#the fact that you can only apply for one vacancy is ridiculous

[millythegoat]

cuk aku salah apply lowongan BUMN 😭😭😭

[armpirate]

Kalla | Choi San || Chapter 12

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Pairings: CEO!San x fem!reader

Genre: smut, angst, fluff, strangers to lovers.

Warnings: dom!San, sub!reader, voyeourism, use of sex toys, bondage, dirty talk, BDSM, exhibitionism, rough sex.

Summary: She was surprised by how fast her life went from the perfect fairytale to the destructive mess it had turned into. Dealing with a cheater ex boyfriend, having to move out to a different place because the house she lived in belonged to that man she once dreamed of spending the rest of her life with, while continuously being underappreciated at work... It was as if life was telling her to stop dreaming big, to go back to her small town, Bibury, and help her parents run the small farm her family had owned for decades.

At least until she received a call from her friend.

A sudden vacancy as an assistant showed up on one of her friend's system, having her being encouraged to take that big step and apply for it. She had no hopes for it. Mainly because she didn't have any experience on the field, and she didn't comply with most of the requirements that were added on the offer -and which most of them sounded ridiculous and exaggerated for the position, making her wonder who was the freak who needed so many guidelines in order to hire someone to pick up the phone and schedule events. 

Although that hotel she'd be working on was much more than anything she could've come up with. 

Choi San wasn't someone easy to deal with. After his previous assistant presented his resignation letter on his desk, he felt forced to start the whole selection process again -after merely two months. 

Sure that he was being way too strict, enough to find that anyone who applied for the position wasn't enough, he asked one of his friends to be in charge of the interviews and the selection of the most adequate candidate. 

Little did he know Wooyoung would hire the imperfectly perfect candidate for him, sure that she'd help him in many ways other than just in dealing with the responsibilities of his position. 

A new challenge will come their way as soon as she steps inside the hotel. 

Y/n will have to learn how to mold onto him and deal with all his small habits and requirements, and San will find himself trying to open up and let out all those same things that turned him into the person he was. 

The more she digs in Kalla and all of its secrets and exciting corners, the deeper she'll dive into San's heart and soul... Although, maybe, she won't be able to take it. 

Kalla opens its doors to you, sharing the vast amount of filthy and erotic plans it offers, and that you can join with a partner... Or maybe just by yourself. 

Hope you enjoy your stay.

Chapter duration: 21 minutes

Chapter warnings: Oral sex (female receiving), swingers club, voyeurism, public masturbation, penetrative sex, dirty talk, dom!San, rough sex

It was a boring night. 

He went to the event, wearing his full black suit and the black cat mask that covered the upper half of his face. It was a usual show he came up with after he overheard some people saying they'd enter that club if it weren't for the fact that they were held back after feeling exposed. That closed party was one small push for inexperienced customers to enjoy that part of the hotel, giving them the anonymity they need to push themselves to repeat it again -but feeling encouraged enough to do it without the masks, enjoying the freedom the Spadix was for them. 

He usually felt entertained by the environment, walking around to see everyone just enjoying themselves. Those nights were the only nights he never took anyone to bed -which wasn't something that happened as frequently as others would assume. He was strict with the person he wanted as a submissive -which explained why he didn't have one since Hyori broke off their agreement-, but he was just as meticulous with one night stands. Whether it was normal, whether it was strange, he wanted to know who he was hooking up with, and that was something he wouldn't get during those events. 

The icy golden liquid coated his lips one last time before he left the glass back on the counter, wondering if it was better to just go home that night. He clearly wasn't enjoying his time there, instead he caught himself fantasizing a few times about Y/n being there just like the first day she casually stepped there. And it just made him realize how unprofessional he was being, but at the same time how illogically hooked he was getting with a woman that he just didn't know well enough, and that he didn't bother to get closer to not even on a professional level. 

His curiosity found a new target when his eyes fell on a tight dress, that was rubbing against the black wood of the counter, on the other extreme were he was. And that same curiosity, instead of being fed, kept asking for more when her eyes found his among the weak lightning of the lamps distributed in the main room. It was as if the more she looked at him, giving him the same intensity he was aiming her way, the more he wanted to walk where she was. 

And he waited. 

San gave it a few minutes, enough to tell whether she was coming with her partner and her eyes were only glancing back at the pair of lustful eyes that kept praying on her, or whether she was alone and he was the chosen to walk where she was. 

Nobody approached her. Actually, her instance was quite distant as her back kept facing everyone in the room that could be as curious about her as he was. Her body was only minimally turned towards his direction, and that should've been enough invitation. 

She was interested in no one, but him. 

He approached her from behind, examining her manners, how her wrist gently rolled as she kept playing with the ice cubes in her glass filled with the transparent liquid. When her head turned in the direction he was in, San was able to identify the mask she was wearing. It was the standar one they gave to customers that didn't bring theirs. And that small detail explained a lot of things. 

Rather than being pushed back, he felt a bigger motivation to talk to her. 

—Are you new here?

When she first turned to him, rather than looking confident and ready to answer, the holes in her mask allowed him to see some confusion. 

—I'm sorry. I don't speak Korean —she cleared up, smiling shyly. 

—I was asking if you're new here —he repeated, switching languages skillfully. 

—Oh, yeah —she nodded—. It's my first time, what about you? 

—Well, I've been here a few times. 

Those dimples looked wider under those lights, showing off on each of his cheeks as he smiled. 

—Are you a customer in the hotel? —she wondered, remembering how she was told most of the people in that area were staying in Kalla. 

—Something like that. 

San was considering telling her he was the owner of that place, but he held back after he thought about that being the first time. She probably would've felt a bit overwhelmed. 

—And you? 

—Something like that. 

She was a guest until a few weeks back, so technically she wasn't lying completely. The only difference was that instead of showing off the card to her room, she showed her employee card and paid a small fee to enter -probably the same price she'd have paid to enter any other club in the area. 

After hearing her talk, San couldn't help but find something familiar in the tone of her voice. It was almost as if his brain was playing him a bad trick. 

—Actually, I'm a bit lost on what I'm supposed to do here. 

San always recommended going to those places with a partner that could work as a guide. Or, at least, as a support. It was difficult moving around those places while being unsure of what to do. 

—I could tell you to just relax and let yourself go, but maybe that'll be a cliche —his voice sounded so deep despite trying to seem approachable. 

—Instead of using cliches, why don't you teach me?

Y/n was surprised by the filthiness in her words, but still she hid it well, licking her lips while she scanned his outfit from the golden buttons of his jacket, to the black shiny leather of his shoes. 

—Are you sure you need me to teach you? —he asked back, smirking at her mischievous tone. 

—You're the expert here —she shrugged. 

—This is better taught with actions. 

At first she didn't know what he meant with that, but she chose to take the lead, even if that field was out of her control. 

There was a lack of response at first, justified by the surprise and uncertainty caused by a complete stranger kissing him unprompted. Her lips were soft, addicting, moving slowly on his while the sweet and bitter flavors mixed in their mouths at the first exchange of spit. 

His hand found a comfortable place on her lower back, pushing her body to him and deepening the kiss, their bodies were glued together and not enough with that, San stepped towards the counter to trap her in that small space, supporting his weight with his free hand on the edge. 

—Did I do well? —she asked, breaking the kiss with both of her hands on his chest. 

—It's a first, yes —he nodded, breaking her smile when trapping her lower lip in between his teeth.

Her height kept changing, and he could notice the way she kept moving her feet to share the weight of her body to free each foot from the pain her heels were causing. 

—Why don't we go sit somewhere?

She had no reason to oppose that idea. Her brain actually wasn't able to process any other information that didn't come straight from him. That kiss was simple, yet impactful. Just a slight movement of his lips, a secured grip on her waist, and her legs were jelly for the stranger that was taking her hand and leading her to the couches in the middle of the room -and that she remembered from the first time she was there. She wanted to be disgusted, she wanted to stop him from leading her there. But knowing the kind of person her boss was, there was no way on Earth she'd have to worry about the hygiene of his business. Her head shook subtly, trying to erase the sudden image of her boss from her head. She was in the company of a hot stranger, there was no way she'd think of him at that moment. 

—No one will judge you —Y/n turned to him when he spoke, feeling smaller as she sat on the couch—. The way you're looking around —he explained—. No one cares about what you do here, unless it's to feed their desire. 

Maybe her open mind was taking a bit too much control on her actions and her thoughts, because instead of feeling pushed back to the idea, her body felt a pleasure whiplash with the idea of others feeling turned on about what was going on between them. 

He kissed her again, slow at first, guiding her lips into a sensual dance where soon their tongues were invited. The way she not only answered to the kiss, but moved closer to him and cupped his neck with one of her hands, made him wonder if it was true that it was her first time doing something like that. 

The kiss reached a level where her head was only spinning around, with each suck of his lips, each rub of his tongue on hers, and each caress of the bulge on the nose of his mask with her cheek, with that man conquering each one of her senses until there was nothing in her system but him. 

His index caressed her throat after he moved back -not too far so their lips would keep rubbing-, moving up to her chin to trace her jaw and move it back done. It traveled over the straight line of her shoulder, until it met the thin strap of her dress, dragging it over her skin until it was left hanging on upper arm. 

A big throb made her thighs press when his teeth bit the curve of her shoulder, proceeding to move up with small kisses, turning them into wet and open-mouthed kisses as he reached her collarbone just to prepare her for the moment his lips found her neck. The first contact had her neck tilting, giving him more space, and her body squirming at such a simple and small contact. 

San didn't last long there. There was something in that woman that kept asking him to go for more, and he just needed to feel the way her thigh kept tensing under his hand with each kiss to know that she wanted it just as bad as he did. 

His mouth jumped from the small corner under her ear to the curve of her half exposed chest over her cleavage. Y/n drank up a scream, letting it out as a loud gasp when his mouth felt so warm on her already burning skin. He didn't even get to her nipples, he wasn't even close since they were still hidden under the fabric of her dress, but the moans were building up in her throat at the sensation of the pain the pressure of the dress was causing, and the pleasure his mouth was giving her by just sucking on her flesh. 

Her mouth was again under his control when he linked their lips together, showing a more demanding and imposing instance while his tongue tried to find out every corner in there. 

 —What will happen if I sneak my hand under that skirt? 

She bit her lip, wondering what could be the proper way to answer that question. In any other place, she probably would've run away just at the first kiss. But her heart beating was breaking a new record, her guts were pleading her to go on, and she went exactly to that place to feel at ease with herself and her sexuality. 

Nobody would know who she was. Unfortunately, not even  the man who was causing her to not be able to think straight. 

—You said you were a man of action. So why don't you try and we'll see?

His teeth trapped her lower lip again, pulling from it gently with his tongue licking it from the inside. At the same time, his fingers sneaked under her skirt, causing the tight fabric to move up her thighs and expose every bit of skin he was touching. 

With his palm, he firmly pulled her leg apart, separating them just enough for him to be able to move through her slit with no restrictions. His groan gifted her ears over the jazz music, making her hips move back when she felt him close enough to her core. 

—I'll make you feel good —he assured her. 

Y/n knew, the confidence that radiated from him didn't allow her to ever doubt that he knew what he was doing. It was the same aura that had her focusing on him only, despite being aware that some deviant eyes were looking their way to enjoy the small show they both were putting out. 

The first contact of his digits with her slit over her fabric, and feeling her so wet that he could easily coat his fingers with her arousal, sent a painful throb at his dick. The only thing San could think, as he pressed tighter until he found her clit and with her smell invading his nostrils, was the big control he needed to have not to kneel in front of her and take the spot in between her legs to eat her out for everyone to see. 

Her neck was tense, her muscles were marked through her skin, because she was fighting the pleasure to keep her eyes on his. That woman was fire, and he felt lucky to have her choosing him among anyone else in that room that night.  

In a matter of minutes she was totally consumed by him, by the way the tip of his fingers rubbed against her swollen clit over her black panties, almost pushing her thighs together so his hand would never leave that spot. 

All her moans turned into low whines, locked behind her pressed lips. And that bothered him. 

He wanted to hear her, he wanted to get drunk with her sounds and let everyone hear how good he was making her feel. But at the same time he understood that could be too much for someone who was just getting started in that world. 

She looked up to him confused when his fingers moved away, seeing his tall figure placing his clothes properly before his hand was extended in her direction so she'd take it. He moved before panic could kick in, before she could even think that she did something wrong for San to move away. 

Hardly, she gulped. As she looked around, she could only spot some couples sitting on the other side of the stage, being more open than they were being, with the tits on the woman on full display while the glistening tongue of her female partner swirled around the hard button, with a man holding her from behind. 

His fingers felt warm as she moved her digits over them to finally hold his hand and get up from the couch. 

—Do you also do that? —she asked as soon as she was at the same height as him. 

—No —he answered, aiming one quick glance at the building up of a threesome—. I share my pleasure, not my partners. 

It wasn't like she had much more time to understand his words, his hand was pulling from her body before her brain could focus on that sentence. 

At that point, Y/n didn't care where he was taking her, or what they were going to do. She just followed him to a certain rollercoaster of pleasure -if only what happened in the Spadix was a hint of it. 

Her hand held tight onto his and, making sure she wouldn't fall and would fall the stability she needed, San lifted her hand a bit more, changing the position so she would be holding onto it as if it were a railing. 

As they first crossed the small arch at the end of the counter, they met some narrow stairs, secured by two bricked walls and lightened by a weak light at the top and some brighter guidance on each step. 

