#its not fake its not pretending i want to manifest this for myself and work for it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

1kook · 4 years

Text

disney+ & bust

this is part of my netflix & chill collection !

summary; There’s a pounding on your door a little past noon, so hard and rough, that you almost think it’s the police finally coming to catch you for all your years of illegally pirating Phineas and Ferb. It’s not. It’s just a really drunk boyfriend wailing for your forgiveness at the door. warnings; arguments, feelings of insecurity, bit of asshole jk, smut in the forms of degradation, dumbification, choking, fingering, spit kink, self punishment, unprotected but [ passionate ] sex, jk losing his cool, return of mean jk, he is actually an emotional mess in this one wtf miscellaneous; ANGST, anniversaries, the L word😳, app developer kook, rip ‘pretty girl’ </3, we all become phineas and ferb stans word count; 13k !!

notes; me: *writes couple who’s whole arc is being silly* y’all: MAKE THEM SUFFER GIVE US ANGST!! u ask I deliver so now we all suffer 😐 ngl it was hard writing this fic n u might notice there’s some parts that seem weird n that’s bc this was TWO fics w diff wording but I ended up mixing them bc I’m insane. still had a lot of fun! felt like I challenged myself!! not proofread bc when I say we suffer we SUFFER

please let me know what you think!!! a simple ask goes a long way <3

previous part: kissanime & foreplay

Approximately one week after The Bullet Bestie’s rise to prominence, Jungkook grows annoyed with it as his weirdly competitive nature rears its ugly head the more and more orgasms that little vibrator coaxes out of you. It turns on a weird switch in him, something slightly stuck up and snooty that he’ll never admit to out loud but is there nonetheless. By the following Friday, The Bullet Bestie is nestled deep in your garbage can and Jungkook’s back to pleasuring you with his tongue and fingers alone.

He had those moments in him, the ones where he liked to think he was better than any and everyone else, and occasionally they manifested against inanimate objects like a bullet vibrator.

Despite his polite and generally soft exterior, you catch glimpses of that cocky spirit more than anyone else. Over the past year, you’ve come to realize that Jungkook’s personality was like a coin that had been left out in the sun too long. He had this sweet and reserved nature you saw most times, a kindhearted boyfriend who adored you almost as much as you adored him. He was your angel whom you knew had a heart of gold, even if you were slowly bringing out his more childish tendencies. You knew him like the back of your hand, knew what his mom’s favorite color was and how he liked to stack the plates in his cabinet according to size and make. It was a side that was rusted from years of being out in the sun, basking in its adoring warmth, and you loved every inch about it.

And still, there was this other side to him you rarely saw. This cocky asshole who hid beneath the soft smiles and careful hands, making his appearance only through sly smirks and a tongue prodding against the inside of his cheek. He was a braggart, a man who knew his greatness yielded for no one and wanted that fact shoved down everyone’s faces. This Jungkook, this other side that never saw the light of day, was like the Hyde to his Jekyll. An unexpected, almost mean side to him that only dared make his appearance when his exhilaration was at an all-time high. Like when he was fucking you into another dimension, or kicking your ass in Mario Kart, or like now, when he was receiving an award at an annual tech ceremony.

On the eve of your one year anniversary, Jungkook’s company invites him to an awards ceremony for other web and app developers like him. It’s a grand event, filled with all the biggest nerds in the developing industry here to present the baby nerds with awards. Jungkook lies somewhere in the middle of the spectrum, both a seasoned player and a rookie all at once. He spends the night tolling you around in a floor-length gown and fangirling over all the “legends” in the room.

You know next to none of these people and none of their accomplishments but still pretend you respect them to hell and back. By the end of the main dinner, you’re sympathizing with Barbie’s ever-smiling features because your cheeks feel sore.

Towards the end of the night, Jungkook wins that random award— okay, who were you fooling? He wins the Platinum Mobile Standard of Excellence Award, recognizing him for all the hard work you’ve seen him put in this past year. It’s probably the highest recognition he can receive at this point in his career. It was an esteemed award that was bestowed upon only the most innovative developer of the year among tech companies, something Jungkook had briefly mentioned he always wanted. It’s basically the equivalent of placing first place in his field, but given Jungkook’s competitive industry and his young age, you think it’s like telling all these old Facebook lords to suck his big fat cock. (But that was your job when you got home.)

He gives a short little thank you speech, promising to work hard and own up to this title. The people around you are swooning, obviously endeared with his soft puppy dog features and melodic voice. They don’t know him like you do, don’t know that uppity twist to his grin like you do. It doesn’t slip off his face even when he steps down off the stage, arms wide open as he comes barreling towards you. Even with you in his arms, the congratulations that are thrown from every direction ring loudly in his ears and swell that ego of his.

