#the politician fan fic

[your-beast0fburden]

Friday, February 7, 2025

President Trump sat at his desk surrounded by a hand picked team of correspondents. Someone in the corner of the room was talking about increasing taxes for people and families who have a higher-than-average annual income.

Trump immediately stopped pretending to write in his notepad (everyone on his team was well aware of his struggles with literacy, but no one ever called him out on never having any actual notes, or coherent words in any of the countless notebooks that he had filled). He jerked his head in the direction of the person speaking, causing a few stray strands of hair to dance, gracefully, through the air to catch up with his scalp.

Just then, the air in the room filled with a smell so bad that people began gagging and covering their faces. “What is that smell?!”

It wasn’t sewage or flatulence, it was rot. It was death, decomposition, and old food all trapped in this one, semi-crowded room.

President Trump stuck his nose in the air in an attempt to smell what everyone else was making such a big deal about.

His team froze. There, growing within the folds of his neck skin, like a helpless infant baby, grew something that could be found in the back of the refrigerator months after its expiration date.

His lead correspondent spun to face a lady who was cowering behind him. “God dammit Susan, this is your job!! How many times have I told you? You have to get in ALL of the crevices!!”

Susan was fired for her negligence.

[naoa-ao3]

Rights and Wrongs

A night time stroll takes a sharp turn and John finds himself witnessing a politician's last moments.

There's a light breeze blowing as John takes an evening stroll. It lifts the smoke from the end of his hand, away from his cigarette and carries up it into the air. Carries it away from him and into the unknown.

He watches the curling whisps disappear into nothing and feels content for a moment in just smoking and watching but of course life is never that easy and it never stays so simple. The smoke has to go somewhere.

He's approaching a bridge when he stops, seeing someone up ahead.

He squints and then his blood runs cold.

There's a woman on the ledge, poised to jump and somehow in the dark it's more jarring and otherworldly.

She's staring down at the water and for just a split second he thinks of turning and leaving but he doesn't. Instead he stops behind her and looks up at her.

"Nice night for it." He say's, lighting another cigarette before he's even thought about it.

His hand only shakes a little.

She turns and he sees with some surprise that she's well dressed and older than he'd imagined. She's still lovely though and her legs are shapely for her age. She looks down at him. "It is, isn't it?" She say's.

He doesn't really know what to make of that and so instead toes the ground. "You alright then?"

She smiles and then laughs and it's cultured and intelligent. "I'm on a ledge." She say's. "Don't I look it?"

He nods and suddenly doesn't know what to do with his hands. He puts the one holding the cigarette to his lips. "Suppose so. Think it will solve anything?"

She laughs again. "No but it's alright. It's too late now anyway."

"Too late?" He asks, looking at her heels. They look expensive and his eyes travel up her legs to her skirts. She's still very shapely for an old broad, probably was gorgeous when she was young.

"Oh yes, much too late. I'm out of office tomorrow you see and they'll be gunning for my retirement next. Miles has already started planning the party."

He hesitates, unsure of what she means. "You don't wanna retire, then?"

The breeze blows her skirts towards the water behind her. "No but like I said, I'm out of office tomorrow so it hardly matters what I want."

He shrugs. "You a politician then?"

She nods and looks up at the sky, eyes bright. "Yes, my entire life. I did everything right, you know. I absolutely did. I did it just the way I was supposed to but now. . . none of it matters."

He shrugs again. "I don't know if that's exactly true." He wonders why he's trying this at all. Why he's even bothering because in an instant there might be nothing left of her. He doesn't need this on his shoulders.

She laughs. "Oh I do." She say's. "It's true. Tomorrow there isn't going to be anything that matters." She smiles to herself. "I'll get up and it will all be over. . . You know, when I was a little girl I thought I was going to be the first woman MP from my home district when I grew up but then I did grow up and I found out I'd been beaten to it. . . so I thought fine then, I'll be the first woman PM but then of course Thatcher was the first PM. . . I was too late to that too. . . to everything."

An MP.

He can't place her but then he hasn't ever tried to memorize the faces of politicians. Why would he? They wouldn't have cared to know his face any more than he theirs.

"I made all the right deals. I put everything behind my country and work. My husband used to complain but it was all worth it in the end. I had a good run."

She sounds like she's talking to herself now.

He just looks at her and doesn't know what to think. Mostly he thinks she should come away from the ledge,

"So why stop now?" He asks, swallowing dryly.

She doesn't look at him. "It's over." She say's again, shaking her head. "It's all over. It was only until I was done in office. That was always the plan."

He blinks. "What was?"

She laughs. "We do arrogant things when we're young. We think we have all the time in the world. I did, only I thought I was clever. I thought I had it all measured out. All figured out but there are things you can't control, you know. There always are."

He feels a chill creep across his back and spread down his arms, he feels clammy now.

"I worked hard, I stayed on the right path, when all of my friends in college were growing their hair out and protesting, I kept working. I liked The Beatles too but I didn't let it ruin my sensibilities. They all turned liberal and started dreaming. I thought, well alright. Some one has to run the country."

He winces, not entirely sure he's sympathetic to her.

"I worked and got the jobs I needed to move up. I did everything right and now it's finally over. All's fair I suppose, in the end." She trails off.

He stares at her. "What did you do?" He asks.

She huffs a little, still laughing. "I made a deal to get me all the way to here. All the way to my last day. I did everything right to get where I am."

"Your soul?" He asks, a little turned off now.

She nods, looking at him with bright eyes. "I proved it to everyone and got where I am today. I'll retire with laurels. I'll probably even get a plaque somewhere with my name on it too after all this. Silly, don't you think?"

He just stares at her, this woman is. . . she's wrong if she thinks suicide will save her from her fate. If she's really made a deal. . . really bartered her soul. . .

"They'll still get you, you know?" He say's, looking at her with some pity. "You jump and they still get you."

She nods. "I know but it's on my terms and I prefer doing things on my terms." She sounds almost apologetic. "I always did."

"Right. Well. . . what's the point then?"

She looks at him and it's her who looks almost sorry for him. "What's the point?" She asks. "Why. . . all of this. This country, everything I did was for my country. For England. . . all those years. When I started my career we were wasting thousands on housing reforms and trying to clear away the prewar country. Now. . . At least I leave office with England belonging to England again."

He think's she's talking about Brexit and just stares at her. He thinks that he doesn't really like her.

He thinks she doesn't have his vote.

"I'm proud of my career. I handled diplomatic relations with Northern Ireland fabulously under Margaret. That was one of my first major jobs. I loved it, political relationships. . . so complicated. . . so many games to play. . ."

He's still a moment. "So why make the deal?" He asks. "Sounds like you would have made something of yourself even if you hadn't."

She laughs and slides out of her heels then, toes flexing in pale stockings, shapely legs relaxing. "Oh probably but I'm old! it was hard for women back then. It isn't like it is now. Feminists talk like it is but it isn't and between you and me I never had much use for that sort even back then. You never saw Margaret catering to those people."

He just frowns, she's on a ledge and arguing over dead prime ministers isn't going to solve anything in particular. Just the same, she was on first name terms with Thatcher. . . that doesn't impress him a whole hell of a lot.

"My father never expected it of me. Maybe that was why I was so determined." The woman say's- the politician say's. "It was never about proving anything to myself. Just him, just daddy. It's funny, after I'd done everything I was supposed to and thought I could finally please him. . . he told me I'd not learned kindness." She shakes her head. "Father's are funny like that. I was a junior minister at the time and he told me I still wasn't enough."

John doesn't want all of this information, it's strange and unpleasant to hear, it makes his skin crawl, a mix of the voracious political beast and a real-live human being.

He looks at her and sighs. "So you went and got a little extra help?"

She nods, looking out at the black water again. "Yes, it seemed the thing to do at the time and I was angry. Everyone was. . . changing around me. . . the world was changing if you can believe it. I didn't want to get swallowed up."

He thinks about all of the years she must have been in government, doing her small piece to keep Britain going and wonders how much farther they'd be ahead if she hadn't.

From slum clearances to Brexit. Over fifty years likely and here she was, a curious, shapely relic from the past- her last seconds ticking away around her. Damocles' fabled weapon over her head.

A long ago deal come to collect.

"I fought retiring. I couldn't imagine myself doing nothing. . . puttering around some country estate and reading the news each morning in the paper." She shakes her head. "No, that's never been for me but I'm being put out to pasture now."

"Aren't they going to throw you a party?" He asks, speaking meaningless words.

She shrugs a little. "Oh, I suppose so but what use is it to me? I was never big on the socializing aspect of politics. I liked getting in the dirt with the boy's, not playing in the sandbox."

There's the faint feel of electricity in the air and she checks her watch. "It's all over now. Midnight and I'm out of office. My career complete and now I'm nothing but an old woman."

She is an old woman now and he can see that in the orange lamp light around them. He's afraid suddenly of what she's going to do and checks his own watch.

Five until midnight.

He swallows. "Look, maybe you should come down. It's not going to make a difference in the end."

"Then that's every reason to stay up here, isn't it?" She asks, something like humor creeping back into her voice. "I've had a good run, it's up to the young Turks now. Let them pave the way for England or sink her if they must."

"You're really not coming down then?" He asks.

"No, not your way anyway."

She smiles.

His heart beats cold and fast.

She steps closer to the water and his hair is standing on end, he wants to grab her, awful and hollow as she is he doesn't want to witness this but she's too far out now for him to get to her.

One wrong move and they're both dead.

"When I took office I could only think of a poem by Sir Cecil Spring-Rice. I quoted it that day. 'I vow to thee my country, all earthly things above' and I have."

He looks down, he thinks he might have heard it before but he can't place it. Something taught in school, something to sing and wave flags to. To bury the dead under. Something from long ago.

"Ah, it's all over now." She say's, looking at her watch this time. "It's been lovely talking but I really should be going."

He looks at her and then at the water and then suddenly she walking out into nothing, stepping off the bridge and he can only run to the railing, stomach lurching, chest seizing just in time to see a fiery, orange chasm erupt out of the water, swirling flames of liquid fire that churn and swallow her up whole like a blinking eye.

It's gone in only a second and so is she and he's left feeling the unnatural heat still searing his face and the stink of it in the air.

There's a quiet pair of heels on the ledge where she'd been standing, tucked back, toes neatly pointed in the same direction. Expensive labels now clearly visible.

He stares at them and knows there was nothing he could have done.

He stares at them and feels somehow helpless. It's over. It's all over now too and she's gone. The relic is gone, whatever she had been. . . whatever she'd done. . . she was gone now and him. . . if he wasn't smart. . . if he wasn't fast and clever and. . . he's made some deals too in his life, hasn't he?

He shivers.

The world is left empty where she had stood but for a single pair of shoes. Funny how that went and he can only stare at them as he thinks of fifty years of politics and one woman's scheming.

He doesn't even know her name and in the end supposes it doesn't really matter. Politicians all have secrets and deals and for once one of them didn't get away scot free.

One of them finally had to pay her dues.

He shakes his head and goes home, leaving the river and the shoes there.

In the morning he checks the paper and see's nothing. A day later there's a report of a body found in the river and a day after that a memorial for a dead politician.

Forty years of service down the Thames.

He reads it over, a list of accolades and laudations. Survived by the husband who'd complained, a legacy of cutting social welfare and dismantling the NHS.

He just feels blank, remembering her legs and the sound of her voice.

The memorial line is the same as she'd quoted.

Songs of Praise.

"I vow to thee, my country, all earthly things above,"

He feels numb even after rereading it. He hadn't known her but thinks she sure had gotten her half of the deal, whatever that had been.

Now hell had theirs.

Each there own, he supposes.

Either way, there's a pair of shoes on a ledge on a bridge somewhere and he doesn't go back that way for a very long time.

[sepublic]

Another thing I’ve noticed about Wittebane fans is that they would really rather speculate on an unseen dynamic and how codependent it was, or on Belos having religious trauma or being a socially awkward child (despite this conflicting with him being a confident, silver-tongued politician) over like. Discussing Belos’ character as he actually is onscreen.

And onscreen Belos is about Christian colonialism, he IS the religious trauma. He’s the white saviorism, the racism, the genocide, the arrogant delusions of Puritans. These are actually onscreen, and darker and deeper than like, the Wittebanes being Cain and Abel or Saturn devouring his son because what are you actually discussing here that’s topical?

But fans don’t want to talk about that, they don’t want to talk about what makes Belos his own character and what makes his writing work. They want to make Belos and Caleb into a racist, less interesting version of the Nocedas, Clawthorne sisters, Collector, etc. And when Belos doesn’t measure up to these standards because he’s a square peg being put through a round hole, fans get angry at the writers. It’s alienating to those who want to discuss Belos, the actual Belos.

And I think it boils down to fans being discomforted by topics such as colonialism and genocide, and facing just how intertwined Belos is with depicting it on a large and personal scale; He isn’t even a metaphor at this rate, but a literal example of a Christian white man from a 1600s American colony. These subjects are not something fans can romanticize, so they focus on the dynamic with his brother, on being codependent or tortured or suffering from religious trauma, etc.

It’s very faux-deep, it’s pretentious in a Dark Academia way, Cannibalism as a metaphor for love. It reminds me of fans who claim to love Dark Fics and can handle dark topics, but then implode when you ask them to discuss critical race theory. They think they’re being subversive and even punk but it’s just white guys in the end. It thinks itself deeper just for being ‘darker’ but it’s not even that dark compared to other things, it’s just edgy. King and Steve’s conversation as a stand-in for Dana’s ruminations on God are genuinely deeper than every Cain-Abel Wittebane fic.

There’s a Vtuber who just did an Owl House marathon and while she didn’t pick up on a lot, the discussion on Belos by fans who are explaining it to her is so refreshing, because there’s no mention of Caleb! There’s no mention of Belos being repressed or feeling abandoned. It’s all about how he actually is onscreen and is presented and what he does onscreen. It’s about the delusions and evil of those who practice Puritan ideology. And the actions that have far more impact than killing his brother.

And it makes me think, this is another reason why we don’t see Caleb; Because the writers knew fans would use him as a distraction from the actual things they’re discussing and satirizing through Belos. They would use him as a distraction from the true motives, the banality of evil, as Belos does; And Belos himself doesn’t even do it that much, he’s upfront about how he thinks witches are inherently evil and need to be killed in the name of God so even he is avoiding factoring Caleb into the discussion! Alas, the writers underestimate just how far fandom will go when they get even a scent of a possible white guy.

Can we talk about the Wittebanes as they actually are instead of retreading other characters’ old ground? The tragedy of the Wittebanes isn’t about some lonely orphan just wanting to be accepted by his community, being unable to handle the thought of his brother leaving, and not knowing any better because that’s just how things were back then; It’s about seeing your kid brother embrace the alt-right pipeline because white supremacy makes him feel special, and no matter how many years you spend trying to change his mind, he eventually, finally turns on you too.

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

Writing Advice #?: Don’t write out accents.

The Surface-Level Problem: It’s distracting at best, illegible at worst. 

The following passage from Sons and Lovers has never made a whit of sense to me:

“I ham, Walter, my lad,’ ’e says; ‘ta’e which on ’em ter’s a mind.’ An’ so I took one, an’ thanked ’im. I didn’t like ter shake it afore ’is eyes, but ’e says, ‘Tha’d better ma’e sure it’s a good un. An’ so, yer see, I knowed it was.’”

There’s almost certainly a point to that dialogue — plot, character, theme — but I could not figure out what the words were meant to be, and gave up on the book.  At a lesser extreme, most of Quincey’s lines from Dracula (“I know I ain’t good enough to regulate the fixin’s of your little shoes”) cause American readers to sputter into laughter, which isn’t ideal for a character who is supposed to be sweet and tragic.  Accents-written-out draw attention to mechanical qualities of the text.

Solution #1: Use indicators outside of the quote marks to describe how a character talks.  An Atlanta accent can be “drawling” and a London one “clipped”; a Princeton one can sound “stiff” and a Newark one “relaxed.”  Do they exaggerate their vowels more (North America) or their consonants more (U.K., north Africa)?  Do they sound happy, melodious, frustrated?

The Deeper Problem: It’s ignorant at best, and classist/racist/xenophobic at worst.

You pretty much never see authors writing out their own accents — to the person who has the accent, the words just sound like words.  It’s only when the accent is somehow “other” to the author that it gets written out.

And the accents that we consider “other” and “wrong” (even if no one ever uses those words, the decision to deliberately misspell words still conveys it) are pretty much never the ones from wealthy and educated parts of the country.  Instead, the accents with misspelled words and awkward inflection are those from other countries, from other social classes, from other ethnicities.  If your Maine characters speak normally and your Florida characters have grammatical errors, then you have conveyed what you consider to be correct and normal speech.  We know what J.K. Rowling thinks of French-accented English, because it’s dripping off of Fleur Delacour’s every line.

At the bizarre extreme, we see inappropriate application of North U.K. and South U.S.-isms to every uneducated and/or poor character ever to appear in fan fic.  When wanting to get across that Steve Rogers is a simple Brooklyn boy, MCU fans have him slip into “mustn’t” and “we is.”  When conveying that Robin 2.0 is raised poor in Newark, he uses “ain’t” and “y’all” and “din.”  Never mind that Iron Man is from Manhattan, or that Robin 3.0 is raised wealthy in Newark; neither of them ever gets a written-out accent.

Solution #2: A little word choice can go a long way, and a little research can go even further.  Listen carefully to the way people talk — on the bus, in a café, on unscripted YouTube — and write down their exact word choice.  “We good” literally means the same thing as “no thank you,” but one’s a lot more formal than the other.  “Ain’t” is a perfectly good synonym for “am not,” but not everyone will use it.

The Obscure Problem: It’s not even how people talk.

Look at how auto-transcription software messes up speaking styles, and it’s obvious that no one pronounces every spoken sound in every word that comes out of their mouth.  Consider how Americans say “you all right?”; 99% of us actually say something like “yait?”, using tone and head tilt to convey meaning.  Politicians speak very formally; friends at bars speak very informally.

An example: I’m from Baltimore, Maryland.  Unless I’m speaking to an American from Texas, in which case I’m from “Baltmore, Marlind.”  Unless I’m speaking to an American from Pennsylvania, in which case I’m from “Balmore, Marlin.”  If I’m speaking to a fellow Marylander, I’m of course from “Bamor.”  (If I’m speaking to a non-American, I’m of course from “Washington D.C.”)  Trying to capture every phoneme of change from moment to moment and setting to setting would be ridiculous; better just to say I inflect more when talking to people from outside my region.

When you write out an accent, you insert yourself, the writer, as an implied listener.  You inflict your value judgments and your linguistic ear on the reader, and you take away from the story.

Solution #3: When in doubt, just write the dialogue how you would talk.

