#Genji from across the map: I need healing! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yeojaa · 4 years

Text

( SOMETHING COMFORTING. )

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

pairing. gamer!jjk x named f!reader.

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

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

wc. 9.7k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I need healing! I need healing!

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

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

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

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

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

“You winning?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You should go top left.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Whaddya mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You said you’d go as witch Mercy.”

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

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

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

“Okay, but I forgot to get the—“

“I have it!”

Jeon Jungkook has an answer for everything, it seems.

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

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

“You’ll see.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, you haunt me in my dreams.”

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

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

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

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

“It’s because I’m a-maize-ing, ang—”

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

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

“Are you going to put on yours yet?”

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

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

Today, it comes after the fourth count.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good job, Kook.”

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

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

“Losers don’t get to complain.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Jimin-ssiiiii.”

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

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

You absolutely loved it.

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

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

“Drink this!”

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

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

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

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

“K-Kook’s g-going to kill you—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you drunk?”

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

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

(He really is, you think.)

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

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

You do. You really, really do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Or I’ll help you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Start the shower.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sounds like sin and feels like heaven.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can’t argue with that.

tag list. @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi

671 notes · View notes

nitewrighter · 4 years

Note

We need more ASOIAF gency pls

Oh man it’s been a hot minute since I’ve written for that AU. And by hot minute I mean three years.

Previous Ficlets: 1, 2

“The nature of humanity is every so often we accidentally reinvent the Jaime/Brienne Bath Scene.”

-----

They waited for a long while until the rain on the sept would let up, but it seemed the rain would only reduce itself, not stop completely. As time passed it was argued that if they didn’t want to spend the night in that crumbling sept, they would have to keep moving. Mercy would have preferred them to stay where they were and allowed Genji more time to recover from his injuries, but conceded being this exposed to the cold and wet only put him at further risk for suppuration. Orisa had a map on her person that indicated a village a few hours’ travel southwest. After some bickering debate with a still somewhat delirious Genji, the three of them found themselves walking the kingsroad in a prickling drizzle, the rolling hills of the Riverlands seemingly buckling under the white weight of mist.

Both Orisa and Mercy had insisted on putting Genji up on Orisa’s horse, Dynast, with his injuries, and he argued something about looking like an ass making a Septa walk while he rode, but eventually Orisa just hoisted him up into the saddle and his wince from his wounds cut off any further argument. Genji rode with a sour frown on his face. His hand still over the point where Mercy had laid the kingscopper poultice over the worst of his wounds. She tried not to look at him too much as they walked, and when she did, she did her best to convince herself that it was out of concern for his injuries, not studying the face of the would-be betrothed she was supposed to be fleeing. The mud of the road sucked up around Mercy’s boots and skirts, and at one point got so deep that she stumbled when her foot loosened in her boot. She stumbled and lost her balance, flailing and braced herself for a face full of mud, but then she felt a hand catch her arm.

“Thank you, Lady Orisa--” she started as she regained her footing and yanked her skirts up out of the mud with her other hand, but then she realized the hand gripping her wasn’t armored.

She glanced up to see Genji, the drizzle making his dark hair stick to his forehead. He had caught her arm before she could fall in the mud.

“Th-thank you, My Lord,” she managed, glancing off as they resumed walking.

“That’s fine armor you have on, Lady Orisa,” Genji commented on as Orisa flipped up the visor of her horned helmet with the darkening skies, “Stormlands?”

“Yes,” said Orisa, glancing off.

“...And you swore your sword to the Seven to avoid being conscripted into Ogundimu’s power grab, I take it?” said Genji, turning his attention back forward.

“I swore my sword to the light of the seven because I trust gods more than men, Lord Shimada,” said Orisa tersely, giving a weary and wary glance to Mercy. Mercy wondered which of the seven hells they would be going to for their deceit... but then again she was already disgracing Woolflower Hall by fleeing her betrothal and lying to her betrothed’s face, might as well throw heresy into the mix. They had only meant to get Mercy to Oldtown, but now they were losing time and ground, and they were in the company of the very person they were supposed to be fleeing.

“Practical,” Genji said with some amusement, “I bet the Smith’s your favorite.”

A prickle of fear went through both Orisa and Mercy at the mention of the Smith. It was the Patron aspect of the Sept at Aurochs-ford Hall, the seat of House Oladele--was Genji saying he knew which house Orisa was sworn to before she started protecting Mercy?

Play the role and the fool, Mercy decided, Fear only rouses more suspicion.

“They’re aspects of a septune god, My Lord, you’re not supposed to have ‘favorites,’” said Mercy, assuming the best holier-than-thou Septa voice she could.

“Doesn’t stop folk from having one. Personally, I like the Stranger,” said Genji, clearly goading her. So he was just talking. Spouting charming nonsenses to fill the air.

Your fear is getting the better of you, Mercy thought to herself, He’s a vain and silly lordling, and once he’s safely at the Inn, you can leave him first thing in the morning.

“Best not to say that too loud with your injuries, my lord,” said Mercy, giving him a shrewd sidelong glance.

He gave her a smile, though she assumed it was more at his own teasing than anything.

It was only dusk, but with the weather so bad it may as well have been night by the time they reached the Inn of the Kneeling Man. The innkeep was a tall, uncomely woman whose sharp, dark eyes scanned across the three of them as they stabled their horse and walked in--bloody, muddy, and soaked to the bone. She eyed Genji’s clothes.

“...bit of a small traveling party for a lordling,” the innkeep remarked.

Genji scoffed. “We will be needing a room. Two tubs. And enough hot water for three baths. If you have access to Ravens, I should need pen and paper as well. I must write my brother to let him know where his machinations have landed me.”

“He was injured by brigands,” Mercy explained, “Is there a Maester we can call who can attend his injuries as he bathes?”

“There’s a sept in a village a few hours’ ride north,” said the Innkeep, “But to get word to him and for him to get down here...he wouldn’t be here but by morning.”

“...Ah,” Mercy glanced down.

“But it was you who set the poultice earlier. Getting tired of me already, Septa?” Genji tilted his head at her.

Mercy caught herself. If she had attended his injuries before, why would she stop now? Because he would be in a bath? She felt her ears burn and was thankful they were covered by a Septa’s wimple.

“A maester would be better equipped for someone of your status, my lord,” said Mercy, glancing off.

“I’m too tired to wait hours for an old man to hobble over on a donkey in the dead of night and look me over,” said Genji with an eye-roll, “You’re a healer, and you’ve kept me alive this long. Besides, it’s not like it’s anything you haven’t seen before.”

“...of course, my lord,” there was a slight shake to her agreement and Orisa looked over her with some alarm.

“Lady Orisa, you’ve been walking in armor for hours,” said Mercy, “You may take your bath in our room, and I will see to Lord Shimada.”

Orisa’s eyes flicked to Genji, now haggling with the innkeep and explaining he would leave his chestplate as collateral for payment for the night before arranging with his brother to send them gold, and then back to Mercy. There was a wary confusion in her eyes but Mercy gave her a glance that said, “We’ll play our roles.”

----

“Perhaps you can feign a cold?” said Orisa, peeling off her armor as an Innmaid filled her wooden tub with steaming water from a kettle.

“He did say it was nothing I haven’t seen before,” Mercy responded quietly, “And--and I’ve already been healing him, and I’ve read plenty of Maester’s texts on medicine and anatomy,” Mercy scoffed, “He’s right. It’s nothing. I shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

Orisa gave Mercy an arched-eyebrow before stepping into the tub, a shuddering exhale falling out of her as she sank into the water. “Just... call me if you need me Lady An--I mean, Septa Mercy,” she said, sighing as she settled in, letting the warmth sooth her muscles. Mercy nodded, took her bag of herbs and stepped out of the room. Genji’s room in the inn was down the hall, and she heard him wincing even before she opened the door.

With the creak of wood the words, “I can undress myself--ngh!” flinched out of Genji as Mercy walked around him. Another innmaid had filled his tub and hurried out of the room, eyes cast down. Genji looked up over his shoulder at her. “Septa,” he said with a slight nod as she closed the distance between them.

“...My lord,” she said stepping in front of him and then focusing on the buckles of his brigantine. He winced as she pushed it off over his shoulders.

“I must thank you, Septa Mercy,” he said, stuffing down a grunt of pain as they both worked to get his tunic over his head, “And apologize. I’m sure your true calling is making life more bearable for the smallfolk, not thrust into the role of one more servant to a Storm Lord.”

“Well, for the sake of the smallfolk, one must make sure nothing befalls our noble storm lords,” said Mercy. He leaned against her as he stepped out of his boots, his breath drawing in tense. All that remained were his breeches. She looked with some concern down at the laces and became distracted for a second by the lines of his stomach. He was leaner than she would expect a lordling to be--scrappy and lithe, almost catlike, like a sellsword. She bit the inside of her lip and tried to remind herself that it was like the corpse diagrams of her Maester’s texts.

“They always suffer our petty dramas the most, don’t they?” Genji sighed, undoing the laces of his breeches to Mercy’s relief. He moved to pull his pants down and then grunted again. Mercy stepped back, giving him some space to try and maneuver better while still supporting him, he made eye contact with her, moved to pull down the breeches once more, and then drew in a pained breath through his teeth. “Septa,” he said tensely, “Know that I am a proud man, and were I capable, I would not ask you to perform this task but...”

“...Right,” Mercy said, “I can...” she trailed off. Could she? Suddenly she was a stupid noble lady of Woolflower Hall sitting around uselessly again, not the practical, powerful healer she aspired to be. Or was she simply not that with Genji, studying her now with those dark eyes framed by thick eyelashes and even thicker brows?

“Septa--?” he said and Mercy tried to use the panic her own hesitation induced to speed her hands without shaking them. Bracing one hand to support the uninjured side of his torso, she yanked down his breeches at several awkward points. She tried to focus her eyes on the chamberpot underneath the bed behind Genji before she finally managed to get his breeches down past his knees and rising up to support him at the shoulders as he stepped out of them. A huff escaped him, but she kept supporting his weight as he finally (finally!) stepped into the bath. She helped him lower as much as she could, but her own exhaustion from their travels had pushed her to her limits, and there was only so much weight she could support while bending over. But his own legs were jelly, and rendered even more so by the warm water around him, and he gracelessly plopped into the tub, sending water sloshing over the sides and grunting as he supported himself with his arms on the sides of the washbasin. The poultice on his side was coming apart, sending up small white and yellow flowers and tea-leaf-like bits floating up on the surface of the bath. The smell of them was soothing though. “Not exactly a gentle healer, are you?” said Genji, easing up in the bath. She studied the other injuries on his body. No signs of suppuration. No injuries on his legs that she had missed back in the ruined Sept. His delirium seemed to be mostly shock and blood loss. Good.

Mercy laughed nervously at his words before quickly stepping away to prepare another poultice from her bag. “I suppose I’m used to treating rougher sorts--Smallfolk, you know.” She tried not to turn around as she worked. Tried not to look at the shifting of his shoulders and chest, or the little droplets running down it. She knew she would have to eventually, to clean off the remains of the old poultice, help him out, and apply the fresh one, but she focused on tearing apart herbs with shaking fingers.

Genji gave an amused huff out of his nostrils. “I suppose so,” he said quietly, “I used to envy them, used to think they were free enough to not be married off like chattel--but they are, same as us. I should just count myself lucky I’m not giving goats to Woolflower Hall.”

He brushed his wet hair back from his face as Mercy stepped over with a clean cloth and began wiping away the remainders of the old poultice.

“And my bride’s even less thrilled about it than I am, I look forward to having that much in common with her--nnh!” he winced, the water around the wound pinkening with blood as she brushed more kingscopper from him, “...if she’s not---

“Dead in a ditch somewhere?” said Mercy, “Yes. You’ve said. I will pray to the Maiden for her safe--”

“For her safe return, yes, you’ve said,” said Genji, clearly trying to talk through the pain.

Her eyes flicked up to him from his wound. “If you need more time to soak...” she started.

“I fear I’m a bit too lightheaded for that,” said Genji with a chuckle as she got up to fetch him a cloth to dry off with, “Oh Warrior, please lend our dear Septa your strength to get my useless arse out of the bath--Pardon the profanity.”

“You’re not exactly a gentle lordling yourself,” said Mercy, arching an eyebrow.