She'd have expected the click of her heels echo through the corridor, but instead it was hidden under the several sounds of moans, groans and skin clapping. The intensity of the lightning remained weak, allowing the lights inside the room to reflect the shadows of the people inside. 

Her fingers wrapped tight around his hand at the image of those shadows. They went from the man holding her up in the air to another man hitting on his male partner from behind while he pulled from his hair. It seemed so forbidden that it turned into the most exciting thing she had ever witnessed in her life. 

At the end of that corridor, San guided her to turn left to another darker corridor, which had four big metallic doors -one in front of one another. 

She didn't know how he knew which room wasn't taken, she was too focused on how wide his back looked from behind, and how hot he looked when he turned to her over his shoulder to check on her. 

His smile was promising when he invited her to step inside, it was an invitation to all the sins he was promising. 

Y/n wondered if all the corners in the Spadix kept the same lightning exactly because of that event, or if they were always as weak and dark. Was it to give it a more intimidating look? Because she was sure the red plastic covers on the big bed, the chains hanging from the ceiling on its four corners and the big wooden X right in front were enough. 

His body covered her back, and his palm held her hip, making another electric shock run through her body and end on her nipples. 

—I won't be using that on you —San assured her, aware of the place her eyes stopped at. 

San wanted to use that thing on her more than anyone, but there were many flags that kept him from doing so. He wasn't there as a dom, but as someone who wanted to go to bed with the sexiest woman he had ever seen in a really long time. 

Y/n was about to ask him why, but his hand made her turn on her tracks quickly, and his lips trapped hers before she could gain back the small sense she had left. He was hungry, he was possessive. He didn't know who she was, but he was making sure that for that night she felt his only. 

His hands were quick, holding her from her wrist when she almost lost her balance at the first contact of the back of her knees with the edge of the bed. 

—You have no idea how bad I had to control myself not to fuck you in front of everyone —he admitted, growling against her lips. 

—And what stopped you? —she teased him. 

—That's a really good question —he thought out loud—. The safeword is Kalla —he mentioned out of nowhere.

And Y/n could only wonder why they would even need a safeword.

—Get naked. 

As he stepped back, she realized it wasn't time to doubt, to wonder if what she was doing was right. She had the chance to set herself free, to break all her limits and live something different with someone she probably would've been drooling for from afar, too shy to ever approach him. 

—Now —he insisted. 

San first got rid of the black blazer, throwing it over the black rack at the corner of the room, proceeding to undo his shirt cufflinks. It took her a blink to start moving, unzipping her dress and getting out of it clumsily, almost falling and causing her to find support on the edge of the bed to stay standing. 

That level of exposure, as she was first getting rid of her bra, worked as some sort of liberation for her, breaking with everything she had known about herself, encouraged to know a new side of her by a complete stranger. 

The urge to drive that man insane kept increasing after his eyes followed the way her panties slipped through her legs. 

She could've just waited for him with her legs closed, she could've sat on the edge, instead she dragged her body to the center, supporting her weight on her elbows at the same time her legs parted just a bit to share with him her glistening folds. 

She wasn't ever going to win him at a game he was a pro at. 

—What's the safeword? 

—Ka... kalla —she whispered, earning a nod from him. 

—Touch yourself. 

It took her a few seconds to gulp the thick knot in her throat after those words. It was a bittersweet feeling. She was unsure of what to do, but at the same time she was so aroused by the image alone that her fingers moved to her core before she could realize it. 

San's dick twitched against his pants when her thin fingers gently parted her lips, moving them up and down through her slit, coating her folds completely with her juices before she even started rubbing her clit in slow circles. 

Every detail of her body was getting tattooed in his brain. From the way her curls were spread all over the mattress, to that small tattoo of an ice skate on the inside of her right ankle. 

He was desperate for her. And it only took him a hum from her lips to almost rip his shirt and walk towards the edge of the bed. His tongue moved flat against her swollen button right when she was teasing herself, trapping it between two of her fingers. The moan he heard over his head nearly gave him a short circuit, almost losing himself to her with just a low sound. 

His fingers were quick to stop her hand from moving back, keeping her digits in the same position he caught her in, sliding the tip of his tongue up and down her clit, hearing how her head was bounced back on the mattress, curiously looking up to catch her perking nipples up as her back was arched from pleasure. 

Even her taste was addictive. It took him a lot of effort not to bury his head there and drink up every drop off her until he was fed up with the flavor. 

—Don't cum yet. 

Her moans became a bit louder when he used his fingers to close a bite more the gap between her fingers, almost squeezing her clit between them, while his tongue tortured the last bit of self control out of there. 

Before she could break, he set her free, moving his mouth away from her and freeing her fingers, although she seemed more disappointed over him stopping than him not letting her reach her orgasm. 

—Kitten, I'm not done with you. Don't give me those eyes —he assured her. 

The sight of his body, slowly exposing more skin with each clothing flying away, had her licking her lips and closing her mouth to keep herself from salivating. And she was sure she had never been so turned on to even feel her pussy clench at the sight of a man wrapping himself with a condom. 

He was a walking sin, and she was ready to go to hell for him. 

His lips attacked hers fiercely, trapping her instantly, and almost having her following him up as he attempted to kneel between her thighs. His hand trapped her neck first, keeping her lying on the mattress as he lined up himself to her entrance. 

Neither of them were able to see the expression of their upper faces, but they for sure could see the way their lips parted as he slid himself in. 

He certainly felt thicker than he looked, and she was so tight that it took him a second thought not to slide himself fully in with just one thrust. 

His fingers felt like burning iron when they moved down from the middle of her chest to her belly button, going up again to secure his grip on her jaw. He moved his hips back, sliding back in roughly, with the dry clap moving from it echoing the room. That same sway of hips and rhythm kept going on for a few more times, until her hand almost sneaked from the sheets to her core to rub herself. His other hand went from keeping her legs spread, holding her knee up, to trapping her wrist at the level of her pelvis. 

—So needy already? —he teased her— I guess I'm going too easy with you. 

Those words created a chain effect, going from her squeezing him tight to his cock starting a faster pace. 

He was holding her down, pinned against the mattress, fucking her like he owned her, with his dick sliding in and out as if he wanted to erase the last sane thoughts in her head -if there were any left at that point. 

But even while being under control, she found a way to drive him crazy. 

As soon as his thumb was close to reaching her lower lip, her tongue coated it with a slight rub, also causing her moans to be a bit louder by the way her mouth was opened. 

It was as if she only wanted to keep feeding the beast he assured he wanted to keep under lock during those events. 

Y/n thought he was going to slow down as his thrusts turned sloppy at some point, only to find out that he was changing the angle, kicking deeper, and rubbing constantly against a spot that had her curling her toes and holding onto the hand on her neck when he started pounding into her with the same speed. 

His hand left her neck, only to trap her wrist against the mattress at the height of her head. 

Her body wanted to escape her own skin, overwhelmed by pleasure, unable to deal with all those different and new emotions. It was even the first time she heard herself that way, it was the first time she was turned on by her own moans, and it only was because they were mixed with his groans and hisses.  

—Please —her voice cracked, as she threw her head back. 

—Please what? Hmm? —he asked with a shaky voice— Ask like a good girl. 

That sentence alone could've taken her to heaven if only she hadn't been too blinded by the pleasure that would've come by only playing alone. 

—Let me cum, please. 

—Do you think you can wait for me a bit? 

Too out of her own self to form a proper sentence, she just nodded hysterically, drawing a smirk on his face. 

—Fuck —she moaned again—, you feel so fucking good. 

And it only took her eyes to meet his for a brief second to have San ready to go for her. 

—Go now —he told her, combining his words with the rub of his thumb on the hood of her clit. 

She reached her high first, scratching the plastic under her first, and shortly being followed by San, losing the rhythm of his powerful thrusts as he spilled himself inside the latex, guts deep in her. 

Far from what Y/n could've expected, San didn't leave. He stayed there, with his fingers gently rubbing her inner thighs while he tried to gain some of her energy back. He didn't speak, he didn't move, he just stayed there to make sure she was okay. 

—Was I too rough with you? —he suddenly asked. 

He never acted that way with one night stands, he always tried to keep himself under that vanilla sex that was also a safe area during that type of night. But he lost control with that woman. Whether it was her aura, the way she looked, or how she fitted so well into that dirty secret interest... he just couldn't help it. 

—No, it was...

The best sex she ever had. 

She was embarrassed to admit that, after twenty six years, she finally had the type of mind blowing sex that had her losing her head with a total stranger that she met not even an hour back. 

—... really good —she admitted. 

—Do you need anything? —he tried to help her. 

Him, for the whole night, in sixty nine different positions. 

—I'll leave first so you can get dressed with no problems —he announced, stepping out of the bed. 

He was so... sweet? No one would've been able to tell it was the same man cursing, and almost ripping her body in half a few minutes back. 

Her legs were still weak when she dared to set foot on the floor after he closed the door behind him, almost losing her balance. It took her a few seconds, but she quickly gained some strength back. 

She was sure she wasn't going to see him again, that he'd only live in her memory, until she heard her voice from behind after she left the room. He was there, smiling brightly. 

—I don't usually do this, and I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but I'd really like for this to happen again, without masks, without hiding —he confessed. 

—I'd love for it to happen again —she assured him, making him smile widely. 

—This is my business card —he offered her a white small card—. Call me if you want to meet for a coffee, or a drink. Or text me if you feel more comfortable. 

One look down and everything felt like going around in circles. The similarities kept piling up in her head, even his voice fitted the one she knew, his smile added up to one she had already seen...

Choi San?

Taglist: @brown88

[xtruss]

Lindsey Graham, Reverse Ferret: How John McCain's Spaniel Became Trump's Poodle

— Sidney Blumenthal

On Monday, the senator who praised Hillary and helped get the Steele dossier to the FBI will preside over a hearing for Amy Coney Barrett, a nominee to tilt the supreme court right for years to come. His is a quintessential Washington tale

Lindsey Graham, chairman of the Senate judiciary committee, listens during a hearing on Capitol Hill. Photograph: REX/Shutterstock

Sunday 11 October 2020

That Lindsey Graham would become Donald Trump’s poodle was not a tale (or tail) foretold. But it has landed him in the dogfight of his life for re-election to his Senate seat in South Carolina, challenged by a relentless and capable Democratic candidate, Jaime Harrison, who methodically chased Graham around the ring in their debate, repeatedly jabbing him as a hypocrite, until he struck him with a haymaker, ending the verbal fisticuffs with a TKO: “Be a man.”

Bruised and battered, Graham retreated to his corner, Sean Hannity’s show on Fox News, to beg: “I’m getting overwhelmed … help me, they’re killing me money-wise. Help me.”

Graham has climbed the greasy pole within the Senate, to a position that historically has been rewarded by his state with a lifetime tenure. He succeeded to the seat that Strom Thurmond held for 48 years before he died at 100. From Graham’s chairmanship of the Senate judiciary committee he has taken up the defense of Trump, to unmask the dastardly conspiracy of “Obamagate” and to handle the confirmation of a justice on the supreme court, to pack it with a conservative majority for a generation to come. But just at this consummate moment of his career, events have conspired to dissolve his facade and expose his flagrant hypocrisy. His presumed strength has turned into his vulnerability. Worse, in Washington, where the press has treated him for more than 20 years like the genial star of the comedy club, he has become an object of ridicule.

In British political discourse, a figure like Graham would be described with the seemingly enigmatic phrase of “reverse ferret”, applied to a politician who takes a dramatic and often contorted U-turn. According to the classic work Lying, by Sissela Bok, the word “hypocrisy” has its origins in Greek theater, as the slanted reply of an actor to the action on the stage. “Its present meaning is: the assumption of a false appearance of virtue or goodness, with dissimulation of real characters or inclinations.” The hypocrite deceives in order to be perceived as virtuous. His dishonesty is in the service of an image of honesty.

“Graham Has Always Been More Than Complicit with Liars Like Trump, Not Simply as an Enabler”

Unlike Trump, Graham is not a pathological liar, but his mendacity fits the category of “duping delight” as defined by Bok: “It evokes the excitement, allure, challenge that lying can involve.” For Graham, it’s the thrill of the illicit done in public, creating a suspension of disbelief, the skill of the actor. Graham has always been more than complicit with liars like Trump, not simply as an enabler. From the beginning, well before Trump, he has advanced his career through hypocrisy as his chief means of ambition, knowingly engaging in deceit, adopting a false attitude to win praise and applause as a truth-teller.

The political tasks Trump has delegated to Graham, intended as rescue operations at the close of the presidential campaign, have become showcases for how Graham’s hypocrisy threatens his political life. He squirms in the spotlight he has sought.

On 30 September, Graham called former FBI director James Comey before the judiciary committee as a witness, to somehow prove the “Obamagate” conspiracy theory. According to that inverted theory, the intelligence community’s investigation of Russian interference in the 2016 presidential election to assist Trump was really a plot against Trump. Graham sprayed out multiple falsehoods and distortions to create the impression of a vast conspiracy. One part had already been investigated by the intelligence community inspector general and almost all of it dismissed as untrue. Another piece of the theory, that Hillary Clinton’s campaign contrived the entire story about Trump and Russia to distract from her emails and somehow manipulated the intelligence community, had already been discredited as Russian disinformation.