The night goes like that for the most part, Jungkook’s acquaintances approaching him every few minutes to rain down their praises. He goes a little crazy at the open bar after a while, shoving the gold trophy into your arms as his beloved work seniors whisk him off for drinks. You don’t mind because you resigned yourself to a night of playing Jungkook’s perfectly perfect partner anyway, watching him politely mingling with his coworkers. Despite his earlier success, you know he won’t brag about it verbally. No, he’ll wait until the two of you get home—your place or his—and remind you how amazing he is with a quick snap of his hips.

As you said, he’ll never boast aloud.

However, that doesn’t mean you won’t.

“That’s my boyfriend,” you explain to the seventh person that greets you that night, excitedly pointing to where said boyfriend was slowly losing all sense of self by the bar. You don’t know anyone here beside Jungkook, and you’re pretty sure no one in their hammered minds is going to remember who you are anyway, so a little gloating never hurt anyone. “He won the ‘I’m Better Than Everyone Else’ award tonight,” you emphasize to the tipsy woman beside you who only laughs at your exaggeration. You assume she’s like you, accompanying one of the many developers here, because as soon as you finish boasting about Jungkook she moves to brag about someone too.

Truth be told, you spend the whole night re-analyzing the Zootopia movie you saw on Disney+ the other night in your head. So if the little fox fellow didn’t control himself would the city have fallen to ruins? Why was the useless sheep girl so evil and bitter? Why was there an unreal amount of romantic tension between the fox and the rabbit? Whatever, you’ll have to rewatch it some other night, and with your new Disney+ account, you could watch it anywhere you wanted to.

Now, you had never bothered to purchase a Disney+ subscription or even tried to swindle Jungkook for his password before. As far as you know, Disney+ was filled with old tv shows from your childhood, sitcoms that made you laugh when you were ten. There’s nothing wrong with that, but personally, you were a firm believer that that which was perfect should not be touched once finished; in other words, you were utterly terrified you’d rewatch an old episode of The Wizards of Waverly Place, only to find out the same joke you’ve been regurgitating for the past ten years doesn’t actually go that way.

However, the harsh reality was that Disney+ was good for a few things. Ugh, you hate when giant corporations provide decent services. Aside from Zootopia, you’ve watched about every animated media on there as well, all of which you replay in your mind as Jungkook has the time of his life with these nerds, knocking back champagne glass after champagne glass.

Anyway, the night ends a little past midnight, and Jungkook who is buzzed on alcohol and high on exhilaration ends up calling an Uber for the two of you. Your apartment— the new one he had not only helped you hunt for but also helped you move into, greatly cutting the cost of movers out with those glistening biceps and thick thighs —is still going through her rebellious phase where the potted plants are trying to take over, courtesy of Kim Namjoon. So for now, there’s a potted plant in an awkward corner that both of you stub your toe against on your way to your bedroom.

You’re thinking Jungkook is going to go to town tonight, given the fact he’s on Cloud 9 and has had his ego stroked by a bunch of dudes for the past couple hours. Maybe you guys can try out the hot role-playing scenario you saw on GirlsWay a few weeks ago, or the handcuffs you impulsively bought from Amazon one Monday night. Or maybe, and this one really makes you flutter, he’ll let you fully take the reins for once.

All those lewd fantasies end up being for naught because just as you shimmy out of your gown (with the help of his hands, of course) and turn to climb him like a tree, he’s on the other side of the room getting your makeup remover out for you. And also talking. A lot. And way more than usual.

“Did you see him, babe?” he sighs, dare you to say, dreamily, handing you the cotton pads as he begins pulling a million pins out of your hair. Slowly and with a lot of confusion, you pull your fake lashes off and begin cleaning your face. “He was amazing.”

“Uh-huh,” you say, having absolutely no idea who ‘he’ is or why Jungkook is so in love with him and not you at this very moment. “But so were you,” you add. Perfect. Stroke his ego and then stroke his cock.

Jungkook sputters at your praise. He’s carefully placing your hairpins on your thigh, cheeks flaming red every time he leans over you. “Was I?” he murmurs, voice sweet in that cute little way it always gets when he’s downed one too many shots of whiskey, enough to be buzzed but not enough to be wasted.

You turn and the pins clatter to the floor and across the bedsheets. “Yes,” you confirm, ignoring his sad huff at the mess you’ve made. Instead, you grab him by the collar of that pink button-up he taunted you with all night. “You were fucking incredible and I think incredible men deserve to have their dick sucked.”

Jungkook laughs at your vulgar statement, holding you gently by the hips as you climb into his lap. “Is that so?” The soft, shy persona is gone now, replaced by the gentle stirring beneath his dress pants. You nod hurriedly, plopping down on his lap and running your hands through his styled hair.

“Yes,” you confirm, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Luckily for you, I know this nymphomaniac who would gladly gobble up your cock at your every command.”