Genji just held an arm out to her. “Storm lord,” he said giving her a dizzy smile that made her stomach tense.

She cleared her throat, dropped to one knee next to the bath, shouldered his arm while bringing hers around his back, then slowly rose to her feet, bringing him up with her. A pained, grunting breath fell out of him, and he was dripping water all over her. A wave of lightheadedness visibly hit Genji as he rose, but Mercy was too busy trying not to look down, trying to focus on the chamberpot again as Genji almost drunkenly swung one leg over the edge of the washbasin.

“There...we go....” Genji winced. The day’s exhaustion was soaked into Mercy, too though. She could feel her legs shaking under his weight.

“Genji?” she said warily.

“’Sfine...” Genji grunted, “’mfine, Storm lord...” his weight was swaying with only her as his support.

“Let’s get you over to the bed...” she grunted, walking over, trying not to look down.

“Would that you were my bride, all... strong and no-nonsense... treating my wounds... like a song...” Genji seemed to be talking just to keep himself awake at this point, but his words made Mercy’s neck prickle with panic, “Alas, you’re married to the Seven...” His head lolled. He couldn’t seem to get his eyes to focus.

Just get him to the bed, thought Mercy, Just get him to the bed, and get the other poultice on--

But then she slipped in the puddle of water Genji was dripping on the floor. And Genji was in no state to catch her this time. Quite the opposite. She landed on her hip with a pained grunt and Genji completely limp and naked on top of her.

“Orisa!” the call came out of her as a flinch and there was a thunder of footsteps down the hall and Orisa wrenched the door open, clad only in a white cloth wrapped around her torso from the bath, but still wielding her arming sword.

“You would dishonor a Septa--!” she started furiously, but then she noted Genji’s complete limpness on top of her, “...please tell me he isn’t dead,” said Orisa.

“He’s passed out. Help me get him onto the bed,” said Mercy, attempting to flip the sodden cloth at Genji’s hip over his bare ass.

“...I’m pretty sure when Lady Efi charged me with your protection, she didn’t imagine us doing anything like this,” said Orisa.

“Orisa!” said Mercy, struggling under Genji’s unconscious frame.

Orisa sighed and bent down.

Together they managed get him onto the bed and cover his nakedness with a blanket. Mercy set a fresh poultice over his wound and watched for a few moments as his chest shallowly rose and fell.

“Thank you, Orisa,” said Mercy, pushing the stray strands of hair that had fallen loose from her wimple back.

“Did we not agree we were getting you away from this betrothal?” Orisa’s voice was hushed, “Getting you to Oldtown so you could properly study the healing arts? Getting you away from the bitter rivalry of Storm Lords?”

“I know,” said Mercy, looking at Genji’s pale and scarred face, “...I know.”

“...I am getting my bedclothes on,” said Orisa flatly, “And you might see about getting a bath yourself.”

The exhaustion was deep in Mercy’s bones at this point, but the word ‘Bath’ gave her an unwanted flare of adrenaline.

#gency #asoiaf au #tfw Game of Thrones is Dead To You but you still remember the way the books made you feel...#also the Orisa/Brienne venn diagram...#*clutches chest*

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clareguilty · 4 years

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Valentines Gift Fic 3

Jack x Reader This fic is for another amazing artist! @dark-cr0w! but idk if they’re still active over here? They ARE listed as the literal first follower of this blog and also are extremely talented and super cool <3

"Jack?" You called softly as you slipped inside the cool darkness of Soldier 76's hideout -- which was also your hideout -- you just didn't have a reason to hide. He was an internationally wanted vigilante, and you were a veteran who had been traveling for the last five years.

Since reuniting two years ago, you and Jack had been following the work, tracking down weapons dealers and traffickers and crime syndicates and even a cult once. It was rough and perilous, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. You were happy as long as Jack was at your side.

He wasn't in, much to your surprise. You had headed out a few hours ago to run errands and enjoy the sunny streets of Dorado. He was hunched over his holo when you left, sifting through intel from Sombra -- whom you still hadn't met -- and glaring at a paper map of the city.

The pulse rifle was still where he left it, and his visor and jacket were carefully set aside as well. He must have just gone out for some fresh air.

A note was waiting for you on a scrap of paper:

Out for a bit, be back soon

You smiled and set your things down on the small, rickety table. Jack didn't usually go out during the day; it was nice to know he was feeling up to it.

Furniture was sparse in the tiny room, so you curled up on the bed that barely fit the both of you and tried to send another message to McCree. You were sure he was getting them, he was just too stubborn to respond. Even Genji had messaged you! Just a few short lines to let you know that he was okay. It was enough.

Jack turned up not too much later. You scrambled off the bed, retrieving the things you had bought at the market.

"Hey sweetheart," he leaned in to kiss you on the cheek. "I got you something." One of his hands was held behind his back, and you felt a rush of excitement at the thought of receiving a gift. There weren't a lot of opportunities for happiness when you were on the run. You had to make your own joy.

"I got you something too!" You grinned.

"Alright," he nodded resolutely, far too heroic for a simple gift exchange. "At the same time then."

You nodded and stood across from him, cradling the shopping bag in your arms.

"Three," he counted down.

"Two," you smiled.

"One. Happy Valentines Day," you both said at the same time. You pulled your gifts out of the shopping bag and offered them to Jack just as he pulled his hands from behind his back.

You both erupted in laughter.

Two roses, two identical heart-shaped pastries. You and Jack had gotten each other the same exact gift.

"You must have turned up at the bakery just after I left," you said. "How did Alejandra keep a straight face?"

"She certainly seemed a little off, but I thought she was just teasing me. I didn't know you had already stopped by."

"Let me guess," you inspected both of the roses, "you stopped at the garden by the church too?"

"The very same."

You grabbed an empty whiskey bottle from the side table and rinsed it in the sink, filling it halfway and sliding the two roses inside. "It's perfect."

Jack snaked his arms around your waist as you admired the flowers, ducking in to kiss your cheek. “It feels so good to have you here, to know you’re safe.”

You leaned into his embrace, meeting his lips with your own. “I’m with you always,” you reminded him.

He pulled you back towards the bed, rolling onto his back with you laying on top of him. You let your hands wander over his chest, his shoulders, down his arms. He was wearing a thin sweater and the soft material stretched over his broad form. It looked good. He always looked good, even when he staggered into the apartment in a torn shirt and covered in grime.

“You’re handsome,” you reminded him. He made a face, but knew better than to try and argue with you. You let your hands trail south, unfastening his belt and opening his pants.

“What are you up to?” He smirked and raised and eyebrow, hands settling on your waist.

“Celebrating Valentine’s Day,” you grinned back. Jack wasn’t able to respond because you chose that moment to wrap your fingers around his length.

His head fell back, lips parting as you stroked him. You couldn’t hide the satisfaction in your smile. He didn’t usually give up control like this.

It didn’t seem like he had any intention to this time as well. His hands -- still on your waist -- lifted you, and he expertly rolled so that you were pinned beneath him.

“Let’s celebrate properly,” he spoke low into your ear, teeth grazing the soft skin. You gasped and threw your arms around his neck.

Jack. Jack and his super-soldier blood. All of his strength and stamina and instinct. The scratches you left on his back healed far too quickly. He held your hips and took you on your back. Then he flipped you over and had his way with you again. You thought he was finished when he pulled you into his arms, but he pushed your knees apart and spilled inside of you again.

Hours later you and Jack lay tangled together, naked and exhausted. Well, you were exhausted. Jack didn’t seem to get tired.

“Jack,” you sighed. “I love you, and that was amazing, but I need to be able to walk tomorrow.”

He chuckled, nuzzling against your wrist, eyes closed. “No, you don’t. I’ll make you breakfast in bed. I’ll carry you to the market.”

“I deserve a medal for keeping up with you in bed all these years,” you teased. Jack had been even worse when he was younger; you remembered your teammates being concerned that you were ill when the truth was that Jack had kept you up several nights in a row.

Your stomach growled. You shot Jack an expectant gaze. “You said you would bring me food?”

His smile widened. “I think it’s time for some pastries.”

#jack morrison x reader #jack morrison/reader #Jack Morrison #soldier 76 x reader #soldier 76/reader #soldier 76 #overwatch fanfic #valentines fic #valentines gift fic #dark-cr0w

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overwatchworks · 5 years

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McGenji Week, Day 7: Unfamiliar Territory

Sorry this is so incredibly late! I finally got around to finishing it though, because by the Iris I was not about to let it sit as a wip forever!!

You can read it here on Ao3 if you want!

Being back around people he used to work with a lifetime ago felt strange. They had all changed so much, everyone older, some wiser, some hardened with time. Genji himself had gone through quite the journey to get to where he was now as well, and he knew it was throwing some people for a loop. People who had known him in Blackwatch, and the early days of his Overwatch recruitment. People who had seen him at his worst, now staring at him at his calmest.

Jesse had been one of those people, his face lighting up whenever he saw Genji, those pretty, honey brown eyes still filled with so much warmth, though, caution was there too. It had been difficult at first; lots of late night talks on the roof up by the comms towers and stories shared between them were needed to earn Jesse’s trust back. Genji had left without a word, after all.

But Jesse, as always, had been understanding, still as kind as ever as he listened raptly to the tales of Genji’s journey to find inner peace. He then would tell Genji about what disasters he had found himself mixed into—more caused by him than he let on, from what Genji could gather—and it became pretty clear why he had a bounty of sixty million on his head.

The gunslinger told him about his meeting with Ashe one evening, explained why he did not come sooner and sent Echo in his place. Genji in turn shared the story of his latest encounter with Hanzo, how he was trying to recruit him to Overwatch as well. Jesse had not been happy about that. He had gone all quiet, brows furrowing low, eyes darkening.

“You remember what I promised, right? Bullet between the eyes as soon as I get ahold of him,” Jesse muttered, Genji shaking his head and taking the gunslinger’s hands.

“Jesse, I understand why you feel that way, but we are both changed from that time. That was when I still held all that anger and hatred, when I could not see past my own pain. Now, I am whole, and I have forgiven Hanzo. He has done more than enough punishment to himself as it is. I want him to heal,” Genji assured him, pressing a kiss to the back of Jesse’s hand.

The gunslinger stared at him, eyes flicking over his face, open to the night air. He no longer had issues with anyone seeing it, but Jesse had always been a special case anyways. He had already seen the worst of it, and still fell in love with him.

“Please, just be civil with him. It was hard enough convincing him to come in the first place.”

“He’s actually comin’? When?”

“I am not sure. He just sent me a message earlier this week saying he would. But once he makes a decision, Hanzo sticks to it.”

Jesse dropped his gaze to the metal rooftop below them, thumbs rubbing over the back of Genji’s hands absently.

“I’ll do it for you. But, if I see him step even a toe outta line—”

“Jesse. I appreciate it, but please, let my brother have a chance first. It took me a long time to realize he had never gotten one, and that my actions when we were younger led him to no other choice, in his mind. I want him to let go of the chains he is still carrying with him, the grief that has plagued him for so long. So that we can heal together and be brothers again. I just want my brother back,” Genji whispered. Jesse cupped the ninja’s cheek in his palm, pressing their foreheads together.

“Okay. Okay, darlin’. I won’t interfere, I promise. This is your decision, your brother, your journey. I’ll honour that.”

Genji smiled, pressing a kiss to Jesse’s cheek.

“Thank you.”

“Wanna go on to bed, now? Sleep on it a bit?”

“That’s a good idea.”

Jesse stood, holding out his hands for Genji to take, the ninja grabbing them and hauling himself up. He took a deep breath, looking up at the stars. Wondered how many times he had done the same thing in Nepal, thinking about the man standing beside him. Genji took Jesse’s hand, leading them back inside and to his quarters.

They had separate rooms, but only one was ever really used. The ninja had spent too many nights away from Jesse to let him go again now that they were together again. Jesse had assented to rooming easily when they talked about their relationship and how they wanted to go about things again, hugging Genji close that night and murmuring into his hair about how much he had missed him.

Genji kissing all the little scars Jesse had acquired over the years, mapping out the gunslinger’s body again with his hands and mouth. Reacquainting with the old and memorizing the new. Letting himself be stripped down to his most vulnerable; no armour, no metal, no faceplate. Just skin and synth, Jesse running his fingers over both just like he used to.