[daisies-daydreams]

Something About Us (König x F!Reader)

Pairing: König x F!Reader Category: Smut/Angst (18+) Warnings: One Bed Trope, Wet Dreams/Sex Dreams, Dry Humping, Sexsomnia, Slight Dub-Con, P in V Sex, Creampie, Cervix Fucking, Dirty Talk, Descriptions of Reader Near Death Experience (Knife Violence), I Can’t Speak German Word Count: 6,654

Summary: After a short mission, you and König crash in a safehouse, only to realize that there’s one bed. 

Author’s Note: This one took quite a while to write. I know, it’s a “oh no there’s only one bed what are we going to do???!” piece, but I wanted to see what I could do with it (and also make it a song fic for good measure). I apologize for getting carried away with the word count.

MINORS/AGELESS BLOGS DNI 

You and your partner exchanged weary glances. A small "queen" sized bed rested in the center of the barren bedroom. Of course, the couch was broken in the small living room just down the hall. Why wouldn't it be? König rubbed the back of his neck before he cleared his throat.

“I can just sleep on the floor,” the Austrian coughed. You raised your brow and waved your hand.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. I'm sure both of us can fit,” you said eyeing the bed. König remained silent, his massive form hovering at the threshold of the bedroom door. You nearly tripped onto the mattress. König’s hands flew out to catch you.

“I’m okay!” you laughed. His shoulders relaxed. You turned and bent down to tie your loose shoelace. You noticed König staring at you in your peripheral vision.

“Enjoying the view?” you teased with a smirk. The man’s blue eyes widened beneath his sniper mask. He shifted uncomfortably before he quickly strode to the other side of the room. You watched him walk to a corner and drop his things. His gun sank to the wooden floor with a loud ‘clunk’. Something about the sound reminded you of how he ripped the knife out of a terrorist's hand just a few hours prior.

There was a hostage crisis, a politician who provided resources against a terrorist group in a small, Eastern European village. Seeing as it was a single hostage, KorTac sent you and your partner along with a few local operators on the mission. While you and the other personnel fanned out, König acted as a battering ram through the rundown facility. The mission was successful, and the politician was returned safely. However, you had a close call when one of the terrorists had a knife to your jugular. If König wasn't just around the corner, you’d be gone. Chills ran up your spine at the thought, your hand rubbing over the front of your neck. König’s boots landed on the other side of the room with a sudden thud, drawing you back to the present.

You gazed over your shoulder, the mountain of a man hunched over on the bed as he stripped himself of his outer tactical gear. He was always a man of few words, yet unrelentingly polite. Yet the moment he was on a mission, his demeanor changed completely. The light in his eyes dimmed as he broke through doors, barriers, even soldiers set before him like a bulldozer. You frowned as you watched bruises peek out from beneath his shirt.

“Are you doing okay?” you asked. He turned his head slightly, his azure eyes dull and glazed over as he followed your line of sight.

“Ja, just a few bruises,” he replied. You sighed as you walked over to him, the floor creaking beneath each step.

“I know, but that’s not what I meant,” you said. König’s shoulders tensed as you slid next to him. You had to crane your neck up just to look up at him. “You’re being quiet,” you said.

“I’m always quiet,” König grunted. You laughed through your nose.

“Yeah, but you seem more quiet than usual,” you said. He clenched and unclenched his fists. His palms looked just as sweaty as the rest of him. His face was twisted into a large knot of emotion. Fear. Rage. Annoyance. You couldn't quite put your finger on it. The sun sank low in the sky as the two of you sat in the cold, dimly lit room.

“I’m just tired,” your partner stated bluntly, averting your gaze. You tilted your head.

“Are you sure?” you asked. König shifted on the bed, his face now turned towards you. He said nothing at first, only playing with his fingers. You felt a warmth bloom in your cheeks as his hooded eyes locked onto your face.

“I…” his voice trailed off. König bounced his leg, his fingers digging into his dirtied and torn pants. You held your breath, waiting for his response. He bunched up the fabric in his hands. “I just…can’t stop thinking about today. How you almost got-” his voice shook before he swallowed thickly. Your brows arched, heart sinking into your stomach.

“You mean when that bastard nearly slit my throat?” you asked. König winced at your words.

“Ja,” he muttered under his breath. You frowned, your hand moving closer to his arm to comfort him.

“König, look at me," you said firmly. His eyes drifted back to you. "I’m fine now. The hostage is safe. Evac is probably going to be here soon. There’s nothing to worry about,” you tried to reassure him. His hood moved beneath him. You imagined he was biting the inside of his cheek.

“I know,” he seethed, his knuckles turning white from how hard he was clenching his pant legs. His breathing grew ragged the longer you held his hand.

“Then what’s wrong?” you asked with knitted brows. König looked like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck. He slipped away from you, your hand falling out from his.

“I’m going to take a shower,” your partner groaned as he turned his back to you. You frowned, a slow heat simmering in your chest.

“Alright,” you said with a sigh. He shuffled over to the door, pausing briefly, then continued to lumber into the hall. The door closed behind him, the sound reverberating across the thin safehouse walls. You were all alone.

“Fuck,” you cursed to yourself. Your nostrils flared as you felt yourself sink into the bed. You didn't mean to interrogate him. You just wanted to look out for your partner. Why couldn't he understand that? Why was he avoiding you when he literally treated you the same way on the ride over here? You blushed as you remembered how König held your hand, his long, thick fingers gripping you tightly, as if he believed that if he let go, you’d slip away. Tears pricked at the corners of your red, tired eyes. You scowled before wiping the wetness away. You didn’t want to deal with whatever emotions were tangled up inside of you right now, but they were persistent as hell.

Yes, König was your partner, but only in the professional sense. You bit your lip as you’ve thought about the times he’d saved your ass, and you’ve saved his. That sense of camaraderie started to shift into something more peculiar…something that kept you awake at night fantasizing about him. He caught you blushing one time when he pinned you while sparring. König didn't say anything, his face shrouded by his dark cloak, though you knew in your heart that your flushed cheeks and blown pupils said it all.

You shivered as another cold chill ran down your body. The heating unit in the window sputtered to life, though it provided little warmth to the empty room. The sun had set behind the curtain of mountains that loomed over your current residence. You reached over and wrapped yourself in an extra blanket that lay on the end of the bed. Your eyelids began to feel heavy, yet you wanted to take a shower, too. A clear image of you stepping into the shower with your giant partner flashed in your mind. You screwed your eyes shut and shook your head as you tried and failed to push the fantasy from your mind. The hum of running water echoed from across the hallway. You yawned and shuddered beneath the covers. Wrapping yourself even tighter, you found yourself curling up into a ball on the mattress.

You've had a very hard day. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to indulge, just a little bit…

You slid out of your bra and panties, his dark-haired head cresting just above the shower curtain. He didn’t seem to notice you slipping into the bathroom, humming a soft tune while he scrubbed his hair. Your hand pulled back the curtain. König’s singing stopped, his soapy muscles bulged as he turned towards you. His cock was flaccid yet the sheer size made your mouth water. Your eyes trailed up his broad chest and to his chiseled face. He was devastatingly handsome, face covered in scars and stubble. You bit your lip and blushed, wiggling a bit as he gawked at you.

“Mind if I join you?” you asked, your voice laced with lust as you leaned your naked breasts forward. He was completely silent, eyes wide and cock twitching ever so slightly. König nodded. You grinned ear to ear as you stepped into the steaming hot shower. He nearly took up the whole space, but you were still able to squeeze in front of him. His large body was blocking most of the water splashing onto you. You shifted your thighs together when his cock tapped between your ass cheeks. Immediately, his hands flew down to hold onto your hips as he tried to compose himself. You turned to give him a doe-eyed look as you held up a washcloth.

“Could you please help me scrub my back, Kö?” you asked sweetly. His cock twitched on your ass and you moaned, knees pressed together. He swallowed before taking the cloth from your hand. His large hand lingered on yours as his other rubbed circles your hip.

“J-Ja,” König flushed. He stepped out of the way for the water to splash over you. You raised your arms and stretched, flexing your back muscles while your breasts jutted out. You heard his breath hitch behind you.

“Verdammt,” he muttered. You peeked behind your shoulder to see his cock. His fat, red mushroom tip now stood at attention. You gave a cheeky smile before bracing yourself against the shower all. You pushed your ass out towards him and swayed your hips side to side.

“Make sure to scrub hard. My muscles have felt so tight,” you whined. He stepped closer to you, hesitantly placing the washcloth on your shoulder. You released a long sigh as he lathered your back, only to moan when his other hand came up to grab your breast. You looked back behind you to see him biting his lip.

“Schatz,” König whined as he slotted his cock in between your thighs. You rolled your head back as he tweaked your hard nipple between his finger and thumb. His length began to drag below your wet lips, your arousal smearing across the top of his thick shaft. Both of your pants and moans echoed across the shower walls as he thrusted between your thighs.

“Fuck,” you keened. You arched your back when his head caught your clit. König’s lips were on your neck, trailing a long line of kisses down to your shoulder. You felt yourself careening towards the edge, body tensing as he spread your labia with his heavy cock. He groaned behind you, balls aching for release.

“Vögelchen, I’m so close,” he whined into your ear. Your mouth opened into a silent scream, ready to fall off the cliff. Your fingers scraped down the tiled wall, his hand harshly gripping your breast while his dick rubbed you in all the right ways.

“König,” you sobbed.

Suddenly, the feeling of your rising pleasure was gone. You blinked a few times. Your brows furrowed when you realized you were no longer in the shower with him. You were fully clothed in tactical gear and back at the abandoned building from today. You began to panic when you didn’t hear a single noise except for the wind howling through the broken windows and rotting structure.

“König?” you called.

Nothing.

You scanned the room for any sign of hostiles. You jumped when a wild cackle echoed through the building. Your feet carried you through the door.

“König!” you cried as you sped down the hall. The room was twisting into a black hole, your cries loud and deafening as you frantically searched for your partner. You gasped when you rounded the corner. A sharp blade was pressed against your jugular. A masked man who was most definitely not König let out a wicked laugh before holding his finger up to his lips.

“Go ahead, scream your partner's name again and I’ll spill your blood all over the floor,” the terrorist’s voice growled, dipping the knife even further near your throat. You gulped, your throat bobbing towards the edge of the blade. Before you could open your mouth, a familiar voice rang out in the distance.

“Maus?”

---

“Maus? Maus, wake up!” König shouted as he shook your shoulders. You screamed and thrashed around beneath your covers, hot tears pouring down your cheeks.

“König!” you shrieked, lip shaking as you swung your arms around wildly. His eyes widened before he shook your shoulders even harder.

“(Y/N)!” König barked. Your eyes shot open, chest heaving as you released several shaky breaths. You flinched when you met eyes with the tall, dark figure towering over the side of the bed. He exhaled shakily, his hands falling away from your shoulders.

“It’s okay, (Y/N). It’s just me,” König said, his voice soft and raspy. You blinked, tears still leaking from your weary eyes. Your heart was pounding in your ears as König remained completely still. The heater hummed lowly in the small room as the feelings of terror from your nightmare began to drift away.

“König? Wh-What happened?” you stammered. He rubbed the back of his head. He was wearing a new set of clothes, though his face was still shrouded by the cover of his mask.

“You were screaming for me. It sounded like you were having a bad dream” he explained. You remained silent, cheeks burning. You hoped your screaming was more from the nightmare than from the previous dream.

“It was just a nightmare,” you said quickly. König cocked his head as he watched you shiver beneath the sheets. You curled into a tight ball with chittering teeth. His eyes scanned you like he was deep in thought.

“Is it alright if I...help warm you up?” he said hesitantly. You stared at him blankly. König sighed.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have-"

"Please," you suddenly spat out. The giant man blinked a few times before shifting into the bed. He nearly pushed you off as he adjusted himself, his hand balancing on your hip. You bit your lip to stifle a soft squeal. You wiggled over slightly as he pulled you to his chest. Your heart raced as both of you lay in silence. You closed your eyes as he rested a hand on your head. His fingers smoothed over your hair, the tips massaging your scalp.

“I-It was the terrorist from earlier,” you sniffed. His fingers suddenly gripped your locks, but not enough to hurt you.

“Scheißer,” he angrily muttered under his breath. Your eyelids began to fall as he trailed his thick fingers through your locks, untangling any messy knots along the way. Your breath hitched as he leaned his face closer to your ear, his lips almost dancing against the flushed shell.

“You’re safe now," he comforted. You relaxed beneath his touch, melting into his side. "I promise I won’t let anything like that happen to you again,” König murmured. You turned your head to him, nearly capturing him in an accidental kiss. His movements ceased as a small gasp left his lips. Your eyes were shining as you felt your heart bursting at the seams.

“Thank you, Kö,” you sighed. The man gave a quiet grunt. You soaked in the warmth his body radiated, his thick, muscular form nearly swallowing you whole like a blanket.

“Entspanne. Go back to sleep, Maus,” König whispered while he continued to stroke his fingers through your hair. You nodded, eyelids falling as you drifted back to sleep.

___

You were stirred from your sleep again. This time, it was from feeling something hard rutting into your backside. You were puzzled at first, only to remember the man who had been sitting by your side earlier. How much time has passed? You eyed the window that faced you. It was still dark outside, yet the dark blue hues told you the sun wasn’t far from rising. You gasped as König’s arms squeezed around you, holding onto you like a teddy bear. You blushed when you realized he must have fallen asleep with you.

“Meine Katzchen,” he purred lowly. Your heart jumped as he gave another thrust into the plush globes of your ass. The tips of your ears burned when his exposed lips grazed over your fluttering pulse. Another deep rut caused you to stifle a soft moan. You felt a tension growing in your core as you instinctively arched your back the more he rubbed his aching cock into you.

“So gut,” König murmured. His arms wrapped you even tighter, keeping you in a snug cocoon beneath the blanket. Your clit throbbed as his hips snapped into you. “Du fühlst dich so gut an,” the large man moaned. His words rattled you to the core. You had to bite your lip to keep yourself from swearing, the heat building in your cunt. A loud snore nearly ruptured your eardrum. Your soul shot out of your body. He was still asleep.

His arms were pressing you closer to his chiseled body as he dipped his covered cock into your ass even further. You muffled a squeal as his length brushed past your ass and slightly over your cunt. He felt massive. You let a frustrated exhale through your nostrils. As much as you enjoyed this, you knew it wasn’t right. You bit your lip and tried to wiggle your way out of his grasp. He protested with a whiny grunt and hooked his leg around yours, locking you in. Your lips tightened.

“(Y/N),” König groaned lowly. Your mouth shot open. He was dreaming…about you? Your partner moaned into your neck, his lazy strokes now steady and paced as he clung to you tightly. Your mind was scattered to the wind as your pussy fluttered, folds soaked in your arousal. He whimpered as his fingers tightened around your body.

Your inhibitions were slipping away as his hot breath fanned over your neck, his hard length threatening to burst from his pants. The thought of it being inside of you made you drool. You couldn’t help the moans left your lips. They blended in a duet of quiet, lewd noises that rang through the tiny room. A throbbing heat began to rise from your core and trickle down to your fingers and toes. You gasped quietly when König released a feral growl, stilling himself against your ass. Oh my God. You noticed the wet feeling that leaked through his pants and onto your backside.

“König,” you keened. You quickly slapped your hands over your mouth. His eyes shot open. König gasped and released a surprised yelp. He shoved himself off of you, sputtering curses and apologies in German.

“Es tut mir leid!” he shouted repeatedly. His breathing was tense as he scrambled away on his hands and knees. You slid off the bed, trying to ignore the tension in your core.

“König, it’s okay!” you assured. He violently shook his head.

“Nein! I just-I mean-I didn’t mean-,” he gave up and threw his hands over his face. You frowned as you watched him shudder, his massive body sliding down the wall. A sharp pain struck your heart as he tried to squeeze himself into a tight ball, as if he wanted to disappear forever. You stepped closer to him, holding a hand out.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” König repeated. He shook on the floor, hands gripping at his dark hood. You knelt down before him, eyes soft and warm.

“König, look at me,” you said firmly. He shook his head, body tense and curled into itself. You sighed. “König, it’s okay,” you cooed. The man shivered as he sniffed. “I know you didn’t mean to,” you continued. Silence, then more sniffing. You shuffled closer, still keeping your hands balanced on your thigh.

“I’ll never forgive myself,” König’s voice cracked. He sniffed and tried to turn away from you. You gently laid your hand on his forearm. He kept his face away from you when you leaned closer.

“Please, you have to,” you begged. König peeked one of his eyes from between the cracks of his fingers. You swallowed, your throat feeling dry. “I know you didn’t mean to do that. You were asleep, you didn’t have control over what you were doing,” you explained. König’s voice was caught in his throat as you moved even closer, your knees bumping into his. You splayed your hand across his tense arms, keeping your voice soft and sweet.

“I’m not mad at you at all,” you clarified. König drew his head from his hands. His hood was wet with tears as he sniffled beneath it.

“Really?” he asked. You gave him a small smile and nodded.

“Really, I’m not. In fact, I…” you blushed. He tilted his head down, his regret quickly shifting into curiosity. The words that wanted to come out felt stuck in your throat. I really, really liked it. Was it even the right thing to say?

“You what, (Y/N)?” he murmured. Your clit throbbed between your folds. You wanted nothing more than for him to take you right then and there. On the bed. Against the wall. Anywhere. You shook your head.

“Nothing,” you dismissed as you went to rise to your feet. König’s head perked up as he quietly gasped.

“Did you enjoy it?” he gasped. You remained still as your cheeks flooded with a deep crimson. You hung your head and gave a slow nod.

“Mein Gott,” your partner muttered. He ran his hand over the top of his hood, his body trembling. Both of you remained frozen in place for what felt like an eternity. Your face grew an even deeper shade of red when he finally took his hand and wrapped it in yours, his thumb pressed into the back of your palm.

“I-I know this may sound crazy, and it might not be the right time…but,” his entire body was shaking. Your heart skipped a beat.

“König?” you asked. You clasped your hand over his and squeezed it gently. He instantly relaxed. He drew in a deep breath, steadying himself.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you for so long,” König swallowed thickly. Your eyes widened at the implications of his words. He stroked across the back of your hand, humming to himself. Your eyes flicked up to his hood, his blue eyes shining in the pale moonlight. “I want you, (Y/N),” König said. Your lips curved ear to ear. “I’ve wanted you to be mine since the moment we first spoke,” he sheepishly chuckled. Your heart melted right then and there, ready to burst in your chest.

"That's why today...when that fucker nearly killed you before my eyes, I wanted to tear him to pieces," König seethed, his fists clenching. You remained quiet as he continued. "I couldn't bear the thought of living another day on this earth without you, and today that almost came true," he shuddered. Your bottom lip shook before you came up and pressed a small kiss to where you imagined his cheek would be. His eyes were as wide as dinner plates as you pulled away.

