as he begins scissoring both fingers inside you, stretching you out with an otherworldly amount of care. Even your neglected clit is given some sort of relief - anything to ease the sting of two long fingers - his thumb gliding over it with each stretch of your walls. He knows exactly where to touch you, how much pressure to apply, and you’re melting, lost in the feeling.

When he’s had enough and he curls his fingers within you, seeking out that particular spot, you’re trembling, caught off guard. Heat builds quickly with the precision of which he taps against that spot; it starts low in your back, climbing each vertebrae of your spine until you’re quivering in his arms.

“K-Kook.” It’s both a plea and a demand, nonsensical as he guides you through your orgasm, keeping you upright against him when your knees feel like they might give out.

“I’ve got you.” And he does - hook, line, and sinker. He holds you steady as the pleasure crashes over your head, keeps you anchored to the here and now and the pleasure that rolls through you like a relentless wave. It sinks beneath your skin, settles heavy into every atom, and he never lets you go. He’s got you.

When sensation returns - slowly, so slowly it feels like you’re stuck in the Twilight Zone - you only want to turn. See him, hold him, whisper sweet nothings as you kiss him silly and thank him for his service. Instead, you’re held in place, two hands firm upon your hips even as you crane your neck to look over your shoulder at him. You should recognise the look on his face. “Kook?”

“My turn.” It’s a statement more than anything, a kind heads-up as he nudges you forward. There’s that same twinkle in his eye, the only source of light around the pupil that’s blown out, otherwise engulfing the constellations he so normally offers you. It’s a black hole and one you’d gladly get lost in. “Hands on the wall, baby.”

You’d never been one for shower sex - it’s too small a space, too much happening at once, a guaranteed freak accident waiting to happen - but you can’t deny him when he asks so nicely. (It really hadn’t been that nice but you were a certified sucker for one Jeon Jungkook.)

Hands find themselves on the wall, palms flat, fingers splayed. In the same instance you wiggle your hips, there’s a ghosting touch over your spine. It trails up and down, soothes the residual heat that lingers, and then slips higher, palm gentle over your throat. His thumb rubs reassuring circles over the nape of your neck, pressing gently into the sensitive spot behind your ear. It’s distracting and you realise much needed when he sinks into you with one fluid press of his hips, filling you so full you can’t help the gasp that bounds past your lips and bounces around the glass enclosure. “Oh fuck,” he sighs, his grip on your hip tightening incrementally.

He sounds like sin and feels like heaven.

“Always so good for me.” Another thing he says, often and without prompting. It still feels just as good the umpteenth time, sparking pride deep in your chest as he pulls out and drives himself back in, staring in rapt fascination at where your bodies meet. “Always so perfect for me.”

“Because I love you,” you quip, more than a little out of breath and jostled by the way he thrusts into you, measured and with enough force to shake your legs.

“Love you too, angel.” He doesn’t need to say it back - you know, can feel it by how he holds you, drives you to brink of insanity with his cock - but he does it anyway. He always says it back, no matter what, even if he’s half-asleep or distracted. He’ll never stop saying it.

The hand on your hip falls, slinks across your hip and between your legs, and you’re pushed further forward, his feet gently kicking yours further apart. Jungkook assaults your clit then, timing each pass with each thrust. An attempted glance back has fireworks going off before your eyes, specks of pleasure lighting up your vision; it’s a technicolour lightshow, framing the way his face scrunches, brow set and jaw hard. He’s determined, focused on bringing you to another orgasm before he hits his own high. You assist him as best you can, swiveling your hips and grinding back against him even as the coil pulls impossibly tight in your stomach, barely held together by threadbare strings.

“Kook,” you whine when the tension becomes too much, hands scrabbling across the wall of the shower. The same overwhelming tingle sparks beneath your skin, entire body trembling like a leaf when the head of his cock brushes that spot inside you at just the right angle.

He doesn’t relent, rhythm turning almost punishing as he drives you over the edge, launching you headlong into your second orgasm. You’re not sure how you stay upright, near sobbing when you crash into euphoric bliss, neither his fingers nor his thrusts ceasing. It’s almost too much and yet you know how close he is, so you push back, whimper words you know he wants to hear.

“P-please, Kook. Please.” You’re reaching a hand back, desperate to interlace your fingers with his. He gives in easily, catches your hand in his own and plants it on the swell of your hip as he chases his own release with desperation. “Come for me, Kook. Fill me up.”