Graham bore down on Comey, demanding answers about “Hillary Clinton’s approval of a plan concerning US presidential candidate Donald Trump and Russian hackers hampering US elections as a means of distracting the public from her use of a private email server”. To which Comey replied, deadpan: “That doesn’t ring any bells with me.” Graham excitedly harassed him. “Let’s just end with this, you get this inquiry from the intelligence committee to look at the Clinton campaign basically trying to create a distraction, accusing Trump of being a Russian agent or a Russian stooge or whatever to distract from her email server problems …”

“I’m sorry, senator,” Comey replied. “Is there a question?”

Graham and Trump during a campaign rally at the North Charleston Coliseum, in February. Photograph: Al Drago/EPA

Graham’s nonsense was not particularly helpful in laying the publicity groundwork for the potential October surprise of a report from John Durham, the US attorney from Connecticut, named by the attorney general, William Barr, as a special prosecutor to investigate the alleged anti-Trump plot. To Trump’s fury, Barr leaked that the report would not be forthcoming before the election. The planned explosion was a fizzle. “Unless Bill Barr indicts these people for crimes,” Trump railed on 8 October, “the greatest political crime in the history of our country, then we’re going to get little satisfaction unless I win and we’ll just have to go, because I won’t forget it.” That revenge might encompass Lindsey Graham, too, for failing to execute the smear.

On the matter of how the FBI obtained the notorious dossier on Trump’s Russian connections, written by former MI6 officer Christopher Steele. Graham’s manufactured zealotry should have been more earnestly directed toward a cross-examination of himself. The facts are that in late 2016, after Trump’s election, John McCain, Graham’s mentor, disturbed at what he had heard about Trump’s Russian ties, sent an aide, David Kramer, a Russia expert, to London to retrieve the dossier from Steele. In March 2019, after McCain’s death, Trump trashed McCain, saying, “I’m not a fan” and explaining that McCain was the one who gave the dossier to the FBI for “very evil purposes”. But there was an additional subplot. McCain did not act alone.

He asked Graham what he should do with the damaging information. “And I told him,” Graham recounted to reporters, “the only thing I knew to do with it, it could be a bunch of garbage, it could be true, who knows? Turn it over to somebody whose job it is to find these things out, and John McCain acted appropriately.”

That bit of Graham’s own history was never mentioned at his own hearing. He seemed a caricature of the lyrics of Bob Dylan’s Talkin’ John Birch Paranoid Blues:

“Well, I fin’ly started thinkin’ straight

When I run outa things to investigate

Couldn’t imagine doin’ anything else

So now I’m sittin’ home investigatin’ myself!

Hope I don’t find out anything.”

Graham’s risible hypocrisy on “Obamagate”, however, has been overshadowed by a more spectacular case. In 2016, Graham followed the lockstep order of Mitch McConnell, the Republican Senate majority leader, to deny Barack Obama’s nominee to the supreme court, federal judge Merrick Garland, a hearing and committee vote, on the invented doctrine that a president should not be permitted to propose a justice in his last year in office.

“He’s a very nice man,” said Graham about Garland, “… very honest, very capable judge.” But, no dice.

Graham elevated McConnell’s raw cynicism into a constitutional principle. “I want you to use my words against me,” he said. “If there’s a Republican president in 2016 and a vacancy occurs in the last year of the first term, you can say Lindsey O Graham said, ‘Let’s let the next president, whoever it might be, make that nomination.’ And you could use my words against me, and you’d be absolutely right.”

In 2018, with Trump in office, Graham underscored his self-incriminating pledge. He chose his favored venue of the Atlantic festival, where his transfixing hayseed act has been a perennial marquee attraction.

“Now, I’ll tell you this,” he said, pointing his finger. “This may make you feel better, but I really don’t care. If an opening comes in the last year of President Trump’s term and the primary process has started, we’ll wait till the next election.”

“You’re on the record,” his interlocutor, Jeffrey Goldberg, editor of the Atlantic, reminded him.

“Hold the tape,” said Graham. Then, he blurted out a non-sequitur to suggest his next topic and broad expertise: “North Korea.” The audience burst into laughter. (Now, the Never Trumper Lincoln Project is running an ad featuring that tape in an endless feedback loop.)

“Graham’s Antic Hypocrisy Seems Confounding to Some Who Previously Admired Him When He Was a Camp Follower of McCain”

Graham’s antic hypocrisy seems confounding to some who previously admired him when he was a camp follower of McCain’s anti-Putin foreign policy. “Why?” beseeches Anne Applebaum, a former neoconservative turned Never Trumper, about Graham’s transmogrification into complicit Trump enabler, comparing his turn to collaborators with Nazi and communist regimes.

“In this negative sense, collaborator is closely related to another set of words: collusion, complicity, connivance. This negative meaning gained currency during the second world war, when it was widely used to describe Europeans who cooperated with Nazi occupiers. At base, the ugly meaning of collaborator carries an implication of treason: betrayal of one’s nation, of one’s ideology, of one’s morality, of one’s values.”

But Graham did not set out to become a collaborator and traitor when he announced his candidacy in June 2015 for the Republican nomination for president. He pledged he would restore Ronald Reagan’s cold war approach of “Peace Through Strength” and excoriated “Obama/Clinton policies” for weakness against our “enemies”. He was running as a kind of proxy for McCain. Like nearly everything else in his political career, his pose wound up becoming a setup for hypocrisy.

By the fall of 2015, Graham told every reporter whose ear he could bend that he would lay his life on the line to prevent “nutjob” and “jackass” Donald Trump from seizing the nomination. Graham’s campaign had failed to spark the slightest interest. His poll ratings could not break 1%. In the early debates he was demoted to what he called “the kids’ table”, excluded from the big boys’ main stage, and after registering invisibility in a qualifying poll was dropped even from there. Humiliated and broke, he desperately needed to sustain his status in the capital. But he still had access to the social network of Washington journalists, his base constituency, always available to be entertained with his private animadversions of other politicians.

Graham with Jim Gilmore, Rick Perry and Bobby Jindal at a ‘kids’ table’ debate in Cleveland in August 2015. Photograph: Brian Snyder/Reuters

Graham quickly found a relevant role that allowed him to hold the attention he craved: the anti-Trump whisperer. He had learned the lesson long ago when he gained entrée to the Washington press corps as an inside dopester to feed the inside dopesters. With his round boyish face, short height and restless gestures he developed a comedic routine in which he portrayed himself as an innocent who had just stepped out of a brothel to tell us with bug-eyed astonishment about the scenes of debauchery he had somehow stumbled across. To perfect his Huckleberry Finn imitation, one off-kilter wisecrack after another, he always finishes with a trademark darting look of complicit knowing and a smile to seal approval.

As reporters related, during Graham’s anti-Trump phase, his hilarious outtakes described Trump as the Beast threatening western civilization that he, Lindsey Graham, would single-handedly destroy, St George against the dragon. On and on he went, as usual, eliciting laughter, attention and nodding heads, though not votes.

Graham’s public denunciations of Trump went from grim to grimmer. “Go to hell,” he said in March 2016. “I think his campaign’s built on xenophobia, race-bating and religious bigotry.” He soon raised the stakes: “What I see is a demagogue, somebody that has solutions that will never work, that is playing on people’s prejudices and dark side of politics.” When Trump stated in April 2016 that he would deal with Putin as a reasonable partner, Graham was apoplectic. He called Trump’s statement “unnerving,” “pathetic” and “scary”. “Our enemies will enjoy this; our friends have got to be scared to death. It’s nonsensical, it makes no sense. He has no understanding of the world and the role we play.” In May, he tweeted: “If we nominate Trump, we will get destroyed … and we will deserve it.” In June, after Trump had wrapped up the primaries, he said: “I would like to support our nominee, I just can’t.”

Graham’s close association with McCain was the critical event in his makeover. Graham was an air force lawyer who was never a top gun but McCain was the genuine article: a war hero, the preeminent voice of the Republican party for a hardline foreign policy, especially toward Putin’s Russia, and a presidential nominee.

Even before his tagging after McCain, Graham demonstrated a penchant for trailing strong men. In the House of Representatives, elected in the Republican wave of 1994, Graham first attached himself to Newt Gingrich, the radical reactionary speaker who early perfected the toxic politics of polarization. But Gingrich’s erratic character, a prefiguring of Trump, triggered an internal revolt. Graham was one of the rebels who conspired against Gingrich for the crime of being too moderate toward Bill Clinton. Toppling Gingrich, and doing the bidding of the ruthless and corrupt majority leader Tom DeLay, Graham advanced as a House manager in the impeachment, where he performed a histrionic role running up the scales to a high pitch.

“You know, where I come from, any man calling a woman at 2am is up to no good,” he said.

I encountered Graham in his impeachment phase when I was subpoenaed as a witness in the Senate trial. When I entered the Senate hearing room to be questioned, Graham shook my hand and said, “If there’s anyone here who wants to be here less than you, it’s me. That’s right, I’m, we’re, on the wrong side of history.” Graham’s shambolic performance irritated the Republican “judge”, Senator Arlen Spector, a former prosecutor, who repeatedly admonished him. Finally, Spector chided Graham: “We’re still looking for that laser.” Graham quickly ended and bounded over to me to shake hands and say: “Listen, when this is over, when you’re going to introduce a patients’ bill of rights, would you let me be the co-sponsor?” He shook the hand of my wife, Jackie, saying: “I’m sorry. I just don’t know what to say.”

Sometime later, I ran into a friend of Graham’s, Representative Mary Bono, Sonny’s widow, a Republican from California, who cheerfully told me: “Lindsey sure had a good time making fun of your name.” Was Graham an anti-Semite, as she implied? Of course not. He was play-acting, all just in “fun”.

Graham’s impeachment frolics, however, left a residue of a future hypocrisy. In 1999, he argued: “In every trial that there has ever been in the Senate regarding impeachment, witnesses were called.” But in the impeachment trial of Donald Trump, Graham was in the forefront insisting that witnesses, especially former national security adviser John Bolton, not be called. “If we seek witnesses, then we’re going to throw the country into chaos,” he said. Graham’s contradiction was symmetrical to his reverse ferret on supreme court appointments. The running thread of his consistency is his hypocrisy from one side of the Capitol to another.

Elected to the Senate in 2002, in his quest for a more serious persona, Graham fastened himself to McCain. “Lindsey for some reason had sort of a man-crush on John McCain,” said his friend, Senator Steve Largent, Republican of Oklahoma. One southern senator confided to me that he and a number of his colleagues had dubbed Graham “Little Brother”. Graham trotted after the larger than life McCain like a spaniel. In McCain’s presence, “Little Brother” tried to puff himself up as big, too. But the senator I spoke with dismissively waved him away as a chronic self-aggrandizer and hypocrite, and flicked away Graham’s foreign policy talk as aspirational clichés.

Hillary Clinton was then a senator from New York, and at her initiative and to his initial surprise she approached Graham, and they wound up co-sponsoring healthcare legislation for members of the national guard. She was another bigger and stronger figure. He had a kind of crush on her, too. In 2006, he wrote an article for Time Magazine’s 100 Most Influential People issue to praise her as a “smart, prepared, serious senator”, with whom he had found “common ground”.

Most importantly, Hillary was a friend of McCain, augmenting the looming shadow. Together they all traveled abroad on congressional trips, when Hillary and McCain famously closed down bars with shots of vodka. Graham, strictly the “Little Brother”, claimed he abjured the hard stuff. “I was drinking water, pretending it was vodka,” he said. “I had to go to the bathroom, before they stopped drinking.” But one of those present told me he would sometimes nurse a glass of white wine. His teetotaling was a little white lie – a sauvignon blanc lie.

“When Hillary Became Secretary of State, Graham Was Effusive in His Praise.”

When Hillary became secretary of state, Graham was effusive in his praise. In 2012, he stated she was “a good role model, one of the most effective secretary of states [sic], greatest ambassadors for the American people that I have known in my lifetime” and “extremely well-respected throughout the world, handles herself in a very classy way, and has a work ethic second to none”.

But, preparing for his campaign for the Republican nomination, Graham blamed her for the killing of the US ambassador to Libya in a terrorist attack at Benghazi. “Hillary Clinton got away with murder in my view,” he said.

Graham’s brief presidential campaign in 2016 was like the proverbial tree in the forest that no one heard fall. Getting out, his endorsement of Jeb Bush was weightless. After Bush disappeared, Graham moved down the food chain to endorse Ted Cruz. After Cruz washed out, he was left face-to-face with the Beast. Graham gave Hillary a shout-out. “Hillary,” he said, about Middle East policy, “If you get to be president, I’ll help you where I can.” Still the jokester, he wished above all to be seen as a wise man. He was positioning himself to be Hillary’s “Little Brother”. But after Trump won he would befriend the Beast. Graham decided he was not a dragon slayer, after all.

John McCain and Graham at Sather Air Base in Baghdad, March 2008. Photograph: Reuters

“Little Brother” justified his Trump whispering as a grown-up offering his wisdom to guide the naïve newcomer. But it was more than half an excuse for being in the room where it supposedly happens, except in Trump’s room nobody but Trump matters. Trump enabled Graham to think of himself as one of the grown-ups, huddling with the other adults in the room, cheek by jowl with John Kelly and James Mattis, while they enabled Trump. “I think Lindsey feels a little bit like the adult in the room, speaking with the president,” Steve Largent explained. “[T]here’s something about, I’m not going to say innocence, but the president’s affability as well as his naïveté that Lindsey is drawn to.”