"I know. I was scared shitless. But I have you to thank for me still being here," you smiled warmly. König returned your expression, pulling you close to his broad chest. Both of you held onto each other, soaking in the fact that the two of you were living here and now. You nuzzled your face into his chest as he kissed the top of your head, his hand stroking your lower back.

"Schatz?" he piqued. You tilted your head up, your lips inches from his.

"Yes, König?" you hummed. His hand rested on your hip, fingers digging into your waist.

“Do you...do you want me to?” König asked. You grinned and crashed your lips into his, forgetting about the hood entirely. His eyes widened with surprise, but he quickly leaned into your kiss. Both of his hands snaked down to your hips, tenderly holding you as you pulled away.

“I always have,” you said softly. The corner of König’s eyes crinkled. You pecked where his lips would’ve been before you pressed your forehead to his. “I always have,” you repeated, your voice quieter yet more firm this time. You came forward, your hands falling onto his broad chest. You felt his heart hammer beneath your gentle touch. He rested his forehead against yours, his breathing choppy and hands squeezing your hips. Your fingers slowly came up to the cloth covering his face. The face you’ve never gotten the joy to see, never had the pleasure to touch.

“May I?” you asked. His eyes flitted between your hands and your lips. He nodded as he wrapped his hands around your wrists. You slowly pulled up his hood, his face coming to you in pieces. First, his plump, slightly pink lips that were parted. His strong chin was sprinkled with dirty blonde scruff and light pink scars. Next, a slightly crooked yet otherwise sharp nose. You imagined it was from the amount of times it’s been broken. König’s breathing grew heavier as you rolled the cloth up close to his eyes.

“I can stop if you want,” you said. His hands tightened around your wrist as he licked his dry lips.

“Nein, bitte…I want you to see all of me,” he said. You smiled and continued to pull up the sheet of fabric. He screwed his eyes shut as you rolled it off of his head. Black face paint covered his eyes and upper cheeks. His short, dirty blonde hair caught the light of the sun that peeked just over the mountains. The weight of silence was heavy before you finally spoke.

“You’re breathtaking,” you awed. He opened his eyes and blinked. They were like two pools of sapphire seated in a field of his ivory skin. His face was undeniably rugged, torn and scarred from years of being in battle. However, you couldn’t deny how it only made him more handsome in your eyes. Your thumb came and stroked his stubbled chin, then his cheek. König nuzzled into your touch and purred.

You smiled as he rubbed his cheek in your palm, breathing in your scent. A gasp left you when he suddenly took your thumb into his mouth, his soft muscle swirling around it. You rubbed your thighs together as he picked you up and gently placed you back down on the bed. His massive form hovered over you, your finger still lodged in the wet cavern of his mouth. You slid your hand away, your thumb coming out with a wet “pop”. König’s gaze was lidded, pupils blown as he leaned in.

“Liebling, I’ve wanted to feel you for so long. Would it be alright if I did so now?” he rasped into your ear. You shivered beneath him, hands wrapping around his thick neck.

“Please, König,” you keened while arching your hips. He sucked in a deep breath, in awe of the beautiful woman below him.

“Danke,” König sighed. His long fingers slid down, over your breasts and landing on your waist. You sighed when he pressed his lips to your face, eventually finding your own. Your mouths danced around each other while he worked your pants and underwear down your waist. He sucked in a sharp breath when he laid eyes on your dripping cunt.

“You’re so wet,” he breathed in astonishment. You spread your legs wide for him to get a view of your whole aching cunny. He growled when you dipped your hand in between your folds, your finger playing with your clit.

“It’s your fault,” you teased. His Adam's apple bobbed, eyes darkening with lust. You arched your back as you circled your nub and let out a loud moan. A red curtain fell over his cheeks. He reached down between your hips, replacing your hand with his. You whined as he pressed a thick digit into your bundle of nerves.

“Just tell me if you want me to stop and I will,” König whispered. You nodded and wrapped your hands around his taut forearms. He leaned back down to kiss you while his thumb drew slow, languid strokes across your clit. Pleasure rippled through your pussy as he dipped his head, pushing his tongue into your soft mouth. Your tongues flicked and sucked on each other as he swallowed your moans. The pressure began to steadily build in your core with each flick, stroke, and circle across your bundle of nerves. König gritted his teeth as his cock began to swell painfully in his pants.

You mewled when you felt one of his long digits sink into your hole. The ridges of his finger delicately brushed across your walls, stroking in spots you didn't know you had.

"Need to make sure you're ready for me, Liebling," König murmured. You nodded and gripped onto his arms. Your head felt dizzy from just one finger inside of you. He curled it into your upper walls, the pad brushing against the spot that made your toes curl. You moaned as you felt him pump into your heat. The pool in your belly began to bubble up as he rubbed your clit beneath his thumb in tandem with his thrusts. You saw stars when he added a second finger.

"That's it, look at you opening up for me so well," König praised. You bit your lip as he scissored his fingers inside of you, spreading your walls deliciously.

"S-So good, König, making me feel so good," you slurred. He chuckled quietly as he continued to pump his fingers into you, his thumb still dancing over your juicy bundle of nerves. The heat only began to rise inside of you with each stroke. He cursed beneath his breath when he watched your hands slip away to twist your perky nipples in between your fingers. Everything felt so intense, from his digits being swallowed by your cunt to your nubs being rolled by your own hands. You arched your back when a third finger slipped inside of you. The stretch was borderline painful, yet the pleasure quickly overshadowed it.

"Are you feeling okay, Maus?" König asked, his blown pupils trained on your face. You nodded and swallowed thickly.

"Y-Yes," you gasped as you felt yourself teeter on the edge of your high, your walls spasming around his digits. His lips curled back over yours as he slid all three fingers into you, your pussy squelching loudly with each drag.

"Fuck, I've dreamt of doing this to you for so long," he moaned. "Making you squirm with pleasure," König grunted. His voice seemed so far away as the cord inside of you wound tighter and tighter. He gave a deep swipe across your bud and thrusted his fingers into your spongy spot inside. "To see what you would look like when you came undone," he groaned hungrily. Your vision went white as you cried out beneath him, walls clamping down around his slick digits.

"Just like this," he breathed, thrusting his fingers with each word. His tongue swiped up a drop of saliva that dripped out of the corner of your mouth. You shuddered as you felt your high surge across your body, your nipples sensitive in your grasp and clit throbbing below the pad of his thumb.

"K-König," you slurred. König's mouth enveloped around your lips as he slipped his fingers out of you.

"Shh, it's alright. I'm here," he cooed. You panted as he shifted above you. The bulge in his pants was even more prominent, making your jaw go slack.

“Scheiße,” he grunted as he took in all of you. You were flush from head to toe, your body spread out like a full-course meal. He licked his lips, wanting to know so badly how sweet you'd taste. Perhaps some other time. He pulled his shirt off, then his pants and briefs. You gawked as his cock sprang from the confines of his pants and smacked against his rough abs. He noticed your staring and blushed.

“You’re so big,” you gaped. König's eyes lowered, his body tense.

“I-I know,” he stammered. You tilted your head. "I-It's caused more problems than I'd like," König confessed. You frowned. You ran your hands up his thighs, looking at him lovingly. His breath seized as you stroked one of your palms along his thick shaft.

“Don't worry, we’ll figure it out,” you smiled reassuringly. König cracked a smile, then groaned as you tighten your grip around his length. You gave it a few experimental pumps, feeling a large vein that ran across the bottom of his shaft bulge across the creases of your hand. He rutted into your hand, thighs spreading slightly when your other came up to cup his heavy balls.

“Ah,” König moaned as his hands came down near your shoulders. He lowered his dick closer to your folds, his red tip kissing over your wet lower lips. You licked your lips at the welcoming heat of his cock prodding your entrance. His member twitched in your grasp as he panted, eyes screwed shut and head tugged back.

“Schatz, if you keep doing that, I’m going to cum,” König strained. Your core fluttered at his words. You slowed your movements before sliding your hand back to his forearm.

“Please, fuck me, König,” you moaned as you bucked your hips. He shuddered before spreading your legs wider. You stifled a whine, realizing just how much he was going to stretch you open. He raised your hips as he rubbed the leaking head of his cock against your tight hole.

“I’m going to go slow. Is that alright?” König asked. You didn’t care what speed he went, you just needed him to be inside of you.

“Yes,” you moaned. He nodded before angling his hips. Your mouth opened into a silent scream as his head breached your entrance. The man above you hissed as your walls sucked him in. You were afraid you’d be split down the middle…and he wasn’t even halfway in yet.

“Please relax, Vögelchen. You’re so tight,” König groaned. You slid your hand between your hotly pressed bodies, circling your clit feverishly. Your pussy loosened a little, allowing him to sink into your wet heat. Your toes curled as his cock brushed against your spongy g-spot, your pussy wracked with sparks of arousal. His hands were almost bruising your hips as he gave a sudden, sharp thrust. You cried out.

“Shh. I know, I know,” he cooed. His hand came up to cup your cheek as your lip quivered.

“I-I can’t do it, Kö,” you sobbed. His thumb brushed a tear that fell from your eye. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt you, but holy fuck, did your pussy feel divine wrapped around him.

“Just take a deep breath with me, Katzchen,” he said. Your eyes opened, wet with tears of the pleasure and pain that emanated from your core. König drew in a deep inhale through his nose.

“In,” he said. You did the same, the cold air filling your lungs. “And out,” König murmured before exhaling through his mouth. You followed his lead, your body relaxing as you released your breath. The pain began to fade the more both of you breathed together, his cock slipping further inside. Before you knew it, his hips were flush with yours, head buried against your cervix. He sighed and patted your hip.

“See, Schatz? I knew you could do it,” he praised with a sparkle in his eyes. You blushed as he gave a gentle kiss on your forehead. Tears still pricked at the corners of your eyes as his thick length stretched you to your limit. His heavy balls rested against your ass as he shifted his hips.

“Are you feeling okay?” König asked. You nodded and bit your lip, your fingers still drawing deliciously slow circles around your bundle of nerves.

“Y-Yes. Please, I need you Kö,” you mewled. He groaned when your walls tightened around him. Your eyes popped out of your head when you saw a bulge poke from beneath your stomach. Christ, he was going to break you. König gripped both of your hips as he looked you in the eyes.

“I’m going to start moving,” he said. His voice was slightly hoarse, dripping with lust and each syllable heavy with his Austrian accent. You hooked your legs around his waist as he slowly dragged his cock out of you, keeping half of it plugged in. Your jaw went slack as he fully pushed it back inside. Each stroke was tender and slow. The slight pain that remained began to dull as his cock slid past your plush walls. You moaned as you pinched and rubbed your clit along with his thrusts.

“Fuck, yes,” you gasped, your mind wrapped in a blanket of ecstasy. His brows were knitted together as he pumped into your pussy, the lewd squelching making him curse beneath his breath. The bed creaked and groaned as you began to push your hips into his, matching his pace. The tendrils of your oncoming orgasm creeped in.

“(Y/N),” König moaned as he bit your neck. You curled your toes, his head pounding into your cervix as his pace became more driven. His balls slapped against your ass, your slick coating them as it leaked down to the sheets below. Everything felt clear and blurry at the same time as your head reeled with bliss. You cried as your walls fluttered around him.

“König, I’m close!” you wailed. He pounded into your cunt, his hand that was on your hip now pressed into your lower stomach where his cock bulged beneath your skin. Your jaw went slack.

“Cum for me, Liebling,” he growled. You cried and raked your fingernails down his back as your orgasm ripped through you. Your walls contracted around him, pussy squelching as he continued fucking you through your high. You moaned and babbled incessantly as liquid euphoria seeped through your veins. Your head spun as König grunted above you, his thrusts now heated and sloppy.

“(Y/N), I’m right there,” he warned into your ear. You drooled from a corner of your parted lips. The waves of overstimulation lapped at your core as you threw your head back.

“Cum inside!” you mewled. He tilted his head, his lips still snug against your neck. “I-I’m on the pill,” you breathed. König groaned and tenderly pushed into your hole.

“Hinreißend. It’s like your perfect pussy was made for me,” he moaned. His thrusts quickly became more fervent and hungry before he finally snapped his hips, his tip reaching all the way inside of you. You moaned as he spilled his thick seed into your weeping cunt. König stiffened above you as his cock pulsed inside of your walls, his cum splashing against your cervix.

“Oh my God,” you gasped as you felt his spend and your arousal erupt from where your sexes connected. He caught his breath before locking eyes with you. He leaned down, kissing you deeply while he pulled out of you. More cum oozed from your puckering entrance and dripped onto the sheets. Both of you moaned into the kiss, your mind swimming in the bliss of the afterglow. You smiled as he pulled away.

“I love you,” you breathed. You knew it wasn’t something you’d say to someone you just had sex with for the first time, but something about those three words falling from your lips just felt right. König snapped his head up, his eyes soft and filled with joy. He nuzzled his lips against yours before peppering your face with small, sweet kisses.

“Ich liebe dich,” König murmured against your skin. He pecked your lips, his hands rubbing over your hips. “I love you, too,” he whispered. You smiled, warmth flooding your chest. He pulled you to his side, his bulky arms wrapped around you.

Birds began to chirp outside as the golden morning sun peeked through the window. You traced your fingers along the dips and curves of his arm while he nuzzled his nose into your neck. You thought about his cum trickling down your thighs. You’d clean up later. Right now, all you could think about was the man holding you in his arms and the love you held for him in your heart.

____

Thank you for reading! ❤️

Translations:

Ja - Yes

Nein - No

Schatz - Treasure/Darling

Verdammt - Dammit

Maus - Mouse

Entspanne - Relax

Vögelchen - Little Bird

Scheiße - Shit

Scheißer - Bastard

Meine Katzchen - My Kitten

So gut/Du fühlst dich so gut an - So good/You Feel So Good

Es tut mir leid - I’m So Sorry

Mein Gott - My God

Liebling - Dear/Darling

Bitte - Please

Danke - Thank You

Hinreißend - Gorgeous/Beautiful

Ich liebe dich - I Love You

[drarryspecificrecs]

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Playing Quiddick by xErised [E, 11k] Harry: Quidditch Commentator/Analyst on the WWN | Draco: Quidditch Player

The Plot by tigersilver [T, 15k] Harry: Department of Magical Transportation Agent | Draco: MOM Apprentice - Misuse of Muggle Artefacts

port in a storm by @saltwatergarden [M, 8k] Harry: Curse-Breaker | Draco: Hotelier

Scanning the Skies by Enchanted_Jae [T, 3k] Harry: UFO hunter | Draco: UFO hunter

The Scent of Soft Rains by @dodgerkedavra [E, 20k] Harry: Dragonologist | Draco: Magical Prosthetist

The Sinful Serpent by @rei382 [T, 11k] Harry: Private Investigator | Draco: Stripper

Ten Visits to Fire and Flight: The World of Dragons by @sandervansunshine [E, 17k] Harry: Radio Show Co-Host | Draco: Museum Department Head

Terminal Lucidity by @romaine2424 [G, 3k] Harry: End-of-Life Specialist | Draco: (none)

The Thread that Binds Us by @bubble-gumhead [T, 22k] Harry: Rune Inscriptor | Draco: Pattern Maker for Clothes

To have a Home by @myaulophobia [E, 127k] Harry: Homeless | Draco: Muggle Lawyer (Solicitor)

WanderFull Fit by @resilientkitteh [E, 6k] Harry: Sex Toy Maker | Draco: Sex Toy Tester

Wherever You Go, There You Are by harrows [E, 12k] Harry: Founder of a Nonprofit Organisation | Draco: Muggle Yoga Instructor

Within You Without You by @arminaa8 [E, 39k] Harry: Ministry Advisor | Draco: Mind Healer

A Year In The Life by @ladderofyears [M, 19k] Harry: Broomstick Salesman | Draco: Book Salesman

—

✔ other fests in 2023 ✔ fests in other years ✔ H/D Fan Fair : Food Fair 2022 | Career Fair 2021 | Sex Fair 2020 | Fan Fair 2019 | Food Fair 2018 | Career Fair 2017 | Pet Fair 2016 | Pottermore Fair 2015 | Career Fair 2014 | Book Fair 2013 | Career Fair 2012 | Travel Fair 2010 | Career Fair 2009

[jiminrings]

welcome to jiminrings (again)!! ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

ask • masterlist • patreon • previous navi

latest fic: anything & mature

exclusively at patreon (running count: 200+):

arranged from newest to oldest!

🌟 patreon citizen favorite!

a part of my c*ntroversial fic series!

additional: how to become a free member! + sneak peeks!

🌟 jungkook's village series (wherein your bf jungkook has too many exes and he's in good terms with everyone, and he still works with his ex from his longest relationship)

🌟 drop anchor (wherein you have a will they, won't they friendship with yoongi who calls you his baby in front of everyone so nobody would set him up (until you get sick of it))

preservation (wherein gravure idol jungkook knows you're a fan and he likes you, but he always pushes you away because he doesn't want to "corrupt" you)

🌟 nesting series (wherein you have a push n pull married life with politician's son yoongi who only married you bc you got pregnant, and his family doesn't want a scandal)

succulent (wherein low-maintenance boyfriend taehyung lets you be Too Much to the point that you don't ask him anymore to come to special events)

crown jewel (wherein older husband namjoon's second marriage is to you, and his ex-wife is still his family's favorite)

🌟 stanchion (wherein jungkook's the club bouncer that you have a crush on so u keeping going with ur friends, until a rough night puts u out of commission (read: jungkook has a crush on you too and he's worried out of his mind))

up and tight (wherein you're in an arranged marriage with tightly-wound heir jin and need to share a bed with him)

🌟 to the touch (wherein hoseok's almost The Perfect Boyfriend whose love language is physical touch towards you.. and everyone else)

🌟 retrospect (wherein your older bf taehyung's love language is tough love, so he doesn't grovel when you stay at your place (turns out you're sick, and he's really stupid))

🌟 text AUs (apex yoongi, matilda jungkook, mature jungkook, (un)like the movies aka ex-husband n baby daddy yoongi, fine print yoongi, take five yoongi, michelin jin, was it casual? jin, nine to five jimin, playing house jin...)

early access: anything (alternatively, yoongi's your best friend and you've been in love with him your whole life)

big picture (wherein ob-gyne namjoon, your boyfriend, who wants to be a dad but not a husband… ends up meeting your ex who’s willing to be both)

early access: mature (alternatively, crushing on jungkook who's in your friend group is, has, and will never be a good idea)

🌟 show out series (wherein jungkook's your surgeon boyfriend who always changes your blue-collar job title whenever someone asks)

🌟 breadwinner series (wherein taehyung's a breadwinner who always thinks you're pitying him, so he tells you off in the dark.. in the surprise party you threw for him.. for everyone to hear)

who hurts who (unearthed! wherein loving a single dad like teaehyung who hasn't moved on from his ex isn't a herculean task — until it is)

big city (wherein you're taking your master's degree and jungkook's a professor at another university (read: you're the fragile roommate and jungkook's the stoic one))

🌟 night, day, noon series (wherein yoongi cheats on you)

🌟 trophy series (wherein f1 racer jimin thanks his famous ex-girlfriend for always believing in him in his victory speech)

michelin: the food poisoning drabble series (wherein jin's ex eats at your restaurant and gets food poisoning, and the thinks you did it on purpose)

🌟 learning curve (wherein you’re pregnant and emergency doctor yoongi, who’s always tired from his shifts, has a little meltdown (you just want to take a walk!!!)