Jungkook does just that, balls tight as he spills himself inside you, hand at your throat so tight you’re seeing stars. Somehow - with the feeling of him grinding into you, overcome with so much sensitivity - you come for the third time, crying very real tears as the sensation washes over you. It’s weaker than your first two but unravels you all the same, seeping the energy from your limbs. You’re grateful for how well he knows you and the fact he catches you before your arms collapse, pulling you to him with gentle movements.

“I love you,” he whispers against your temple, out of breath and sweat-slick despite the water that rains down upon you.

“I love you,” you answer, pressing a kiss to the hand that still twines with yours. “But I still need you to wash my hair.” It’s cheeky and you know it so you don’t even mind when he bites into the meat of your shoulder, leaving a pretty red mark that’ll bloom for the next few days. “Ow!”

“You’re a brat.” Said even as he’s reaching for your shampoo bar, teasing it through your roots with practiced movements. He’s careful despite his scathing tone, gentle despite how he glares at you from the corner of your periphery. Each tangle is neatly undone and not a single bubble gets in your eye, much to your joy.

“I thought I was an angel.” You’re taking a page out of his book, speaking in fluent pout.

He catches your lips with his own, pushing your lathered up head beneath the steady stream when he withdraws and speaks. Suds run across your cheeks, eyes shielded only by the hand he keeps steady along your hairline. Even so mean, your boyfriend is still terribly nice. “You’re my angel - but you’re still a brat.”

You can’t argue with that.

tag list. @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi

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mariacallous · 2 years ago

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To Westminster, district of the damned, where the Conservatives are plotting to commit leadercide yet again. They’ve dispatched so many over the past few years that it’s possible they regard Harold Shipman as the real opposition. You certainly get the feeling he could poll higher than them.

This morning, hot-mess chancellor Kwasi Kwarteng landed back in the UK, ready to drop the corporation tax cut in a joint announcement with Liz Truss, the new prime minister, whose central leadership pitch it was. Long story short: former Rishi Sunak-backer Jeremy Hunt is now chancellor and Truss has given one of the worst press conferences in the entire history of the genre, shortly after sending Kwarteng a letter “deeply respect[ing]” his decision to get knifed by her. Even Kwarteng’s predecessor, Nadhim Zahawi, held the office longer.

Ooh, hang on – chief secretary to the Treasury Chris Philp is also out. Fast food outlets currently have a slower turnover rate than the Treasury. Only yesterday, at the International Monetary Fund meeting he later fled, Kwarteng was declaring: “I really enjoy the Treasury. I really enjoy No 11.” Glad he took time to smell the roses. They blow up so quickly.

For some time now, it has been impossible to listen to Truss babbling about being “in lockstep” with her chancellor without imagining her being cut off by Agent Smith from the Matrix with the grimly brusque words: “No, prime minster, your chancellor is already dead.” In fact, it was over two weeks ago that Kwarteng suffered the fate of various movie villains. He may have appeared to be intact since then, but he had actually been very cleanly sliced in half, or delay-killed with a forbidden martial arts technique known as “the kiss of the markets”. Ironically, he departs the stage just as his mini-budget is finally becoming worthy of its descriptor. At this rate of U-turn, it will be so mini that the only thing left in it will be some opening remarks.

Will Hunt coming on for Kwarteng be enough to save Truss for 15 minutes or so? It’s not great when your first throw of the dice is also your last. Still, let’s take the temperature of the Conservative party’s restive MPs. According to their own heroic off-the-record testimony, the mood this week ran the gamut from “funereal” to “unspeakably bleak”. “We are being offered the choice of a shit sandwich,” one MP explained, “or a shit sandwich with extra shit.” Righto. When this was being said on Thursday, Truss had been prime minister for precisely 37 days. Coincidentally, that’s the exact number of days that elapsed between the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand and Britain joining the first world war – whose outbreak was arguably the only chain of events in modern history involving worse human error.

With only 9% of them holding a favourable view of her, it’s fair to say the public have got the ick with Liz Truss – and you don’t come back from the ick. Apparently keen to help, Jacob Rees-Mogg has had another date with density, spending much of the week trying to use his culture war playbook on the markets. Which is a bit like trying to have an Oxford Union debate with gravity. Things went from worse to worser after Truss’s Wednesday night appearance before the 1922, which you might know is that weirdo committee where they bang the desks and honk in-group gibberish like it’s Hogwarts for grownups and their house has just won a flying pensions-crashing match. Having to pay regular attention to things that happen at this cursed convocation has been one of the many, many indignities of British life over the past six years of chaos.