Adoration in every touch. Love in his eyes when he looked up at Genji with a soft smile. Tonight was no different. When they got back to the room, Genji took off his armour while Jesse undressed, slipping into bed together and fitting against one another like they had never been apart. Jesse had always made things feel easy.

Hanzo showed up at Watchpoint: Gibraltar one evening later that month, silent and alone. He had nothing on him but a small bag slung over one shoulder and his bow on the other. Even dressed casually, he stood out, eyes alert and form tense. Waiting for a trap.

Genji walked over to him, watching the way his brother’s gaze locked on him and did not leave his form. Cautious, distrusting. Like he still did not truly believe it was Genji standing in front of him. The ninja would not have been surprised; their meeting before had been strained, Hanzo still raising his weapon after he knew in anger. It was an old friend to both of them.

Genji did not truly blame him for being angry, because he knew at his core, Hanzo had been upset. Confused. The past ten years of his life he had spent mourning and grieving, everything he had thought he knew and molded his pitiful way of living around now torn away.

Proven wrong, turned upside down.

Genji had felt the same, many times, and from his brother’s hands as well. But now, he was coming from a standpoint of peace, with himself and his brother, hoping for healing. He just wanted to heal the last of his wounds, and perhaps start on fixing the gaping ones still eating Hanzo alive.

“Hanzo. I am glad you made it safely,” Genji greeted, starting things off formal and simple.

Hanzo was going to take a lot of work, by the looks of things. There was silence for a long moment, Hanzo simply nodding back to him before turning his gaze to the facility.

“What is this place?”

“Watchpoint: Gibraltar. I was stationed here before, when I was an official Overwatch operative. It is very beautiful.”

“Is it safe? Out in the open like this?”

“Athena has top of the line security and protection set in place for us. I assure you, no one will find it without us knowing a while beforehand. That is how I knew you were here, after all,” Genji explained, motioning for Hanzo to follow him.

His brother regarded him darkly for a second, face slipping back into impassiveness quickly.

“You. Were with Overwatch, then. All these years.”

Stilted, the words cold and halting, as if Hanzo truly did not know what to say, mind still wrapping around everything. Or trying to push it away, disbelieving.

“Not all of them. I served my purpose here, then moved on to better myself. To find peace. And I did, in Nepal, with my Master, Zenyatta. That is actually where I have spent most of my time, and traveling, of course.”

“Oh.”

“I am glad you came, brother. There is much I hope for in the future for us,” Genji told him with a pat to his shoulder.

Hanzo did not quite flinch, but he certainly tensed all that much more. The ninja internally frowned. Perhaps this job would be best shared with someone who had already taught one Shimada. He would talk with Zenyatta tomorrow about it.

“I will show you to your room, then let you rest. I am sure there’s a lot you want to think over, now that you’re here.”

“I...Yes. Thank you,” Hanzo nodded.

Again with the struggle to find words. Genji had never known a Hanzo that had this much difficulty finding something to say to him. Then again, they were both so different, and this was a lot of unfamiliar territory. Hanzo, stuck in the past, and Genji hoping for the future.

Not much had truly changed about that.

Genji led his brother to a room a few doors down from his and Zenyatta’s, just enough space between them to ensure Hanzo’s relative comfort.

“If you need anything, I’m just down the hall.”

Genji hesitated, Hanzo staring into the empty room, eyes a hundred miles away. The ninja placed a hand on his shoulder, voice soft when he spoke again.

“I hope that this place will help give you purpose and healing, Hanzo. I really am glad you came.”

Hanzo blinked and turned to him, brows furrowed, an unbearable sadness in the fine lines of his features.

“Do you truly believe that I deserve it?” He murmured, barely audible.

“I do. Now, get some rest, brother.”

Hanzo gave him the barest of nods before slipping into his room silently, the door shutting behind him. Genji let out a sigh, then went to his own room. Jesse looked up from where he was stretched across the bed, book in hand.

“Hey. How’d it go?” He asked, folding the edge of the page and setting the book aside. Genji took off his faceplate and sat with the cowboy, smiling tiredly.

“It went okay. He is still very much on guard, which is expected. I just did not realize how hopeless he is. It’s like...He’s just the shell of the person I used to know. The old me would have reveled in seeing him like that, would have thought he deserved every moment of misery and despair. Now, it just hurts, and I can’t help but wish none of this had ever happened to us. We did not deserve this,” Genji murmured, eyes downcast, fingers fiddling with the bed sheets. Jesse took his hands, squeezing them lightly in reassurance.

“No, I don’t think you did. I don’t think many people deserve the pain they gotta go through sometimes, but life’s always got a way of makin’ it turn out the way it’s supposed to. I mean, look at us. We wouldn’t have met if it weren’t for our respective fucked up pasts, and I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

Genji laughed softly, closing his eyes and leaning his forehead against the cowboy’s.

“I suppose you are right. And I would not change it either. I’m so glad you’re here with me, Jesse.”

“I’ll always be here for you, darlin’. And I got a gut feelin’ that everythin’ will turn out just fine.”

“Well, I can’t argue with gut feelings, now can I?”

“Nope! You always trust your gut,” Jesse teased, poking at Genji’s stomach.

The ninja smiled, pressing into a kiss, eyes falling shut. A sense of peace settled over him as Jesse’s hands slid up his back to hold him, warm and comforting. Things would be alright. It might take lots of time, effort, and patience, but Genji had all that in plenty.

He trusted in it, and he believed that with help and in time, he and Hanzo could become brothers once again.

For now, the journey ahead of him was one he looked forward to taking.

#mcgenji #jesse mccree #genji shimada #hanzo shimada #mcgenji week #day 7 #extremely late entry sorry lads #WhiskeysWorks #post-recall #I love exploring this idea #how Hanzo joins and things progress from there #the way the other characters would react to him #so exciting

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sweetsnidle · 5 years

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Adventures in Quick play (Mercy Main story time)

For the past few weeks, I’d haven’t really had time to play any sort of Overwatch because of my insane loads of work from school, (but anyways, I’d like to tell you all a story from a few months ago, which I honestly think was pretty cool in my opinion.) Not a lot, so I’ve only been really doing QP. (not only because it’s quick, but it helps me gear up, and practice for comp so I’m usually pretty serious about these matches- unlike literally everyone else playing)

Anyways, yesterday, while in the spawn room before I game, I was talking to my teammates on mic, and giving them directions on where would be best for them on map to be, to stick together, group up when needed, and of course, the obligatory “If your across the map, away from everyone else and your spam for healing, your not getting it because there’s no way in hell am I leaving the group for one Widow // Genji main that thinks that they’re going to somehow carry everyone, and win the game”, and a few of them were complaining. Well...Not **exactly** complaining, more like them sort of making fun of me because I had been treating this QP match like a comp game, and I’d explain that I was practicing for comp, and I was saying were actually just suggestions - they didn’t have to follow me, if they didn;t want to.

After this, a few would continuously make fun of me for taking it so seriously, but another few would actually go along with me, and actually start to use mic as well, and talk to me about strategy, and what we were going to do to win. I didn’t really expect the other people that were low-key making fun of me to every contributor to what I and a few others were doing, but they did- it really surprised me, and it made me happy.

At the end of everything, I’m happy to say that we all actually had a very nice time together, and one more than a few rounds by actually talking and strategizing with each other.

Now only if people would actually use mics like this in comp, instead of staying silent the entre time and screaming at everyone in the end when we lost from a lack of communication--

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overwatch-trash-sr · 6 years

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Angela carefully observed the patient sitting before her – unlike any of the others. Partly man, partly machine; he crashed spontaneously into her life with the force of a vicious storm. When Angela gazed too long at the glowing lights fitted to his artificial torso, her mind was flooded with images of a nightmare she thought herself long recovered from.

It was the memory of Genji’s broken body, lying unmoving on a gurney as medics rushed him from the helipad. He had been so badly injured, even the most esteemed trauma center in the area was only able to stabilize him. Perched precariously on the edge of life and death, the young man was brought to Angela. Her experience as Overwatch’s resident physician was Genji’s final hope.

Overwatch was already keeping tabs on the Shimada clan. They tracked the prodigal Shimada son all the way to his untimely demise at the hands of his older brother. At least, they thought that had been his end, until the trauma center responded to Overwatch’s inquiries into the situation that he was alive – but barely clinging to life.

Genji’s crimson eyes turned down to the white tile floor. He had suffered much since she brought him back. To the untrained eye, Genji seemed healthy – or as healthy as a cyborg could be. Sitting with his back straight, he wore a silent confidence that was almost predatory. Angela was not overwhelmed by his intensity as easily as their comrades.

She was a professional and noticed the slight slouch in his shoulders that betrayed the weight he carried upon them. The covert missions he silently took part in were obviously taking their toll on him. The speculation surrounding Blackwatch’s dealings were all around them. The gossip sometimes made her blood boil. Being a part of the strike team, Angela knew the motives behind Blackwatch’s operations. It didn’t mean she agreed with operating covertly or even understood the necessity. To her, it seemed like betraying the public’s trust and their methods were becoming more questionable, but she was not in charge.

Absently, she blinked away from Genji and down to the glowing screen angled upwards on the desk before her. His name – Genji Shimada – was marked in bold at the top of the page. She scrolled downwards, thoroughly reviewing the vitals her staff had recorded earlier. Through trial and error, she learned what his optimal vitals were. His organic body had needed time to adjust to the changes, more than if it were just a small portion of him – like an appendage. Genji had suffered the loss of a massive percentage of his body. His survival was nothing short of a miracle, but his recovery was even more incredible.

Incredible, but exhaustive. Though the constant care was necessary, Angela worried deeply for his mental wellbeing. The organization pressured her to hasten his recovery, but compromised when she allowed them a more comprehensive role in optimizing his cybernetics. It was a gamble – she worried that his mind wouldn’t be able to cope with all the change, but it was better than rushing him through recovery and risking a preventable complication – like infection or rejection.

She continued to scroll through his chart, quickly looking over the details from his last visit before turning her attention back to him. He really was in great health, at least physically.

His suffering, though, was nearly palpable in the air.

She was afraid she might choke on it – the waves of anguish that seemed to roll off him as he sat quietly staring at the tiled floor. Or maybe it wasn’t his pain she sensed, but her own - over what she had done to an innocent man - projected onto him. Maybe it was his and hers; clashing and combining into a monster neither had control over – not that they ever had – but had to suffer for.

Angela coughed, pushing out the guilt balling in her throat. “So,” she started, breaking the silence that had built. His eyes flicked up to meet hers. There was a gentle quickness to the way he moved – not unlike the flittering of a small bird. “How do you feel?”

A part of Angela yearned to reach out and promise to heal him – to fight away whatever had come to ail him. Perhaps it had to do with the awful circumstances that brought him to her, but Genji stirred up emotions that were unfamiliar to Angela.

She ignored them. After all, it was her patient sitting before her and she was not known to be inappropriate.

Instead, she smiled and Genji’s shoulders lifted slightly along with the corners of her lips. The subtle movement made warmth burst in her chest. Cocking his head like a curious bird, his hard expression softened a bit. “Better,” he hummed, his voice smooth and low. “Now that I’m here.”

Angela quickly swiveled away, trying to hide the burn spread across her cheeks. “I hope you aren’t just saying that,” she quipped, trying to sound casual. Trying to keep it professional. Now her mind was assaulting her with memories of their last meeting – feverish hands, desperate mouths.

She forced the images out of her mind and turned pointedly back towards Genji. A subtle grin had spread across his lips, but it didn’t seem anything other than genuine.

“I hope you aren’t just saying that,” she repeated, firmly this time, as she rolled her stool closer to the bedside.

He kept his gaze fixed to her as she rolled closer. “I mean it,” he assured her. He parted his mouth, but hesitated, closing his lips staunchly instead.

“Good.” Angela stood and gestured to his arms rested neatly in his lap. “May I?”

Genji complied without answering, lifting his living arm into her open hand. He watched her inspect his skin, feeling her gentle fingers as she pressed firmly against his tissue, giving careful observation to his forearm.

She pressed at the sturdy conduits that connected the biological to the artificial. During his recovery, Angela attempted to explain the exact science that held him together, but it had agitated him too much. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to hear the truth. He didn’t want to face what he was or what he had lost.