🌟 loved next door series (wherein namjoon's your building's resident sweetheart, and inconveniently, your soulmate who thinks emotional cheating is Not Real)

thick and blunt series (wherein pornstar taehyung likes pissing you off, his fluffer, as a kink — except he goes too far and actually hurts your feelings)

one and a half (wherein overly independent boyfriend namjoon doesn’t share his burdens with you, but instead with his overly attached secretary)

monopoly (wherein jungkook, your best friend’s brother, keeps snitching on you and your dates ever since you stopped confessing your feelings for him)

🌟 middle ground series (wherein both you and your ex-boyfriend jungkook are broke and stuck with the lease, so his solution is to invite his current girlfriend to live with the both of you)

🌟 stationary (wherein single dad jin doesn't want to marry you, even if his daughter loves you)

🌟 (un)like the movies series (wherein jimin's your boyfriend who lacks fatherly instincts to your daughter, and he gets to meet your ex-husband yoongi, right after your big fight with him)

refer to the 100+ more bullet points that made my first navi post full and prompted me to make a new one :-)

this month's schedule for patreon citizens! :D

[midnightcatharsis]

I've been kinda trying to ship meljayvik for a week and I'm officially giving up. I'm too weak for this shit. I've started shipping them for several reasons mostly: 1. I like all 3 characters 2. Meljayvik art is beautiful 3. the jokes about Jayce being in love with 2 magical beings are great 4. Jayce has a type 5. Many members of the arcane team have been open about shipping meljayvik 6. While I do believe there are not enough Mel-Viktor interactions, I believe the ship has big potential and I've stumbled upon several ideas for fics that I find charming as well as interesting. 7. Toks (Mel's VA) is a great, talented person, she makes me love Mel and crave more Mel content.

That being said, I'm giving up. Almost every single time I search through tags and Mel or M3ljay* (if you wonder why it's censored look at the end of the post) are mentioned alongside Viktor and Jayvik 95% of the content is just pure hate, insults, harassment, and vitriol. The hate comes from both ways of course and perhaps some m3ljay fans have encountered some from jayvik fans but, personally, I have seen much more hate directed at viktor and people shipping jayvik or even meljayvik. People say "don't erase and vilify Mel for jayvik" (which I agree with) only to in the same comment or post vilify Viktor and hate on him making sometimes ridiculous claims. Innocent jokes referencing what c.l. said, about how if Jayce sees Viktor as a brother then his relationship with Mel is also "sibling-coded" are treated as a war crime by some M3ljay fans even if you ship both. Joking about Mel's actress liking jayvik posts, shipping them or referencing her doing that in any way is a crime and any person who has ever dared to consider Jayce and Viktor as romantic, post any art or joke about jayvik (which also includes Mel's VA) is insulted, harassed, slandered and called "racist". Even shipping meljayvik is treated as an insult because "only m3ljay is ok"). And don't even let me start on Mel because she can only ever be perfect and anytime somebody dares to say that while she is not perfect she is still a complex, interesting character it's treated as hating on her... Saying that she is skilled in manipulation, politics, intrigues, schemes, and playing people is somehow an insult despite it being her job and despite her achieving so much while at such a young age on her own being a testimony to how good at it and skilled she is. Saying that she was on the council for many years and the council has done awful things to Zaun is not permitted. Mentioning that her relationship with Jayce, while real, started as her trying to use and manipulate him because he was an investment - which is even an important theme in the show and the reason why they have a falling out in s2 - is somehow a hate crime. A lot of these people don't even care about Mel and often say stuff suggesting that if she doesn't end with Jayce she is somehow useless and disposable while, in reality, she is a strong, independent, and complex character who has her own story and who would be interesting even if her break up with Jayce in s2 marked the definite end of their relationship (same for Viktor, except maybe having his own story because he and Jayce are intertwined in all universes in that regard). A lot of people are just using Mel (and Sky) to hide their ableism, homophobia, and sheer disgust for gay, bisexual and queer people... Perhaps there is also some hate and toxicity (that shouldn't be there) on the jayvik side of fandom towards M3ljay, but during my limited time as a new meljayvik shipper and looking through tags, I have not encountered people openly hating on Mel at all. Things that get labeled as "hate" are mostly people saying she was manipulative at the beginning (which yes, she was), is good at manipulation (again, she is, like every politician, and it doesn't even make her evil) or is not a saint; people comparing Viktor and Mel's scenes or using the m3ljay tag while also shipping meljayvik; occasionally people saying why they prefer jayvik while also being polite and not hating on Mel (which also happens in reverse)... But never open hate, insults, and harassment that the other side directs towards jayvik fans and viktor. (Screens below - most from tumblr cause I'm lazy, but there are much more of it on other platforms, and the comments are often even worse) I'm too weak to deal with all this toxicity and hate. I still kinda like the ship and the all the characters but I'm going back to jayvik only.

*(I'm censoring this so that m3ljay fans who probably don't want it in their tag won't have to interact with this post because I consider it basic human culture. Would be lovely if m3ljay fans who love to shit on jayvik in jayvik fans did the same for once)

[knnichs]

i love you in the worst way

his work was not what kept him up–tossing and turning on his bed. it was you.

c. goro akechi, gn!reader

t. mentions of shido (i hate him,) major p5r/p5 spoilers, slight implications of suicide (very plot heavy, but vague,) yearning who cheered, not beta read

reupload once more… second part of the first akechi fic, as always original notes are at the end & you can find the og ao3 link here!!

The dimly lit apartment had a comforting emptiness to it, regardless of what everyone says about loneliness. Akechi always found himself missing its familiar quiet, akin to a park with the occasional muffled voices of others. He would sit under the bridge if no one was there, maybe near the lake–or alone on the bench, watching as the birds fly free across the blue sky. Work as a detective would mean socializing with others, even if it meant becoming a little fake towards them. But he chose this line of work, he knew what he was getting into the moment he and Shido had struck a deal. 

Nevertheless, he felt a little sick that night. Somehow dreading coming back home. Maybe it was the insomnia, maybe the lack of a companion–a true one–the entire day. As much as he loved working with Sae, they can get into some heated arguments sometimes and Akechi didn’t need that on his already overfilled plate. It wasn't that, however, that was not what kept him up–tossing and turning on his bed.

It was you. 

If he was being honest, he didn’t think he would ever fall in love. In a romantic sense anyway–with his grand death on step 30 of his revenge plan against Shido (that damned politician) and if everything went well, his poisonous blood would forever stain that man. With patience wearing thin, he wouldn’t dare do anything aside from preparing for the last chapter, the finale, of the famed detective prince.

He sighs, exhausted from the entire day and everyone in general. If he was going to be honest, meeting up with you was the one thing he was looking forward to. But of course, his fans just had to ruin the moment. He’s half thankful, somehow, if he’d stay any longer–his heart would’ve lept out of his chest and taken control of his brain, leaving nothing unsaid.

Just how nice would that be? Seeing the expression on your face as he says things you would’ve never thought the detective prince would say. Three words, spoken in hushed whispers, mumbling too quick that you wouldn’t even be able to understand it immediately. 

I love you, and the words are on the tip of his tongue everytime he sees you.

If you were to ask him, that's exactly what he hates the most. Not the feeling of being a dead man in a body somehow still full of life, or the metallic taste of blood in his mouth after he bit his cheek trying to restrain himself from saying things he would later regret. He would act as if the vision of the white curtains blowing in the wind from an open window and the sun just–shining on your face, a single moment of calm in his lifetime of chaos and fighting. Oh, you would look so beautiful. You would wake up smiling–at him, of all people. It would reach your eyes, an expression of pure joy, and it would forever be etched into his memory. 

To him, it’s like lyrics to a song he’s listened to one too many times. He keeps repeating the same things to himself, words he could only wish to tell you–because it’s you, it’s you who his heart yearns for. It’s you who causes the inner meltdowns because his heart is beating way too fast and his breathing is uneven when he sees you, only hoping that you could somehow pick up on the signs and tell him the same things back. 

A backyard, hanging up the clothes with you underneath the early morning sun. Running across hills filled to the brim with flowers. Traveling country to country, making lunch at the airbnb you two stayed at to save money. The laughs, the smiles–no. He’d be driving himself insane going down that rabbit hole. There will always be that voice in his head that tells him it’s wrong, and truth be told, he’s getting sick of it.

Fine then. So be it, he has other things to worry about anyway. 

The boy rolls over the bed, lazily reaching for the phone he put on the desk drawer and turning it on. 2:03 am, that would mean he had spent the last two hours thinking about you since he got home. 

Tomorrow, he’d whisper to himself. Interview at 10 am, attend as many classes until lunch break–go to the station and help Sae with the cases, investigate for Akira. And a beat of silence in his mind before a familiar name shows up; capture the leader of the Thieves, kill Shido. His plate was already overfilled, and it didn't take long for him to realize that he had to fit you somewhere on his schedule too. What was he even worrying about anyway? There’s a busy week ahead of him and you would understand the distance, more than anyone for that matter.

So, why does he feel guilty? His chest feels tight, this is wrong. You’ve done so much for him and yet–you let him treat you like this? You know everything about each other, you know him better than he knows himself…

That part was a lie. As far as he knows, you only know of his past–but not as the culprit of the mental shutdown cases. You know him from the princely “good boy” ace detective Akechi, he’s done a good job at covering everything up and you–you’re just…

It’s frustrating for him, it really is. He knows you see right through him, you’re the only one who asks how he’s doing after all. You know something’s up, you’ve been with him long enough for it to become an instinct to you. And it's most definitely affecting his plan that he’s developed for years–you were ruining it. 

3:14 am.

He’s still awake. Wondering about the choices he’s made for it to lead up to this… Nonsense. He doesn’t understand why you make him feel this way, he doesn’t know why you choose to care about some worthless child. It’s almost like he’s your greatest wish and to him it's foolish. Who would want someone like him? A murderer, some fraud persona built for the tv, a child who was never loved by their own parents–a curse. 

He’ll have to blow off some steam in that metaverse later, but now, he needs to get rest for the long day tomorrow. 

Slowly, he reaches for his phone. Turning it on only to be blinded by the light–despite it being on the lowest brightness setting–and he stops for a bit to get adjusted to it. He scrolls down to your contact, swipes right, and removes you. 

That was all it took for him to completely forget about the yearning he had just felt, a swipe of the finger, and you were–as he thought–gone.

hi.. im back :pray: heres a part 2 to the last work i made about akechi (message in a bottle) part 3 will be the very last, finally. Valentines (teehee) this is set in the same day as when he left immediately in the restaurant, so !!! yeah thats all okay goodbye :heart: thats all, see u all again next month if i ever come around to finishing part 3 ^^

[luxcuriousao3]

Dove: A Zombie Ghost Story (Chapter One)

Summary: The loneliness was killing him. He was already dead and somehow it was killing him. For every day that passed with only the other undead for company, Simon’s voice grew more and more quiet. He was desperate. Desperate for an anchor to the humanity that kept slipping through his cold, stiff fingers. Word Count: 3200 Warnings: no smut this chapter (this fic is the slowest of burns y'all, strap in for a looooong ride), briefly referenced (non-graphic) SA in the OC's backstory, semi-graphic violence, POV switches denoted by line breaks (it starts off from the OC's POV but switches to Ghost's pretty quickly) Notes: It's finally here. My contribution to the Zombie!Ghost community. You can think the creators of his Alone skin to converting me into a monsterfucker (after all the years I managed to avoid collecting that kink, smdh) and @xoxunhinged for making me utterly obsessed with poor, sweet, undead Simon. Their fic sick <3 is absolutely amazing and was definitely a huge inspiration for Dove. They are just a fantastic writer, I literally cannot gush over their stories enough. I highly, highly recommend that y'all go binge read their stuff, and Unhinged, if you're reading this, I'm your biggest fan <3 (also please don't read this cuz it sucks in comparison to yours and I'll die of embarrassment if you do /hj). AO3, Masterlist

Lelia had just turned nineteen when she was married off by her father. He was a politician, and her hand in marriage to some rich and powerful CEO’s son had been traded for monetary support of his campaign. Lelia’s husband was not kind, and the end of the world hadn’t changed that, when it happened three months later.

They had been evacuated to a military safe zone early on, early enough that Lelia had avoided seeing the complete and utter carnage the virus wrought upon the world. That had been why, after finding herself whored out by her husband to the soldiers in charge for better rations and amenities, Lelia decided she would be better off on her own. She’d run away, escaped the base and disappeared into the woods.

She lasted less than a day.

After hours of running, fueled by pure adrenaline and an overwhelming need to finally be free of Andrew’s casual cruelty, Lelia found herself alone in the woods, surrounded by the ravenous, snarling zombies she’d only heard of in other survivors’ stories. She’d never actually seen one of the undead, at least not while they were still alive… for some sense of the word.

Out of options, Lelia scrambled up a tree—and how she’d managed that, as unathletic as she was, she once again chalked up to adrenaline and some recently unearthed instinct to survive—perching on a thick, sturdy branch as high up as she could get. A clawed hand grabbing her foot nearly spelled her demise, but with a frantic kick, she shook the moldering limb off and hoisted herself up.

She stared down at the mass of walking corpses beneath her, and then briefly closed her eyes, letting out a shaky breath. There were at least a dozen, though it was difficult to count them in the darkness when they kept moving around. For all she knew, there were more. Either way, she was done for. She wouldn't have been able to fight back against even a single one. She was foolish to think she could survive out here, on her own. But she found that she didn’t regret leaving—at the very least, she got to taste freedom before her inevitable demise. The only thing she regretted was the painful, gruesome way in which she would go, once she ended up on the ground. And she would end up on the ground, she knew. Whether she simply tipped over after passing out from exhaustion, or lost her grip on the tree trunk… well. If Lelia was lucky, the fall would kill her instantly. She desperately hoped that God would grant her that one mercy, after all she had been through.

She knew there was no point in delaying her death. That she was only prolonging her own fear and suffering. And yet, she couldn't bring herself to let go. Her hands stayed stubbornly locked together as her arms hugged the tree, the toes of her shoes—ballet flats, since she owned no trainers or hiking boots, even months into the apocalypse—planted firmly on two slightly lower branches to help keep her balance. She stayed like that for hours, until her limbs locked up and her muscles burned. She pushed her body to the limit, eyes dry and irritated from refusing to fall asleep, knowing exactly what would happen if she did. It was an exercise in fruitlessness, in needless agony, and yet Lelia bore it as stoically as she could, the only sign of her terror the silent tears dripping from her eyes. Because despite it all, despite knowing it would change nothing, Lelia didn’t want to die.

“Please,” she whispered, the first words she’d spoken since escaping the base. Her voice was hoarse from disuse and thick from her tears, and the small sniffle that followed it sounded clogged. She didn’t know who she was talking to—God, maybe, or perhaps a figment of her imagination, just so she didn’t feel so alone—but she knew no one would hear her. No one ever heard her. No one ever listened. “Somebody please help me… I want to live.”

***

Ghost tilted his head to the side as he examined the woman in the tree. He had been drawn by the loud snapping and snarling that had plagued the forest for hours now, signaling a gathering of the undead. The only thing that brought so many to the same place was the promise of a meal. And so, after waiting a while to avoid having to actually do the killing of innocents—something that bothered the vestiges of humanity that rattled around in his infected brain—he’d headed in the direction of the noise, hoping to find some leftover scraps.

Instead, he found her. A tiny slip of a girl, trembling in a tree and looking for all the world like a fragile little bird, too weak to fly away to safety but not yet resigned to her gruesome fate. Ghost found himself unusually curious, and he studied her for what could have been minutes or hours. He wasn’t sure—time had lost all meaning not long after he turned. Sometimes, weeks would go by without him noticing, the only indication that any time had passed at all being the changing colors of the leaves. The small part of him that was still able to feel emotions worried about how he would be able to mark the passage of time when it was no longer autumn. He tried not to think about it, in the rare moments that he could form semi-coherent thoughts. He preferred to spend that time reminiscing on happier days, trying to recall the names and faces of family and friends from before. He had already forgotten most of them. Only a few memories lingered—bright blue eyes, a deep Scottish burr, the scent of clean soap, and, much fainter, whiskey.

When Ghost came back to himself, he realized he had drifted closer to the girl in the tree, now standing right at the base of it, staring up at her like all the other infected. The only difference was that he wasn’t scratching at the bark and growling like some rabid animal. He was still, milky white eyes trained on her face. Round cheeks, big brown doe eyes, pretty pink lips, and a small, upturned nose, framed by loose, auburn curls that went down to her waist. She was beautiful, the part of him that was still human noticed. The part of him that was driven by an unceasing instinct to rend and consume flesh, on the other hand, was drawn in by her scent. Light and floral, with a hint of something sugary, she smelled like she would taste incredible. Saliva pooled in his mouth and dribbled out, his broken jaw hanging uselessly.

“Please. Somebody please help me. I want to live.”

Her voice was angelic, despite the fear in it, and Ghost perked up at the sound. It was as small as her and as sweet as she smelled. Everything about her screamed of an innocence he’d long thought purged from the world, from her voice to her scent to the tear tracks on her face that glistened silver in the moonlight, her pale skin nearly glowing. She reminded him of a dove—small and frail and pure. Easy to break and easy to kill.

Don’t let her die, Simon’s voice said in his head, like a distant echo. She doesn’t deserve to die, not now, not like this.

Ghost, who had not heard Simon’s voice in a long while, shifted uneasily. He had helped the living often, in the beginning, when he'd realized he still held some measure of sentience, of control over his new, cannibalistic instincts. In return, he had been shot at, stabbed, slashed, skewered, and otherwise attacked. The human part of him had understood, and the first few times it happened, he’d simply retreated, despite his growing desire for companionship to chase away the terrible loneliness of his cursed existence. Most people had been confused by the zombie not trying to eat them, but far too relieved to try and chase him down to finish him off. They had simply accepted their strange good fortune and ran the other way while they still had the chance.

The last human he had tried to save had not been so smart.

After scaring away the horde of undead chasing the man, he’d remained, still and silent so as not to seem like a threat. He had known then how foolish it was, had known he should have left right away, that his decaying body would only be damaged further by a vicious hack from the man’s gore-covered machete—but the loneliness was killing him. He was already dead and somehow it was killing him. For every day that passed with only the other undead for company, Simon’s voice grew more and more quiet. He was desperate. Desperate for an anchor to the humanity that kept slipping through his cold, stiff fingers.