Graham’s relationship with Trump flourished from the date McCain was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. Basking in Trump’s presence, Graham happily demeaned himself. Trump, he said, “beat me like a dog” in the 2016 primaries. Before a Republican gathering, he demanded unquestioning loyalty. “To every Republican, if you don’t stand behind this president, we’re not going to stand behind you,” he said. Graham argued that unstinting support for Trump extended beyond any policy issue but required embrace of Trump’s view of himself as a victim of his host of enemies. “It’s not just about a wall. It’s about him being treated different than any other president.”

“The Greatest Pressure on Graham Was That Trump Hated McCain.”

Graham confessed to Mark Leibovich of the New York Times it has all been just an act. “This,” he said, “is to try to be relevant.” How could anyone blame a self-professed hypocrite for his hypocrisy? But he and Trump were also secret sharers as entertainers, playing on hypocrisy. “The point with Trump is,” Graham said, “he’s in on the joke.” But there was something even more alluring. “I have never been called this much by a president in my life. It’s weird, and it’s flattering, and it creates some opportunity. It also creates some pressure.”

The greatest pressure on Graham was that Trump hated McCain. “He lost, so I never liked him as much after that, because I don’t like losers,” Trump said. He went on to denigrate McCain’s captivity as a prisoner of war and torture by the North Vietnamese: “He’s not a war hero. He’s a war hero because he was captured. I like people that weren’t captured.”

“I don’t like what he says about John McCain,” Graham shrugged. “But when we play golf, it’s fun.” He was moving on.

Graham has seemingly shed several skins, but that’s the illusion of the reflected light of the larger figures he has sought out. Contrary to those who measure his character only from his distance from McCain to Trump, he has evolved from hypocrisy to hypocrisy while remaining remarkably the same underlying person he was as an attention-seeking little boy. In 2015, he self-published a short memoir about his early life. He described spending much of his time in the bar his father owned, the Sanitary Café, trying to entertain the white working-class men who frequented it.

“But when the place started to fill in and liven up, I would get my act going,” he wrote. “I would strut around the place, sometimes dressed as a cowboy – hat, vest and plastic six shooters. I might get up on the bar and walk up and down it while talking to folks. When customers went to the restroom, I might steal their beer and chug it. I might smoke their cigarette, too, if they left it burning in the ashtray. Those were antics that earned me the nickname, ‘Stinkball’, which everyone in the bar except my parents called me.”

Graham’s autobiography movingly recounts the illnesses and deaths of his mother and father from cancer. He ends his book as a Republican candidate winning his seat in the South Carolina state legislature at the start of his political career. It makes him wish his parents could have seen his triumph.

Trump, Graham, North Carolina, March 2020. Photograph: Carlos Barría/Reuters

On 28 July 2017, John McCain, in his last act of bravery, strode to the well of the Senate and turned his thumb down to cast the deciding vote against the Republican bill to replace the Affordable Care Act. Graham voted the other way. He had crusaded for years to repeal Obamacare. Yet the ACA would have offered early detection and treatment of the kind of cancers that killed his parents. McCain died a year later.

Graham gave one of the eulogies at the memorial service at the National Cathedral. Trump did not attend. When McCain announced days before his death he was refusing further medical help, Trump alone among prominent officials in Washington had not sent well wishes. Out in the audience sat his daughter and son-in-law, Ivanka Trump and Jared Kushner. Graham had arranged to get them tickets to the funeral.

“Hold the tape. North Korea.” (Laughter)

— Sidney Blumenthal, former senior adviser to President Bill Clinton and Hillary Clinton, has published three books of a projected five-volume political life of Abraham Lincoln: A Self-Made Man, Wrestling With His Angel and All the Powers of Earth

— This article was amended on 12 October 2020. An earlier version misidentified the Atlantic Festival, where Graham made his remarks about a late-term supreme court confirmation, as the “Aspen Ideas Festival”.

[beatricenius]

Please post the fic where Hannigram slay nazis in Sweden. Regards, someone who was at the bookfair in Gothenberg during the demokrati.

@pragnificent who requested Will and Hannibal killing neo-Nazis to begin with. This fic is based on things Nordfront (Nordic Resistance Movement) has done. Warning for xenophobia/homophobia. And graphic depictions of violence, since these things don’t go unpunished. 

It had been a deliberate assertion on Hannibal’s part – of that much, Will was certain.

They were currently making their way through Sweden, and while making a stop in a small town up north, they noticed an odd-looking man standing outside of a mall, one hand behind his steel rod back and a large green banner in the other. He was wearing a white shirt and black slacks, and looking around, Will could see a number of men in the same outfit circling the area. Some of them carried cellphones that they both, in retrospect, should have been more suspicious of. Hannibal spared none of them so much as a glance, but when they passed the man with the banner, his hand slipped into Will’s and squeezed.

The man’s gaze snapped toward them and one of the phones were immediately directed at them. 

Will wasn’t familiar at all with Swedish and had no clue whether Hannibal had any knowledge of Nordic languages, but when the man started talking while letting the phone follow their movements, Will caught Hannibal’s gaze and found his concern mirrored. Hannibal remained perfectly composed as usual, holding his hand in a firm grip as they kept walking.

*

“The banner belongs to a far-right movement,” Hannibal said, tapping on his tablet. “Neo-Nazis, specifically. It appears there is an LGBT event in town and they have gathered to oppose it. Their website contains videos of similar events, where they have filmed participants.”

Will glanced at the screen, where there was shaky footage of two young women with pink and purple hair holding hands while the man behind the camera talked, presumably addressing the viewers rather than the women he was filming.

“Why? I mean, what’s he saying?”

“Unkind things,” Hannibal said, pausing the video. “I assume it’s partly to ridicule, partly to get a message across.”

Will worried his lip between his teeth. “They totally filmed us.”

“I doubt it’s very compromising. It’s a rather obscure website.”

“Still. We should do something before they post it.”

It took no more than a few taps and swipes before they found the familiar face of the man holding the phone on Facebook. His name wasn’t even altered, judging by the fact that an address and other personal information could be found tied to it. He looked young – something about the hair slicked back from his face, drawing attention to his large, kind eyes, but every source they came across stated he was in his thirties. And everything he shared on his social media accounts opposed the idea that he was in any way kind.

“We should hurry. Who knows when they’ll post it,” Will said. “You think they’re still out?”

“We can find out.”

“What do we do when we find out?”

“We ask, politely, that they remove the video.”

*

Asking politely turned out to be an unsuccessful approach. They made sure to walk up to the man with the cellphone when he was alone waiting for a bus, far away from his friends. When the man only shook his head and told them he didn’t know what they were talking about, they gave each other a look and proceeded to trail the bus with their car.

Once the man unlocked the door to his dark, seemingly empty apartment, Hannibal crept up behind him and knocked his head against the brick of the building, hard enough that he fell to the ground, hands cradled around his skull. Hannibal snatched up his phone and pocketed it.

“I wonder what he said when he filmed us,” Will wondered aloud.

“I would rather not find out.”

The man groaned, blinking as if he was confused. His hand started searching the ground and Will caught the moment it started moving where his pocket was, but before he sprang into action, Hannibal stepped down on his hand.

“I wouldn’t,” Hannibal cautioned, digging the sole of his shoe into the meat of his hand until he cried out. The man’s eyes lit up with recognition as he looked up at him, then there was a conflicted mixture of anger, amusement and fear on his face.

“Would you prefer to hold it, maybe?” He sneered. “You just stole my phone and assaulted me. I could report you.”

He tried to get up, and Will stomped down on his chest so forcibly that his head knocked against the ground again. He cried out and hissed a short, angry word, presumably a curse. When he tried to get up a second time, Will dragged him up, wrenched his arm behind his back and forced him face down against the pavement, placing one knee on his back to lock him down.

“You really want to know what I said in the video?” The man ground out. There was blood in his sandy hair and behind the layers of anger and fear and seething hatred, his eyes held a look of disgust. “I said you two should serve as a reminder why the country needs to be closed to outside influences. We don’t want no homophile foreigners dragging the perverse decadence of the upper classes into our honest, hard-working communities.”

“How risky would it be for us to just kill this fucker right now?” Will asked Hannibal. He didn’t know he would be so badly affected by what came out of the man’s mouth, but he was, jaws tensing as anger thrummed alive beneath his skin.

Hannibal opened the door to the apartment with his sleeve, glancing inside.

“If we leave tonight, I suppose it’s a risk we could hazard,” He said, gesturing for Will to come inside.

*

Somewhere between being dragged into his own apartment and strapped down into a chair with a roll of duct tape, the man started acting appropriately scared.

“Poetic justice is tempting,” Hannibal mused aloud. “But I’m afraid the destruction the Nazi regime caused is far too extensive to be applied to one single victim.”

Fear made the man quiet. Will liked that, simply because there was satisfaction to the idea of them having a humbling effect on him. He watched as Hannibal stalked closer, putting his hands on the armrests of the chair.

“It has been said that the Nazis utilized the prisoners kept at the concentration camps for everyday items,” Hannibal leaned closer to the man’s face, effortlessly imposing. “I will have you know that I’m quite crafty myself.”

“There’s an idea,” Will said, though he knew Hannibal was merely trying to intimidate him. They didn’t have time for anything elaborate. “There would be some use for you then, wouldn’t it? Nazi piece of shit.”

“Fuck you,” The words shuddered out of him, but his eyes still held an edge that Will wanted to whittle away at. He shot Hannibal a look.

“Get the duct tape. I don’t want him waking up the neighbors once we start.”

Hannibal stepped back and got the tape while Will picked out his knife from his pocket, advancing slowly.

“I’m not even a fucking Nazi,” The man said, sounding far less confident now. “There’s nothing in our program suggesting—”

“I don’t care what fancy word you want to use,” Will pointed the knife at him. “A Nazi’s a Nazi. You would show your face in public, real name listed everywhere, like you expect no consequences to your actions. Like you’re a predator in a world full of prey, when violent politics spawn violent resistance. What the fuck made you think you’re entitled to safety when you want nothing but to make the world unsafe for everyone that isn’t like you?”

The man tried to jerk away from his restraints, eyes gaining a bright, fevered sheen Will recognized as panic. Hannibal placed a long strip of tape over his mouth, wrapping it all the way around his head for good measure. Satisfied with the tableau, Will tightened his grip on the handle of his knife and stuck it full-force through the front of the man’s pants, twisting the blade in his genitals. The symbolism of it was crude, but Will wanted to speak a language he could understand.

“You want violence, we’ll give you violence,” He said, words slightly drowned out by muffled screaming. If the man’s pants hadn’t been black, he imagined that red stains would spread like watercolor on wet paper. Now they simply looked wet, dark and glistening in the harsh white light of the room. He yanked the knife out and passed it to Hannibal, who accepted it wordlessly.

There was an odd solemnity to Hannibal’s face that Will couldn’t help but notice, a certain vacancy in his eyes that he immediately found disconcerting. It looked like he was far away – a lack of mental presence that Will didn’t recognize in him at all.

He decided to ask later, once Hannibal wasn’t wrists-deep in another man’s torso, prolonging his suffering with a cruel, almost casual efficiency that could only be acquired through years of experience.

*

“Should we have taken something from him?” Will asked from the driver’s seat once they were back in their car. It was dark now and the street lights outside spilled yellow on Hannibal’s face, hollowing his cheeks with dramatic shadows.

“No,” He said. “It’s better we don’t leave our usual MO. We came here to throw Crawford off our scent, the last thing we want is for anyone to be able to track us.”

Will nodded. Something still felt vaguely off. He turned to look at him, searching Hannibal’s face for clues it refused to give.

“Are you ok?” He asked, tentatively.

A small smile softened Hannibal’s features and he didn’t quite snort, but his breath hitched.

“Do you have any reason to believe I’m not?”

Will tried to think of a delicate way to phrase his concerns. He wanted to say that given what he knew of his childhood, being emotionally affected by what transpired between them and the man they just killed would have been understandable. But he knew it would be poorly received, and he didn’t want to go for Hannibal’s throat now that it had been bared, forcibly and unexpectedly.

“When you took my hand before,” He said instead, feeling his way through the dark. “You wanted them to see.”

“I don’t concern myself with politics.”

“Politics concern themselves with you.”

“Would you have preferred that I didn’t take your hand?”

“No. I liked it. I like that you would do that and I like that you agreed to kill him.”

Hannibal frowned and fell silent for a moment. When he next spoke, his voice held a hard edge.

“Whatever notions you are entertaining about me right now are likely false, Will. You should know by now that my decisions aren’t based on any arbitrary sense of morality.”

“No, they’re based on a specific sense of morality that ties into your personal beliefs.”

“And you figure tonight was reflective of my personal beliefs?”

“Wasn’t it?” Will chewed on the inside of his cheek. The apprehension in Hannibal’s face was clear even in the periphery of his vision. “You’re afraid this is going to make me think that you’re a good person. Deep down. That’s it, isn’t it? You think I’ll get my hopes up because we killed a bad guy and it’ll make me pursue a version of you that doesn’t exist. And then we both end up disappointed.”

“Is that your prediction of the future?”

“No, it’s my estimation of your concerns, since you aren’t giving them to me straight.”

Hannibal fell silent once more. Will had set out not to kick him while he was down, yet he felt like that was exactly what he was doing.

“I find all manner of ideology alluding to national socialism distasteful,” Hannibal said, to Will’s surprise. “They are ugly people with ugly views and I would gladly see them eradicated. I held your hand because I’m not intimidated by their presence. I agreed to kill that man because he was appalling. What do you make of that?”