But there are always more indignities in the post. Take repeated attempts to make the idea of “Grant Shapps, party grandee” happen. Earlier this week, a plan was actually floated to install a man who once had multiple online aliases as a “caretaker prime minister”. Sorry, but what? I honestly wouldn’t install Grant as caretaker at the Overlook Hotel. Even Newcastle United hasn’t had caretakers that bad. Furthermore, if the UK wishes to hang on to its last remaining shred of dignity, it should be made clear that the position of “caretaker prime minster” is not an actual thing. Having the most important job in the country placed in the hands of a caretaker really is giving up: a signal that we should be moved out of the “declining” category and reclassified firmly in the “declined”.

The Shapps plan seems now to have been overtaken by a ruse to install Rishi Sunak and Penny Mordaunt on a joint ticket. An anonymous briefing to the Times on this matter is here reproduced in full. “Rishi’s people, Penny’s people and the sensible Truss supporters who realise she’s a disaster just need to sit down together and work out who the unity candidate is,” this MP breezed. “It’s either Rishi as prime minister with Penny as his deputy and foreign secretary, or Penny as prime minister with Rishi as chancellor. They would promise to lead a government of all the talents, and most MPs would fall in behind that.”

I mean … I’ve been staring at that quote for some time, trying to work out what precisely it is about it that has sent me to the brink of fatal apoplexy. On balance, I think it’s the chirpy high-handedness in the face of vast destruction. Like getting to the end of the second world war and writing the peace on a napkin: “Germans exiled to Madagascar; French have to live in the ruins of Germany for collaborating; Brits get France for second homes and wine supply. Bish-bosh. Sound OK to you?” On the one hand, I guess I’ll take it. On the other: IT’S A BIT MORE EFFING COMPLICATED THAN THAT.

As for the people who got us here, I must say I think of them increasingly often – those 81,000 Conservative party members who voted for Truss, and who are out there somewhere, right now, keeping their little heads down. But they walk among us. Maybe one of them is at a water cooler or a Zoom meeting near you.

It’s yet another of those situations where the right to electoral privacy has been prioritised over your right to scream, “What the hell have you done, you massive idiot? We’re all neck-deep in this crap because of you! Are you happy now? WELL, ARE YOU?”

The thought of things happening in the same way again, ever, is simply too much. Ideally, these triennially calamitous Conservative leadership contests will henceforth be run like one of those international elections in a fledgling democracy, when voters’ fingers are dipped in indelible ink. That way when you’re having drinks after work and Steve from HR is feebly going, “Yeah, what a mess” but not quite meeting your eye, you can look down at his stained forefinger and deal with him accordingly.

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supercantaloupe · 4 years ago

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okay yeah actually, i’ll bite. i’ve got some of my own thoughts about the unsleeping city and cultural representation and i’m gonna make a post about them now, i guess. i’ll put it under a cut though because this post is gonna be long.

i wanna start by saying i love dimension 20 and i really really enjoy the unsleeping city. i look forward to watching new episodes every week, and getting hooked on d20 as a whole last summer really helped pull me out of a pandemic depression, and i’m grateful to have this cool show to be excited about and interested in and to have met so many cool people to talk about it with.

that being said, however, i think there is a risk run in representing any group of people/their culture when you have the kind of setting that tuc has. by which i mean, tuc is set in a real world with real people and real human cultures in it. unlike fantasy high or a crown of candy where everything is made up (even if rooted in real-world cultures), tuc is explicitly rooted in reality, and all of its diversity -- both the ups and downs that go with it. and especially set in new york of all places, one of the most densely, diversely populated cities on earth. the cast is 7 people; it’s great that those 7 people come from a variety of backgrounds and identities and all bring their own unique perspectives to the table, and it’s great that those people and the entire crew are generally conscious of themselves and desire to tell stories/represent perspectives ethically. but you simply cannot authentically represent every culture or every perspective in the world (or even just in a city) when your cast is 7 people. it’s an impossible task. this is inherent to the setting, and acknowledged by the cast, and by brennan especially, who has been on record saying how one of the exciting aspects of doing a campaign set in nyc is its diversity, the fact that no two new yorkers have the same perspective of new york. i think that’s a good thing -- but it does have its challenges too, clearly.