A surge of discomfort ran from his arm to his mind, like a zap of lightning. He hissed – partly in shock and pain – as he jerked his arm away from Angela’s probing fingers. It happened from time to time. A misfiring of electrical impulses he was told. The answer satisfied him enough. He didn’t truly care why, he just wanted it to stop. The sensation wasn’t excruciating, but uncomfortable and disorienting – not something he’d easily been able to get used to. It was one of many things that had changed about him.

Angela immediately reached out, holding her hand tentatively above his arm. “Are you alright, Genji?” She questioned, an unusual tinge of worry evident in her voice.

As the world rocked unsteadily around him, he thrusted his arm back into her grip, answering gruffly, “The zaps – like electricity. I can feel them when you press.” He carefully pointed to the spot on his arm that had triggered the reaction.

His spinning gaze fell back to the tiled floor as she did a quick inspection, but Angela gently squeezed his wrist, eliciting his gaze towards her. The expression she wore was so tender, it made Genji’s heart ache. Many of their comrades remarked her angelic features – even dubbing her Mercy for her role in combat. He had seen her in training, witnessed Mercy in action himself. The dramatic armor, the staff, the wings – it was almost comical to Genji, but he had concluded that Angela was one for both efficacy as equally theatrics.

Watching, but not listening, as Angela explained again what was happening inside Genji’s body, he couldn’t deny her cherubic features – round and soft. Her pleasant voice steady and determined; indiscernible words brushed like silk against his ears. Goosebumps rose on his arm.

It was almost hard for him to believe what she’d done to him.

As Angela explained the dynamic behind the symptom he was experiencing, she noticed the shift in his demeanor. He was tense in her grip – muscles taught, hair raised. She quieted, watching as Genji’s eyes turned glossy – his attention lost to a place that was not the room they occupied.

Angela drew a quick breath, ready to draw her patient back to reality, but his eyes snapped towards her before she could. She was almost startled by his unpredictable movements.

Careful to maintain her composure, Angela placed Genji’s arm back in his lap. She silently gestured to the other.

Genji glared; red eyes lingering on hers as he placed his artificial limb in her open grasp. His intense gaze made her feel small and for the first time, she understood what her comrades referred to when they spoke distrustfully of the mysterious ninja. She surmised he was coping to the best of his ability, given everything that had happened to him. Overwatch hadn’t cared to ask about his personal details. Angela assumed the organization knew all they needed, but she didn’t.

Angela delved into Genji’s entire history. Not for any other reason beyond mapping a comprehensive clinical history that could aid in his survival and recovery. She wasn’t the only one with access to the information either – it was reviewed by others working on his case, including other soldiers on the strike team, Torbjörn Lindholm and their commander, Jack Morrison.

Holding his arm now, Angela could feel the slight tug against her efforts to inspect the points of connection – where organic tissue and medical-grade cybernetic technology collided to make him an entire man.

The thought caused her stomach to somersault.

“Are you alright, Dr. Zeigler?” Genji asked, pulling his shoulder out of her now-unmoving grasp.

Angela reeled, her instinct being to pull his shoulder back into his grasp. She stopped herself, instead letting her arms fall to her sides and stepping back towards her stool, trying again to gain control of the situation.

Her heart sank into the pits of her stomach as she answered weakly, “Certainly.” She tried to keep her vision straight. Genji wasn’t feeling well either – she used that to leverage herself. Misery likes company, hm?

As her stare shifted back to Genji, Angela let the realization fully wash over her; she compromised her authority the moment she stepped away from her clinical duties. She breached her contract – crossed boundaries that she never should have crossed. Her duty was to the wellbeing of her patient, but she had failed that mission the moment she decided to be someone other than his physician. Whether that was the moment she agreed to actually take on his case or the moment she touched him with intimate intentions, she was unsure.

Angela set Genji’s arm down and stepped away from the table, hands in the air as though surrendering from a battle long fought.

Confusion settled over Genji’s tensed face, his expression quickly turning distrustful. “Angela?”

Her small frame jolted at the sound of her name extending from his throat, swathing her like a loving serpent. “This is wrong,” she lamented, sitting down on her stool and pushing herself back towards her desk.

Angela stared at his chart. It had auto-scrolled to the top of the page; the line she had last visited was hyperlinked in a highlighted box at the top of the page. It was his name though, that hooked her attention. Genji Shimada. His name played like music in her mind.

“Genji,” Angela’s voice was strained, holding back all the words she truly wanted to say, “I’m sorry,” she said, turning to face him again. It wasn’t that she wanted to hurt him – she had done enough of that, but if he was going to take away her authority, she had to knock him down a bit too. The clinical detachment she usually practiced had failed, it was time to take him on by more personal means.

“We will have to find you a new provider.”

Part Two

#sorry for the formatting #genji #genji shimada #overwatch genji #blackwatch #mercy #overwatch mercy #gency #overwatch #overwatch gency #hi #molly

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alshrike-a-blog · 7 years

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when ya play OW with your friends @shitakiri and @warhybris and are just messing around in quickplay, and you decide to fuck around as genji, and end up getting 24 eliminations???

#( naptime habibi) || ooc.#i'm a pro genji now guys #it is my time to spam I need healing from across the map and 1v6 the enemy team #i have mastered the way of the blade #this is only like the third time i've played him too like wtf #i even headshot a widowmaker??

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naopao · 6 years

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Too Curious By Far

Pairing: Genji/Zenyatta (eventual), background pairings Chapter: 1/? Summary: Zenyatta, prince of the forest, finds a dragon in need of aid. Warnings: none, light blood/wound mention

A faunyatta AU inspired by the best @russet-red! (I don’t know what I’m doing, but expect updates on a fairly consistent basis.)

An abundance of discord could kill, but an abundance of harmony could blind. It was one of Mondatta’s favorite recitations when Zenyatta, well-meaning but too curious by far, caused trouble. He heard it after he had climbed the tallest, most ancient tree in the forest to see if he could spot the forest’s edge, and again when he breathed magic into the spring buds too soon, causing a flood of pollen that threatened the timelines that Mondatta and their brethren followed so meticulously.

Now, fully grown and a master in his own right, Zenyatta tempers his brash capriciousness and desire for knowledge with a veil of maturity. It is why he ignores his brother’s constant lectures and explores the borders of their lands, explaining to Mondatta the importance of knowing one’s boundaries, that not possessing an intimate knowledge of one’s home could be disastrous.

Zenyatta’s mapped nearly all of it, and the forest is a vast, living thing, one that he has studied and learned like the marks upon his brother’s face and the lines of his favorite runes, scrawled centuries ago by another, antlered master. However, unlike markings or writings, the forest is not unchanging. It grows, ebbing and flowing with the cycles of the sky and the life force of the beings that inhabited it. There is always something new to see, a sprout, a species or color. He catalogs them all, first with his eyes and then within the pages of stitched parchment, penned by hand when he has the time, but often he magics the words onto the pages with his whispers, quicker than a reed quill.

His explorations have led him to many curious places. The lair of the spider queen is one such area, only seen at a distance, the aura powerful and overwhelming. The forest is heavier there, not discordant, but a warning lies in its sensation, and Zenyatta grants it berth. Another is much less ominous, a small cottage at the edge of the northern wood, a tiny dwelling of stone and red tile. The windows are small with lacquered wood borders, and the curtains within are always drawn.

However, Zenyatta had caught a glimpse of shifting gold during his last visit, a warm, strangely familiar color, as if he had seen it somewhere long ago.

Zenyatta’s journey leads him there in the wayward fashion he goes anywhere, taken by the small details, letting the scents and sights of the forest swell around him with the same comfort that a parent’s fur lends a fawn.

He spots the telltale smoke stacks through the gaps in the leaves. The gold he saw through the window belonged to someone with long, flaxen hair, and their aura, while difficult to place, is kind, and he intends to introduce himself.

So distracted by the mysterious inhabitant, he doesn’t notice the figure doubled over until he’s nearly upon him.

Green is the first thing that strikes catches his eye. Blazing viridian scales erupt along the creature’s skin, bristling like fur. Bandages swath most of the figure, barely held in place by healing runes, some stained red, painting the dirt and grass beneath him. All but his eyes are hidden, and they burn with the same intensity as his skin, horns sprouting from his crown, furred tail whipping behind him, so much like—

Oh.

“A dragon.” Zenyatta whispers, and all at once the figure stills, the intensity of the dragon’s glare puffing Zenyatta’s fur.

Blood trails from behind the creature Zenyatta never thought he would meet; he had been dragging himself across the forest floor.

Zenyatta breathes out in a slow, even exhale, lowering his satchel to the ground. He keeps his hands raised, mind struggling to remember the words he had studied with such ferocity.

[...I am...Zenyatta.] He tries, forcing the air from his chest in a low, rumbling timbre. [I am peaceful.]

The dragon stares, unmoving, clutching the wound at his waist, blood dribbling between his fingers.

[Dangerous.] Zenyatta says as he takes a step closer, gesturing to the forest. [Creatures will smell the blood.]

Seconds pass in terse silence, the only sounds are the dragon’s labored breathing and the chirps of far off birds.

Then the dragon snorts with a derisive huff, shaking his head, though the motion makes him wince.

[Your accent is terrible.]

Zenyatta blinks. Then his smile lights up his face, all straight white teeth. He draws nearer, and the dragon bristles further, as if to intimidate him. His nostrils flare, pupils thinning to vertical slits.

[You smell like prey.] A labored breath. [What do you want?]

[To help.]

[And how do you propose to do that?]

Zenyatta kneels just out of arm’s reach; he doesn’t want to startle him when he touches one of the orbs circling his throat. It chimes and begins to glow, painting the deer’s hand in warm heat, hovering just above his palm.

[With magic.] Zenyatta smiles at the dragon’s widening eyes. [Are you afraid?]

[Hardly.] The dragon straightens, struggling to pull himself upright.

[Try not to move. You are bleeding quite heavily.]

Zenyatta shifts his hand forward, and the orb follows the motion, a slow, dream-like toss that breaches the space between them. The orb’s warmth extends, a ghostly hand that meets the dragon’s skin with a burst of memory: Genji in his youth, playing in the koi pond, the fish nibbling at his fingertips. He blinks, memory fading while peacefulness lingers, warm like slipping beneath the covers for another hour’s sleep. Each breath is easier, less painful, and though the deeper hurts don’t disappear, they soften.

When he finally looks up, the strange creature, hooved and tawny-skinned, is staring at him with russet eyes, a wan smile tugging his lips.

[It is an interesting feeling, is it not?] Zenyatta says.

The dragon frowns, but his anger subsides like his pain, slow but sure.

[I have not felt magic like this before.]

Zenyatta smiles wider, eyes thinning in his mirth.

[So you have experienced other magic. Wonderful!] Zenyatta shifts forward. [What should I call you?]

The dragon stammers, mouth shifting beneath the bandages.

[Genji.] He says with a single dip of his head.

Zenyatta leans close, and suddenly Genji’s vision fills with a bright smile. He didn’t notice his spattering of freckles and faded scars until now.

[Well met, Genji. Let me show you how my people greet each other.] He hesitates, pursing his lip in thought. [Your antlers...may I?]

Genji swallows, hoping the bandages cover the myriad of emotions that flash across his face. He nods, staring up at Zenyatta expectantly.

[Get on with it.]

The last of his words die as Zenyatta cups Genji’s face, his palms surprisingly rough, the pads of his fingers littered with callouses. He stiffens; Zenyatta is close enough that the warmth of his breath ghosts over his lips. Then their antlers connect, soft and firm.

Suddenly, the contact is gone, and Zenyatta is already gently maneuvering Genji’s arm over his shoulder.

[The texture of your antlers is quite different! It is nice.] Zenyatta says brightly. [I know it is soon, but we must try to move. My home is far from here.]

Zenyatta counts down aloud, but stands before he reaches the final number. Genji is jostled from his reverie with newfound aches, but the orb keeps his mind cushioned and dull.

His antlers had been velvet soft, almost ticklish in their smoothness.

[What if I do not wish to go with you?] He mumbles.

[Have you somewhere better to be?]