Will smiled a little, warmth threading through the tightness in his chest.

“I don’t need to make anything of it. I just want your honesty. For you to trust me with it.”

He reached out and took Hannibal’s hand, weaving their fingers together. There was still blood under Hannibal’s nails, a rim of maroon that made him want to scrape them clean with his teeth.

“Don’t hesitate to take my hand,” He said, squeezing around his fingers for emphasis. “No matter who’s watching.”

[gaiatheorist]

Food, again.

I’m in one of my precarious states in terms of Mental Health, or Emotional Well-being, or Warm and Fuzzies, or whatever we’re supposed to be calling it this week. I’ve been driving this clapped out bus of a carcass long enough to recognise the warning signs of an impending crash, to be fair, it’s not surprising at all that I’ve ‘lasted’ this long, it’s me, isn’t it? (The counsellor is supposed to be exiting me today, after more-than-double the number of sessions he’s meant to allocate. At the last session, he dropped in “A lot of people wouldn’t have come through what you have.”, and I had to bite back “I’m not ‘through’ it, I’m ‘in’ it.”, and respond “Resilient and tenacious, aren’t I?”, which reminds me of Creepy Carpet Tile Man telling me “You’re like a social experiment, to see how far a person can be pushed, and still remain functional.”.) Without self-diagnosing too much, I’m dealing with a set of external circumstances that aren’t particularly pleasant, and I’m too bastard stubborn to just give up, and live under my duvet. This ‘Nervous Breakdown’ is dragging its arse like a dog with worms.

I can’t ‘fix’ myself any more than I already have, I have plateaued at ‘superficially functional’, a fair approximation of an adult-human, albeit one who has brain injuries. Not that anyone would know, unless I told them. I’m ‘surviving not thriving’, and, while I do still have enthusiasm for some things, they’re quite a narrow range of ‘things’. “Get a hobby”, “Join a group.” “Go out for a walk somewhere nice.”, aye, those suggestions are helpfully trotted out by people who don’t have brain injuries, they don’t mean to be insensitive, they’re just suggesting what they think they’re supposed to. ‘Normal’ situations, to everyone else are profoundly debilitating to me, and explaining that, repeatedly, is exhausting. (Yes, I could get some little cards made up, with “I’m not being ‘off’ with you, I have brain injuries.”, and a list of my common symptoms, but I fear that people would either start asking me even more questions, or, worse still, start talking to me in the loud voice, with the small words. I’m difficult. Appearing ‘normal’, with brain injuries, is difficult.)

I do have brain injuries, and fluctuating Mental Health, what I also have, in a Liam Neeson voice, if you please, is ‘a very particular set of skills.’ Apart from being able to sneak up on people, which is fun, and being able to cross-reference, and apply pre-existing knowledge at a speed that freaks people out, I have an uncanny ability to ‘get underneath things.’ (You at the back, stop laughing, I don’t mean hiding underneath other people’s desks.) I used to flippantly describe that ‘particular skill’ as “I can get where water can’t.”, and, begging for gin on Fakebook aside, it’s the reason I’m not dead. Hyperbole? I don’t think so. The Universal Credit unemployment benefit I’m on, while my PIP disability Tribunal comes through, doesn’t cover my outgoings. It never did, I used my own money to make up the difference at first, and I’m just about to run out of ‘Trust Fund’ payments from my Employment Union, I won’t be coy, it’s a ‘hardship grant’, and, when that runs out, I will start to accumulate significant arrears. (Did you know that utility companies can apply for deductions to be made directly from benefits? I didn’t, until last month, when the water board took a breakdown of my income/outgoings, and noted that, paying my rent, and keeping my phone and internet on, for work-search, and emergencies, what with me being single-and-disabled, left me £40 per month for food. “Instead of £38 per month, you could pay £7.70 per week, would that be OK?” Would £10 per month for food be OK, let me think about that one?) 

I’m effectively ‘shoplifting, but only from large chains’, here. (I’m not ACTUALLY shoplifting, stand down. Some people will be shoplifting, I’ve seen one hell of a spike in ‘security’ vacancies over the last year or so.) Utility companies are corporations, while it’s not ideal for me to go into arrears, they have back-up funding, I don’t. Last month was the first month of arrears, well, technically THIS month is the first month of arrears, when you stop your direct debit, the companies automatically bill you for the payments until the end of the tax-year, asking for money for services you haven’t used yet, which is why I didn’t cancel the utility bills until now. See “Getting where water can’t.”, hopefully I’ll have sorted out the disability benefit before my utility providers can sort the paperwork to take me to County Court, if not, I can evidence to the judge that you can’t pay £749 out, when you only have £662 coming in, and use the StepChange debt advice service templates to offer a ‘temporary payment arrangement’ of £1 per month. Delightful, isn’t it?

All of that is background noise, but it is impacting on my Mental Health, my ‘work coach’ is going to refer me to the DWP ‘Work Psychologist’ at our next session, my money is them telling me I would be in better emotional health if I was working. I know that. This vile predicament I’m in now isn’t a ‘lifestyle choice’, it’s me trying to fight my way through the unfit-for-purpose UK disability benefit system. I’m exceptionally high-functioning on some levels, but not at full-time capacity, I need to work part-time, to compensate for my deficits, but I can’t afford to work part-time on minimum wage. If I’m compelled into full-time work, there is the potential for my known-disability to place myself or others at risk of harm. The bit of DWP that deals with PIP doesn’t communicate with the bit of DWP that deals with UC, my work-coach is really sweet, but, if ‘the system’ kicks in, I could be compelled to apply for jobs that I know I’d be unsafe doing. What a mess. I don’t know how many times I’ll be able to evidence that a job is unsuitable before incurring ‘sanctions.’ (Reason for referral to UC psychologist: UC.)

Background noise aside, I know I’m heading for one of my periodic ‘dips’ in emotional well-being, the symptoms are stacking up. I’m laughing at myself, because my ‘solution’ is very much one of the symptoms as well. To get a little bit personal, without boring you with all of the details, my sleep-pattern is wrecked, I have no energy, very little enthusiasm for most things, lots of “Don’t want to.” days, and a noted increase in urges to self-harm. I’m not standing on the motorway bridge, I never will be, but, yet again, I need to catch myself on this slide before I hit the bottom. (I genuinely CANNOT hit the bottom, as much as that niggly little voice in the back of my head whispers that being sectioned under the Mental Health Act would trigger appropriate support. I don’t believe that it would, I think it would trigger a short stay on D-ward, where I’d be medicated into the same state-of-compliance as the other patients. I’ve visited D-ward a few times, the staff are stretched beyond capacity to cope, I’m not planning to add to their burden.) 

The symptom/solution? A ‘project’. Yes, I know, I bang on all the time about the ex and his ridiculous ‘projects’, I can’t use my shed, because it’s full of his project-crap, and the spare ‘bedroom’ (That you wouldn’t be able to fit a bed in and open the door, I’m probably bedroom taxed on a large cupboard, there.) is also full of crap that he’d bought and then bored of. As is about 3/4 of the loft, oh, and there are two canoes and a ‘spare’ door for his 4wd in the back garden, it’s like living in Steptoe’s yard. My Dad visited me this week, he does ‘projects’ as well, and, while I usually just think ‘knob-head’, and move on, having a different stinky-man sitting in my house, telling me about a greenhouse he was building, and how one of his Facebook posts had “more than 200 likes!” (It was a two-line comment, starting a heated debate about he US president, and it had typos that made me twitchy, I’m not selling myself back to my father as admin, though.) 

Dad banged on for about 300 years about tomatoes. In fairness to him, he doesn’t know I’m allergic to raw tomatoes, and, if I want to keep open the prospect of eventual inheritance, I’m probably going to have to accept occasional carrier-bags of surplus tomatoes. (Nasty side-thought there, not my half-sister on my Dad’s side, and her ponies, and multiple trips overseas, but the fact that my half-sister on my Mum’s side was given their old house when they inherited my Step-father’s maternal home. Oh, and my brother’s extortionate wedding in Greece. I cut off my nose to spite my face in terms of family, I’m gritting my teeth gradually increasing contact, but it looks like I’m smiling.) I will accept the surplus tomatoes, albeit not as enthusiastically as I accepted the birthday gin. What I’m doing here is what I always do, I’m advance-planning for a summer-glut of tomatoes, after almost two years of not having horrible tasteless-mushy ‘Moneymaker’ tomatoes from the Father-in-law occupying fridge space. I’m advance-planning sauces that can be frozen, and chutneys that can be preserved, because eating raw tomatoes makes me really ill. 

I subconsciously started preparing for the likely fruit/veg glut from my Dad yesterday, with my first venture into pickling. ‘Back of the salad drawer pickle’, because one of the peppers had a soft spot on it, and I’d already meal-planned how to make one pot of soup last me all week, without sacrificing a pepper. (Must remember to give the kid the better of the two griddle pans I have. griddle-seared peppers are great.) The ‘project’ isn’t pickling, or soup, or pickle-soup. (Terms and conditions apply, we’ll see if I fall far enough into the rabbit hole to start making pickle-soup.)  The ‘project’, inspired by a Twitter conversation at daft o’clock this morning, insomniac Twitter has some fantastic brains in it, and mine, is ‘Nowt thrown out.’ (I’m a Yorkshire lass, I’m allowed to say ‘nowt’ instead of ‘nothing’, for comedic effect.) When I prepare meals for the kid and I, there are always ‘leftovers’. That’s not actually sloppy portion-control, it’s deliberate now, with the combination of a very low income, and a disability. “Cook once, eat twice.” is now the accepted normal in this house, because the additional effort I need to put in to remain safe whilst preparing food is a drain on my already-diminished resources. ‘Leftovers’ mean that there’s always something immediately available, or something that can quickly be re-purposed. That can be as simple as the kid and his friend having leftover (home-made, from scratch, get me) pizza for breakfast the day after I’ve made it, or more involved, like that time the ‘leftover’ pizza sauce appeared in four different meals. (There’s a side-rant bubbling up about a recent internet issue about the packaging-plastic on pre-prepared vegetables, the insinuation being that EVERYONE who buys pre-chopped food must just be lazy. No, some of us are disabled, the bags of pre-chopped vegetables in my freezer are thumb-savers, as well as life-savers sometimes.) 

As I plate up meals for the kid and I, I’m already planning what to do with the remnants. (Admittedly, I don’t think I’ll repeat the ‘Everything left from the fake-away bunged on one tray, with the last of the pizza sauce, and some more cheese’ experiment, that was a Thursday, I don’t usually cook on a Thursday, so I hadn’t ‘planned’ it as such, it was just that there was food ‘left’, and I can’t afford to throw it away.) When the kid isn’t here, I’m even more frugal in my exertions with ‘preparing and cooking’, if anyone from the PIP-end of DWP is reading this. Actually, if anyone from the UC-end of DWP is reading it, that’s probably relevant, too. Hello, DWP, I’ve had the same pot of soup for every meal this week, you can make that work by only eating once a day, my hair is falling out, my fingernails are splitting, my skin is dull and flaky, I’m hardly ‘polished for job interviews’ right now, because I’m probably malnourished. That’s very ‘me’, I have a hell of a lot of food in the house, but I’m rationing it, because I don’t know how long it will have to last. Welcome to 2018, the siege-mentality chapter.

Everyone is ‘feeling the pinch’, and there are no indications that the current trajectory of domestic affairs in the UK will improve any time soon. Food costs are increasing, the cost of everything is increasing, but very few people have an income that is increasing in proportion. There are various incentives on-going in the UK to reduce wastage, but that’s not going to have much of an impact immediately. People in general are used to having a wide range of food readily available, and throwing away far too much of it. (The ex was a swine for it, he’d throw out things that had “Gone bad.” despite not actually having checked whether they were still OK. It became evident, over a period of years, that he had no sense of smell, there’s nothing quite like trying to work, and having someone shove a carton of milk under your nose. I married a gibbon, who once fished a packet of Quorn slices out of the kitchen bin and ate them. Yes, they were sealed, but I’d binned them because they were a month past the use-by date.) That’s what some people won’t understand at first, that ‘best before’ might as well say ‘buy more.’

Retailers might be paying lip-service to the whole ‘reduce, re-use, recycle’ idea, but they’re not going to kill the golden goose of ‘best before’ any time soon. Some people don’t know how to ascertain whether food is spoiled, so that little date on the packaging is taken as the expiry date, then edible food is thrown in the bin, and replaced by more food that might well follow it. There is information out there about ‘best before’ and ‘use by’ dates, but the big supermarkets aren’t really shouting it from the rooftops, the Co-op IS trialling a scheme of a 10p “Don’t be a binner, have it for dinner!” selection of ‘expired’ canned and dried goods, but the scheme is limited to 125 stores in the east of England. The cynic in me wonders how prominently displayed the reduced goods will be, before the Co-op declares the scheme is closing due to poor take-up.