The man had charged at him, nearly taking Ghost’s arm off, and dejected, he had turned to leave. But this man was different from the others, stupider—or perhaps a little mad. He had pursued Ghost brutally, intent on ending his miserable existence. Part of Ghost had wanted to let him, but another part refused. This was not much of a life, not a life at all, really, but it was his and he wouldn’t let anyone take it away from him.

And so, after the dozenth swing, he’d snapped.

The man had been no match for his strength, wouldn't have been even before the virus had enhanced it. Ghost had batted the machete away like it was nothing but a toy, and then sunk his claws into the vulnerable flesh of the man's exposed throat, ripping it out. Hot blood had sprayed across his face, blood that was still there to his day, as Ghost had devoured a human for the first time, stuffing clumps of flesh into his mouth, manually moving his broken jaw up and down in order to chew. The process had been long and repetitive, but every second of it had been utter bliss.

Ghost had methodically stripped every inch of flesh from every piece of bone on the man’s torso, gorging himself on the delicious meal. He’d eaten the organs with vigor, surprised to find that each had tasted a little different. His favorite had been the liver.

Simon’s voice had stopped insisting he helped people, after that day. Though whether that was because he was afraid of snapping again, or because feasting on a person had degraded his humanity that much more, Ghost was unsure. And sometimes, when he had those brief moments of clarity, it unnerved him that he didn't particularly care either way.

But there was something different about this little dove. Simon had spoken up again, for her, for some reason that should have been unknowable to Ghost and yet wasn’t. He didn’t want to see her torn to shreds by the other undead, either—though in truth, he couldn’t fully tell if that was because he wanted to protect her, or if it was because he wanted to eat her himself. She smelled so sweet, after all, he just knew biting into her flesh would be the closest he ever got to seeing heaven.

No, Simon snapped, and Ghost grunted, shaking his head as he tamped down on his beastly urges. Then, he turned around, facing away from the little dove in the tree, and snarled viciously at the other undead. A little more than half fled immediately, but those that remained crowded closer, snarling back. Ghost swiped a massive, gloved hand at them, knocking two of them over, and screeched, the sound blood curdling. All but one backed down, shambling away with a chorus of agitated hisses.

The only one left, a zombie that had once been a man only slightly larger than Ghost, roared a challenge and flung itself at him. He caught it easily and slammed it into the ground, its bigger size no match for his greater strength.

The thing that used to be a man growled and groaned as it tried to get back to its rotting feet, but Ghost didn’t give it a chance, stomping down hard on its skull. It gave easily with a slight squishing sound, brain matter splattering over his black, grime-covered combat boots. Ghost snarled once more in victory, then looked back up, towards the girl he had done all this for.

She stared down at him in pure terror.

Ghost felt an unexpected pang of hurt at that. For a second, he wondered if he should leave her before she pulled out a hidden knife and hurled it at his head, but the thought was quickly discarded. He didn’t want to leave the little dove. She would never survive on her own.

So instead, he backed up several steps, giving her plenty of space to climb down without getting close to him.

She didn't move.

Ghost could be patient, though, vaguely recalling long hours spent silent and still, peering down the scope of a rifle. So he remained standing there, quiet and unmoving, for as long as it took.

It turned out that that was a very, very long time.

Half an hour passed—and the fact that he was aware enough to know just how long had gone by was quite unusual—before the little dove moved. It was her legs, finally giving out on her as her feet slipped off the branches below her. She wobbled slightly, and Ghost rushed forward with a growl that almost sounded concerned, ready to catch her. He heard her let out a frightened whimper when he moved, and he tried to coo at her to let her know he wouldn’t hurt her, but it just came out sounding like a small, off putting gurgle. He quickly went quiet, knowing the disgusting sound was the opposite of reassuring. He cursed his past self for breaking his jaw after he’d been bit—a last, desperate attempt to stop himself from biting and infecting anyone. He didn’t know if he would be able to talk, even if it was intact, but he’d at least have been able to try.

“Please,” the girl whispered, forehead leaned against the rough bark of the tree as she shook like a leaf in a windstorm. “Please go away.”

Ghost swallowed, hesitating. He didn’t want to leave her. She would die if he left her. And that was rapidly becoming an intolerable outcome for him. He didn’t understand why. It just was.

But she could also die if she fell from the tree and Ghost’s ruin of a body failed to catch her in time. And she would fall, if she didn't come down soon. He could see that all the strength had left her frail body, and that she was only holding on through sheer willpower. Or maybe fear.

Ghost let out a soft groan that he hoped she would somehow understand was an agreement. Then, he turned around and walked stiffly back into the forest, until he was hidden in the darkness. He could still smell her, though, tantalizingly sweet, and if he squinted, he could see her silhouette. The pale pink, ankle length skirt and matching jacket she wore—Ghost groaned quietly in frustration at the impracticality of it, wondering where she had come from to be so clean and still wearing such fancy clothes—was practically a beacon as it reflected the light of the full moon.

Several more minutes passed before the little dove finally began to fly down from her nest. Ghost was tense the entire time, relearning the feeling of fear as he watched her climb down, half expecting her to fall and break her neck. And she did fall—but only after she'd made it most of the way, only a couple feet left between her and the ground. He could hear the small, startled oof she let out as her bum hit the dirt, and he twitched, ready to run back to her—but she stood up on shaky legs a few seconds later, dusting off her skirt and quickly glancing around before seemingly picking a direction at random and beginning to walk in it. Her movements were almost as stiff as his, and he hissed a little in displeasure at the thought of her being in pain. This was why she should have come down when he was there. He would have carried her somewhere safe, and she wouldn't have to limp around aimlessly in the dark, tired and hurting.

For such a large man, Ghost could be incredibly quiet. And he was, as he tailed her for another two hours, never any more than ten steps behind her. She didn’t even look over her shoulder once. She may have been a little dove, but she had the survival instincts of a newborn kitten.

She finally collapsed from pain and exhaustion, crawling into a hollowed out tree trunk that only someone as small as her could have fit into. She was out in seconds, he could tell from the way her breathing changed from panicked to steady, though still labored from exertion. It wasn’t a horrible spot to hole up in, but she was far too exposed for his liking.

He approached her with silent footsteps, careful not to wake her. As he did, he scanned the area with his senses, since she had neglected to. There were a few infected shambling through the brush about twenty or so meters away. If they got any closer, they were bound to smell her. But that was alright, because Ghost had no intention of leaving her alone while she was so vulnerable.

He gazed down at her, milky white eyes taking in her shadowed features. She looked young, painfully so, at least compared to his forty years of age. Or was it forty-one, now? He was sure his birthday had passed, it was at the end of summer, but he didn’t know if it counted as getting older, since he was no longer alive.

He pushed the thought away, focusing on the girl again. She couldn’t be more than twenty, that much was certain. And he was watching her sleep like some nasty old perv.

The thought had him turning around, placing his back a mere foot away from the opening in the tree trunk. He didn’t want to make her feel trapped if she woke up, but he wasn't willing to leave enough space for something to slip in and attack her, either. He would keep her safe tonight. And maybe, just maybe, if she saw that he was useful and wouldn't hurt her, she wouldn’t shoo him away like a stray dog in the morning. Though he knew that even if she did, he wouldn’t leave entirely. He would be her shadow, her Ghost, a benevolent specter haunting her every step, and tearing apart any that dared to threaten his little dove.

Your little dove? A voice asked in his head. He didn’t know if it was Simon’s or his own or someone else’s. But it was his that answered.

Mine.

[anystalker707]

an ironic, bitter joke

Pairing: Jonathan Crane x [gender-neutral] Reader Summary: you're a forensic doctor who works for GCPD, and there seemed to me remains of the fear gas in the crime scene. after such a day, your boyfriend is waiting for you at home to comfort you. Tags: comfort / there's no major description of the dead body / no major description of fear or panic attack

Requested by @sw33tsuccubus ["i know you’re busy a lot dear but hear me out. jonathan crane (i’m on a bit of a kick lately) fic. maybe he’s in a relationship with a forensic scientist who ends up going to one of scarecrow’s crime sites. (...)"]

MASTER LIST

          “The results of the last toxicology test seem a bit tricky. Maybe you could double-check?” Nygma raised his eyebrows lightly at you, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his forearm as he walked over to the sink and washed his hands.

You looked down at the papers before you, playing with the pens in your lab coat’s pocket. They wouldn’t be done or needed anytime soon, whether you wanted it or not, so you could busy yourself with something else in the meantime. Just as you were about to get up, the lab door opened, and one of the officers stood there.

“We need you two on the crime scene,” the officer said, looking down at the clipboard they had in hand, flipping one of the papers. “The van is leaving in a few minutes.”

You clicked your tongue. More work, more deaths. “Who?”

“Another one of those cases, fear stuff,” they said, turning the pages a few more times before placing the clipboard on the counter, and you shared a look with Nygma. “We have some people there already. Fresh scene. You’ll catch the body warm if you’re fast enough.” They looked at the two of you.

“On it.” You promptly stood up, receiving an assertive nod from the officer before they left, cursing the police under your breath. They weren’t only harsh when dealing with criminals and society but also with the other areas within the GCPD, like forensics, for example. As much as you, Nygma, and the others hated it, you weren’t quite a fan of being hungry and in debt, and there weren’t that many job opportunities anywhere else. Legally, at least. Your name wasn’t big enough to take any chance in the underworld.

Separating the needed materials and getting ready to visit another crime scene was automatic, practically a sign for your brain to shut tight the door between feelings and professionalism. By now, it didn’t take much anymore, even more so after the peak in criminality that Gotham had been going through for a while already, transforming the usual living hell into something worse.

A sigh escaped your lips as you walked into the van with the rest of the staff, giving your materials a last check.

The familiar rushed, nervous talk already permeated the air along with the strong smell of blood when you stepped out of the van, observing the crowd of officers and some other people standing there, with blood pooling on the ground not so far off. Occasionally, the sound of cameras going off would sharply echo, but everyone was too immersed in the situation to care.

Usually, a murder under a bridge down in the worst parts of Gotham wouldn’t raise that much of a commotion, though that wasn’t the case when it involved a politician—with a surname that matched one of the local mafia leaders—and characteristics of the last series of deaths, explaining Gordon’s presence there, too.

Formalities were dismissed as you walked under the yellow and black tape, approaching the corpse; Nygma stood back to exchange words with the others and grab the papers so that you could know the background a little better, to get an idea of what to look for.

It wasn’t the worst scene you’d ever seen, but still far from the best. Your case was left somewhere away from the drops of blood as you crouched next to the body. Rigor mortis hadn’t started to settle in yet, meaning it hadn’t been two full hours ever since that man’s heart stopped beating. Similarities to other cases were evident, looking like the person had died in panic, with sighs of despair like tugging on their own hair or scratching themselves, trying to run away or escape, even if they weren’t in a closed place. Sometimes it had a few differences, but the basics remained the same.

Your eyes narrowed as you looked for any sign of puncture, despite never finding them in any of the bodies, so you still had to make a background check to know if something else could’ve intoxicated them. You inhaled deeply while leaning a little closer to the corpse, trying to catch any sketchy smell, but there seemed to be nothing, as usual, even though this was the freshest body you’d gotten access to so far.

Even with the lack of any strange smell, something suffocated you, making it harder to breathe. Was there something really toxic? No, there hadn’t been anything like that in the last cases. Everyone else in there was fine. A shiver ran down your spine at the same time your breath hitched, and you couldn’t understand what stirred in your chest, your heart palpitating with the sudden discomfort.

The surrounding sounds turned muffled and distorted, your throat went dry, and your hands started to sweat. Was it getting darker already? The sun was just starting to set when you left the GCPD.

A hand landed on your shoulder, and your blood drained when you looked up to see a blurry, dark figure standing there, looming over you. You screamed without even realizing it, unable to say anything, every word turning into a scream as you fell back and tried to crawl away from the black figures that kept surrounding you, your heart hammering in your chest. You were alone, in the dark, without any family, without your boyfriend, without anyone.

𓆩𓆪

          Your mind was still distant, messy, even after you woke up in the infirmary. Reality would come and go, something like when you’d been awake for way too long, making it hard to process beyond two of the uncountable questions that the doctors made you.

“You seemed… afraid,” Nygma said, furrowing his eyebrows as he helped you stand, holding your bag in one of his hands, and followed you out of the department. Everyone had said that to you before, and you do remember being afraid, wanting to run away and cry, but you simply couldn’t remember why. “Can you really go home by yourself?”

“I’m taking a cab, my boyfriend is home, waiting for me, anyway,” you sighed, still haunted by the awful feeling from earlier. When did your thoughts mix up with dreams? How much of it was reality? Knowing how far you could trust yourself was hard, but hopefully seeing Jonathan would help you return to reality. You’d forgotten about Nygma before he stood beside you again, handing your bag to you, saying something that sounded like gibberish, and you were too tired to ask him to repeat.

Everyone had been talking to you the entire time, ever since you woke up with the IV line in your arm, with sweat making your clothes stick uncomfortably to your skin and your muscles sore from the exaggerated tension. The unexplainable fear you’d felt on the crime scene was now a ghost that haunted the back of your mind, making your breath hitch whenever something caught you off guard. In a way, it was something like a hungover, but still not quite.

“Make sure to rest and drink a lot of water,” Nygma reinforced when a cab pulled up, squeezing your shoulder before you waved at him and moved to get in the car.

The drive home felt way too fast, and the numbers escaped your grasp when the driver told you the price, so you just told him to keep the change before handing him some crumpled bills and leaving the car.

Unlike the GCPD, home was warm and comfy, with a comforting smell that immediately calmed you down when you stepped past the doorway. Jonathan’s shoes were already behind the apartment’s door, his coat hung nicely as you hung yours as well. Just the sight made your heart warm.

“Sweetheart? I bought us some dinner from that restaurant you like. Also, some dessert because…” Jonathan trailed off as he walked out of the kitchen and saw you standing there by the doorway, his face falling. He was wearing dress pants and a button-up shirt only, without his tie, which was a rare sight. His eyebrows furrowed as he pressed his lips together, pushing his glasses up. “Love? You look… pale.”

You raised your eyebrows and took a deep breath, trying to get some sense of yourself so that you could answer him. “I had an incident at work,” you stated. “I went to investigate and collect materials in a fresh crime scene under a bridge, but people think I was intoxicated. I started… hallucinating? I don’t know. I was afraid. Seemed like a panic attack.”

Jonathan’s expression fell into a frown at the same time his shoulder dropped as he looked at you from head to foot before stepping closer, cupping your face in his hands, and turning your head from side to side before his thumb tugged on the skin under your eye. “Did they have you checked?”

“Yeah,” you said with a nod. “They ran a blood test, medicated me and stuff, but I’m still…” You made a vague motion to indicate the haze that clouded your mind, focusing on the warmth of Jonathan’s hands on your skin, the care in his gaze as he observed you.

Jonathan felt bad. He tried his best to muffle down that feeling that bubbled up inside his chest by focusing on caring for you, holding onto your shoulders before he gave your hips a squeeze when he looked you up and down to make sure he didn’t miss any detail, anything. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he adjusted his glasses again before nodding and kissing your cheek softly.

“Why didn’t you call me?” Jonathan furrowed his eyebrows, taking your bag and leaving it on the floor before he hugged you, rubbing your back comfortingly. “Or better, why didn’t anyone in the GCPD call me? Do they not have mine as one of your emergency numbers? Love, I—” His words came to a halt when you groaned softly. “Sorry, I’m just very worried,” he exhaled heavily, hugging you tighter. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if something had happened to you. You have a dangerous job, sweetheart.”

The irony of it all was a bitter joke that made Jonathan mad. To think that his fear gas—the one he had created to overcome his enemies and to protect you—had affected his own partner. Though, it did make him wonder how and why the gas had stuck around for so long. He was just supposed to get rid of the obstacles, clean the trash, not disturb his beloved partner! Jonathan wanted to strangle himself for a moment, but something—well, someone—else needed his attention right now. He kissed your cheek a few times more, hoping to ease both you and his anger.

“Are you sure you’re feeling better?” Jonathan caressed your face, and his heart fluttered and sank when a small smile tugged on your lips.

“Yeah, yeah,” you mumbled with a nod. A sigh escaped your lips as you wrapped your arms around Jonathan, leaning into his touches, nuzzling his shoulder. “I just needed to rest. I really wanted to see you,” you whispered. “Be with you.”

“Of course, love,” he whispered and kissed your shoulder in return, staring at the wall while holding you there. “I’m here for you.” The words were true, even if most things about him weren’t, but he needed to keep you around, to keep the only person he loved happy, the only person who brought him a sense of reality. You were the main reason he kept trying to be better, to get a better life, even if his means weren’t the best.

“I’ll get a shower ready for you,” Jonathan said, interrupting himself from overthinking and also cutting through your thoughts. “Get you into some nice clothes, then we can have dinner, and we’ll go to bed, hm? How does that sound?” He squeezed you a little before stepping back and holding your hands in his, with a soft smile. “You’ll feel better in no time. You should call in sick tomorrow. Take the day off to rest. You deserve it.”

Jonathan swallowed dryly, trying to seem as natural as possible, his thumbs running over your knuckles gently.

“Okay,” you gave in reluctantly, making relief wash over Jonathan, and he was sure that taking a day off Arkham just to take care of you wouldn’t be much of a problem. He just needed to make a few calls.

That counted as some sort of redemption, right? Jonathan ruined you, but he’d fix you. He smiled a little before he gently walked with you to the bathroom, letting you sit down on the toilet’s lid while he helped you undress while the water ran, warming up.

“I love you, okay?” Jonathan whispered. “I love you, no matter what.”

༺♡♱⋆𓆩𓆪⋆♱♡༻

[tennessoui]

Felt in the mood for some light hearted fic so I got back into the body politic au as a writing warm up

He gets a call a day later, but it’s not Satine’s voice on the other end of the line. It’s a man’s, rather high and scratchy with a posh accent that Anakin can’t immediately place. “Is this Mr. Skywalker?” the man asks, sounding far too awake for—Anakin checks his phone—ten in the morning on a day that Anakin doesn’t have any classes.

Anakin scratches his stomach and tries to stop his yawn from sounding too audible. He blinks up at his room’s ceiling. The fan’s been going all night long, but it’s still stuffy and hot because the apartment building sort of sucks. “Yeah,” he says. “Who’s this?”

“I got your contact number from Satine,” the man continues as if Anakin hasn’t asked a pretty valid question. “If you’re amenable, I would like to meet with you later today. Say, three?”

Anakin heaves his body up and slumps back against the headboard of his bed, rubbing at his eye with his knuckles. “Are you considering voting for Obi-Wan Kenobi?”

There’s a pause. Anakin searches for the half-filled room-temperature cup of water he’d taken to bed last night. It’s definitely somewhere on his nightstand.