He snorts just as you push him into his back, nose adorably scrunched up. “First of all, you know I hate that word,” he chuckles, finally gracing you with a sweet peck that only makes you want him to fuck you into the fifth dimension. “Secondly, please don’t ever say you’ll gobble my cock up ever again.”

Something inside of you squeals with excitement as he rolls the two of you over, firm body pressing down on yours. “Oh, baby,” you groan, lazily throwing a leg over his hip. Jungkook grins and then decides to entertain you for a few minutes with a sloppy kiss.

You say a few minutes because just as things are heating up, he pulls away. He smiles apologetically. “As much as I’d love to be here with you, I actually have an early morning tomorrow.”

You frown at the sudden change in events. “Huh? They’re gonna make you work the morning after a Gatsby party?” you gasp, sitting up as he gets off of you. With every step he takes away from the bed your heart breaks a little more. “They can’t do that— that’s illegal!”

From the doorway he levels you with a comically raised brow. “No, it’s not.”

You scamper after him down the hall, watch the muscles in his back flex as he pulls his suit jacket on. “You can’t work on our anniversary— that’s illegal!” you offer instead.

He stops at your front door, feet squeezed back into his shoes. “Baby, it’s not,” he rolls his eyes, leaning down to peck your forehead. “It was either I work in the morning or work at night,” he explains, giving your messy hair a soothing caress. He’s looking at you with those eyes, the ones that make your heart lodge itself into your throat and make life a tightrope experience. There’s a devastatingly lovesick part of you that wants this moment, this kind face, to be engraved into your mind for the rest of your life. You want this to be the first and last thought you have and nothing else: just Jungkook’s adoring gaze on you for the rest of time.

The moment ends too soon when he flutters one last peck against your lips. “I’ll be done in the afternoon, okay?”

You pout. “Okay, your place?” you huff, making sure to get one last octopus squeeze around his waist. He nods. “Promise you won’t be late?”

The corners of his gaze soften. “You know I won’t,” he smiles, leaning down to bump your noses together playfully. “Can’t stay away from my pretty girl too long. Besides, I have a gift for you tomorrow.”

It’s with that sentiment and a hammering heart that you let him go. With Jungkook gone, there’s really nothing for you to do now. You took the next two days off in preparation for your anniversary sex, so you don’t have to head to sleep early like usual.

With nothing else planned, you decide on rewatching that Zootopia movie that had plagued you all night, ready to dissect every plot hole to hell and back. You don’t think Jungkook’s seen this movie yet so you add it to your long list of animated movies you’re forcing him to watch.

Part of you is actually really surprised Jungkook left. Well, kinda sorta, very, but not really. Jungkook was a good boy, that much was obvious. He took his job seriously, and if his job wanted him to come in at the asscrack of dawn, then he’d come in before the sun even rose. He was a goody-two-shoes, but even so, you were occasionally able to bring out that darker side in him.

Jungkook working, like actually working in an office setting, was pretty rare though. The dude had a chill job that let him stay home most of the time, and essentially clock in whenever he wanted. Every now and then you were able to convince him to stay, tucking him beneath your body or the covers, depending on the night, and refusing to let him go the morning after.

Once he had eaten you out until the wee hours of the day, ravenous between your thighs, and then went to work the next morning like he hadn’t broken you. Another time you had persuaded him into watching every season of the 2017 DuckTales reboot through the night. When the alarm had rung in the middle of the season finale, he had simply gotten into your shower and gone off to work.

So maybe you were a little confident in your skills, and Jungkook slipping between your fingers tonight was a huge bummer. But there was no use crying over spilled milk, you tell yourself, flinging your bra off somewhere in the corner as you snuggle back into your sheets. You’re ready to tear this Zootopia movie apart, scene by scene.

Even though your apartment is a little cold, you’re comforted by the fact Jungkook will be here to keep you warm all day tomorrow.

All men do is lie.

Despite his promise to come home early the next day, Jungkook ends up lying. The meeting he had been in all morning— the same one that had stopped you from getting bent like a pretzel the night before —drags on well past noon. Then, Kim Namjoon, AKA Jungkook’s favorite senpai in the entire world, catches wind of Jungkook’s success last night and absolutely has to take him out to lunch to celebrate.

You scoff, glaring down at your phone and the impulsive messages you’d sent out an hour ago when Jungkook had first texted you telling you he would be late.

You whirl around to stomp off in the direction of his living room, where all of yours and Jungkook’s favorite foods were growing colder by the minute. You had spent the longest time carefully laying them out, making sure the fried chicken was closer than the pizza but not closer than the breadsticks. Truthfully it’s a nightmare. There are about eight stomach aches worth of food sitting on his coffee table, the greasy stench makes you gag and will certainly stick to your hair for weeks, but none of that mattered because it was all for your beau.