i’m not going to go into detail on the question of whether or not tuc’s presentation of asian and asian american culture is appropriative/offensive or not. first of all, i don’t feel like it’s 100% fair to judge the show completely yet, since it’s a prerecorded season and currently airing midseason, so i don’t yet know how things wrap up. secondly, i’m not asian or asian american. i can have my own opinions on that content in the show, but i think it’s worth more to hear actual asian and asian american voices on this specific aspect of the show. having an asian american cast member doesn’t automatically absolve the show of any criticisms with regard to asian american cultural representation/appropriation, whether those criticisms are made by dozens of viewers or only a handful of them. regardless, i don’t think it’s my place as someone who is not asian to speak with any authority on that issue, and i know for a fact that there are asian american viewers sharing their own opinions. their thoughts in this instance hold more water than mine, i think.

what i will comment on in more depth, though, is a personal frustration with tuc. i’m jewish; i’ve never really been shy about that fact on my page here. i’m not from new york, but i visit a few times a year (or i did before covid anyway, lol), and i have some family from nyc. nyc, to me, is a jewish city. and for good reason, since it’s home to one of the largest jewish populations of the country, and even the world, and aspects of jewish culture (including culinary, like bagels and pastrami, and linguistic, like the common use of yiddish words and phrases in english colloquial speech) are prevalent and celebrated among jews and goyim alike. when i think of nyc, i think of a jewish city; that’s not everybody’s new york, but that’s my new york, and thats plenty of other people’s new york too. so i do find myself slightly disappointed or frustrated in tuc for its, in my opinion, rather stark lack of jewish representation.

now, i’m not saying that one of the PCs should have been jewish, full stop. i love to headcanon iga as jewish even though canon does not support that interpretation, and i’m fine with that. she’s not my character. it’s possible that simply no one thought of playing a jewish character, i dunno. but also, and i can’t be sure about this, i’m willing to bet that none of the players really wanted to play a jewish character because they didn’t want to play a character of a marginalized culture they dont belong to in the interest of avoiding stereotyping or offensive representation/cultural appropriation. (i don’t know if any of the cast members are jewish, but i’m assuming not.) and the concern there is certainly appreciated; there’s not a ton of mainstream jewish rep out there, and often what we get is either “unlikeable overly conservative hassidic jew” or “jokes about their bar mitzvah/one-off joke about hanukkah and then their jewishness is never mentioned ever again,” which sucks. it would be really cool to see some more good casual jewish rep in a well-rounded, three-dimensional character in the main cast of a show! even if there are a couple of stumbles along the way -- nobody is perfect and no two jews have the same level of knowledge, dedication, and adherence to their culture.

but at the same time, i look at characters like iga and i really do long for a jewish character to be there. siobhan isn’t polish, yet she’s playing a characters whose identity as a polish immigrant to new york is very central to her story and arc. and part of me wonders why we can’t have the same for a jewish character. if not a PC, then why not an NPC? again, i’m jewish, and i am not native, but in my opinion i think the inclusion of jj is wonderful -- i think there are even fewer native main characters in mainstream media than there are jewish ones, and it’s great to see a native character who is both in touch with their culture as well as not being defined solely by their native-ness. to what extent does it count as ‘appropriative’ because brennan is a white dude? i dunno, but i’m like 99% sure they talked to sensitivity consultants to make sure the representation was as ethical as they could get it, and anyway, i can’t personally see and glaring missteps so far. but again, i’m not native, and if there are native viewers with their own opinions on jj, i’d be really interested in hearing them.

but getting back to the relative lack of jewish representation. it just...disappoints me that jewishness in new york is hardly ever even really mentioned? again, i know we’re only just over halfway through season 2, but also, we had a whole first season too. and it’s definitely not all bad. for example: willy! gd, i love willy so much. him being a golem of williamsburg makes me really really happy -- a jewish mythological creature animated from clay/mud (in this case bricks) to protect a jewish community (like that of williamsburg, a center for many of nyc’s jews) from threat. golem have so often been taken out of their original context and turned into evil monsters in fantasy settings, especially including dnd. (even within other seasons of d20! crush in fh being referred to as a “pavement golem” always rubbed me the wrong way, and i had hoped they’d learned better after tuc but in acoc they refer to another monster as a “corn golem” which just disappointed me all over again.) so the fact that tuc gets golems right makes my jewish heart very happy.

and yet...he doesn’t show up that much? sure, in s1, he’s very helpful when he does, but in s2 so far he shows up once and really does not say or do much of anything. he speaks with a lot more yiddish-influenced language than other characters, but if you didn’t know those words were specifically yiddish/jewish, you might not be able to otherwise clock the fact that willy is jewish. and while willy is a jewish mythological creature who is jewish in canon, he isn’t human. there are no other direct references to judaism, jewish characters, or jewish culture in the unsleeping city beyond him.