“I am Obi-Wan Kenobi,” the man says.

Anakin drops the phone.

“Hello?” Obi-Wan—shit, Obi-Wan Kenobi, this is Obi-Wan Kenobi talking to him—sounds annoyed when Anakin finally fumbles the phone back to his cheek. Annoyance sounds sort of sexy in his voice. “Mr. Skywalker?”

“Yeah, sorry—yes, hi, I’m here, uh. Councilman Kenobi! Sorry!” Anakin scrambles up out of bed, casting around for a discarded shirt. He doesn’t think he should be talking to his local politician while undressed. It feels weird. Especially after all the time he’s spent looking at pictures of this particular politician doing hot yoga.

“Joy,” Mr. Kenobi says, sounding as if he’s never experienced the emotion once in his life. “So, will you come?”

“At least buy me dinner first,” Anakin says because his brain-to-mouth filter and capacity for common sense are dangerously low in the first few hours of the morning.

Kenobi pauses. “I’m sorry?”

“I meant—come where? Sir,” he adds, closing his eyes and wishing for perhaps imminent death or at least a valid reason to hang up the phone like a fire alarm going off or the beginnings of the Rapture.

“My office downtown,” Kenobi says brusquely, as if he’s also wishing for Anakin’s imminent death. “212 Stewjon Avenue, the law offices of Kenobi and Kryze.”

[ahamkara-apologist]

yeah the destint fandom ignores everyone who isn't like. one of the Main Few Guys. there's so few fics with ANY of the women it's insane. how is there literally no failsafe content out there. hardly a lick of savathun. ikora and Eris get a Little Bit. six hundred quintillion crow fics though

Yeah, I fuckin noticed!! Literally everything is either Crow or Cayde, and while I know this is because the fandom scene is typically dominated by straight women, hence the notorious effect of Ignore/Sideline Female Characters, I'm still baffled by just how bad it is now that I've actually found a series that has female characters good enough for them to become my blorbos (a rarity). Like, Cayde and Crow are fandom bait, I'm aware, but really?? We have entire expansions and seasons revolving around characters like Eramis, Eris, and Savathun, but there's still fucking nothing with them?? Or, in Eris's case, only for the purpose of Drifteris, where the fans often shoehorn hetero stereotypes onto them both bc they 'fix each other' and openly use racist slurs for Drifter because they think its funny?? As someone who enjoys fandom because I love to pick apart stories and characters and analyze them under a microscope, this is just fucking agonizing. And honestly, I wouldn't even put Ikora in the mix because Ikora/Eris is still extremely niche and half the time people can't even talk about them without throwing Drifter into the mix as well

For me personally, I feel like it sucks even more in Destiny because this is a series that has female characters that actually feel like...well, strong, interesting, compelling characters. Like, this is entirely bias talking here, but Eramis's story arc of a mellow, loving mother becoming the bitter, angry, cutthroat pirate/politician/ruler she is now is a much more interesting personal arc compared to Cayde's, as Cayde's major narrative impact was defined more by how he influenced others and what his absence did to the narrative than who he actually was as a person (sorry Cayde fans, I'm not trying to diss your boy, more pointing out the different character uses here). She's also unique in that she's the one recurring major antagonist we've had who is truly morally grey and working for the good of her people rather than selfishly, but the only time people ever talk about her, its to complain about her and how she's apparently doing all of these crimes that she either a.) never did (attempted genocide against humanity- ????), b.) had no choice in doing (rasputin's death), c.) war crimes (she's got less on her record than what the vanguard did), or d.) she's a hypocrite (she's aware. its a facade. her angry melodrama is a facade guys. YOU'RE FALLING FOR HER MASK).

Like I get that the curse of enjoying morally grey characters is that nobody ever understands them properly and that her being a woman factors into this mess, but the total lack of content makes this even worse somehow. She's not an insignificant character and yet- nothing. It's a fucking travesty honestly and it frustrates me to no end

[zvtara-was-never-canon]

Nichya, your post about the way Zutarians view Katara struck a huge chord in me. 1 month ago, I was a naive multishipper who had just finished ATLA and was looking for good fics to read. Went on A03 and saw there were a lot of Zutara fics, sorted them out by kudos to see what the 10 most top-rated fics were. Katara is my favourite character, so I was really excited to see her post-canon life.

And. Oh, man. The experience was so fucking weird. I expected a lot of happy Katara fics, because canonically she IS really happy -the war is over, her family is reunited, her best friends Aang and Toph are alive, she can go home now to rebuild her tribe. That's NOT what I got.

The top-rated one was about how invisible and marginalised she felt being Aang's gf, and how she escaped it to be a world changing politician...in the fire nation??? When canonically Aang supported every one of her ambitions and all she wanted to do is restore her tribe?? Don't get me started on how the fic had Sokka, Toph, even Gran Gran all villanised Aang and blamed him for Katara's oppression.

Another one was a typical forced-marriage with Zuko because of duty?? And she and Zuko had children and her kids found 12 year old Aang??? Not even going to touch that one.

The 3rd was that Zuko pointed out to Katara how she fussed and looked after Aang as a mom or older sister, and Katara agreed she "coddled him". (did they miss the part when Miss Katara was a trouble-maker and Aang had to save her everytime?? And she canonically thought of Aang as the leader in the group???)

Another one was how Kataang had broken up, but Aang was still waiting for her and "hoped to marry her one day" and she was so indignant she fell into Zuko's sexy arms. (I literally laughed out loud at this, because canonically Katara was incredibly jealous of Aang's fangirls from S1 and Aang never gave af about Jet)

One incredibly gross one when Katara marries Aang out of duty because "she cannot break his heart" but always loved Zuko. KATARA. The girl who was ready to abandon her tribe to learn waterbending in ep.1!

And 2 more forced marriages, one where Katara is Zuko's captive and pawn of war, and they have sex literally when she's still a prisoner of HIM.

Like. I cannot tell you how shocked I was. It really disgusted me. I promise I did not know anything about Zutara before that.

It was obviously my mistake, clearly Zutara isn't meant for me. People can write whatever they want, I'm not here to police anyone's fandom.

But I was just struck by how much Katara was unhappy and so cut off from her canon best friends (Aang, Toph) and loving family (her tribe, Sokka, Hakoda).

Either she was cut off through force (forced marriage, captivity). Or because she personally felt secretly resentful and jealous of Aang, "parentified" and burdened by Sokka, disgusyed by her misogynistic tribe...

And how no one understood her except for Zuko. No one could give her the tools to empower herself except for Zuko. Only in the Fire Nation can she be independent and free.

It just felt so wrong!!!! I gave up. I couldn't stand to see Katara so resentful, bitter, and sad with her canon life unless she marries Zuko.

Anyway. Thanks for the blog. And for writing such insightful posts. It really articulated my discomfort.

Once again: for people who claim to be "the TRUE Katara fans", Zutairans hate everything about her character and arc, especially how happy she ended up being. Half the misery they put her through almost feels like trying punish her for not jumping straight into Zuko's arms.

[arysthaeniru]

I finally watched the Like A Dragon TV show, and man. Woof. Real mixed bag.

Now, I wasn't immediately biased against the show like most Yakuza fans were, when I heard they were deviating from canon a fair bit. I'm not somebody who's slavish to canon or timelines or lore or anything. I don't care if they change details or characters if it leads to a tighter, more coherent show. This is why Elementary is the superior modern-day Sherlock Holmes adaptation, despite deviating heavily from details/lore in the original books. This is pretty much always been my fundamental opinion about any adaptation--different things work for different mediums.

Also, judging by my nearly 200,000 word fixit fic I wrote--I'm not exactly fond of the plot of Yakuza 1. I was pretty excited to see something a bit different, taking the basic elements of Yakuza 1 and updating them to make coherent/thematic sense.

So, let's start with the things I liked. I was so excited about the first scene of the first episode, as a woman lover. Yumi and Miho are characters??? Real characters with personality and agency?? I was so goddamn excited, because that's literally all my Yakuza fanfic has been-me trying to bring women to life (and the gay agenda). It also felt like really good foreshadowing--oh look! Here's Yumi planning and executing a heist perfectly (Nishiki and Kiryu are the ones who fucked up!), cut to 10 years in the future, where she'll do the same thing again, with much bigger stakes. It felt resonant and promising. I feel like throughout the show, Yumi and Miho felt like real women, with real personalities and desires, and the very first scene helps build that up.

I also quite liked the change to Kazama! I liked him as the caretaker of the orphanage, I liked him as the retired Dragon of Dojima. I like that the 'Dragon of Dojima' was the title given to Dojima's best prize fighter in the ring. The moniker 'Dragon of Dojima' NEVER made sense for Kiryu , especially after the backstory of Yakuza 0 kind of fucked up the way that Kiryu's backstory worked when the game first released in 2005. After Yakuza 0 and Kiryu's animosity with Dojima, the moniker was weird and felt shoehorned in. This show's interpretation felt like a much more natural title--and I liked the obvious, immediate, dramatic irony that Kiryu and Nishiki look down upon and resent Kazama their guardian, while also idolizing Kazama's dirty past as a yakuza. It felt resonant to the main theme of the Yakuza series: that family keep making the same mistakes as each other, over and over again. You can try all you like to protect your children and family from harm and from the truth--but they will make all the same mistakes that you did, over and over again, because the Yakuza world is this drainpipe down which lives are ruined. I liked that! I liked how desperate to stop them Kazama is throughout this show, and yet how powerless he is. Kazama in the main game was too powerful and omnipotent, so his inaction in the main game felt cruel, because of how powerful and influential he was within the yakuza world. By recasting him as a civilian who has no influence, it's tragic and absolves him of the complicated role he plays in Kiwami 1.

(It's why I hate Episodes 5/6 where they, without fanfare, undo that status quo with no explanation or reason, but it seemed initially promising!)

I liked the relationship between all four of the Sunflower Kids, it felt easy and natural, the characters all had decent chemistry (except Yumi and Nishiki's actors, who never interact EVER until Episode 5....we'll get back to that.) Miho's actor is DELIGHTFUL, and you really do get the sense that she was the emotional glue of the group that held them together. Her death being the catalyst for everything going wrong is not only well-framed by the narrative, but feels plausible because of just how well they set her up as bubbly and personable.

They removed the politician plotline and Jingu entirely. Neither element ever really fitted into the original game's story well, and although I did my best with it in my fanfic, I agree with the TV show's choice to excise it completely.

Also, as convoluted as it was, I liked the events that lead to Dojima's death. Clearly, the showrunners wanted to avoid the whole 'Yumi-gets-raped-loses-her-memory-from-the-trauma-and-Nishiki-kills-Dojima-on-a-whim'. I think that was a good choice! Yumi's rape is never given real weight within the game's story, so removing it entirely is fine to me. I liked the show writers collapsing the two storylines about Nishiki's murders into one.

Dojima is now instrumental to Miho's death, and cons Nishiki out of a great sum of money, instead of that rando subordinate that was introduced in Kiwami 1. I really like that Nishiki didn't shoot Dojima out of recklessness, but out of a desire to see him dead for using Miho as a pawn in his gamble for money. I think it's better characterization for Nishiki, and it's a great springing off point that leads us to Nishiki and Kiryu both despising the yakuza in 2005.

I like Miho and Kiryu's parallels throughout the show, as these people who are committed to overworking and living in the moment. Neither character cares especially much about the future--they're living in the present, and that's something the show both glorifies and makes tragic in a really interesting way. (Also, it really vindicates my own characterization, where I parallel Kiryu/Yuko and Nishiki/Yumi as foil of each other). I also like that Kiryu and Yumi are the ones present at her funeral and in her last moments, while Nishiki is embroiled in the money problems, the yakuza intrigue. Instead of spending his last moments with her, Nishiki goes after revenge. It's good! It's such a compelling flaw to give Nishiki's character.

Nishiki's actor in general is just a delight! Both young goofy Nishiki and cold, adult Nishiki are played so well! Clearly whoever wrote this script was a Nishiki fan, there's so many small little lines and details that aren't from the games, but feel so in-line with the games. I really like that at the beginning of the 2005 segment, while he's not exactly on GOOD terms with Yumi or Kiryu, he's at least paying lipservice to the idea that they're his family. He's Yumi's boss, and he does a sake ceremony with Kiryu to welcome him back to the yakuza. It feels more realistic, rather than the complete betrayal that the games gives him. It's good!

I like the actor for Date! He was truly giving it his all. I also liked the Florist's den looking more realistic-he's still got all his creepy surveillance, but he doesn't have the world's most absurd underground hideout anymore, with the tackiest aquarium I've ever seen. It's a more more plausible little internet cafe set-up. I LOVE his squad of surveillance grannies, its tone fits in with the goofier shit in the video games, and it's one of the only moments of levity in this VERY serious show. I also like them painting the Florist as an exploitative scumbag-it's weird that Yakuza 1 tries to make you Date's best friend, but also is like 'so that guy who fucked over Date and other civilians, the Florist of Sai? he's a good guy, don't worry about it.' Preferred it this way!

And I really liked that they didn't fuck around with 'Yumi-is-pretending-to-be-her-nonexistent-older-sister', and this meant that Kiryu and Yumi got to interact a bit as they tried to solve the plot! It was nice! I liked seeing them try to figure out what it's like to be adults in each others' presence again. The one scene where they're eating in a izakaya together and Kiryu compliments her on being a good eater--there's such a tenderness and fondness to the scene that is so rarely present in any of the 2005 segments, that it genuinely took me by surprise.

I think....that's all I liked about the show. The rest of it was. Hoo boy. My ranting and fury under the cut.

Many people have also pointed this out, but I have to agree: this show's Kiryu is #NotMyKiryu. I got used to the fact his actor looked a bit lankier and more conventionally attractive than I wanted him to be--but this Kiryu is abrasive, aggressive and vainglorious--both in 1995 and at the beginning of 2005. I could maybe justify a story where he starts young, proud and foolish in 1995, and then matured to become the Kiryu we know in the games by 2005. But to start the 2005 segments with Kiryu not even being curious about his old friends, Kamurocho, or the prospect of a yakuza war felt wrong! Kiryu is a man who is kind and who cares so deeply and openly about things! And although this Kiryu is strong and silent, and loves his family, he's lacking that basic decency and kindness towards strangers that makes Kiryu Kazuma a compelling character in the first place!

Which is a shame, because the actor really grew on me, especially after seeing that little karaoke segment he's recorded as a spoof. He's got the sauce, he CAN convince me that he's Kiryu--the script is just so poorly suited for him.

On a solely visual level, I felt like the action scenes were kinda boring? The closest we get to interesting fight choreography is the one time that Kiryu is boxing against this capoeira artist in 1995? But every other fight has no visual panache--which is a shame, for something that's adapting a game with some very cool fight scenes. I wanted to see some visual representations of cool heat actions on screen!!! While I certainly like how no-nonsense all of Kiryu's fights in 2005 are--how he's fully unfazed by any opponent, I do think that just because Kiryu is bored of the fight, doesn't mean we should be. I would have liked to see some more interesting fight choreography, especially for the repetitive underground fighting scenes we constantly see, which are all kind of boring.

Because the plot is so breakneck and frenetic, as it transitions back-and-forth and back-and-forth from the past to the present, there were precious few quiet moments in the show. I LOVED what little we got between the Sunflower kids, but there was a real missed opportunity to characterize Kiryu better, because of their insistence on excising the sidequests entirely. The show could have really used some quiet scenes of seeing Kiryu do karaoke, or talk to the okamas in the Champion District, or help kids collect their trading cards, or play racing games--the scenes that establish that Kiryu is an earnest, open, honest man who loves the world, even when the world has been cruel to him. In a world filled with grumpy antiheroes who eventually learn to do this right thing--Kiryu was refreshing! He's a man who already knows what the right thing is--the conflict is his dismay at how much of the new world DOESN'T know what the right thing is. It's frustrating to see the TV show cut out all light-heartedness in order to make it a serious TV drama. Yakuza as a series is distinctive and at its best when tonally dissonant. The games move from great tragedy to great absurdity at breakneck speed--it's a commentary on the absurd nature of Kamurocho and the floating world--something that has been part of literary depictions of Japanese red-light districts for quite some time. It's a fundamental part of the Yakuza series' unique aesthetic, and taking that away leaves us with this generic yakuza soap opera.

And like. I KNOW that by this point, older gruff man has to learn how to parent a small, young girl is a tired trope. It's a tired trope in video games and it's DEFINITELY a tired trope in TV/film. But goddamn it, Yakuza 1 did it back in 2005, it wasn't boring back then, and you didn't need to change it! It is THE central emotional thread of Yakuza 1, and it's one of the only themes in Yakuza 1 that actually meaningfully hits. Kiryu and Haruka's parent-child relationship is the core of this whole series. All of the substories in Kiwami 1 CONSTANTLY underpin that this game is questioning: what does it mean to be a father? Kiryu's relationship to Nishiki and Kazama is premised around the question, 'what does it mean to be a good parent?' AND THEY CUT IT OUT ENTIRELY!? Kiryu rescues her once, and then Haruka literally NEVER talks to him! Ever!

It's not like this is replaced by Haruka interacting with Yumi or Aiko, her actual mother. Haruka is simply written out of the show altogether. Haruka exists to be rescued and then be kidnapped. It's tragic. It's boring. It's sad. They cast a charming little child actress to be Haruka too, it felt like a deeply wasted potential.

Speaking of Aiko. I praised them for getting rid of the Yumi-pretends-to-be-her-nonexistent-sister plotline, because it was bad and stupid. They instead replaced it with Yumi-now-has-a-real-sister-who-keeps-ghosting-her-and-also-is-a-dick. Aiko's bad. Aiko's just sort of shitty and selfish and fucks around the show with no motive for doing anything, and with a seeming omnipotence re: plot points. How does Aiko even know that Yumi is looking for her in order to come up with her initial scam? How does she know enough about Reina to be able to get Reina sent to jail? How does she always know where Yumi is, despite Yumi being seemingly unable to ever find her competently? They never really commit to Aiko being a real villain, giving her just enough sympathetic moments (like her dying to save Yumi, and her attempted suicide) for you to not entirely hate her--but then they refuse to give Aiko enough characterization for that humanization to matter. Aiko's main character trait is that she will do anything for a quick buck, no matter how many relationships in her life she ruins as a result. But she never once has a thesis for why money is so important to her. She never has that speech Nishiki does in canon about how being poor makes him feel powerless and resentful. Aiko is just a disappointing combination of tropes about selfish women. A pointless waste of space and a bad backstory for Yumi. I agree with the show-writers' urge to get rid of the fake-sister plotline, but just make Yumi steal the money! Make Haruka her kid! Don't introduce characters who take up precious screentime and suck the life out of the screen every time they show up.