I was browsing ‘recipes for leftovers’ yesterday, no particular reason, as I didn’t have any leftovers to use up. I’m not counting the last portion of soup in the slow cooker as leftovers, that’s meal-planning. The results of my internet search made me angry. Everything makes me angry, and, on reflection, looking at the recipe sections on the websites of major supermarkets was the wrong place to start. (I’d started there because I couldn’t risk the sudden pop-up of video-adverts on independent sites, it’s a brain damage thing.) Supermarkets don’t *really* want you to use up leftovers, what they want people to do is keep buying more than they can use, and throwing it away on the mystical ‘best before’ date, then replacing the thrown-away product with an identical one. Oh, and that thing that’s on 3-for-2, and one of those ‘New!’ things in the display near the checkout. The supermarket recipes-for-leftovers were deliberately complicated, and, in most cases, required ingredients that people might not have ‘in the house.’ Wahey, I have a portion of ‘whatever’ in the freezer, I’ll have a look for ideas of what I could whip it into. Oh, wait, I don’t have any saffron (I do.) or any fresh rosemary (there’s some in the freezer, I need to clean the bits of rosemary out of EVERY bloody freezer drawer.), better pop back out to *Insert supermarket here* to pick some up, ooh, a 3-for-2 on something I didn’t go in for, what a bargain. (It’s only a bargain if you wanted 3, and you can use them...) 

This is where the ‘Poor people eat rubbish’ comments happen, and where I feel compelled to shout “No, we don’t!” I am living well below the poverty line, my UC is something like 1/3 of the national ‘average’ income. ‘Poor people just order take-away!’ ‘Poor people cannot cook from scratch!’ ‘Poor people think chickens lay cheese!’, OK, I exaggerated on that one a bit, but it wouldn’t surprise me. It’s the outsiders-looking-in thing again, yeah, you can’t see much if you look in here, because my massive telly is in the way of the window. “Don’t buy pre-packed, it’s lazy, it’s cheaper to buy from a farmer’s market!” One of my hands doesn’t work, and the farmer’s market is on once a month, in a town a £4 return bus journey away, do you really think I can carry a month’s worth of vegetables home on a bus? “Don’t buy from convenience shops, it’s more expensive, use one of the discount supermarkets!” Again, I live in a village that’s relatively remote, not as cut-off as some, but the £4 return bus fare for a ‘big’ shop at Aldi, or even the £2.50 back home if I manage to walk there are pounds no longer in my pocket for food. “Don’t use the ‘big’ supermarkets, it’s better to buy from small, independent retailers!” Mate, have you SEEN my High Street? We have a Tesco, more charity shops than I can count, some nail-bars, some take-aways, and about four billion hairdressers. There’s a butcher, I’ll just subsist on hooves and tripe, to ease my civic conscience, shall I?

Until you’ve made one slow-cooker of soup last all week, don’t get judgemental at me for using 28p own-brand dried mixed herbs, instead of hand-chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley. Don’t tell me that I’ll ‘ruin’ a dish by using sunflower oil instead of extra virgin olive oil, or that own-brand and budget-range foods are ‘cheap and nasty’. More than that, don’t assume that, because my weekly food allowance is roughly £10, I must be living on £1 ready meals, and white cider. 

My ‘project’, to distract myself from my ‘emotional well-being issues’ is something I dabbled with the idea of a while ago, but never got around to doing. I’m going to set up another blog somewhere, on the theme of ‘Nowt thrown out.’ When I speak to Approved Food about my kidnapped sausages (Better just not to ask about that.), I might ask about linking up, for ad-revenue as store credit. People who have always had plenty of food are going to need to reduce wastage, as costs increase. People who have ‘never’ cooked are going to have to learn. People scraping by on next-to-nothing might appreciate tips on how to make f*ck-all go a little bit further. I’ll feel like I’m doing something useful, and it’ll keep me out of trouble. Possibly.

[awintersrose]

The Sweetest Perfection

Pairing: Jiraiya/Orochimaru/Tsunade

Rating: Mature

Warnings: None. Just mild smut and fluffy goodness

Oneshot drabble inspired by @nikkxb regarding the “on a mission and there is only one bed” trope as applied to the Sannin. Enjoy!

Yes, the title refers to the song by Depeche Mode.

Yugakure seems to be a far more exciting locale than any other place that Team Hiruzen has been sent on a mission thus far. They have been assigned a relatively simple stakeout and assassination operation, and their target is set to arrive tomorrow, but the inn that they arranged to stay at for the night at has been overbooked, and they find themselves without lodgings. There is some kind of seasonal festival going on throughout Hot Water Country, and scores of travelers have flocked to the unexpectedly tourist-friendly hidden village, so vacancies are especially scarce.

After an evening spent going from hotel to hotel searching for a place to stay, instead of enjoying the nightlife, Tsunade manages to find them a room. But their relief quickly becomes immense dismay as they open the door to discover that the tiny room only has one bed. A luxuriously soft bed, with fine linens and fluffy pillows. The sight of it alone is incredibly inviting, as all three are exhausted after having completed two back to back missions, followed by several more days of rough travel. None of them are particularly interested in giving up the first bed they have encountered in that time.

“You know, you guys could always just be gentlemen and let a lady have first dibs…” Tsunade suggests, and Jiraiya groans. Orochimaru merely sighs and blinks disinterestedly at the both of them, content to let his teammates haggle it out before he adds anything to the argument. A surprising number of conflicts have been settled by just letting them bicker it out.

“Sorry, Princess, but no. The floor is hard, there are no extra bedlinens, and I would kinda like a shot at a good night’s sleep before our target arrives tomorrow.” Jiraiya argues grumpily.

His emotional state is rarely swayed from anything other than constant cheer, and Tsunade, suddenly feels quite selfish, knowing that the men are just as tired of sleeping on the ground as she is, and they too deserve a bed for the night. To their surprise, she quickly relents.

“Fine. It’s a big bed, and it’s just one night. I’m sure we’ll all fit.”

At first, none of them can easily relax. The initial dilemma of who should sleep next to whom is easily dealt with by virtue of the fact that Tsunade does not entirely trust Jiraiya to keep his hands to himself. Orochimaru prefers not to have covers ripped away from him in the middle of the night, so he separates the two of them, opting for the spot in the middle. So long as he’s warm, he rarely moves in his sleep - his teammates have seen this and consider it an oddity, but useful in this circumstance, they suppose.

What Tsunade, Jiraiya, and Orochimaru don’t talk about is the fact that they have been dancing around the inevitability of touching each other for the better part of the last two weeks, trying to pretend a certain incident had not happened. A certain incident involving a night of drinking, which led to an impromptu game of drunken truth or dare, which led to a certain three-way makeout session that could have progressed to much more had one of Jiraiya’s one-night stands not paid an unexpected visit to his apartment. All three blamed the alcohol for their actions that night, even claiming to not remember much of what occurred, but tension has been shimmering along the surface of their interactions for the last couple of years. There is a thread of attraction weaving a more complicated pattern of feelings between the three of them, and the alcohol just gave them the push they needed to act.

The bed is indeed large, but there is not quite enough space for the three teammates to lie side by side without some form of bodily contact. Jiraiya is ridiculously tall and broad, and no matter how they adjust the way they all lie there, someone’s arms or legs are brushing in some way. Exhaustion wins out eventually and it no longer matters. Fresh from baths, with satisfied bellies after a hot meal, they doze off within minutes of one another. Or so it seems.

Jiraiya’s arm falls across Orochimaru’s waist as he nods off. The snake user is discomfited by the contact at first, but the fact of the matter is that it actually feels quite nice, and Jiraiya is incredibly warm, radiating heat and the soft scent of woods and earth. Orochimaru almost feels more cozy than when he is tucked in his favorite spot under the kotatsu at home, so he deems it acceptable, and tries to ignore the slight trickle of excitement creeping down his spine when Jiraiya shifts, cuddling more closely against his side.

Tsunade lies still for the most part, though at a certain point she turns to snuggle into her pillow, but ends up resting her head against Orochimaru’s shoulder instead. Her hair is loose, falling in shimmering strands around her face, and she smells sweet, like spun sugar and vanilla. He has never been one for liking anything sweet, but on her it’s enticing, and he is suddenly very uncomfortable. He is painfully aware of the both of them, and sleep does not come easy.

By the time the light of dawn is filtering in through the glass balcony doors, Tsunade is only hazily aware of two things; the languorous warmth of an entirely too pleasant dream in which a lover wakes her with a kiss, and how comfy she feels snuggled up against him, with her face tucked in against his throat, wrapped securely in his arms. The skin against her cheek is warm and petal soft, scented with something familiar and soothing, like lavender and spice. Tsunade brushes her lips across the fluttering pulse point, and he stirs. Fully conscious, she immediately realizes that this dream lover is a real man, her teammate in fact, and that she is dangerously close to waking him up in a precariously sensual position.

Orochimaru is already awake, but adept at pretending otherwise. With Jiraiya curled against his back and Tsunade in his arms, he does not want to admit to himself how wonderful it actually feels to be embraced by the both of them. When she practically kisses his neck, it sends heat throughout his face and his belly, and he struggles to force his breath to remain deep and even, regulating his pulse, and desperately hoping she won’t notice. Thankfully, Tsunade seems to be oblivious and taking liberties; her fingers card through a wayward lock of Jiraiya’s shaggy white hair that has somehow fallen over his shoulder, before doing the same with his, sending spidery little shocks of sensation along his scalp. Precisely the reason he has always hated (secretly loved) having his hair touched by others.

Then Orochimaru feels the heat of Jiraiya’s mouth pressing against the juncture of his neck and shoulder, while large hands skim his waist reflexively, and he gasps openly as Jiraiya sleepily murmurs an unintelligible but certainly saucy endearment. Tsunade freezes against Orochimaru’s neck, and he opens his eyes to see her trying and failing to feign slumber once more except it’s too late, and she knows she is caught. She draws back just enough for her honey colored eyes to meet his incredulous golden stare.

“Ah, um…good morning,” Tsunade says softly, her eyes fixed on the adorable blush that has stained his cheekbones a vivid scarlet. She can feel his heartbeat racing, and he wets his lower lip, drawing her gaze there instantly. She has a faint recollection of just how soft his lips actually are, how they feel pressed against hers, while another, rougher, pair travels down her neck…

“Good morning,” he responds, as if testing the words, or saying them for the first time.

“Mmm, good morning!” Jiraiya cuts in happily, “Kami, this is damn cozy. Who knew you would be so cuddly, Oro?”

Orochimaru goes very still, and for a moment none of them move, talk, or breathe. It is utterly quiet, and Tsunade can feel her own heartbeat thumping in her ears.

“Are we really going to act like we aren’t all enjoying this?” Tsunade blurts out. “We can’t keep pretending it didn’t happen.”

“Pretending what didn’t happen?” Jiraiya asks blithely.

“Stop that. You know exactly what I am talking about. Or did your booty call that night manage to make you forget?” Tsunade sits up in a huff, and the men shift away from each other, following suit.

“No, she left after you did.”

“Ha, so you do remember! Why lie about it? I mean, seriously guys, was it really so bad?” Tsunade is turning several shades of red at this point, and chewing at her bottom lip nervously. Orochimaru’s eyes dart between each of his teammates, and he grits his teeth, reluctant to answer.

“Not at all. In fact, it was amazing. I would have gladly had my wicked way with you both had we not been interrupted.” Jiraiya’s low voice ends on a seductive purr, and he smiles, but this smile is anything but innocent. It is sultry and a tad bit dangerous, the smile of a man who knows exactly what he wants, and that he is about to ensure that he gets it.

“Now what makes you so certain that that would be the way of it?” Orochimaru finally snaps.

“Because, beneath your prickly facade, dear Oro, is a grumpy, attention-starved pussycat who just needs to be stroked the right way. You know I could have you purring in no time.” Jiraiya leers close to Orochimaru, who visibly gulps, taking a halting breath.

Jiraiya’s dark eyes shift to Tsunade, and he reaches out a hand to smooth loose strands of her hair back away from her face.

“There is nothing better than the way the two of you feel in my arms and beside me. Why wouldn’t I want to take the ultimate plunge - heh - and see where it leads us? You are both just so damn stubborn, I didn’t want to be the one to push if you did actually regret it.”

“I…didn’t-don’t regret it. I just don’t want our team dynamic to change,” Tsunade says meekly.

“Nor do I. It seems too much like playing with fire,” Orochimaru whispers, staring at his hands.

“Well, truth is, out of this whole world, you’re both my most important people. I can’t believe I am actually saying this, but I’d rather just stay your teammate, beside you, protecting you, watching your backs, than have something like sex cause a rift between us. We–”

His words are cut off quickly as Tsunade hastily leans forward across Orochimaru’s lap, and crashes her lips against Jiraiya’s. His lips are dry and hot against hers, and it is a graceless, fumbling sort of kiss, but by the time they break apart, they are both flushed and panting hard. They draw back to see their other teammate staring at them, visibly shaken, and practically vibrating with want, but as usual he is too obstinate to admit it.

“I want this. I want us. And I really don’t think we should deny what feels natural. What do you think, Oro?” she asks, meeting his wide, golden eyes. “I mean, I have thought about this for a while now, and that night… everything felt so right. Seems wrong to let that be the end of it. Could we maybe just see where it leads?”

“Only if you’re both sure it’s what you really want,” he says quietly, looking at them both in turn, quickly realizing that Jiraiya and Tsunade are each grinning from ear to ear. His heart gives a violent little flip within his chest, and he feels his lips quirk into an answering smile in spite of his attempts to remain neutral.

Tsunade immediately laces her fingers through his silky black hair, intentionally tickling against his scalp, and as he gasps, she seals her mouth to his, kissing him hungrily. When the tip of her tongue presses past his lips, it is as though a dam breaks within him, and Orochimaru is flooded with the same relentless craving that was set free before that last time they were together like this, albeit with the help of a great deal of alcohol. His arms close tightly around her soft, yielding form, but it isn’t enough. He wants Jiraiya too, and grabs at the other man’s shirt, pulling him closer, and kissing him hard. Before long, all three are trading feverish kisses, and touching as much of each other as they dare.