there are, in fact, two other canon jewish characters in tuc. but...here’s where i feel the most frustration, i think. the two canon jewish humans in tuc are stephen sondheim and robert moses. both of whom are real actual people, so it’s not like we can just pick and choose what their cultural backgrounds are. as much as i love stephen sondheim, i think there are inherent issues with including real world people as characters in a fictional setting, especially if they are from living/recent memory (sondheim is literally still alive), but anyway, sondheim and moses are both actual jewish people. from watching tuc alone you probably would not be able to guess that sondheim is jewish -- nothing from his character except name suggests it, and i wouldn’t even fault you for not thinking ‘sondheim’ is a jewish-sounding surname (and i dislike the idea/attitude/belief that you can tell who is or isn’t jewish by the sound of their name). and yeah, i’m not going to sit here and be like “brennan should have made sondheim more visibly jewish in canon!” because, like, he’s a real human being and it’s fucking weird to portray him in a way that isn’t as close to how he publicly presents himself, which is not in fact very identifiably jewish? i don’t know, this is what i mean by it’s inherently weird and arguably problematic to portray real living people as characters in a fictional setting, but i digress. sondheim’s jewish, even if you wouldn’t know it; not exactly a representation win.

and then there’s bob moses. you might be able to guess that he’s jewish from canon, actually. there’s the name, of course. but more insidious to me are the specifics of his villainy. greedy and powerhungry, a moneyman, a lich whose power is stored in a phylactery...it does kind of all add up to a Yikes from me. (in the stock market fight there’s a one-off line asking if he has green skin; it’s never really directly acknowledged or answered, but it made me really uncomfortable to hear at first and it’s stuck with me since viewing for the first time.) the issue for me here is that the most obviously jewish human character is the season’s bbeg, and his villainy is rooted in very antisemitic tropes and stereotypes.

i know this isn’t all brennan’s fault -- robert moses was a real ass person and he was in fact jewish, a powerhungry and greedy moneyman, a big giant racist asshole, etc. i’m not saying that jewish characters can’t be evil, and i’m not saying brennan should have tried to be like “this is my NPC robert christian he’s just like bob moses but instead he’s a goy so it’s okay” because...that would be fuckin weird bro. and bob moses was a real person who was jewish and really did do some heinous shit with his municipal power. i’m not necessarily saying brennan should have picked/created a different character to be the villain. i’m not even saying that he shouldn’t have made bob moses a lich (although, again, it doesn’t 100% sit right with me). but my point here is that bob moses is one of a grand total of three canon jewish characters in tuc, of which only two humans, of whom he is the one you’d most easily guess would be jewish and is the most influenced by antisemitic stereotypes/tropes. had there been more jewish representation in the show at all, even just some neutral jewish NPCs, this would not be as much of a problem as it is to me. but halfway through season 2, so far, this is literally all we get. and that bums me out.

listen, i really like tuc. i love d20. but the fact that it is set in a real world place with real world people does inherently raise challenges when it comes to ethical cultural representation. especially when the medium of the show is a game whose creatures, lore, and mechanics have been historically rooted in some questionable racial/cultural views. and dnd is making progress to correct some of those misguided views of older sourcebooks by updating them to more equitably reflect real world racial/cultural sensitivities; that’s a good thing! but these seasons, of course, were recorded before that. the game itself has some questionable cultural stuff baked into it, and that is (almost necessarily) going to be brought to the table in a campaign set in a real-world place filled with real-world people of diverse real-world cultures. the cast can have sensitivity consultants and empathy and the best intentions in the world, and they’ll still fuck up from time to time, that’s okay. your mileage may vary on whether or not it’s still worth sticking around with the show (or the fandom) through that. for me, it does not yet outweigh all the things i like about the show, and i’m gonna continue watching it. but it’s still very worth acknowledging that the cast is 7 people who cannot possibly hope to authentically or gracefully represent every culture in nyc. it’s an unfortunate limitation of the medium. yet it’s also still worthwhile to acknowledge and discuss the cultural representation as it is in the show -- both the goods and the bads, the ethically solid and the questionably appropriative -- and even to hold the creators accountable. (decently, though. i’m definitely not advocating anybody cyberbully brennan on twitter or whatever.) the show and its representation is far from perfect, but i also don’t think it ever could be. still, though, it could always be better, and there’s a worthwhile discussion to be had in the wheres, hows, and whys of that.