Speaking of things that sucked the life out of the screen--let's talk about the dumb serial killer Demon plot. I don't know what it is with Amazon shows where they are desperate to have some sort of big twist about who their mystery villain is? First there was Rings of Power, where the screenwriters dart around going 'is THIS Sauron?' every five seconds. Now here, where the question of who the Demon was kept being brought up constantly, and without any real stakes or tension. They kept using all the Noh imagery with the masks and the Demons all using knives--clearly to make fans think it was Majima, but like. Of course it fucking wasn't. Of course it was Nishiki. Nishiki is the villain of the game.

But because they want you to think that the Demon is Majima, MAJIMA ISN'T ACTUALLY IN THIS FUCKING TV SHOW. He shows up for like ten minutes in the flashbacks, and he literally NEVER matters to the story. He's in the show purely because the writers didn't want to leave him out. Majima and Kiryu don't even MEET in the 2005 timeline, and in the 1995 timeline KIRYU IS THE ONE WHO ANTAGONIZES MAJIMA. What a weird read of their dynamic! I have no idea who made this decision, but it is reprehensible. Great actor, but what a fucking waste of space and time. Leave him out altogether, rather than have this pisspoor showing where he is entirely irrelevant and also doesn't even make an impression. At least Takeshi Miike's Majima, for all the sins of that movie, was both relevant to the plot and was a fucking riot on screen. you couldn't take your eyes away from the performance. But this interpretation of Majima commits the worst crime--he was boring. And if there's one thing Majima shouldn't be, it's boring.

The Demon is stupid and does stupid things. I loved that part in Episode 5 where the yakuza are meeting up in a Chinese kitchen, clearly speaking to the actor they intend to be Lau Ka Long. He accepts money to go and assassinate Nishikiyama--then instantly everybody involved is killed by the Demon and his people. It's such a pointless scene, done solely to reference Lau Ka Long for people who've played the games, and then the plot does absolutely fuck all with him, killing him immediately. Lau Ka Long has none of the menace and fear he inspires in the regular game (which...maybe for the best, since the game leans into some REAL racist stereotypes about Chinese people), but it doesn't replace it with anything. The scene is empty and hollow.

In general, the Demon is a silent antagonist--so every time the Demon is on-screen, you have the same fight scene plays out. Yakuza characters try to target Nishikiyama or Kiryu, the demons show up and do some violence, the yakuza character for that scene asks the Demon to take off the mask, the Demon refuses, brutally murders them, carves the weird pentagon into their chests, and leaves.

What the fuck is up with that? Why did Nishiki pretend to be an occult killer at all? Why didn't he just....you know...kill people? With a gun? I'm not saying I couldn't have been sold on this idea. But they didn't try selling it to me at all.

They could have had Nishiki complain about how he needed to create a boogeyman against whom he could prove his own wit (so he could reach a position where he can destroy the Tojo Clan). You could have had Nishiki slyly boast about how, in order to avoid suspicion in his blatant targeting of all his political enemies, he made up a fake serial killer with an occult symbol, so people would think a crazy cult killed them, instead of putting-two-and-two together about why these yakuza died. We instead get a big fat....nothing.

All of the Yakuza characters figure out Nishiki is the Demon in Episode 5, WITHOUT ANY OF THEM ACTUALLY HAVING TO DISCUSS THE PATTERN OF DEATHS OR THINK ABOUT IT AT ALL. EVERYBODY JUST SUDDENLY HAS THIS REALIZATION, ALL AT ONCE, INCLUDING KIRYU AND YUMI WHO ARE NOT TUNED INTO THE DEMON SHIT AT ALL, AND EVERYBODY JUST INSTANTLY TURNS ON NISHIKI AT ONCE. FOR VIBES ALONE. I'm not kidding. It's insane. It feels like they cut out a huge chunk of show here, because this feels like it might have been a out-of-place but competently written murder story in a previous draft, for when they had eight episodes. I bet their budget got cut though, and they had to cut all of that out. The result is unfinished, choppy, and dumb.

Also...the Omi Clan play a MUCH bigger role here than they do in Yakuza 1, and I think it's a bad and stupid role. For one, the Omi Clan are now saddled with being the ones stupid enough to have 10 BILLION FUCKING YEN STASHED IN CASH. But wait--it gets worse! They don't even have the excuse of Yumi and Kazama working together to defraud the Tojo from their influential positions within the organization. No! The Omi Clan is stupid enough to send 10 billion yen onto the road with only FOUR MEN AS GUARDS. Four men who are stupid enough to be defeated by Aiko and her stupid boyfriend. I know that TECHNICALLY, Nishiki's behind this, but that's glossed over so quickly that it turns to farce. It's ludicrous. What the fuck???

The Omi Clan don't even really seem to want their money back, instead deciding for...no reason at all, that regardless of if they get their money back or not, they're going to start a clan war with the Tojo and kill them all. In broad daylight. ???? Why? They just decided to attack Tojo in their home territory, without any money or resources? Are they STUPID?

This show is clearly angling to get a sequel, judging by the final shot of the show and the suspense they're trying to build up there, but now they've gotten rid of the main antagonist of Yakuza 2, The Omi Clan! They all get arrested/beaten up by Majima at the conclusion of the stupid clan war in Episode 6. What the fuck do you do in your shitty sequel now?

They included the Omi Clan, just to have a familiar name. It bears no resemblance to the actual yakuza organization we see in the games. They're just antagonists, for the sake of having a big epic fight at the end of the show. And this proclivity to include something by name, because it references the games, but then to fully squander or waste them in these two-bit shitty roles, happens CONSTANTLY throughout the show.

It happens with Shibusawa, it happens with Shimano, it happens with Shindo, it happens with Sagawa, it happens even with fucking REINA! Just these namedrops because they're important names--but just doing nothing with them at all! Shibusawa is a smarmy little two-bit yakuza mentor who exists to die in front of Kiryu and Nishiki. Shimano is this smarmy, douchey low-level yakuza who seems to be fighting against Nishikiyama entirely AND SIDES WITH KAZAMA IN ORDER TO DISMANTLE THE TOJO CLAN IN THE LAST EPISODE. Which is something that Shimano would rather commit suicide than do. Shindo is a random thug who exists to get punched and then killed. Sagawa is just a random namedrop of an Omi patriarch who briefly kidnaps Kiryu/Yumi, and doesn't really matter at all to the story at all. Reina is Yumi's boss--but that's it! She doesn't matter, she doesn't do anything interesting or say anything to the girls about what a woman's role in the yakuza world ought to be.

I don't hate it when adaptations change the story and characters. I'm usually pretty positive about it! But this isn't a thoughtful reinvention of characters. It's a lazy reference for reference's sake, because the scriptwriters thought it would be too difficult to incorporate these large personalities/storylines into the script, so they decided to just namedrop them. That'll make the fans excited, right? Just hearing the name of a Yakuza character means they'll have a Pavlovian response and that'll make them forget that this is a bad show with horrible pacing, right?

And the new characters they add are just...weird? What's with the random white people? What the purpose of that white businessman that Kazama knows but Dojima doesn't? Why does his white sister have so much fucking weight in 1995? They take up so much fucking room in the flashback sequence--only to not matter at all to the main storyline? I briefly thought that the white lady was the Demon, because they keep zooming in on her face. After all, hannya in noh plays are representative of scorned/wronged women--and she's brutally assaulted and her brother is murdered horribly, so I wondered if that was maybe where they were going? But nope. It never matters. All that matters is that they owned the land for the Millennium Tower, and then they're dead and never matter again. It's edited SO weirdly.

Speaking of women--as much as I was happy about the way the show tries desperately to flesh out Yumi and Miho as real people, it's not quite successful at it. In the 1995 timeline, there's a brief scene where we see that everything about hostess life makes Yumi uncomfortable--the drinking, the flattering men's egos, the pretense of being sexually available. Unlike Miho, in the show, Yumi is not a natural hostess. This is in direct contrast to the games, where Yumi is depicted over and over again as the PERFECT hostess. I was intrigued by this change at first, especially since Miho is shown to be the natural instead, despite only being 15-16. I thought it might say something about performance, about women's roles within the misogynistic structure of the yakuza? Or if they didn't want to have too much of a take, that this characterization might lead to some sort of tension between Yumi and Miho, that Yumi might be jealous of Miho's natural ability, or angry that circumstances have put them in a situation that exploits Miho's youth. But nothing comes of it! Yumi and Miho's differing opinions about hostessing never boil up into something significant. And in 2005, Yumi's a successful hostess, who works/owns a prestigious bar at the top of the Millennium Tower, and she works for Nishiki's sector of the yakuza, and everything's fine. She never talks about hostessing in the 2005 timeline, despite that being her main job. It never once matters to her character. It's BIZARRE. I just keep thinking--why include that scene of her discomfort then? This show's editing is so ODD.

As for the relationship problems between Nishiki and Yumi--well. It's pretty weird. In the 1995 timeline, we get touching moments between Nishiki and Kiryu, Nishiki and Miho, Miho and Yumi, Yumi and Kiryu, and Miho and Kiryu. Nishiki barely has a relationship with Yumi. It doesn't really matter that much in the first 4 episodes, they all like each other as a group, and you buy it. Which is why it's so weird that after Miho's death, he gets mad at Yumi for not doing enough to stop her illness and THEN gets mad at her for liking Kiryu and then tries to forcefully kiss her. Unlike other Nishiki stans, I'm not the sort of person that denies Nishiki's incel behaviour--I do think it's a fundamental aspect of his character and inferiority complex. He loves Yumi and Kiryu equally, and it is more socially appropriate for him to go after Yumi, and it infuriates him that when it comes down to it, Kiryu and Yumi like each other a bit better, shutting him out of the equation altogether. But there is like NO setup for this dynamic in the show.

Even though I HATE that tutorial sequence in Yakuza 1 with a burning passion for how fucking boring it is--it does set up the emotional stakes of why Nishiki's so MAD about Kiryu and Yumi. It's Yumi's birthday, something that Nishiki has been planning for for months. He's staked out an expensive jewellery present, he's saved up his salary for it, and he's certain it's going to be a slam-dunk gift! However, Nishiki being a cis man obsessed with wealth, hasn't actually paid attention to Yumi's taste--it's flashy and bright, because that's what Nishiki himself values, and thinks all women will value. Yumi isn't a person with tastes to him, he;s bought into her hostess persona. Kiryu, on the other hand, doesn't even know it's Yumi's birthday until Nishiki starts bragging about the present. He has to go get a last minute present, and the only reason Kiryu even gets her anything even vaguely close to her taste is because Reina (who actually pays attention to Yumi as a person) tells him what to buy. Nishiki, not knowing what Reina did for Kiryu, KNOWS that Kiryu's present is a last-minute purchase, one without any thought behind it, and yet, despite it all, Yumi likes it more--something that baffles him. Boring as it is, this scene is crucial characterization that shows us that Nishiki does put in effort to woo Yumi, but doesn't really understand her, and it breeds resentment and jealousy that Kiryu effortlessly obtains both women and yakuza status without trying, two things that Nishiki has to sweat and bleed to get anywhere close to. It's the crux of who he is.

The show doesn't do ANYTHING close to that. Nishiki barely pays attention to her in 1995, and then kisses her while crazy with grief about Miho, and gets mad when she doesn't reciprocate his sup-until-that-point non-existent feelings. It is not this burning underlying resentment that stokes his entire character anymore, and as such, it feels pointless. It exists solely to make the relationship between Nishiki and Yumi tense in 2005--but not in a way that's actually compelling. It just means Yumi has a reason for telling Kiryu to not trust Nishiki (even though he's not actually done a SINGLE thing to betray them yet.) It's weird. Why not cut the more useless scenes I highlighted before to build this up instead, if it was going to matter? But it also DOESN'T matter in 2005! In 2005, Nishiki's NOT actually angry about Kiryu and Yumi's relationship, he's mad about Miho! He wants to destroy the Tojo Clan for their role in her death and he wants Kiryu to die because he blames him still, for not losing that fight. Yumi doesn't thematically matter in 2005, despite her increased screentime, and it feels so pointless.

(Also, I hate the whole long extended sequence of Yumi and Kiryu talking about nothing for like a whole FIVE MINUTES after Nishiki runs off to go and kill Dojima in Episode 5. It's pointless, it's boring and the actress for Yumi is not quite good enough to pull off any of these complicated emotions. I dislike how impotent they make her, she just sits around and cries and blames them both for not doing enough. It drags so much and contributes nothing).

Speaking of Kiryu's role in Miho's death--small nitpick here, but I do wish they'd made Nishiki's unwillingness to drug Kiryu his own choice, instead of making Yumi/Kazama call him out after he fails to drug Kiryu subtly enough? I wish Nishiki had been torn between drugging Kiryu or saving his sister's life--and had organically chosen to trust Kiryu to throw the match on his own. I hate that it highlights Nishiki's incompetence as the only reason why he resorts to asking Kiryu anything. I think it's MUCH more devastating if Nishiki begs Kiryu to lose of his own volition, and Kiryu still can't convincingly throw the match, even though he wants to. I think it would be more tragic, it would have more sauce. As is, the scene paints Nishiki as more pathetic than morally compromised/ruthless, which is what I think they were going for instead.

Finally, I think I'm just a bit confused by the ending? It feels...odd? The ending of Yakuza 1 is DEVASTATING, that's kind of the point. This pointless, stupid yakuza war takes away every member of Kiryu's family: Kazama, Yumi and Nishiki, leaving him to pick up the pieces with Haruka. It's a condemnation of greed--the Millennium Tower exploding and the money spreading across all of Kamurocho is the literal culmination of how pointless this entire battle was. The narrative is attempting to show Kiryu that he cannot return the yakuza to a golden age of glory--all he can do is find his own peace and protect those he loves. It's a lesson that Kiryu refuses to learn, of course, but then, that's the tragedy of the Yakuza series. But everybody's alive at the end of this show. Kazama, Yumi AND Nishiki all still live. It's....weird.

Especially with the sequel baiting--with Kiryu relaizing in the last shot of the show that Kazama was the former Dragon of Dojima--what does the show expect to do with that? Have some dumb thing where Kiryu, Nishiki and Yumi team up against their dad? I just don't understand how the showrunners thought the rest of the story would progress in a reality where Kiryu doesn't have any sort of relationship with Haruka, in a world where all of his family is still alive and well, and in a world without an Omi Clan? Like...what do they plan on doing? Something stupid, no doubt.

Also Kazama's actions in 2005 are dumb. I hate how he's like 'we must pacify the Omi by selling out Nishiki,' but it's NOT EVEN A CLEVER OR USEFUL PLAN. The one thing the games try to establish about Kazama is that he's a mastermind, he's clever and he's manipulating things. Kazama double-dealing with the Omi Clan in the original game is not out-of-character, even if it is a surprise. But here, where he's retired and has no influence anymore, the fact that he can suggest something like this AND GET HIS WAY, is absurd???? I thought his animosity towards Nishiki, while certainly cold in the games, made sense, considering Nishiki's open resentment of both Kiryu and Kazama. But Kazama and Nishiki barely interact AT ALL in this show. So his whole 'Nishiki is the Demon and I have to rally everybody else to oppose him' feels weird. He clearly feels paternal things for Yumi and Kiryu still--why did he not even TRY to talk to Nishiki in this version? It's just....cold? Empty? Which is such a shame, because by making Kazama the orphanage director, there's a lot to say about power and happiness being diametric opposites, and how Kazama chose happiness, and how he's trying to convince his kids to do the same. But he doesn't really ever try to convince Nishiki of anything, he jumps straight to wielding power that Episode 1 shows us he DOESN'T have. It's bizarre.

It really contributes to my theory that there were supposed to be two more episodes to this show, because the pacing and the plot points are just so all over the place. Whoever tried to edit around the patches made a valiant effort, but you really can't edit around lengthy plotlines without things being thrown off.

Ultimately, the yakuza tv series is just not very good--and is honestly the worst possible thing an adaptation can be--Boring.

[mandobatemans]

intrigue (Tom Wambsgans x f!reader)

warnings: infidelity, fingering, unprotected piv sex, soft!dom tom, size kink kinda, biting, greg, do NOT have sex with the head of conservative news organizations irl!!!, i am a shivcel fr anything negative abt shiv in here i didn't mean it ily siobhan 🫶, NSFW UNDER THE CUT

word count: 4,740 (i got carried away)

A/N: this is loosely based on s4 e7 but there's no real timeline so it probably takes place like somewhere around season 3 or 4? this is my first succ fic so...enjoy 🤗 & also this took me SO long to write i'm so deeply sorry to anyone who was waiting

also posted to ao3

Tom had never been a fan of the whole “open marriage” arrangement. When he thought back to that fateful night (fateful night…who else would say that about their wedding night?) what he remembered most was the look on Shiv’s face when she told him that she wanted an open marriage. On their wedding night.

It was more for Shiv anyway. Tom rarely thought about actually acting on the arrangement, whether it be out of love for Shiv or loyalty to her father, he wasn’t sure. Sure, he had kissed someone here or done oral there when high on coke, but he had never actually fucked anyone else.

Something was different, though, tonight. Firstly, they were hosting a Waystar/ATN event at their apartment, and despite being chairman of ATN, he wasn't even sure what the evening was for. Shiv had told him about it last minute, casually mentioning it as they were being driven to work, like it was dinner at Logan’s rather than hundreds of media moguls and politicians to host. Actually, dinner at Logan’s felt equally, if not more, important than tonight. A better equivalent for how nonchalantly Shiv had mentioned it would be Connor inviting them somewhere.

Secondly, Shiv had suggested, outright, that they both find someone to hook up with at the party tonight. Earlier in their bedroom, after getting dressed in silence, Shiv had turned to Tom while putting her earrings in to share the idea. He knew she would be acting on it whether or not he did, and why shouldn’t he? It had been a while since he had gotten laid and was verbally (and physically) assaulting Greg a lot more as a result.

Did he just pick someone? How did you approach someone and say, “Hey, I’m in an open marriage but I’ve never actually done anything more than get my dick sucked with anyone else…anyway, let’s fuck!”

Tom fidgeted with his glass as he surveyed the room.

Despite your personal beliefs and the endless human rights violations that Waystar was affiliated with, their (and by extension ATN) events were some of the most lavish you'd ever attended. As a political journalist, it was standard for your company to send a journalist or two to whatever soirée the Roys were throwing. Everyone took turns, and this time you had drawn the short straw. It hadn’t been too bad so far, you thought, although perhaps you were jinxing yourself. You had kept to yourself mostly, chatting with other journalists you frequently saw around the city on assignments, snacking on the hors d'oeuvres, and listening to the ridiculous conversations political and media bigwigs were having.

You had been to an event hosted by the Roys before, but they were usually at ATN, Waystar, or some expensive venue. Being invited as a member of the press to Shiv Roy’s apartment felt strangely intimate. You were certain this was some calculated business move on the part of one Roy or the other, but you honestly didn’t really care. Whatever drama was happening within Waystar Royco was contained within the Roy family. You were simply here to supplement a piece your coworker was writing on the atmosphere of this political season.

