"I've stared at you enough, haven't I? But you, your body, it makes me want to do all kinds of sinful things to you. Before long, I imagine us going at it like bunnies in the storage room, but I control myself. Good things come with time, after all...
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"Play these little games."
~T.F
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Even though it's the middle of August and the AC is barely holding the Rose Petal together, it feels like the North Pole behind the counter. No customers to talk to, (not like I want to talk to customers, anyway) nothing worth looking at on my phone, you at another session. So, I'm left to twirl my straw and listen to Jimin and Yoongi sing songs about their devotion to each other.
Oh, if only I could kill a man with a straw. Half a foot of flimsy plastic will usually get you nowhere in life, except saving your dignity when drinking a milkshake. Though, I suppose I could repurpose it somehow: get behind the guy and choke him out until he dies of asphyxiation. Sharpen the end and stab it through his jugular.
Or, maybe I could even coat it in grease, put it on the ground, and wait for him to slip. His head would split open like an overripe watermelon. The joy!
Unfortunately, though, I can't do that without Jimin being at least slightly irritated at the death of his boyfriend as he now calls him, so for now, my fantasies remain just that.
"You know, I'm pretty sure there was a rule about PDA during orientation," I call. Jimin rolls his eyes from the nearest shelves, snatching his hand away from Yoongi's ass. The balls on some people.
The blond doesn't seem like he wants to be here any more than I want to be, staring into space or looking at his phone every time Jimin talks to a customer. He'd be invisible if it wasn't for the cloud of tobacco following him wherever he goes.
Then why the fuck is he here? It probably wasn't of his own accord; every time my coworker gets a new toy to play with, he has to show it off to someone, and that person is usually me. Usually, I don't mind, but just seeing Yoongi's smug smile makes me want to punch a wall.
And he pretends to be a prick too well, so there's that. Though, I should probably give him some leeway since his father was murdered and everything.
"I'm pretty sure the only thing you told me during orientation was to not fuck up," Jimin says with a giggle. "And also, don't act like you have anything better to do." It's my turn to roll my eyes as I stare down at my straw. Maybe I should use it on myself.
But even in the midst of all this, I can't stop thinking about you. What you're doing, what you're thinking about, what you're wearing. Are you wearing that pantsuit I love so much, the one that makes me think about fucking you from behind? Or the shirt you refuse to wear a bra with that delivers the attention you crave so badly? Are you thinking about me as much as I'm thinking about you?
I have a feeling you'd like it if I invited you over after-hours and pinned you against the counter, getting fucked like the slut you are in the hazy glow of the streetlights outside. The only thing left in your brain being my name, you'd know the definition of total submission.