Genji stares back the way he had come. It would be dark in a few hours. The forest is strange, claustrophobic compared to the empty expanse of sky. He did not know what monsters lurked. Perhaps it did not matter, but still the ember in his chest burns.

He cannot leave the earthly realm so soon.

Genji tries to walk on his own at first, but Zenyatta was right: their trip is a long one, slow and painful with the state of his body. The fading light makes each step more treacherous. Not once does Zenyatta complain; he only points out the trees, asks Genji if he’s ever tasted buckwheat honey or seen sakura in bloom, each word in stilted, pleasant dragon’s tongue.

He wants to ask Zenyatta how he even knows the language, why he isn’t terrified. Dragons were ancient enemies of the valley, even though the war between sky and land is long past. Even the woman who pulled him from the bramble had only a moment of fear before dragging him, slowly but surely, to her cottage, bandaged him while speaking softly in common.

Genji couldn’t understand her, didn’t want to understand her.

He ran.

His strange companion seems oblivious to it all, slowly quieting as they lose light. Colors begin to blur, each step dull and dream-like. He would be on the ground without Zenyatta’s shoulders, a constant, reassuring weight, even as he begins to tremble.

[Genji. Gen—

Greens and browns smear across his vision, a wave of vertigo twisting his feet. Darkness.

Mondatta is never surprised to find Zenyatta has gotten into trouble. He wanders too far, is too curious, though he dutifully performs his kata and meditation with a precision Mondatta wishes he could critique. That he can do so much and still find time to stir discord in such a peaceful place never fails to give him headaches.

So when the northernmost scouts bolt into the forest proper and alert Mondatta that the prince is not only worse for wear but carrying an outsider, he whispers a terse prayer and steps into the twilight dusk of the clearing.

He meets Zenyatta near the border of their village. A scout hovers at his side, but Zenyatta will not take her aid, and his brother’s stubbornness summons an irritation that only his own sibling can rile.

“Zenyatta—”

“Brother, prepare a bed. He is bleeding out.”

Mondatta bites his tongue when he sees the fear in the prince’s eyes. Within seconds he is in front of him, taking some of the weight of the heavily bandaged stranger, shorter than them both but heavy like a corpse.

He will lecture Zenyatta later. Now, he will help.

#genyatta #genyatta fic #genji #zenyatta #faunyatta #overwatch #too curious by far #sfw #blood #nao fic

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overwatchleaguereport · 6 years

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Overwatch League: Does it have Mainstream Appeal? My Family Watches the Preseason. TL;DR at the Bottom.

Does Overwatch Appeal to a Mainstream Audience?

As I’ve stated before, it’s no secret that the Overwatch League is trying to appeal to a mainstream audience. Unlike most eSports, OWL has a round table like the ESPN. OWL has an official, AR-type stadium. It has branding and teams based in cities and millions of dollars on the line. But the question remains: can the Overwatch League appeal to the average person?

Over the past week or so, I have spent my holidays with the most mainstream audience around—my own family. With that in mind, I decided to show them a round of Overwatch League and see if the eSport appealed to them in the slightest.

My goal here was to explain as little as possible. I created a hypothetical situation in which my family is channel-surfing and finds OWL being broadcast on a channel like ESPN. Would they want to keep watching? Would they be intrigued? Would they understand what was going on?

Let me introduce you to the individuals who I invited to join me

The Mainstream Audience in Question

Tabby, my sister, is nineteen. She is much more interested in television and movies than in video games. After hearing my explanation about the game, she graciously turned down my invitation.

Pam, my mom, is in her early fifties. Every time she watches me play video games for more than five minutes, she gets a headache and escapes to another room. She accepted my invitation.

Tim, my dad, is also in his early fifties. He watches a lot of traditional sports, and likes to occasionally play sport-themed video games, including those found in the FIFA franchise. He also accepted my invitation.

Jack, my brother-in-law, is in his late twenties. He plays a lot of Battlefield 1 and Destiny, though gaming is by no means his primary hobby. He also accepted my invitation.

Cati, my sister in her early twenties, mostly likes party games, like those created by Jackbox Games. She also watches Jack play whenever he sits down to game for a while. She also accepted my invitation.

Nate, my nineteen-year-old brother, games primarily using his tablet and phone. He also plays a lot of emulators. He has been seeking to play more “hardcore” games as of late, and is somewhat familiar with the concept of Overwatch as a whole, having watched me and some of his friends play. He accepted my invitation.

Finally, Kirsta, my wife, joined us. I introduced her to Overwatch, and she plays enough each week to at least earn all the loot boxes from the arcade. She also watched parts of the preseason with me.

I will point out that everyone who agreed to watch the match with me seemed more interested in helping me than in actually watching the round itself.

The Pre-Game Explanation

With six of the seven possible viewers assembled, I turned on a VOD of the Shock vs. Spitfire preseason matchup, only showing the round on Dorado. Before I actually hit play, I explained to my family the basic idea behind Overwatch.

“The game features a cast of colorful characters who are all fighting each other to bring peace to the world. Some of those characters include a hyper intelligent space gorilla wielding a tesla cannon and a Korean video game star who battles giant mechs in her smaller mech. You really don’t need to know all of the characters, though if you have a question about what a specific character is doing on screen, I will answer your questions about them.”

I then explained that the Shock was represented by the white-colored characters, while the London Spitfire were represented by the blue-colored characters. I compared the payload to a football game. Basically, one side tries to push the cart as far along the map as possible. Then they switch sides, and the other team tries to beat the first team’s push. I answered the few questions that they had. The most notable train of thought came from Mom.

“What are we watching? People playing video games? How many people are playing this? Twelve all at the same time? Ew. It’s not a sport, is it?”

Her questions suggested either that she hadn’t been paying attention to me, or that my explanation had been unclear. “It’s an eSport,” I said. For whatever reason, that seemed to make sense to her.

With that, I hit play.

Thoughts of the Mainstream Audience During the Game

Cati was immediately unimpressed. “With sports, at least you get to eat hot dogs,” she said.

“You could eat hot dogs while you’re watching this,” Jack pointed out.

“Yeah, but then I’d have to make them,” she said. “Why are there people talking?”

I explained that eSports have commentators just like traditional sports, and then paused the game when she asked if this was like what Pewdiepie does. Thankfully, Nate was able to explain the difference, and I hit play again.

Nate then asked if the professional league played across platforms. “No,” I said. “Just PC.”

He nodded. “I could see myself watching this while I worked on homework or something,” he said. “I would never just straight up watch it, but while I was doing something else? Sure.”

“I thought we would be looking into an arena,” someone said. “The first person perspective limits my understanding of what is happening.”

“This is horribly confusing,” Nate said. “The perspectives switching so much is really confusing.”

“I don’t know what I’m watching,” Mom said.

People were quiet as the offensive team made it to the first checkpoint.

“So if the point is to move the truck, why aren’t more people fighting at the truck?” Cati said. “These guys keeping running way ahead to fight away from the truck.”

“What is that tether beam between people?” Mom said.

I paused the game to explain that the tether was someone healing someone else.

“It would just be stupid not to have healers, right?” Jack said.

I nodded.

“I feel engaged,” he said.

After this, interest waned for a few minutes. People started checking their phones and discussing dog names. At the same time, everyone’s attention refocused by the end of the first push.

“I wish you could see the players’ faces as they played,” Nate said. “They show them every so often, but not enough.”

The second push continued on for a while in silence.

“Did someone get eaten?” Cati said. “The commentators just somebody ate something.”

I paused the game again as Kirsta explained what it means to “eat” an ult. Then

I explained that ult was short for ultimate. Then we spent the next few minutes looking for and identifying ultimates so everyone understood what they were. This was also an opportunity for me to explain the percentages next to the character faces.

At one point, the camera focused on a Genji. “What is that guy doing? Waving his hand?”

“He’s throwing ninja stars,” I said.

As the game wrapped up, Cati realized there was a in-person audience watching the players duke it out. “People watched this live?” she said. “What’s the point? You’re just watching a screen. A real sport game is actual people doing things. This? You’re either watching it on a screen at home, or on a screen on stage. Why go in person? What is the draw or appeal to watching it in person?”

When the game ended, everyone was confused by the lack of emotion on the side of either team. “Why aren’t they celebrating?”

I reminded them that this was the first round of at least four, and then took the opportunity to explain the point system.

With that, I asked them their final thoughts.

What are your overall thoughts about what you just watched?

Mom - “It was confusing for me to follow. I can’t tell cause and effect. I didn’t know what was happening because of what this guy or that guy was doing. And I would rather not see the outlines of players through walls. It just added movement and confusion to the screen. I’m intrigued this game exists, but I’m not a gamer, so it just was a mess of movement and noise to me.”

Nate – “This is not a great way to introduce the game to people. I was confused, and I’ve watched people play this. I think the problem was when I watch someone play, I’m only watching what they’re doing. When I watched this, there were too many perspectives. The camera changed way too much.”

Kirsta – “I get confused watching this, and I play the game. Maybe the camera should just focus on the payload?”

Dad – “If they want to attract non-Overwatch devotees, they need to create competitions that are more confined and easier to observe in total. They need to create an arena.”

Jack – “Coming from a Gamer’s perspective, now I kind of want to play this game.”

Cati – “I don’t like playing video games unless they’re very specific to my interests. I could never see myself playing or watching this. It is bizarre that people would watch this game who don’t even play it. I just don’t relate to video games.”

Is this more or less fun than watching real sports?

Cati – “I would rather watch sports on my phone than watch Overwatch in a theater. These people are real people playing fake people. It’s more interesting to watch real people. This game should be more like the Sims. Nobody in real life pushes a cart.”

Dad – “When I’m watching traditional sports, I can see the entirety of what is happening. The impact of each movement is crystal clear to me. Overwatch is a much more complicated, confusing game, and it was much harder for me to see how each individual action affects the outcome.”

Mom – “When I watch a traditional sport, it’s easier to see the physical abilities, the talent of each person involved. I’m more impressed by physical abilities.”

Nate – “It depends on the sport. Overwatch is better than golf or track and field, but soccer and football and basketball and hockey are better than Overwatch. I do think that Overwatch League can be changed to be more watchable, but as it is, it’s a bit much for me.”

Kirsta – “I would prefer any live sport over this.”

Would you tune in to OWL now that you’ve been introduced to it?

Mom – “No.”

Cati – “No.”

Nate – “I don’t know. It could potentially be better, but also some of my ideas, like showing the faces of the players, might make it even more confusing.”

Kirsta – “I will only watch this when my husband is watching this.”

Jack – “No.”

Dad – “Under social circumstances, yes. Would I seek it out? No.”

Conclusion (aka TL;DR)

Did OWL appeal to my mainstream family? No. Some thought the spectator hub could be improved to appeal more to them, and by extension, to the mainstream audience. The rest thought the game was too confusing. Some thought the game was too hard to understand if you didn’t already play the game.

If Blizzard wants to appeal to the same kind of person that watches football, they have a lot more work to do. There is too much going on for the average person to follow, and the perspective doesn’t allow people to fully recognize and understand the consequences of each player’s actions. If someone has to explain objectives, character powers, and what’s even happening on screen for the average person to understand what they just saw, it seems as though OWL cannot hold its own against something as simple as football.

At the same time, for the rest of us Overwatch enthusiasts, Overwatch League is exactly what we’ve been waiting for. While Blizzard may always struggle to get viewers from outside the immediate Overwatch community, they can rest assured that as long as they have players, they will have an audience for OWL.

With that, I’m going to conclude this super long post. Cheers!

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doribuki · 7 years

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i made an overwatch player meme list a while back, but i lost it now, anyway heres the ReImagining

general:

“I NEED BONE HEALING JUICE/SODA” = healing

“can i get some sips,” usually said in reference to needing healing, said in a Suffering(tm) voice

“OH GET IT [character name], YOU WILD BITCH

[something not even related to the game happens] THANKS, JEFF, I LOVE IT

[scottish accent] OCH THEY’RE ANGERY

special meme that can only happen with a sombra and widowmaker set of sprays (sombras eyes, the lipstick mark spray from wm): who is she,

characters now.

ana:

[singing] “GRANDMAS HERE TO PISS ON HER CHILDREN”

[throws biotic grenade] “QUICK TAKE MY PISS”

“ABUELAAAAA”

“yes grandma pump me full of drugs”

[gets boosted] “OH ITS HEROIN”

putting up the fareeha picture sprays and using the protector emote: “have you, have you seen my daughter. look. its my DAUGHTER”

bastion:

[singing[ HERE COMES THE BOOOOT DOO DO DOO DOO/lets heAR IT FOR THE BOOOOOOT

[bastion picks a spot no one was expecting] ASSASSIN BASTION

“Good Skilled Gameplay(tm)”

“i got this play of the game, but i dont feel good about it.”