It was only an hour into the party when you had collected all the quotes and interviews you needed, and sampled almost all of the hors d'oeuvres. Your boss expected journalists to stay for most, if not all, of the night for these things, in case some political bombshell were to happen. You were pretty sure nothing too monumental was going to happen in this room full of suits, especially with all of the Roys notably absent from the festivities. Even Shiv, whose house it was, looked like she wasn't paying any attention to what was going on in her home. In fact, she had been in the corner all night, talking to some prominent New York and D.C. women, important enough that you knew their faces but not important enough for you to attach any names to them.

You checked your phone for the time. You could probably get away with leaving in another hour if you made up some family emergency as an excuse for your editor. Even another hour seemed like ages. Maybe you could re-interview some people? Speak to some guests whose quotes would never make it in the article just to kill time? Sighing, you opened your messages, thumbs hovering over the chat with your editor, putting your journalism degree to use by brainstorming an excuse to get you back home in your bed before ten o’clock. When you turned around to pace while you typed (a nervous habit), you found yourself face-to-face with one of your hosts.

It felt like a fucking cliché. Literally bumping into someone at a party? If one of your writer friends wrote something like this, you'd tell them it was bullshit and things like that didn't happen in real life. Yet here you were, inches away from–

“Tom Wambsgans, Chairman of Global Broadcast News at ATN.” He introduced himself, reaching out a hand for you to shake.

You returned the handshake, grateful that he wasn’t offended by you bumping into him. “I know who you are.”

“And I know who you are.” He paused. “That sounded stalkerish, didn’t it? I meant, I know who you are because I’ve read your articles.”

“You have?” You were surprised. Your company and your articles in particular were considered left-leaning, the very opposite of the stories ATN ran.

He nodded. “Gotta keep up with the competition. I’ve seen some of your features on the network, as well.”

“Really? I would have thought you would just watch ATN all day,” you teased.

Tom made a face and then shook his head. “No, no, no. Plus, I wouldn’t really call any of our journalists ‘journalists’ so much as pretty faces. You do your own research and look good on the camera. That’s impressive.”

You raised an eyebrow and Tom’s eyes widened, processing what he had just said.

“God, I do sound like a fucking stalker.”

You laughed, “Just a little bit.” You let him cringe for a second, then smiled to reassure him. “No, but I’ve seen some of your interviews since you took over ATN. You look good on the camera, too.” You paused, before adding, “Maybe that makes us both a little stalkerish.”

His eyes lit up at your response, earning a genuine laugh (the first one that night not faked for some suit, he noted).

“Uh, sorry for bumping into you. I wasn't looking where I was going,” you explained, waving your phone in your hand for context.

“Ah, cell phone. The curse of the twenty-first century.”

You furrowed your brow involuntarily for a moment. He wasn't how you expected the spouse of a Roy to be like. Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, you weren't yet sure.

“I’m making a huge ass of myself, aren't I?” He sighed. “I’ll leave you to the party–”

“No! It’s okay. Stay,” you heard yourself say. It was Tom’s turn to raise an eyebrow. Okay. You found him attractive. And even despite his eccentric comments, you also found yourself wanting to talk to him more. You were, however, purposely avoiding looking at the wedding ring on his finger.

To Tom, it all seemed too perfect. You, for example. He was being honest when he said he had seen and read some of your work and that he enjoyed it, and he did sometimes watch other networks to get an idea of the competition, but he had left out the fact that there was something about you in particular that made him watch the entire segment when you happened to be on air. And the fact that sometimes he'd scroll through your articles online and imagine you reading them aloud to him. But he wasn’t a stalker. And now you were here, in his house, on the night that his wife had all but shoved him into the bed of anyone that he wanted.

But still; one pleasant, slightly flirtatious conversation didn't mean you wanted to ride off into the sunset with him. Or, more accurately, go upstairs with him.

He scanned the room for Siobhan. Although it had been her suggestion, and he knew she had acted on the arrangement before, he still felt like it was somehow a trap. Like she’d hire someone to hide behind the bedroom door that night and catch him with his pants down (literally) to use as blackmail.

But sure enough, she was across the room, laughing at something some lobbyist had said, and resting her hand on the other woman’s arm slightly longer than a casual touch would last.

The longer he thought about it, the more confident he felt. If you were interested, he wanted to spend the night with you. And maybe more. But he was getting ahead of himself.

“It's kind of loud over here. Come on,” he gestured with his head toward the opposite corner of the apartment, one not occupied by any guests save for an elderly politician snoring on the couch.

You followed him, nodding when he asked if you wanted another drink before picking a champagne flute off of a passing server’s tray. He handed it to you once you reached the corner, your hands touching during the exchange. It seemed like even more of a cliché to feel sparks fly at this tiny touch, so you ignored that, as well.

“You host these kinds of things often?” You asked, leaning against the wall and taking a sip of your champagne. The room was full of very important people, though none of them seemed to be talking about very important things. You couldn't quite wrap your head around why a high-level executive who had married into one of the largest media conglomerates was wasting his time talking to you (flirting with you?), but you had seen stranger things in this city.

He grimaced and shook his head. “No, no. I’m usually just a guest.” Tom laughed and took a sip of his drink. “And not a very important one, at that.”

“I’m sure that's not true. I mean, how many people watch ATN? And you’re in charge of what airs or doesn't air.”

“1.89 million,” he replied, taking a sip of his drink, “Outside of the office, nobody’s really worried about what I think.”

“Not even your wife?” You stopped after you said the words, giving your brain a second to catch up with your mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn't mean any disrespect, I–”

“No, no, no, no, it’s okay,” he assured you, reaching out to rest a hand on yours consolingly. Tom leaned in closer so only you would hear him, unnecessary considering the secluded corner you two were in.

“But no, not even my wife.”

Your eyes darted to his hand atop yours, suddenly aware of how large his hands were. They almost completely covered yours, and they felt so comfortable and right there, like–

“We have an open marriage,” he suddenly said.

“Oh.”

Tom seemed disappointed with this reaction, quickly removing his hand from yours and adding, “That’s just to say that, our marriage is, uh, unconventional, so her not caring what I have to say isn’t that unusual.”

You were still processing the feel of his hand on yours, much less the revelation that he actually might be flirting with you and that it actually might go somewhere. By the time your thoughts caught up with you, it seemed like he was about ready to excuse himself and go scream at his reflection in the bathroom.

“Well, I’m sorry about that,” you responded, mirroring his gesture from before and resting your hand on top of his to comfort him. “You don’t deserve that, really.”

He scoffed. “You don't know what I deserve.”

You looked up at him, taking the time to absorb the look in his eyes that revealed just how much he was going through.

“Uh, Tom?”

Tom rolled his eyes and turned away from you to snap at the source of the interruption. “What, Greg? Can’t you see I’m having a conversation?”

“It’s just–well, Shiv is leaving with someone.” The taller man gestured at the door, where sure enough, Shiv was weaving her way through the crowd toward the elevators with the lobbyist from earlier, her hand guiding her by the small of her back.

Tom bit the inside of his cheek. “Well, Greg, we do have an open marriage. So, everything’s fine. Now, scram.”

Greg looked between the two of you and hesitated for a second before nodding and disappearing back into the bustle of the party.

Tom turned back to you. “That’s Shiv’s cousin, Greg. I’ve sort of taken him under my corporate wing, so to speak. Showing him the ropes and all that.”

You nodded, finishing your champagne.

“Well,” he said.

“Well,” you echoed.

He paused for a minute, though it seemed to last much longer than that. “You’re writing an article about this party, right?”

“Yeah,” you responded, unsure of where he was going with this.

Tom leaned in, lowering his voice. “What would your editor say if you got a behind-the-scenes look at the party?”

You raised your eyebrow.

“Of course, you'd have to come upstairs…” Something shifted in his tone. You were well aware of what the change implied, and you’d be lying if you said you didn't want to jump at the offer. This wasn’t you, though. Sleeping with a married man? On top of that, not just any married man, but the host of the party that you were covering for work. It sounded like a problem you’d encounter on an Intro to Ethics exam. But any moral qualms you had about the issue were pushed out of your head when you registered the way Tom was looking at you.

“Of course,” you repeated, nonchalantly, setting your empty champagne glass on a nearby table.

Something flickered in Tom’s eyes. “Shall we?”

“Lead the way, Wambsgans,” you replied, gesturing dramatically.

Neither of you spoke for the entire walk away from the excitement of the party to the quiet of Tom’s bedroom. It looked much like you had expected it to look: modern, chic, and impersonal. You were sure Tom (or Shiv) had some personal items somewhere in the house, but the bedroom was so clean and styled that the only indication anyone slept or dressed in there was some of Shiv’s makeup and jewelry strewn haphazardly on the vanity.

When he had closed the door behind you, Tom stepped closer to you experimentally, as if he was afraid you'd flee like a wild deer if he moved too fast. You stepped closer as well, which seemed to give Tom the permission he was looking for. Within seconds, his mouth was on yours, his hands cupping your face, all tongue and teeth. There was hunger and desperation in the kiss, but it was hypnotizing, beckoning you deeper and deeper. He was almost doubled over to reach you (god, he was tall), so you shifted your weight to stand on your tiptoes.

Tom broke the kiss, leaving you with a confused look on your face.

He shed his suit jacket, throwing it carelessly on the floor. Next, he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows. Tugging on the length of his tie, he loosened it enough to undo a few buttons at his collar, revealing an inviting expanse of chest hair.

“Turn around,” he told you, snapping you out of your male-stripper-fantasy gaze.

You did as he said, something in his tone going straight to your core. You felt him run his hands from your shoulders down your arms, then down your hips and up to your waist, the action bunching up the fabric of your dress. He moved your hair to the side, pressing hot kisses to your neck that made your eyes roll back.

“Can I take this off?” He whispered, his lips trailing up to your ear.

You nodded in response, trembling momentarily under his touch. Tom unzipped your dress, helping you push it down your body and step out of it. He unhooked the back of your bra without moving further. It occurred to you then how wrong this was, to be sleeping with someone else’s husband in their own bedroom, but to your surprise, you didn’t care. The only thing you cared about was the heat of Tom’s gaze on your bare back. You took your bra off the rest of the way and discarded it on the ground next to your dress. Once in only your underwear, you turned back around to face him, watching his eyes follow every curve of your body to drink in the newly exposed skin.

“Wow,” he said, simply, reaching out to grab you by the hips and pull you closer to him. “You’re gorgeous.”

Grinning, you stood on your tiptoes to kiss him again, cradling his face in your hands. You felt him smile back into your kiss. Before you knew it, he had you pressed against the wall, totally enclosed by his larger form. He went from kissing you on your lips to your neck to behind your ear to your chest, as if he couldn't decide which spot deserved the most attention or for how long.

One of his hands slid down to the waistband of your underwear, the cold metal of his wedding ring a shock against your hot skin. You made eye contact with him as his hand slipped between the fabric and your skin cup your cunt, whining when you felt his touch. He seemed to get off on that, capturing you in a kiss again at the same time he slipped a digit into your wet heat. You were too hot; you pressed your hand to his chest to stabilize yourself and pushed your underwear down your legs and kicked them off. Tom smiled at this, getting right back to pumping his finger in and out at a pace that almost made you melt down the wall.

It was probably a power trip thing, you thought, you totally naked and him almost fully clothed. You didn't mind because it was kinda hot, but it wasn't what you had expected from Tom based on the unassuming, Midwestern image of him that was circulated in columns and by the Roys themselves. But, then again, you hadn't expected to find yourself in this position at all when you left your apartment earlier that night.

The pace of his fingers felt so good, so intoxicating, that now that you had him, you needed more of him.

“A-another one,” you whined between kisses.

When you opened your eyes to look at him, Tom had a smug look on his face. Sure, it was arrogant, but it turned you on, so who really cared? “Yeah?” he asked, “You want another one?”

“Tom,” you hissed, gripping onto his shoulder as his finger curled in just the right way that it made your legs go numb.

The look remained on his face, but he added another finger nonetheless. Tom appeared to inhabit both extremes when it came to sex: he really wanted to pleasure you but he also really wanted to do what he wanted. Luckily, those two wants aligned.

He was making you feel so good that you needed to have more of him. Your kisses got sloppier, each so desperate to be further molded with one another that your tongues tried to push impossibly further into the other’s. Tom shifted his hand so he could angle his thumb to rub slow, tantalizing circles on your clit as he continued to pump his fingers. Your grip on his shoulder tightened–you feared your fingernails would leave dents in his skin–but like so many other things tonight, you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You could feel the pressure rising in your middle, your cunt clenching around his fingers in anticipation of your impending orgasm, but then it stopped.

You opened your eyes that you hadn't realized were squeezed shut to look at Tom, who had his hand in front of your face, fingers glistening with your slick. “Open,” he encouraged. You obeyed, accepting his fingers into your mouth and licking them clean with a ‘pop.’ He stared at you like you had hung the stars in the sky. He jerked his head toward the bed. “Sit.”

There was authority in his commands, but you didn’t fear him; from the short amount of time you had spent with him, you knew he was at his core a sweet man. You would admit to yourself that you had been curious how his awkward, nervous energy would translate into the bedroom, but once alone, he seemed to be a different man.

You watched him strip off the rest of his clothes eagerly, smiling up at him once he rejoined you on the bed totally naked. He must’ve noticed you staring, because he asked: “Do you want me to put on a condom?”

You shrugged, shifting your eyes back up to his own. “No, it’s okay. I'm on birth control.”

He sighed in relief. “Good. I don't even know if I have one in here.”

“Then why’d you ask?” You laughed, encouraged by the smile that crossed his face when you did so.

“Seemed like the gentlemanly thing to do. If you said yes, I would’ve sent someone to go get one or borrowed one from–”

“Tom?”

“Yeah?”

“Just fuck me already.”

“Alright. If you say so,” he teased, leaning down over you to kiss you. Both your lips were red and puffy from all the kissing and some biting, but it didn’t matter. You could feel his cock pushing against your stomach from the angle, so you reached down to take him in your hand and pump his length.

“Fuck,” he murmured against your skin, face buried in your neck as he pressed kisses to the every inch of available flesh, “Fuck…Can I?”

“Please,” you responded, noticing a little desperate hitch in your voice that you ignored. Tom licked his hand and cupped your sex with it, running the pads of his middle fingers through your folds a few times to collect the wetness between your legs. Gently, he guided his length into your opening

inch by inch, watching your face for any sign of discomfort before bottoming out.

You should’ve expected his dick to be big from his height, the size of his hands, his nose, whatever, but you hadn’t considered just how big. It was quite a stretch to take him fully, but he gave you all the time you needed to adjust and get comfortable. When you were ready, you bucked your hips up into his to give him the okay.

Tom took your permission to move and ran with it, grabbing your left leg and placing it over his shoulder before pressing you down further into the mattress with his body weight so he could thrust into you at a deeper angle.

You lifted your head to meet him to return to making out, the sensation of his tongue down your throat even more erotic now that he was inside of you, as well.

His thrusts were deep but not as aggressive as he had been with his fingers. He wouldn’t vocalize this, or even admit to himself that he was thinking this, but he wanted this to last. As much as it was supposed to be a hookup–emotionless sex–he found himself wanting it to happen again, despite his attempts to push those thoughts deep into the recesses of his mind.

One arm was thrown around Tom’s neck, hand gripping a fistful of his hair. Your other hand went down to your clit, beginning to rub circles to match the pace of his thrusts.

“You wanna cum again?” He teased, “Again, when I haven't cum once?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, playfully, slipping your finger down from your clit to lightly stroke the length of his cock that wasn't fully inside of you.

He let out a moan, eyes twinkling as he snapped his hips a little harder, snickering when you gasped in response.

Tom caught you in another kiss, resting his weight on his forearm that was positioned next to your head. You arched your back up into him, urging him deeper, which he obliged. “Touch yourself,” he said, disconnecting his mouth from yours just long enough to give the command.

You smiled into his lips, rubbing your clit again as his thrusts became sloppier and jerkier. He was holding on until you came again, despite his earlier cockiness. The moment he felt your walls tighten around him, he let go, spilling inside of you with a grunt.

He pulled out, rolling off of you to lay beside you.

Tom was still catching his breath, and you watched his chest heave for a few moments. “Hey, you okay?” He asked. “Everything alright?”

You smiled, nodding and reaching over to kiss him again. “I'm good, yeah. You?”

“Perfect, actually.” Tom smiled back at you. He found himself lost in the moment, lost in your eyes, lost in the connection you two had just had, and it was too much for him. Quickly, he sat up, ready to change the subject. “You need to clean up?”

You furrowed your brow at the sudden shift in his demeanor, but going along with it nonetheless. Despite him just having been inside you, you didn't feel like it was your place to mention the change. “Yeah. Can I?” You asked, gesturing vaguely toward the bathroom.

“Yeah. Oh, yeah. Go ahead. Towels are above the sink.”

You flung your legs over the side of the bed and stood, heading toward the bathroom. “I’ll just clean off real quick, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“No, no, no. I mean, you can stay the night. If you’d like, that is. I could call you a car, though, if I’ve made some awful faux pas and you don’t want to look at me for another–”

“Tom.” He focused on you again after his brief spiral. “I would like to stay.”

He grinned. “Great, that's great.”

“Just let me–” You waved your hands around your lower body, “–clean all this up.”

“Yeah, of course, sure. I’ll be here.” He added the last part in a quasi-sing-song voice.

At the sound of the shower turning on, Tom rose to locate his clothes and try to clean up. He pulled his boxers back on, taking his dress shirt, pants, & jacket to be thrown into the hamper. They really should be dry-cleaned, he considered, but found that he couldn’t be bothered. As for your clothes, he wasn’t sure what exactly to do with them, so he laid your dress across a chair in the bedroom and left your bra and underwear on the floor. He was still considering whether he should pick them up or not when you came out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around your torso.

Once you had dressed in your undergarments again and Tom had given you an undershirt to sleep in, you started to wonder what all this meant. If it had just been a hookup, why were you staying the night? You had thought you’d feel dirty and disgusted with yourself, spending the night in someone else’s bed with someone else’s husband, but you didn’t. You didn’t know what that said about you, what it meant that you were perfectly comfortable talking into the night with Tom, both laughing and sharing stories long after you had agreed to turn the lights off and get some sleep. That almost made it worse, you thought, that it wasn’t just sex. That made it dangerous.

After you had drifted off, Tom spent a few minutes watching you sleep. He tucked a stray hair behind your ear, watching the worries of the day wash off your face while you slept. He knew it was wrong to be more comfortable in this bed with you than he was with his own wife. But that was something to deal with (or repress) in the morning. Here, now, with you wrapped in his and Shiv’s bedsheets, your form against his chest rising and falling with his breaths, he could pretend it was meant to be like this.

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