#sasha reviews #sasha speaks #the unsleeping city #unsleeping city #long post #dimension 20 #gd i stayed up way too late to write this #tuc #the unsleeping city chapter 2 #the unsleeping city 2 #tuc2 #antisemitism

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waywardwrestlewritingwaif · 3 years ago

Text

Raise the Stakes, part 14

Aaaaaaannnnnnd we're done! I literally decided on this ending today and I'm posting it before I start to get THE DOUBTS. I hope you enjoy it and thank you so, so, so much to everyone who's liked/ commented/ messaged along the way.

There's mention in here of an interview that did actually happen a couple of days ago and what's included is pretty much what I've read online. That said, I've embellished some for the purpose of the story, so I'm not claiming to know anything.

Previous sections are on the Master List.

Pairing: David Finlay x OFC x Jay White

Word count: 2,767

Content advisory: other than the usual language, nothing really. Should I be cautioning people about angstiness? Because there's angst.

Thought you should see this.

The toneless message with its link is ruining your day. You can’t stop looking at it, but you don’t want to open the link again because you don’t want David to see it. Not that you have any reason to feel guilty. If anything, he’s the one who has some explaining to do but he also has the biggest match of his life tonight, the one where he can finally put the years of tension and rivalry with Jay behind him. You want to be supportive but you also want some answers.

It can wait, you tell yourself for the hundredth time. You’ll talk about it tomorrow. Or next week. All the time in the world. At least, that’s what you hope.

The whole day, the two of you are together but you have to keep a little bit of distance. Don’t want to get distracted and he has to conserve all the energy he can. Doesn’t stop you from touching each other, of course, but even when you do, it feels like you’re still at a distance. He’s trying not to think about anything except tonight. Or maybe it just looks that way. Maybe he’s thinking about his future beyond tonight, when he moves on. It would be nice to know if he wanted you to move on with him but he’s not letting you in on his plans. Hell, if it were up to him, you wouldn’t even know that there were plans.

You’d expected Jay to have some sort of mocking comments. How come the boyfriend you’re so in love with is giving interviews talking about signing with another company, moving to another state, changing everything about his life, and you don’t know anything about it? How Jay had looked at that interview and immediately known that you weren’t aware of it is beyond you. It’s unnerving sometimes, his ability to figure things out when it comes to you. You suppose it’s one of the reasons he’s always been able to get under your skin and make you do what he wants.

But aside from the initial message, he doesn’t say anything. You think that maybe it was a ploy to see if you’d confront David and start a fight before their match, because that’s exactly the kind of ugly trick Jay loves. When you arrive at the venue, though, you see him getting out of a car at the same time. He doesn’t look scornful, doesn’t shout something insulting, doesn’t strut like a damn peacock in mating season, nothing that you would normally expect from him. He looks straight at you and doesn’t smirk or sneer. On anyone other than Jay White, the look might be interpreted as concern.

Technically, you’re supposed to be there for all the performers but at this point, there’s very little left for you to do. It’s all on them now and if everything turns out to be a garbage fire, it won’t be because of any failings on your part. So you do your rounds to make sure everyone has what they need, knows their cues, gets any questions answered. But you always circle back to where David is and stay for as long as you can before your nerves get the better of you.

And then there’s the one person you should check on, but don’t. You aren’t completely derelict. You check with the people he has around him, you even lower yourself to telling Chris Bey that he can text you if his majesty needs anything. Strangely, you don’t hear anything. You text Jay once to say that you’re available to help. You keep it professional and don’t mention anything about the link he sent earlier, so you’re expecting him to needle you about it, or at least act like you’re useless because you aren’t spending your entire day catering to him. Nothing. You’re almost tempted to go check to make sure he’s not sick because one thing Jay White has never been is one to stay quiet when something is bothering him. Maybe he feels sorry for you, in which case you’d rather he yelled.

You enjoy as much of the show as you can but you spend the last minutes before his match with David, largely quiet, just holding each other’s hands. You walk as far as you can with him and, as his music hits, squeeze his hand extra tight. He turns and gives you a soft, quick kiss before leaning back and doing it again, deeper.

“I love you,” he says, cupping your face in his hand.

“I love you too.”

He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself of something. You sound like you’re calling after a train that’s already left the station.

Against your better judgment, you stay where you are. Jay arrives, already acting his part, hands tapping idly on the belt that, in theory, is the reason they’re fighting. You stare at him waiting for him to acknowledge you but there’s nothing. His music swells and he heads out like you’re not even there.