[wins as bastion] “oh this is bullshit/“there is no honor in a bastion win.”

doomfist:

“GET FISTED”

“OH NO I GOT PUNCHED REAL GOOD”

“why does he punch normally and NOT use his FISTY hand!!!!!”

dva

“im just a small korean teenager please stop shooting me”

[loses mech] “HELP IM NAKED”

alt: [loses mech] “ITS FINE I DIDNT NEED IT I DIDNT NEED I DIDN” [dies] “i needed it.”

“i wish my rockets did ANYTHING”

[two dvas in closed quarters duking it out] “WHATS HAPPENING”

[gets rezzed] “MECHMECHMECHMECHMECH” said while screaming, frantically mashing buttons

genji:

MADAMADA

[looks at anyone, but especially a hanzo] BROTHA

“oh GOOD a defenji”

“if he says ‘i need healing’ ONCE i SWEAR TO GOD”

one of us, invariably, as genji: i need healing

“GUYS DONT WORRY IM THE BEST CHARACTER I GOT THIS POINT” [double jumps frantically out of danger]

“OH NO ITS SCIENCE! I CANT DEFLECT SCIENCE!!!”

im a PRO genji thanks

does good at genji, in a very small voice: i did okay!! yaaaaay...!

[zenyatta on the team] OH ITS MY BOYFRIEND

“MASTER SHOW ME YOUR BALLS”

[lucio on the team] LETS BE GREEN BOYFRIENDS TOGETHER

hanzo

[looks at anyone, but especially a genji] BROTHA

“oh scattershot is a FAIR and BALANCED ABILITY”

“YEAH NO HANZO’S TOTALLY FINE AND FAIR AND NEEDS NO REWORK, CLEARLY MERCY IS THE ONLY OP ONE AROUND, CLEARLY, CLEA”

hanzo’d: verb, to get shot across the fucking map or from behind a wall and still get fucking hit by hanzo’s arrow

[ults] “OOOOH THE PUPPIES!! THERES PUPPIES!!”

“hey come listen to my wet, slappy feet” [climbs up a wall]

“why are his feET SO WET”

harley: HEY GUYS DID YOU KNOW HANZO CUT HIS BROTHER IN HALF HE COULDA USED A GUN BUT NOOOOOO

“oh good, attack hanzo.”

junkrat:

“TRASH BOY TRASH BOY TRASH BOY”

“at least have the DECENCY to die to my balls!!!”/”HAHAHAHHAA THEY DIED TO MY BALLS”

whenever theres a roadhog on the enemy team: PLEASE, LOVE ME

nasty twink boy

lucio

good good frogboy

[bumps someone off the map] [CACKLES]

“get in my zone GET IN MY SEXY HEAL ZONE”

“oh im the BOY!”

“HEY JEFF WHERES MY LUCIO LORE!! WHERE IS IT, JEFF!!!”

mccree:

IM COWBOY CURTIS

“dont worry im top 500 mccree”

[getting mccree in mystery heroes when none of us can aim] “FUCKING!!! MCCREE!!!!”

mei

[singing] heeere she comes, BEEEEELZEBUUUB HERSELF!

[cheerfully] oh im satan!

[looking at team mei in spawn] can we trust this one

[they build a wall] [SPAMS ‘THANK YOU]

“Im The Best Sniper”

[freezing] STALL!!! STALL!!!!!1

“VICTORY HOP” [uses the hop emote]

mercy:

[rezzing] NO!!! NO NO NO!!! YOU WILL LIVE AND YOU WILL ENJOY IT

“say you need healing oNE more time.”

Guess I’ll Just Die

“cOME TO THE FUCKING LEDGE THEN!!!!!”

[enemy ults] oh this is for me, isnt it.>I need healing! “Shut up, baby, I know it.

IM GIVING YOU THE POWER OF GOD

I NEED MORE GOD

[pulls out pistol] FINE, ILL DO IT MYSELF.

SQUARE THE FUCK UP [shooting someone, usually widowmaker]

orisa:

singing the my little pony themesong

[gravities someone off the ledge] [GIGGLES FURIOUSLY]

pharah:

sky lesbian

[singing to the tune of lets go to a gay bar] im just a gay bird

when encountering an ana photo emoting: MOM, PLEASE.

reaper:

gothdad

REEPACHEEPS

[reaper approaches Very confidently] OH GOD HES GONNA ULT HES GONNA DO IT!!!

[junkenstine mode] “the reaper has fallen” NO HE HAS NOT

[junkenstine mode] [singing] TOOOOO MANY REEPS!!! TOOOOOOOO MANY REEPS

sombra

“i was born with glass bones and paper skin

[hacking a health pack] THIS IS MINE, DONT TOUCH IT, ITS MINE NOW

“ohhh NO IVE BEEN HECKED”

[rapid breathing like we’re actually running as we make sombra sprint]

symmetra

“ooh im Sexy”

“welcome to my FUCK ROOM”/”GUYS WATCH OUT THERES A HELLROOM IN HERE”

[junkenstein mode] “OH HEY BABY”/”ITS MY WIFE”

“oh i hear it I HEAR HER LESBIAN BEAM!!”

torb

[singing] here he comes its torbjorn here he comes its torbjorn hEEERE HE COMES ITS TOR

oh dont worry guys DADDYS here

COME GET YOUR JUICE/DO YOU WANT A CAPRISUN [armor]

PAPA TAKE ME TO THE MEAT SHOPPE

tracer

OH NO A SPEEDY/FAST LESBIAN

“im gonna do to this bitch like the 100 did to lexa” “DORI!” “too soon”

widowmaker

[gets widowmaker in mystery heroes] [EXAGGERATED FRENCH LAUGHTER]

a complicated ritual that involves crouching, slowly looking up to the ceiling, scoping in, and shooting while singing “new york, new york” by frank sinatra, each action punctuated by going hhhOOOOON???

[jumping directly on a failing point, wildly shooting] “WIDOWMAKER IS MY FAVORITE DPS]

“I GOT IT [shoots, misses] I GOT IT [shoots, misses] I GOT IT [shoots, misses] I GOT IT [shoots, misses] I GOT IT [shoots, misses] I GOT IT [shoots, misses] I GOT IT [shoots, hits] FIRST TRY”

[lunar horizon map only, picking all 6 widowmakers] spiders on the moon spiders on the moon spiders on the moon spiders on the moon sPIDERS ON THE M

zarya

[sees widowmaker, bubbles her] SOMEONE GET A PIECE OF PAPER AND GET THIS GAY SPIDER OUT OF HERE

zenyatta

[in the ray skin] “do you want my.................................[throws orb of harmony] hOT WHITE SEED,”

“COME BACK HERE LET MY GIVE YOU MY BALLS”

[character is discorded] “OH NO [X]/I’VE GOT DEPRESSION”

#ovw tag #memes galore. help me.

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kittenzcaboodle · 7 years

Text

PTR Mercy Thoughts

2AM BRAIN DUMP. I HOPE THIS MAKES SENSE.

`~~`

Dear Blizz.

I was unsure of the first changes to Mercy. I understood why they were happening, because nothing breaks a girl’s heart like a five-man rez that just undid all your hard work, so I was willing to give it a go. I will admit, when the Valkyrie ultimate came around, it took me a bit to get used to.

When I did get used to it, though, I had fun.

If you played smart, there was potential to turn the tide of a fight. It was fun. You could fly in and rez a key team mate or two, heal or damage multiple people, or go be a chaotic killer. It was involved. It was fun. Her ultimate had impact you could feel.

Using it was so much fun. That sudden double rez was fun.

Now, it feels like nothing more than a group therapy session tied by Mercy’s beam. There is barely any impact. There is no real benefit to using it save for wings. But if we all flew away from our problems, then the world would be a dull place.

One of the points of playing a game is to have fun. Having fun is difficult when you repeatedly take away core mechanics of a character.

Doubling the distance of rezzes does nothing. You still have to fly in and focus in the corpse to rez. I am still basically standing in the body. Not until you can point a finger and raise someone from the dead across the map would rez distance matter with her new ult. But that’s technically necromancy, which is frowned upon in most establishments. Even if it’s double the distance, it’s still obvious you’re going for a rez, and a good DPS should be able to focus you while you fly on that straight line. There also now a really good chance that, unless you planned to Valk this fight, Rez has already been used, negating the new “benefit”.

Losing the cool down reset upon activation is a huge blow to her kit. Genji gets a cool down reset. Winston does as well. Considering that rez is the longest cool down in the game, I would think that having a reset would be a major factor in making her ultimate feel like an actual ultimate instead of a glorified healing campfire to sing Kumbaya around with your team. Keep the thirty second cool down timer. Just give her a reset upon activation. I’d be fine with that.

Right now, on the ptr, she has no ultimate impact There is no enemy ultimate denial like Lucio or Zenyatta have. There is no real game changing buffing like Ana has. There are no more multi-man /rezzes/ like Symmetra can have with a teleporter, or any permanent health boost like with the shield gen.

“I will watch over you.” is an accurate ultimate line, because now her ultimate feels like babysitting a team of baby-chained kindergartners.

I will watch over you and will watch you die from up here because I can’t out heal the enemy focus fire.

I will watch over you as you call for a rez but I used it on the 76 at the start of the fight so you’re out of luck, Genji.

Ultimates have always been potentially game-changing. That’s what makes them fun.

But lowering another character’s impact because it had potential to counter another’s is painful.

I have gotten a team wipe, and a five-man wipe in the last two days of playing all because I pressed Q as Reaper in the right place at the right time. That was fun.

If a pre-Valk Mercy had rezzed after the five man, that would not have been fun for me or my team. I understand why her old ult was changed.

If a Mercy had the balls to pop Valkyrie and rez two people straight up, it would be on me and my team to focus the healer or at least deny value to her ultimate.

There needs to be value to be denied, though.

With this ptr nerfed ult, there is not. Her ultimate is not that threatening or game-changing enough to care about. She gets big wings and flies around like a hummingbird who drank a can of Spite.

Ooh, I’m so scared.

Well, actually, I will be scared if she pulls her pistol and focus on attacking instead, because that feels far more impactful than healing at the moment.

When I was playing a round as Pharah, a Mercy ulted. I didn’t care, for direct rockets can out damage her healing. I didn’t care until she came after me, guns ablazing and shot me out of the sky as majestically as a Clint Eastwood riding bareback on a Pegasus. That was far more impactful than what she’s actually supposed to be doing. She couldn’t outheal my basic damage even with her ult, let alone outheal my whole team’s damage, she knew this, and so she went DPS with her ult instead.

Kudos to the Mercy, but that shouldn’t have to be how Mercy makes game-changing plays. A player shouldn’t have to ignore how their ult and playstyle are supposed to be used to have an impact. I legitimately more hesitant if an ulting Mercy uses her gun to launch an attack than if she heals and supports her team with her ult.

The enemy Mercy ults. Healing four guys at once. Go you. Can’t out heal a Reaper headshot though, baby, so have fun losing your tank because your Healy stream can’t out heal death.

But wait, hold on. I just got to thinking. An ulting Reaper can’t be fun to fight against. And a team wipe and 5/6s of a team kill in two days seems too strong. It may have been fun for the player, me, but not for the enemy team. How can we fix this?

Ah. Let’s make it so that Reaper only fires eight normal shots while spinning, no rapid fire anything, about one full rotation’s worth of shots I think, and then he stops and reloads and starts again. Lengthen the ult time. Maybe twelve seconds? That gives him potential for three spins. Change the voice line to fit the new ult; something more like “I’m getting dizzy” or, I got it, “I’m an agitator of death in the washing machine of life.” Break that last line up and have him say 3-4 words per auto-spin. We’ll call it the Washing Cycle of Life and Death.

There we go. That’s it.