They are above all things, a team, and they have always worked together as a perfect unit; the exhilarating task of loving one another is no different. In quick succession, each one of them is subject to the unrestrained affections and curiosities of the other two. Laughter and delighted sighs fill the air between them as hands wander in eager discovery, and pajamas are tugged away, traded for the joy of actually embracing skin to skin. Fingers, lips and tongues map the secret places of each others’ bodies, until pleasure zings through each of them, building until every action between them becomes more and more desperate.

None of the trio are virgins, but there is something about this encounter that feels like they are experiencing everything for the first time, as though their other partners were but a pale imitation of what lovers could truly be. Every sensation is sharply vivid and intense, and when their bodies are truly joined in a rush of slick, tight heat and hardened flesh, they rapidly find themselves careening toward the apex of pleasure and falling headlong over the edge, one after another.

The three teammates return to themselves in an exhausted pile of entwined limbs, sweat-drenched skin, and tangled hair. Gentler kisses are exchanged as they disengage from one another and rest more comfortably, with the covers drawn up over their naked flesh once more. Tsunade feels completely and utterly relaxed, tucked snugly between both men, her men now. It is warm and comfortable in this space, with Jiraiya spooned up against her back, and her head resting against Orochimaru’s chest, listening to him breathe. Sleep comes easily, and they all rest peacefully for another hour, until the alarm clock that they had set the night before goes off with a shrill ring.

Their mission is a swiftly accomplished success, and in many ways they seem more unified, as though they are more in sync with one another than they have ever been. Perhaps it’s because the awkwardness surrounding their mutual attraction to one another is now gone and they are all more focused on their responsibilities than they were before. Whatever the case may be, the success of their mission has dashed away their lingering doubts, and all three are in favor of exploring a future together as more than just friends or teammates.

The journey back home to Konoha is almost too easy, and since even at their worst they travel far faster than other teams, the few mischievous detours they take into the woods together do little to prevent them from arriving on time. At home, they make no attempt to hide their newfound relationship from anyone, as they remain an effective team. When they move in together a month later, no one is surprised.

In the end, everything may be different between them, but nothing has actually changed. The love that they each already bore for one another is just freely and openly expressed, and it brings a sense of joy and purpose to their lives that wasn’t there before.

It also gives Jiraiya plenty of inspiration for his novels.

[sun-moonflowers]

Decluttering thoughts

I’m not too sure where exactly to begin writing this because my thoughts have been extremely crowded recently. I attempted to clear this up, perhaps unsuccessfully, in terms of finding some resolution or peace with myself. Writing has not proved itself to appease, however unrelentingly I have scribbled in the past few days about worries both real and petty. To first account for my decision of putting this up here instead of my proxy for the few reasons being this is primarily text and the latter does not serve this purpose in its primary function; it also takes the formality out of the context that i wish to preserve; neither do I have to consider the relevance or ill-relevance of an image to match this murk for whichever image I choose will either be unequable in what I am trying to convey. In part, I owe this slightly pretentious formality to what I have been reading — it is fascinating to consider how what we read affects our manner of speech so readily, how we are such malleable creatures — most of which are academic, some incoherent and others dense but illuminating, all of which in their certain positives have momentarily assumed my speech as so. I have marked my prose with sub-headers, if you wish to skip the parts that less interest you, do feel free. 

An indefinite break from social media

I have a couple of thoughts lately, which I refer to as contemplations because they involve an action or call to action which I am pondering over its necessity and consequence. Among it includes the consideration to do away with my proxy platform. This in part is due to a larger desire to distance myself from social media and go offline for an extended period — by this I mean an indefinite hiatus. Lately it has occurred to me that this pressure of visibility is unwarranted and unnecessary, even distracting to making good art or good work. It is something I could do without because neither my life nor my income depends on it (though I have no income to speak of currently.) If I am finding nothing meaningful in whatever I post and all these actions are in fact mere gestures, self-aggrandising and therefore possessing the power to do otherwise, should it not be without a question to do without so as to do better? Another of which stems from the inadequacy of the platform in presenting thought and coherence as I would like it. Owing to my obsessive natures in this respect, it is frustrating to deal with it all the time. So for those of you who read this will know then, that if my silence has become obvious, it is not without reason. I would then request for you to write to me instead, if you so wish to know how I am. Letters are most welcome, but the instantaneous messages over mobile devices will not be shunned either. This distance is aimed at breaking the attachments formed between my sense of self, time and occupation with the entrapment of social media and its dangers, folly, excessive — not friendships.  

Academic woes: a headache basically

A rut that I have been within in the past couple of days has been with regards to my next essay. This predicament can be attributed to a few things that form my incoherence and hence no sense of direction in which to take for this essay. To provide context, I am researching on Orientalism in the 19th century. My initial idea was to compare and contrast ballet repertoires choreographed during the late 19th century to early 20th century, and their representation of the Orient/ Exotic/ Other through the female body. Ideally, this would create many opportunities for discussion: fear projected in terms of imperialism, or perhaps classism thereby leading to ornamentalism rather than Said’s Orientalism; the male gaze and the female nude as prevailing practices and the Orient is a means of perpetuating that rather than representing anything; using Freud’s analysis on dreams and the erotic to explore if perhaps the sexualisation and sensualisation of the exotic is a deeper desire concealed by the Europeans than necessarily a means of subjugating the Other, for the Other is perhaps merely a means in which to distance such desires from themselves as they would hope to preserve as pristine, godly, restrained. 

But, not everything goes as we intend it to be. There is a sore lack of research on Orientalism in ballet, and a greater cavity in the archival footages of ballet in the past. In part, photography was only gaining momentum in its infancy and the acclaimed  Diaghilev also made sure that no recording of his choreography was permitted. That poses the question: how do you write about ballet if you have yet to see it live for yourself, even if through a screen? I can only read about it, and as with all secondary accounts, they might not be entirely factual; and as with all theatrics, there is a habit of exaggeration in play that I expect no less of an extravagance like ballet. So right now I am left with the ballet-russes of the 20th century, not 19th century — and only one was extensively publicised and studied over (that being Schehezerade, inspired by the Arabian Nights), and perhaps Salome, but that is a biblical tale, not exactly about the Eastern culture at all. I ever thought of doing a cross study of ballet, painting and perhaps poetry or literature, but none quite inspires as much as my initial imperative. 

A part of me also wishes to make study the psychological/ social use of the East to represent sensuality and sexuality during that time. Perhaps as time continues to pass, I will not have the liberty to be choosy about this. Having written all these down, I surprisingly might find a way around this. I shall first delve into the possibility of the latter as my directive and see if there are possibilities for such. It feels like such a huge task because there is so little written about it, which might be an optimistic thing, in terms of originality, yet it also places such immense pressure on validating the arguments. It could go right with this, or very very wrong. I have rambled too much about my homework, which I would assume, not even make much sense to anyone other than myself. But all this is cathartic in a way. Now moving on —

The New Year and Turning 21

It is the doubling of the new year and turning a year older that always somehow leaves me more troubled and reclusive during this period than one would perhaps expect of in the festivity of the new year. This year has proven more weighing than the others, and if you may ask what turning 21 feels like, I think I have an answer compared to any one who thinks there’s not much change. It is only those still amid transitionary states do they feel most deeply what the ‘coming-of-age’ truly entails. Most days I am rattled by the worries of finances, and the ability to manage it properly and more than just adequately. I admit that I have ridiculous savings plans that require me to eat myself but I am confident that they are not impossible. This ridiculous savings plan is a method of future planning because this will be my funding after I graduate and anticipate the few months that I need to fight very crazily hard to stay here. It is almost sickening to think that if I save half of my allowance every month, I would have only saved a year of my tuition fees by the time I graduate. But it also reveals to me how hard I need to make my education worthwhile and my time here more worthwhile than anyone else. I also loathe the financially-conscious me who has to opt out of everything because it just isn’t within my priority nor means to do so. If you read this, I am not asking for sympathies or what not, maybe just the courtesy of not talking about it because it is already on my mind 24/7 and I just don’t want to talk about it further. 

Money is a very real and disgusting problem, but we cannot do away with it, that would require an upheaval of entire economies and world that we have long set in stone for ourselves to relinquish. So as always this still stands: to beat the system is to excel in it, and gain the freedom in which it will allow you the options to stay away from it. I spent New Year’s Eve and countdown vacuuming the house and changing my sheets, making my house clean after two weeks of holiday. It’s the reality that a celebration is momentary and there are more important things to see to — the celebration can perhaps wait until you are in the mood for it. While everyone is planning some big party and joyous thing, I’m just thinking if I should catch that movie cause it would cause money; if I should go for tea as a treat to myself but that would also cost unnecessarily which I can instead use for classes or something else; staying at home alone would seem too sad and sorry; maybe I should take my film camera out for the afternoon and explore London instead. (But I am looking forward to dinner with Lynn that evening.) 

Yesterday, I wrote a list of goals for the year: things I wish to accomplish in this year. It is encouraging and motivating to have that list up on my desk wall. Let’s hope I do stick to realising them. And perhaps I should even do away with using the word ‘hope’ excessively, because it only provides excuses and consolation for when I do not actually accomplish anything. To also reduce the dependency on these words: ‘just’, ‘maybe’, ‘hope’. 

Unemployment; recruitment is a pain

Currently still unemployed. It is disheartening when you can’t even get a temporary job under your school because it’s by a first come first serve basis — and though you think you would be the first when you reply to the email immediately, you’re just that few letters short of time. How shameless can one also get? Or which desperation drives us into. I applied for the same job which rejected my application last October because I really really want to work there. There is no reply and I only think of the worst lately. Next week, I tell myself to grit my teeth and go to a few places to ask if they have any part-time vacancies. I am crossing my fingers I get some good news with that. If I have this job, then I wouldn’t have to worry so much about finances. I also tell myself it is only 4 months since I’ve moved here and I need to give London some time, so time I will take. But recruitment, you really are a pain. 

My thoughts have presently escaped me and I shall pause here till they return, should they ever. School reopens tomorrow and many things await but taking a step at a time. Adulthood is terrifying and burdensome and whoever thought of this vicious cycle is a maniac. (We are worse, for buying into it and living it.)

[armpirate]

Kalla | Choi San || Chapter 13

MASTERLIST Previous || Next

Pairings: CEO!San x fem!reader

Genre: smut, angst, fluff, strangers to lovers.

Warnings: dom!San, sub!reader, voyeourism, use of sex toys, bondage, dirty talk, BDSM, exhibitionism, rough sex.

Summary: She was surprised by how fast her life went from the perfect fairytale to the destructive mess it had turned into. Dealing with a cheater ex boyfriend, having to move out to a different place because the house she lived in belonged to that man she once dreamed of spending the rest of her life with, while continuously being underappreciated at work... It was as if life was telling her to stop dreaming big, to go back to her small town, Bibury, and help her parents run the small farm her family had owned for decades.

At least until she received a call from her friend.

A sudden vacancy as an assistant showed up on one of her friend's system, having her being encouraged to take that big step and apply for it. She had no hopes for it. Mainly because she didn't have any experience on the field, and she didn't comply with most of the requirements that were added on the offer -and which most of them sounded ridiculous and exaggerated for the position, making her wonder who was the freak who needed so many guidelines in order to hire someone to pick up the phone and schedule events. 

Although that hotel she'd be working on was much more than anything she could've come up with. 

Choi San wasn't someone easy to deal with. After his previous assistant presented his resignation letter on his desk, he felt forced to start the whole selection process again -after merely two months. 

Sure that he was being way too strict, enough to find that anyone who applied for the position wasn't enough, he asked one of his friends to be in charge of the interviews and the selection of the most adequate candidate. 

Little did he know Wooyoung would hire the imperfectly perfect candidate for him, sure that she'd help him in many ways other than just in dealing with the responsibilities of his position. 

A new challenge will come their way as soon as she steps inside the hotel. 

Y/n will have to learn how to mold onto him and deal with all his small habits and requirements, and San will find himself trying to open up and let out all those same things that turned him into the person he was. 

The more she digs in Kalla and all of its secrets and exciting corners, the deeper she'll dive into San's heart and soul... Although, maybe, she won't be able to take it. 

Kalla opens its doors to you, sharing the vast amount of filthy and erotic plans it offers, and that you can join with a partner... Or maybe just by yourself. 

Hope you enjoy your stay.

Chapter duration: 14 minutes

Y/n couldn't remember her way back home. Her mind didn't pay attention to the way back on the taxi, it was too busy trying to wrap around the fact that she just had sex with her boss, after complaining exactly about fantasizing with him. It hadn't even been a few hours since Rosie was telling her to go to bed with someone else to get him out of her head.

How couldn't she notice it was the person she was trying to avoid?

His voice sounded so velvety, his smile was so shiny... Hell, even his eyes had a different light behind the holes of his mask. That man could be her boss, but the person in the Spadix had nothing to do with the Choi San she knew.

—Out of all the men —she whined, bending forward to her knees, with the belt tightening around her collarbone and pressing against her skin.

After opening the door to her apartment, with the code Seonghwa had shared with her, the funny sound scratched her ears.

The place was fully dark when she stepped on the entrance, only for all the lights to turn up while she took off her shoes, with Seonghwa looking at her concern from the living room.