“Just like old times,” you mutter to yourself.

And still.

You watch from backstage as Jay holds his belt up, grinning and preening like he never had a moment’s doubt. You know him well enough to know that’s not true. He keeps cutting looks back at David as if he’s expecting to have to defend himself again, as if he doesn’t believe that he’s truly vanquished him.

The audience doesn’t share his insecurity, cheering him on like he was the hero and David the villain. He’s obnoxious and self-centred but they love him anyway. It makes you feel a little less stupid for the years you’d spent doing the same.

A couple of assistants help David backstage, holding ice to his neck and making sure he doesn’t collapse on the way to the locker room. He looks angry, sullen, and bitter, but not injured, which is a relief. You turn away from the scene in the ring and follow him back to his dressing room, taking over from the dojo students on ice duty when you get there. You don’t speak. You figure it’s better to let him decide when he’s ready.

You’d love to, of course, because despite the fact that you don’t want to make his night worse, it’s becoming unbearable to keep everything inside.

“Where does it hurt?” you ask quietly, picking up a new cold pack.

“Everywhere,” he mumbles.

You hold the ice against his lower back, remembering the awful hit he’d taken on the ring apron.

“You looked great out there.”

“Didn’t feel so great.” He gives you a little smile. “Onward and upward, right?”

“Or southward?” You don’t even mean to say it out loud because this is absolutely not the time to bring it up and certainly not in this passive aggressive way.

“Southward?” He raises his eyebrows like he doesn’t know what you’re talking about but you can see immediately that he does.

“Nothing, it’s ok.”

He sighs. “What’s southward?”

“Do you need another ice pack?”

“Uh oh, sounds like someone’s been reading the dirt sheets.”

“Just making a joke.” You wish you hadn’t brought this up because now you have to try to cram it back into its hiding space in your brain. And you have to suppress the fact that you’re actually kind of angry.

He watches you, trying to gage your state of mind. “Shouldn’t listen to idle gossip.”

That hits like a slap across the face.

“It’s not gossip, David. You did an interview with Wrestling Observer. If people are speculating or have questions, it’s because of what you said yourself.”

“It’s just talking. I didn’t confirm anything.”

He seems a little proud of this, like he’s very clever for getting people talking about what they don’t know. He doesn’t seem to have an issue with the fact that you’re one of those people.

“It’s all there, though,” you murmur. “Talking about how much you want to work in the States, that you want to try somewhere new, that you’re moving to Florida. You’re going to NXT, right?”

He shrugs and avoids your eyes.

“Were you ever going to tell me about any of this or did you figure I’d be able to piece together where you’d gone from news clippings and Reddit posts?”

“Of course I was going to talk to you. Nothing’s final yet.”

“So you were waiting until you bought a house in Florida and signed a contract with another company? Then what? You’d wake me up one morning and just say ‘bye babe, I’ll be living in another state from now on?’”

“The opportunity came up. This,” he gestures to the two of you, “is still really new. I didn’t want to introduce all these complications.”

“David, I’m not some girl you picked up in a bar. We’ve known each other for years. You’ve talked to me before about your contract renewals. Seems like you could have told me something.”

“I was going to tell you something. When I had a better idea of what I wanted to do.”

“You told a journalist, a ‘dirt sheet’ in your own words, that you’re in the process of moving to Florida. That seems like you have a pretty clear idea.”

“Ok, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for you to find out. You don’t even read that stuff normally.”

“You’re aware people are talking about this on social media, right?”

He grunts but doesn’t say anything more. It’s infuriating. He looks resentful that he has to explain himself, like he didn’t think this was going to be an issue for you. Finally, he meets your eyes, guilt very clearly evident now.

“I don’t know why I didn’t say anything. I’m an idiot, I could have figured out that you’d see something, or that someone would tell you.”

“It is my job to know stuff like this, all other considerations aside.”

“Believe me, I did not want you getting this from some random dweeb on Twitter.”

“I wish it had been a random dweeb on Twitter.”

He looks surprised and then it’s like part of him collapses when he realizes what you mean.

“Got up this morning to a one line text and a link to the article from our old pal. You know, making sure I’m not out of the loop.”

“Asshole.”

“In this case no. Somehow, you managed to cede the high moral ground to a man whose morals are generally nonexistent.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Well, this is hardly the ideal moment to have this conversation, but I want to know if and how you see me fitting into this new life you’re going to have.”

He shrugs a little. “How do you want to fit in?”