It’s a weaker ult overall but we feel that Reaper plays will find this new ability to walk two steps before the auto-ult continues to be a more involved playstyle then hiding and just pressing Q.

Also, since Reaper has so much killing potential with his life steal, we decided that instead it would be a 50/50 chance on whether you heal yourself by sucking their life or heal the enemy, which would suck. We call this passive ability “life sucks.”

Doesn’t that sound fun?

Because I don’t think it does.

Reaper makes the impact he is supposed to make. He is a tank killer and he shreds anyone that gets too close to his huge guns. That is his role and he fits it. He has the kit to make it an involved, strategic process, and not just holding a mouse button. He is a fun character to play.

So what’s Mercy’s role now? What is her impact? Is being an auto rez machine every thirty seconds her impact? Because while it is hugely satisfying to undo a pick, that E key shouldn’t be her biggest gameplay mechanic.

And ignoring the team and instead going on a rampage is fun, don’t get me wrong, but that’s not supposed to be her role either. A sudden 180 in playstyle shouldn’t be how an ultimate has impact. Her purpose is supporting the team with heals, not flanking to the backlines and fragging out.

An ultimate should be one of the biggest impacts a character can have, hence the name. And with the live version of Valkryie, she has impact in a game. She has multiple rezzing potential for those twenty-some seconds of ult to pick up those that died mid-fight.

That’s huge! That can counter an ult, if played right! It can also just feed the enemy charge, if played wrong! There is impact when I use this ultimate I have been building, whether it be good or bad. I have fun popping it and turning the tide of a fight!

But wait.

The other team doesn’t find that fun. That Soldier 76 just worked so hard with his aimbot to wipe out three people. And now Mercy’s rezzing two of them. And the fight’s still going.

It’s almost like…Ultimates are supposed to have an impact on the game…Huh.

But now with this ptr patch, there is no impact. I shove a healing wand up multiple butts at the same time like a wizard proctologist. No one plays a FPS to be a wizard proctologist; that’s what DnD is for.

This ult uses one whole mouse button. Amazing. I am Mercy, a minor goddess of life, at least until my index finger gets tired or until the enemy team focuses targets. Then I am the goddess of death, as in my own team’s death. They are now dead. Oh dear.

This isn’t fun.

Her ult feels like nothing. It feels weak. It’s twenty some seconds of winged mediocrity. It won’t counter any destructive ultimates, save for Winston’s, and I find that any ulting Winston who gets a kill earned it, good for them. Getting kills when you’re an enraged gorilla is harder than you’d think. I don’t see it often.

What is the purpose of this character in-game? Because every time that a purpose gets established, be it a mega rez-inizer, an angel of pistol death, or a healing goddess with small, repeating rezzes, it gets changed. Every time that she gets to have an impact in some way, it’s nerfed.

And it seems to be because of one of two reasons:

Either because she denies impact from the enemy ults, which multiple characters do. Lucio and Zen can counter them through ults. Sym can use tele to bring team mates back to point. Heck, some characters even cancel them out, have a way to block them, or can turn them back on you with with one key (Rein, Road, Sym, Mei, Orisa, Winston, McCree, Ana, Genji, Zarya, and D.va.) their ults safe for use another time.

Or it’s because she’s got such a high pickrate at the moment. But that’s not because she’s obnoxiously OP and in need of getting her kneecaps smashed in. It’s because she’s a more viable pick than other supports. She brings more potential plays to the table. Which kind of implies that the other healers need a buff of some kind to make them more appealing and Mercy less of a must pick.

There will always be balancing needed in this game. Finding that precious middle ground cannot be easy and I commend the OW team for all their work. I came here from TF2/Valve, and I appreciate the communication and frequent updates this community gets.

But balancing can’t come at the cost of fun for a player. An ultimate shouldn’t feel like “doing the same thing as you were doing but with wings now”. The power of flight is amazing, but it can’t be the only fun potential of a character. Is Mercy’s biggest impact now just going up a floor? Elevator music should not pair so well with the use of an ultimate move in a FPS video game.

The offense characters get quick potentially very deadly ults, the defense get area denial with some potential big kills, the tanks get flashy, earth-shatter, explosive, potentially game-changing ults, and the supports get ultimate counters of sorts, with heals or teles, or an offense nano that turns someone into a killing machine.

Except for Mercy.

Now all she gets are wings and a baby-chain for a few seconds.

She’s an Orisa drum that can move or she’s a slow healer that can’t outheal anything big from the enemy. For all the impact she has now, it feels like she brought a pillow to a gun fight. There is also the possibility that she is just slapping herself with the pillow and saving everyone else the trouble.

And her new playstyle on the PTR is just no longer impactful and no longer fun. There is no more reward for playing her, no moment of gameplay impact that has been worth spending the match staring at my team’s asses and choosing to play as this character. Except for McCree’s. He has a nice butt.

I’m not saying that Mercy should stay as is. It’s clear that Blizzard is not happy with how she’s being used. But that doesn’t mean that she should have her game changing potential taken completely away. Overuse doesn’t necessary mean OP, it means she’s just the best choice over the other supports. Maybe give them a buff of some kind and Mercy a smaller nerf,: keep the rez CD reset, and maybe even give her a 20 second CD during ult if you're feeling generous? That seems decently fair.

But not this. This total annihilation of anything intuitive is not decently fair. To make an ultimate that had such an intricate method into fully capitalizing on into something so mind numbingly dull is not decently fair.

There was a balance, a key to timing to make use of the ults full potential. Did I rez four every time I used it? No, I used it to keep a fight going. Having that emergency reset of her rez cooldown upon ult activation, it allowed me to confidently know that at a moment’s notice I could undo a pick and reset a fight. Who cares if I only pulled off two rezzes in the last forty seconds? I could bring back a tank at a drop of a hat. I have potential to sway a fight.

With this update, though, that thought that a Mercy ultimate can help change a fight or even support the team is no longer one I feel is accurate. That’s depressing.

There is no influence anymore. The impact removed. The fun is gone.

Some tweaks I understand, like lengthening the rez time during ult, but others, like the lack of cooldown reset, really hurt her playstyle.

Hero never die. Just one. One hero. I even used my ult I’ve been charging and that’s all I can get now.

I heard that the changes may not go live as is. I sincerely hope not. I’ve also heard rumors that Blizzard is nerfing Rez is much because they want to remove it. I also sincerely hope that’s not the case.

I’ve seen the threads from Mercy players concerned about her being nerfed into a useless rez-dispenser, and the gleeful shrieks from self-proclaimed DPS players who unintentionally outed themselves as being unable to prioritize or aim by being happy they can finally shoot a character that’s been crippled.

I know which parties I hope Blizzard listens to. And it’s not the Smeagols on the sidelines rubbing their grubby little paws together in snide bliss because a character that has had her impact taken from her so that they can feel better about pressing Q. It’s the support players that are concerned about having their character yanked out from under them and nerfed down to nothing before they’ve got used to the current build.

Rapid fire tweaks are fair under the right circumstances, but not when they’re this big. Don’t clip a dove’s wings when she’s just learning to fly. Don’t take all the fun of a character away.

But if these changes do go live, you’re all welcome to join me in oh-so fun one button healing beam campfire. I’ll do my best to keep you all alive for as long as I can. We’ll be fine as long as there are no big plays-.

Let’s sing one last song as the Rocket Barrage rains down on us.

Kumbaya, My Lord Jeff. Kumbaya.

#mercy #overwatch #mercy overwatch #overwatch mercy #i want to post this to the ptr board #but i'm going to think about it #and make sure i'm saying what i want to say before i do that #but i'll put it here for now #because i wrote this last night and found it this morning when i checked the time on my phone #and i was kinda impressed what sleep-deprived me did #so here this is #long post

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yeojaa · 4 years

Text

ANGELS & AIRWAVES (w. jjk)

He's never met you but you know how he sounds when he wakes up from a nap and his greatest fears. You know the way he sings after a shower and that he could be mistaken for a dying seal when he's laughing too hard. The best part? You don't judge him for any of it - including the fact he's a filthy Widow main. He might just love you.

alt summary. Jeon Jungkook has a big fat crush on a girl he's never met.

pairing. jeon jungkook

genre + rating. fluffy crack. general, for now.

warning / tags. long-distance relationship, crushes, canon compliant (ish), eventual happy ending, gaming, gamer!jungkook, strangers to lovers, friends to lovers, overwatch. tags are hard. :(

reading. n/a. a three part one-shot.

word count. ~3400

part i.

JUNGKOOK’S ROOM Sunday, 10 November, 2019. 2:13 AM.

It’s 2:13 AM when Jeon Jungkook finally finds a match, the familiar in-game sound dragging his attention away from the illuminated screen of his iPhone to the monitor before him. He studies the SR - 3779 and 3761, respectively - and skims burning eyes across the members on each team. Four rocks, including himself, and two Masters.

One of them has a strange name - BIGMELON - that he stares at until he's zoning out, trying to make sense of it. Was his teammate a pervert or just hilarious?

"Good luck and have fun, everyone!"

Your cheer filters through his headphones crystal clear but he's somehow still surprised, head tilting curiously to the side. He hadn't expected a girl to be playing Overwatch at quarter past two in the morning.

When there's no response - he notices no one else is in the voice chat, an oddity for such a high ranking game - he takes it upon himself to keep you company. His username lights up as his finger glides across the ALT key, sleep-worn words breaking the silence.

"Thanks, you too."

Nothing follows until BIGMELON appears once again in the upper left-hand corner of his screen. You have a nice voice, he thinks. "Are you sticking with Widow?"

Jungkook takes in the team comp: Sigma, Hog, Genji, and Lucio. A little unconventional but not wholly un-doable. They're on King's Row, too, which is one of his favourite maps. Balanced enough that people aren't too salty when they get headshot but with enough coverage that he can get clear picks.

"Should I?"

"If you want." A pause and your hero slot is filled with Mercy's portrait. "I can damage boost."

He thinks he can hear the teasing. It's soft and sweet and a little rough - like you'd just woken up.

"Who says I need it?" Comes his immediate response, question chased out of his mouth by a laugh he can't help. It echoes, filling the quiet of his bedroom. He hopes you don't take it the wrong way.

"O—kay, Widow main. We'll see if you get anything from me."

It's an empty threat because you're giggling along with him. It's distracting in the strangest way. The sound bounces around in his ears and he can't help but focus on it, realizing belatedly that he's still sitting in spawn as the timer runs down for setting up defence.

"Are you going to join us?" You quip, emoting right beside his stationary sniper. "I didn't queue just to have someone go AFK."

Mischief colours your words and he laughs again, snorting as he finally presses W. Two sets of footsteps echo in game and he presses SHIFT once he's hit point - and with just a few seconds left to spare - launching Widowmaker's body onto the balcony overwatching it. Mercy follows, Guardian Angel carrying her into the air to alight behind the blue-skinned hero.

As the timer hits 0:01, Jungkook right-clicks, scoping in on the second-floor spawn door.

BOOM.

The kill feed reads DDEOKKOOKI x STRIKER007.

"I guess you didn't need the damage boost."

He can't help the sound he makes - a marriage between a witch's shriek and a pig's snort. It leaps out of his mouth, louder than he intends, and he feels equally bad for you and his hyungs. He's definitely going to get an earful in the morning - or any minute now, when one of them bursts into his room to berate him for being so loud. "I told you."

"Yeah, yeah." The way you speak has him grinning from ear to ear, nose scrunching in amusement. Mercy is flying across the map, healing stream trained on Genji as the cyborg ninja just narrowly misses an errant Hanzo arrow and dashes back to point. "I'm gonna take care of the rest of our team. Let me know if you need anything, O' Headshot God."

You're clowning him hard but he knows it's all in good fun. Still, he likes the nickname and decides to keep it, effectively picking off the attacking team's stealthily half-hidden Junkrat and Ana right after.

"Show-off!"

Then he's dinked in the head - health dropping to 30 from the partially-charged shot. He needs heals like yesterday.

Unfortunately, Lucio is up at choke with the tanks, skating circles around the base of the statue as they hold point. Jungkook doesn't see you immediately - he’s scanning his screen for your witch skin (of course) - only realizing you've appeared at his side when his health bar begins to climb. "Try to stay alive, yeah?"