—Didn't I tell you to call me?

And he was right.

But she ran so fast from Kalla that she didn't even remember it. And even if she had thought about it, she probably wouldn't have called either. She needed to get out of that place before San walked after her and caught her without the mask.

—I forgot —she picked up her heels from the floor, walking to the tall man still waiting for her—. I still got here well. See?

—Yeah —his tone sounded unsure—, I see. But next time, call me.

—Okay —she assured him—. Now let's go to sleep, shall we? It's been a long day.

—Why do you look more stressed than when you went out? —Seonghwa dared to ask, while her hand guided him to their respective rooms.

—Because I am —she sighed.

—Well, it was a business dinner, so I guess it's normal.

What happened that night was karma giving her a lesson after lying. She said she was going to a business dinner, and the universe turned her quick sneak out night into a horrible mistake she didn't know how to solve.

Her anxiety was kicking in with the possibility of San noticing it was her.

—If he had known, he probably would've let me know —she thought out loud.

Unless he thought she didn't know, and he didn't want her to run away.

But if he had known, he probably would've told her something after they were done, so the biggest possibility was that San just didn't know who he had sex with.

But she knew, and she was trying to think how she'd be able to look at him dead in the eye after what she did. And, even worse, how she'd keep up with the lie. It was something that San would probably know eventually.

—What do you want? Shouldn't you be sleeping? —Lizzie answered the phone call.

—I'm adding Rosie and Joanne —Y/n informed, before scrolling her fingers through her screen to add her two friends, who didn't take long to answer.

—What do you all want? I had a date —Rosie commented.

—Why are you awake? —Joanne asked, referring to Y/n.

—That's what I asked —Lizzie's voice sounded muffled, along with the sound of her sheets moving.

—I did something —Y/n started— bad. Something really bad. Like... really really bad.

—Did you fuck up at work? —Joanne was the first to answer.

—Did you fight with a customer? —Lizzie was the second to speak, trying to guess.

—You finally punched your boss —Rosie said excitedly.

Her gulp was so heavy and thick that she was sure her three friends heard the nervousness that went along with it. Just the indirect mention of San had her nervously remembering everything that happened.

—It has to do with my boss, yeah.

—Oh no, you left the job?

Lizzie knew how sensitive Y/n could be, and it was of no help the few night Y/n had called in between sobs because she didn't find her place. She had her job, she had colleagues, and she had a place to stay, but she didn't have her family and friends and, as much as Y/n wanted to deny it, it was tough to be away from all of them.

—Can you just tell us what you did? —Joanne demanded, losing her patience at the long silence from their friend.

—I did something bad with him...

—Shit, you fucked him —Rosie interrupted.

—You did what? —their other two friends questioned.

From there, their voices were mixed together and it was impossible to grasp something else that wasn't random words thrown over the air. And that only made her more nervous. She didn't know how to explain it, because no one knew the type of hotel she was working at. Right then, not only she was regretting getting to bed with him, she was also regretting telling her friends because of all of the explanations she'd need to do.

—That asshole took advantage of you. I'm sure he was just being a pain in the ass to make you weak enough so you wouldn't say no —Rosie started explaining—. If I were in Seoul, I'd rip his balls and make him eat them, and then...

—He didn't know it was me —Y/n rushed to explain.

And silence came back. Neither of her friends were sure they understood properly what she meant.

—Was he drunk? Because that can make things worse for him —Lizzie spoke calmly.

—Set his hotel on fire with him inside, and let him watch it all crumble —Rosie continued.

—He wasn't drunk. He was pretty aware of what he did.

She wished his lips and his fingertips didn't feel so vivid on her skin with just the thought of them.

—Y/n, honey, you need to be clear on what happened.

—Okay —she sighed, as a sign of the tongue twister that was going to be spilled—. I went to a nightclub. It was a mask night, so everyone was wearing one and it was difficult to tell people apart. So I went there, after Rosie told me to get to meet someone. There was this hot guy on the other side of the bar, and he came to where I was. And he was so tall, so sexy, he smelled so well... Before I could realize his tongue was on my throat and his hands under my skirt. Thing is, I didn't know it was my boss while all of that happened, but I knew it later because he gave me his business card because he wanted to meet me again.

—Ohh, so you fuck that good?

—Rosie! —Joanne scolded her.

—Okay, it was a mistake. And, in the worst of the cases, it was your boss who didn't know it's you —Lizzie tried to calm her down.

—And in the best of cases it could be it was an employee, or someone who found that business card, and gave it to you —Rosie came up with another suggestion.

—Or it's another man who has the same name, and Y/n is just overreacting —Joanne tried to throw some light—. Look, try to call him. If it was him, don't tell him it was you and move on. If it wasn't him, try to meet up again with Mr. Perfect.

Talking with her friends caused both: comfort and anxiety. She found comfort, because they contributed ideas and possibilities she didn't think of while being blinded by the idea of having gone to bed with her boss. And anxiety because of their reaction, and how all of them were hoping it was just a coincidence, instead of telling her how she was probably exaggerating. It just made her even more aware that, if it wasn't a coincidence, she was in one hell of a big problem.

San kept checking his phone every few minutes, waiting for the call he had been looking forward to since the previous night. It wasn't something that surprised him either. If he had been in her position, it was more than likely he wouldn't have called a complete stranger after the excitement of the unknown had disappeared.

But even with all that understanding, he still felt disappointed.

It multiplied by two when he stepped inside his hotel, just to find Y/n talking with Mingi at one side of the counter. Her hand was supported on the corner, her legs were crossed and one of her heels was bopped up while she smiled widely at him.

And, thinking about it, he had never seen her smiling that way. San understood she needed to keep some type of instance while being around him, but did she really need to be so serious whenever she was around him?

Did he seem so hard to approach?

His tongue clicked while his head tilted to the side. That was why he was even more upset about that mysterious girl not calling him back. He probably wouldn't be having those stupid thoughts if he had someone else to focus on, someone who he had a chance with if only they rekindled the contact.

Purposely, he walked past the two coworkers, making sure to sigh as loud as he could to get Y/n's attention. He knew she liked getting to the office before he did, the past few times he'd already find her sitting in her place, greeting him with a smile and the news of some of her work moving forward at an impressive speed.

That day she probably forgot because it seemed better to be around Mingi.

When seeing San, and hearing his sigh, she could only think about what had happened the previous night, and how he possibly could've found out it was her he slept with while he seemed as annoyed as he could. Her body struggled to move behind him. She had already been in her place, she had already done some small tasks in the hour she had been there, and she only met up with Mingi while she was heading for a coffee.

San looked at the door, impatient, leaving his things on his desk while simultaneously moving his eyes from her empty spot to the door she wasn't crossing. His fingers tapped his desk rhythmically, exposing his nervousness before he walked out the door, meeting with Y/n's eyes, which quickly moved away back to the man in front of her as soon as she saw him.

—Hey, San —Mingi waved—. Do you need anything? We were just coming back from getting a coffee.

—I'm fine —his eyes were fixed on the taller man, who was in front of her with a friendly smile—. Did you send Jongho the reports that I asked for?

—Well —Mingi stuttered—, I needed the yearly accounts for it, and I haven't received them yet.

—Did you ask for them? —San questioned, slightly lifting one of his eyebrows.

—No, I thought... Well, I always wait for them to appear in my email —his eyes turned uneasy while glancing at Y/n to look back at San.

—So, your supervisor has to be following you up for you to do your job —San sentenced—. It's not Jongho's position to send them, just like it's not mine position to be making sure you work or not.

—You're right. I'm sorry —he bowed to his boss—. I'll work on it right now.

Y/n, who had been able to grasp a big number of those words and work around the concept of them, looked back at San. He looked so serious, yet at the same time he was getting angry at something that wasn't urgent. If she understood their conversation well, San was urging Mingi to get the data for the yearly reports. But, for what she was instructed not even two days back, those yearly reports weren't even close to being demanded and handed to the Council.

With a shy smile, Mingi said goodbye to her and headed down the corridor, to cross the big door that led to the administration part of the hotel.

—Let's go to the office.

San didn't need to say he was going to talk with her about what she already knew. And, by his expression, he could already tell he wasn't glad to be having that conversation either.

But he didn't speak.

He led her to the office, and walked past her desk to get to his office, leaving his door open for the first time since she started working there. She was left confused, looking at him while he sat on his chair, expecting a conversation that wasn't going to take place.

That helped to discard, at least, one of her worries. He had no idea it was her.

Y/n sat in her spot, turning a few times to confirm that San was indeed not looking at her. His jaw was trapped in his fingers, supporting the weight of his head while he looked at the screen of his computer.

He looked so manly and so intimidating that he doubled his attractiveness. Flashes popped up in her head, replacing the unknown masked man with her boss' faces, and she hated how she liked it even more that way. His furrowed eyebrows with the efforts while he angled his hips to a spot that had her emitting sounds she had never heard in herself before, with the tip of his tongue peeking through his full lips before his nose scrunched and his teeth showed with a groan.

Would she have liked it if both of them had been aware of who they were?

—Do you need anything? —he suddenly asked.

Her brain was usually fast at attempting to process the sentences in Korean he used to communicate with her, but that day it took her a few seconds to make those images disappear and work on translating his question.

—No, no —she mumbled—. I was...

His eyes blinked, with his pupils penetrating through her soul as soon as he opened them again.

—Sorry —she finished, turning on her spot.

Every click of the mouse sounded louder while she tried to convince herself it wasn't him. There was no way it wasn't him. His tone sounded more stable and calm, but his voice was the exact same.

"Try to call him"

Carefully, she picked up his business card from her jacket and got her phone to type his phone number on the screen. At first it calmed her down not to hear his phone ringing, but it only took three seconds to make calmness disappear.

—Why are you calling me? —his voice sounded from behind.

The tones were shut as she ended the call, slowly turning on her chair to turn to him again and find him with his eyebrows raised, while he waited for her answer.

—Why? —she pressed her lips together, trying to cover how nervous that situation was for her— Checking.

—Checking what?

—Whether your phone is on mute or not. In case someone calls you —she lied, mixing Korean and English words to speak to him.

—If somebody needs anything and I don't pick up, they have your phone —he calmly answered.

When he looked up again, her lower lip was trapped in between her teeth, tightly, almost as if she wanted to get some blood out of it.

—You're going to hurt yourself —he mentioned in English.

His comment made her aware of how tight she was pressing, letting go of her lip while she looked down.

San looked at her, wondering if it'd be a good idea to start a conversation that didn't have much to do with work. But then he remembered how comfortable she looked around Mingi, and how he also wanted to see her that way around him.

—Was yesterday a good day? —he asked, typing the last few characters before he looked back at her.

—Yeah, I guess —she whispered, scratching her nape—. What about yours?

—It was good, yeah —he bit the inner skin of his lip—. Did you have any plans last night? Or did you do something interesting?

Her breathing was completely shut after that question. It felt as if he wanted to get some truth out of her, and he was just testing the waters.

—No, nothing —she quickly denied—. I didn't do anything. Nothing at all. Why do you ask?

—Nothing. I realized we never really talk and um... Nevermind.

She quickly nodded, trying to contain all of her shouting thoughts and desperate questions to go forward with the problem she had been dragging since the previous night.

—Oh, right. That's okay, but I didn't do anything. What about you?

—I didn't do anything either.

—Well, that makes us two boring people —she forced a laugh, ending it as soon as she realized how cringey it was.

—Do you want to have lunch together? —he suggested— We've worked together for a few weeks already, and we still haven't had time to sit and talk.

Was it really necessary?

—Well, I was going to...

Two knocks on the door stopped her discourse, and made her thank deep in her mind for the person who interrupted and saved her from rejecting his offer. Y/n recognised the young lady that stepped inside the office without asking for any permission, moving forward at the height of her table to smile at San.

Misuk.

She knew her. Mingi made sure to let her know her importance, and how it was always needed to favor anything she did, since most part of the money invested in the hotel came from her -and the part that didn't come from her was still coming in because she influenced the rest of investors to do it.

That was why Y/n didn't flinch, she only smiled and continued with her work.

—What are you doing here? —San asked, getting up from his chair.

—I wanted to thank you for yesterday —she commented, taking one step to his door—, for taking me home last night —she cleared up after seeing San's confused expression.

Y/n turned to the front completely, trying to hide how tense her jaw looked after that comment. So he stayed there after having sex with her, and went home with someone else?

Her typing sounded harsh and loud all of a sudden, trying to focus on clicking each key properly while she tried to answer one of the emails that came through. For some reason, that bit of information didn't sit well with her.

It was even worse when San got up and closed the door behind them, so she wouldn't be able to hear what they talked about. She didn't know if she was disappointed at him for what he did last night, or if she was annoyed at herself by how bad it affected her to learn of him possibly hooking up with someone else after her.

—Y/n, hey —another two knocks at the door made her turn to the person peeking her head over the door frame—. Is Choi San here?

Young Ja had a friendly smile as she stepped inside.

—Yeah, but he's reunited —Y/n let her know—. What do you need?

—Daily assistance at the Spadix —she mentioned—. I was told the list of the people that assisted yesterday has been updated, but since he hasn't said or done anything like he usually does...

Fuck, she completely forgot.

Both times she went there, she had to tell who she was. And the next day a file showed up in her email, which she had to resend to San so he could access a file that only he could view and edit. Her name would probably be there again.

If he didn't know, he probably would after checking the list. 

Taglist: @brown88