The realization hits you hard. “You don’t think this is going to last, do you? You didn’t think I was serious.”

“Wanting is a lot easier than having.”

“Maybe for you.”

“No, that’s not what I meant, it’s just that I… You’re right. I didn’t think I needed to consider you. It wasn’t part of my decision-making process.”

“You’ve been setting this up for weeks. All this has come together at the same time you’ve been with me almost every day. If I wasn’t part of your process, that was the decision right there.”

The two of you stare each other down but there seems to be nothing left to say.

Eventually, you rise to your feet and stammer, “I’m just going to… I need to take a walk or something.”

You wander around the place, watching the crew rushing to pack up. Eventually, you find yourself outside, where the ring still stands, bathed in the glow of the safety lights. It seems forlorn in front of the empty seats but there is still a kind of magic about it. That’s what draws people to this business, you suppose, the feeling of magic.

Since no one else is around, you climb up and through the ropes, kicking off your shoes. You’ve been in one before, but always just to set it up or break it down. You’ve never had an in-ring moment. And there’s a reason for that, which is that you can barely wrestle your way out of your winter coat. But as long as you’re here and you need to do something to take your mind off the sensation that your chest is about to rip.

You run, or jog, from one side to the other, bouncing off the ropes as you do, the way you’ve watched dozens of men doing for years. Although you know the “ropes” are actually steel cables with a plastic coating and you’ve handled them before, it surprises you how much it hurts when you hit them too hard. It’s not the worst pain you have right now.

You pick up speed a little and then practice letting yourself “bump”, a fancy way of saying fall flat on your back. Each time, you knock the wind out of yourself a little but you get right back up and continue your running. Finally, you have enough momentum that you’re able to just roll yourself into a somersault, and sure, it’s not the most perfectly executed thing, but you keep your body straight and you pop right back up. Just like a pro.

“Ta-da!” you say to yourself.

That’s when the tears come. It’s not falling to pieces, but the stew of emotions inside you just starts to leak out. What the hell do you do now?

There are some footsteps behind you, echoing a little in the empty arena, and you see a man’s approaching shadow loom behind you, pushing his long hair back from his face as he crouches down. So you’re not startled when a thick pair of arms wraps around you and you feel his face pressed against your neck.

“Come home.”

You give an unhappy laugh. “Home is kind of a weird concept right now, Jay.”

“You’re always home for me. I guess I was hoping you felt the same way.”

You snap your head to look at him, pulling back enough so that you can focus on his eyes. In all the time you’ve known him, you don’t think he’s ever looked as calm as he does in this moment.

“Congratulations on your win.”

“Yeah, I get to be a target for a while longer.”

“Stop pretending you don’t love it.”

“Sure, I love it. It’s nice. There are other things I love more.” He runs his fingers over your cheeks, cleaning away the remains of your tears. “I’m sorry about sending you that story earlier.”

“All the shit you’ve pulled over the years and that’s the thing you apologize for?”

“Oh I meant I’m sorry that I had to be the one to send it. I don’t want you to shoot the messenger or anything.”

“If I haven’t shot you by now, I think you’re safe.”

He laughs and pulls you back against his chest, kissing down your cheek and neck. Then he stands, pulling you right up with him and letting his lips trail over the crown of your head.

“Come on.” he whispers, taking your hand.

“Wait, I need my shoes.”

You dart over to pick them up and he’s right there to help you into them and to lead you through the ropes and down the stairs. That’s when he plants his lips on yours, firmly, so that you can feel it in your knees.

“I need to go get my suitcase inside.”

“Do you always carry everything with you wherever you go?”

“I’m headed straight to the airport from here. Catching a red eye back.”

“Skip it. Leave tomorrow.”

“Just like that?”

“Sure. I have a really nice room.”

“I know you do, I booked it.”

“Always taking care of me, aren’t you?”

“Oh wow, he noticed.”

He kisses you again, a little longer, digging his fingers into your back, and your body melts against him of its own volition.

“I’m not coming back if everything is just going to go back to the way it was, Jay.”

“I didn’t come running after you because you’re good at managing my schedule.”

You give him a sceptical look but you can't entirely keep from smiling.

“Look at me,” he grins, “I’m a god. Any woman would want me and you have me. You should feel like you won the lottery.”

“Yeah,” you drawl, letting him wrap an arm around you as you walk away together, “I won.”

#jay white fanfic #jay white imagine #david finlay fanfic #david finlay imagine #njpw fanfic #njpw imagine #wrestling imagine #wayward wrestle writing

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