"My bad," he drawls, scoping in the same instant the kill feed announces two more enemy deaths.

There are only a critical Reinhardt and protected Zarya left. The former falls the moment he drops shield and her bubble doesn't reset in time; the Russian tank dies in the next instant, his charged shot firing the moment it hits 100%.

"Thanks for the damage boost."

"Any time."

Then you're gone, off to support the rest of your team again while he grapples onto a different ledge and continues his oppressive gameplay. He feels a little bad when the opposing team goes double shield tank and swaps their Junkrat for a Pharah. He feels less so when he's slept out of nowhere. Four seconds feels like an eternity when he’s out in the open - vulnerable as a baby lamb in a den of lions.

"Looks like you're really making them mad." You'd been relatively quiet when not tending to him - likely because it was only the two of you in voice chat - and he startles when your comment breaks the quiet lofi he has going in the background.

"I don't know why. I'm just having fun." He's lying. You're laughing.

"Too much fun, I think."

"Maybe they should be better." Jungkook says this like he's commenting on the weather or the colour of the sky - offhand and nonchalant. It makes your giggles come harder. He can hear the scratch of your mic as if you've doubled over and it's now pressed into cotton clothing. He can't help but pat himself on the back.

"Please don't tell me you're going to 'gg ez' them when we're done."

Now he's feigned offense, gasping at the mere thought. "Of course not. I'm not that rude!"

"Well, you never know." You're right. People could be the worst when it came to online gaming, spewing vitriol and hurling insults the moment their egos were bruised (or inflated).

"I promise I'm not an asshole." He's not really sure why he feels the need to make this abundantly clear. After all, he'd probably never play with you again. Korea's density of players was just too great - you were just one in hundreds, thousands, millions.

Still, he smiles when you reassure him you don't think he is. "I'm just teasing. You seem nice."

"I am nice." Spoken in the same instance he lands two consecutive headshots - one on the bouncing, wall-riding enemy Lucio and the other on the momentarily grounded Pharah. You must see that, because you're mocking him in that dulcet tone of yours, caramel coating words and turning them soft like toffee.

"Not according to them." And not that you mind, it seems, because you're damage boosting him as he catches their out-of-position Rein in his sight. He whoops in triumph, eliciting another bemused sound from you.

"You know they're going to do everything to counter you when we go on attack." Which was in sub-one minute, the timer counting down the last thirty seconds of your team's defense.

"Who says I'm going Widow again?"

You're scandalized. "You mean you're not just a filthy Widow main?"

For a moment, Jungkook wonders if this is how his older members feel when he (and Jimin and Taehyung) mercilessly rib them. He thinks it must be and oh, how the tables have turned. He decides he doesn't really mind, though. It's all innocent fun and it's keeping him awake, aided by the cold brew he'd chugged at midnight.

"Woah - says the Mercy player?"

"Mercy is a respectable support, okay!"

"Sure, e-girl."

"Take that back!" How the words explode out of his headphones makes him momentarily worry he might've overstepped but by the way your laughter chases it forward, he knows he hasn't. You can take it just as well as you can dish it.

"Okay, okay. You're a not bad healer." Because he hasn't died yet and last he checked, neither had your tanks. Genji had once or twice - to be expected, given his playstyle - and you had, but that was still pretty respectable.

He can practically hear you rolling your eyes. "Oh, thanks."

"Any time, BigMelon."

"That's ‘daebak’ to you, pal." Had he heard you wrong?

"What'd you say?"

There's a long pause - he's not sure whether it's for comedic purpose or something else. You sound muffled on the other end, as if you're repressing sound. "Because watermelon? Su-bak? So big melon is dae-bak?" Whatever you had stifled earlier disappears, torn away by the pride that shines bright yellow and boisterous in your peals of laughter.

It's such a bad joke that Jungkook feels like he's about to have an aneurysm. Were you Jin moonlighting as a Master support player?

"You're kidding me." He wonders if you hear him above your own glee, giggles making it hard for him to hear himself think. "What're you - a dad?"

You scoff now, parroting his words back to him. "What're you - the pun police?"

Another one?

He briefly considers ALT + F4-ing his way out of this match and away from your corniness. Considers it but ultimately decides against it, instead remaining stoically silent and choosing McCree when the hero selection screen slides into place. His silence will surely speak volumes.

"You know that was funny!" By the way he can practically hear your pout - it's endearing, much to his chagrin - he thinks you know where he stands.

"Not the word I'd use."

"You just have bad taste, McCree." You say it scathingly yet full of mirth, a sniff punctuating the end of your rebuttal.

"Do not!" He returns, just as quickly.

"Prove it. Laugh at my joke!" You're shameless, confident, reassured - it makes him chuckle.

You take it as his surrender though, your own laughter blending seamlessly with his. It goes on for longer than is strictly speaking necessary, crowding like cotton balls in his ears as you leave sprays of your hero - Ana this time - across the spawn walls. He wrecks every one of yours with his own, BAMF displayed in 1440p.

"Hey - stop that!" It doesn't matter that the round is about to start - you're spamming your melee button into him. He immediately does it back, toggling between that and his voice line.

The rest of your team is probably wondering what the hell you're both doing.

"Stop distracting me!" He barks into his mic, deep dimples on full display, nose scrunched adorably. He doesn't really mind - it's clear by his hyena cackles that follow - and he likes when your chorus of shut up's pitch and leap with your giggling.

As he navigates McCree out behind your tanks, he can't help but wish - maybe a little selfishly - that they'll lose this round and go into a best of three. When the opposing team's healers both die - one to Ashe's dynamite and the other to Zarya's high-charged beam - he knows that's not going to happen. Your team's going to cap point and then you're going to be gone - off to the next game and never to be matched with again.

"We did it, McCree." You sound deeply pleased as the last of the defenders fall, leaving point uncontested. The Lucio on your team lingers by the choke, ready to boop any last minute hoodlums; Echo hovers just above the enemy’s spawn, dealing damage the moment any hero comes in view. One of your tanks is already emoting.

VICTORY flashes across his screen.

"We sure did, BigMelon."

The cards come next - they're all for your team, though he isn't surprised. You'd gotten 37 defensive assists whereas he had 27% Infra-Sight uptime. He's sure you both vote for each other, the remaining four going to your other support's Sound Barrier casts.

"Thanks for the carry." He doesn't mean it facetiously. This is some of the most fun he's had in-game in ages.

"You're welcome," you chirp. He thinks you'll leave right after.

Instead, you both sit in voice chat in silence, watching the timer in the upper right-hand corner.

"Do you want to duo?" You ask in the same instance he does, breaking the both of you into a fit of laughter. It's more distracting than he realizes, the FINDING MATCH countdown replacing the end game statistics while you’re both still cackling.

Luckily, you invite him to a group right as he removes himself from queue.

JUNGKOOK’S ROOM Tuesday, 24 December, 2019. 11 PM.

It’s six weeks and a good three dozen games later - a feat for him, considering how much of his time is eaten up by literally every other obligation he has - when he asks for your name, not realizing the consequences of his action.

“Most people call me Jinny.” He thinks it fits you, bright and pretty and punchy. “What’s your name?”

Jungkook's unprepared for the question, though he shouldn’t be. Of course you’d want to know. Anyone would, if they’d already given their own answer.

He's silent for the longest time, quiet stretching on and on over group voice chat. He applauds you for your patience, how you don't press him on it when the hesitation has descended from appropriate to downright awkward.

"Uh." The word drops like a weight, crashing through the tentative friendship you've built over the past weeks.

"You don't have to tell me," you supply as softly as he's ever heard you. It's the first time you've seemed uncertain - and it bothers him that he's the reason. "I get that we haven't known each other that long."

As if that's actually the issue. He would've told you the night you spent four hours together, taking wins left and right, filling the time in between matches with silly banter that had his jaw aching from laughter. He would’ve told you on that random Thursday, when you’d listened to him talk about his busy day, effortlessly keeping him occupied - and amused - while your SR nearly descended below 3500. He would’ve even told you yesterday, when you’d said you were going to bed, only to be roped into another six games by Jungkook’s eagerness.

It has absolutely nothing to do with time - or the lack thereof.

But he can't say that - can't tell you who he really is - so he improvises as best he can. "My friends call me Jay."

"Jay, huh?" You turn the sound over on your tongue, like you're tasting it for the first time, trying to decide whether you love it or hate it. He hopes you don’t hate it. "Then I guess we're the best J-duo to ever exist."

"Woah, we?" He's only doing it to rile you up, finding it cute when you huff and puff and threaten to let him die in-game. You never make good on the threat anyway; you just like to see him sweat, watching as his health bar drops to measly single digits. "I don't think I agreed to that."

It's your turn to mock him, that same edge turning your words into sour candy. "Fine. You can find yourself a new healer. We'll see how your SR likes that, Bronzie boy!"

Neither of you really take the game that seriously but he gasps like he's been shot.

"No! Don't leave me with them!" The way he howls the plea is enough to return you both to your rightful place - one filled with boisterous laughter and things he never thought would see the light of day.

Because somehow, he's found somewhere he feels safe - a place he feels like himself, with no pretenses or expectations. It’s where he can rant and rave, bouncing from topic to topic like an energizer bunny with no end in sight. It’s, oddly enough, with you.

Connected through voice chat and built by an endless stream of communication - sometimes productive, other times not - the space you’ve carved out together has come to feel like a third home. It isn’t quite what he has with his family or his members but it’s just as nice.

Different, but nice.

"Fine. You're forgiven." You sniff in that peculiar way of yours and he snickers loudly. "How was your day?"

And this is why it is - because it's ordinary. It’s where Jungkook can rest his head and drift for a while without worry of what’s over the horizon, ready to swallow him whole the moment he takes his eyes off the calm blue sea. He's not raised on a pedestal with you, all the weight of his choices resting on his shoulders. He's just a normal guy playing games.

It might not make up for all the years of normalcy he's missed out on - the movies after school, the street markets on weekends, the holiday parties with classmates - but it's enough.

He eats it up like he's been starved of it.

"Busy. Really busy. I had dance practice all afternoon and forgot to eat so I'm dying now." There'd been a time - about three weeks in - when he'd chosen his words more carefully. He'd been worried he might let something slip but he's found what feels like the sweet spot now, where he can tell you about his day without thinking he’ll suddenly shatter the image you have of him.

It's not always easy - he has to remember to never mention names or intimate details - but it's better than nothing. He can finally tell someone about his day like he wants - all of the good and the bad, too.

"You should make something to eat!"

He's used to your reprimands but he still laughs, crossing his long legs beneath him as he readjusts in his computer chair. "But we're in queue."

"Jay!" It comes out devoid of static, clear as the waning sunshine that filters through his blinds and reflects particles of dust that drift lazily through his bedroom.

"I'll make something after we win." He knows what you're thinking - that he's gone and jinxed your whole night. You’re weirdly superstitious, something he's learned only recently.

As if right on cue: "Shut up!"

Your words sweep his expression up with glee and giddiness, like a kid on Christmas morning; lines dig themselves into the bridge of his nose and the delicate skin beneath his eyes. Jungkook tells himself it’s the usual pre-game jitters but he knows it’s more than that.

It’s you and that infectious giggle that careens through his headphones, making him see everything in a pretty haze of warmth.

He’s not sure when you’d started having this particular effect on him - maybe since the beginning? - but he feels it now, clearer than ever. Every tinkling laugh makes his heart speed up, thump around his chest like a baseball missing its mark. The sight of you logging in elicits the biggest, possibly dorkiest smile, all slightly too-big front teeth and deep dimples. You have him rushing through his post-practice showers and devouring dinner in half the time he usually would just to get online a minute more quickly.

There's just something about you.

And sure - a part of him wonders whether it's all in his head (as if it could be anywhere else). Wonders if he's seeing you through rose-tinted glasses, doing to you what so many do to him. Was he in over his head, praying to a deity that didn't even know he existed?

Sometimes it felt that way - a little out of reach, like childhood crushes and summer love and wishing upon a star. Certainly far too much for a blossoming friendship of just a month and a half.

But then you laugh and it's Pop Rocks fizzling in his stomach and he knows that no - it's there and it's real.

Jeon Jungkook has a big fat crush on a girl he's never met.

notes. i love overwatch and i love jeon jeongguk. what more can i say? :)

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