Your very late beau who was making you grow more and more agitated with each minute that passed. Ugh! How inconsiderate of him to test your patience on a day like this. You didn’t want to be upset with him, but this was your first, real milestone as a couple with him. You had wanted to spend the whole day cuddled up, maybe finally tell him how much he really meant to you— definitely not waking up alone with eyeliner crusted eyes and an aching heart.

Deciding you’re being a little too dramatic, you head into the bedroom to calm down. This was fine, you tell yourself, carefully laying out the damn near harlotrous lingerie you had yet to put on. Jungkook would come over soon and everything would be A-okay.

Except for the part it’s actually F-not okay because soon it’s nearing sunset and the food has gone cold so you’ve stocked it into the fridge, and the pretty sheer bra has a wonky wire that’s two seconds away from piercing through your heart, but that doesn’t even matter because Jungkook being late for your all-day anniversary celebration has already ripped it to shreds anyway.

You plop down on the couch in defeat, impulsively opening up the Disney+ app to cry through another episode of Phineas and Ferb. You’ve abandoned the satin robe that came with the lingerie in favor of donning a big t-shirt that smells like him and makes your heart hurt even more. The setting sun paints the living room in muted oranges, the chirping of birds outside the soundtrack to your lonely day.

You end up watching some other cartoon on Disney+, avoiding the Marvel section because you had promised Jungkook he could be there when you lost your Marvel virginity. Well, at least one of you was good at keeping promises, you think bitterly. For a second, you think about randomly watching one of the infamous MCU films out of order just to spite him. But then you think of that soft puppy gaze and how disappointed he’d be in you.

Whatever! It wouldn’t ever match up to the way you felt now.

Anyway, you circle back. When you’re five episodes into Phineas and Ferb you hear the doorknob rattle.

You sit up just as the door swings open, visible from your spot on the couch. He meets your gaze almost immediately, big doe eyes caught in the act. What act? You’re not really sure. In fact, you don’t even know what you’re looking at when he walks in because he’s drowning in shopping bags. His lips twist into a grin. “Honey, I’m home,” he says playfully.

You don’t laugh.

Jungkook frowns, dumping all his bags down at the entrance before waddling over towards you. “Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks, coming to stand before you and cupping your face in his hands. He’s towering over you, so tall and gorgeous but for the first time, you’re not dazed by his beauty.

“Kook, you said you’d be back hours ago,” you say slowly, avoiding his gaze. You try to keep the frustration out of your voice, but you’ve had hours to dwell on it now, and those annoying cartoon characters, though charming at first, had only served to multiply your annoyance.

Jungkook blinks, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I mean… yeah. But I got you presents?” he beams, glancing back at the mountainous pile he made by the door. You look over too. There are some luxury bags squeezed in between other shops you like, the occasional jewelers' logo on the side.

You stand with a sigh, sauntering off into the kitchen with him on your tail. “I don’t want presents,” you mumble, reaching to pour yourself a glass of water. You’re briefly aware of how childish you must seem. Jungkook hovers behind you.

“What? Yes, you do,” he says. “You had an entire wishlist on my Amazon of things you wanted.” It’s his turn to level you with an unreadable expression, slowly crossing his arms over his chest.

Your frown only deepens as you turn to match his stance against the counter. While it may be true that you did indeed have an entire list of impulsive items on his Amazon, that didn’t necessarily mean you wanted them all. Sometimes you just wanted to stare longingly at a pair of satin gloves without actually buying them. You don’t know how to explain this much to him. “They’re not…” you stop with another deep breath. “Forget it. Thank you for the presents.”

Now it’s Jungkook’s turn to question you. “What,” he says in an unimpressed tone, padding over to you before you can escape back into the living room to watch the entire princess movie collection on Disney+. “No, tell me what’s wrong.”

For some reason, that’s exactly what you don’t want to hear. “Jungkook,” you say flatly, narrowing your eyes at him. “You come home six hours after you said you would without telling me why, and normally I wouldn’t care, but today was supposed to be a special day for us.”

Jungkook reels at your bluntness. “Babe, I was out getting stuff for you. I know it’s our anniversary— that’s why I wanted to treat you,” he responds, oddly condescendingly like you’re a child who doesn’t understand what exactly he was doing.

You brush his hands away from your shoulders. “Yeah,” you huff. “Now I know that. But I spent all day waiting for you,” you stress, chest puffing as you grow more and more agitated by his inability to understand you. God, can he let you go now? At least a bunch of animated, geometrically drawn cartoons won’t question you like this and make you feel as childish as he was.

When he doesn’t say anything else you stomp back into the living room, snatching up your phone from its forgotten spot against the couch. “I’m going to bed.”

At that Jungkook seems to kickstart back to life. “What? ___, it’s barely six,” he says as he follows after you into your bedroom. You ignore him, shuffling beneath the covers. In all actuality, you’re going to bed to mope and watch more animated family shows, maybe cry under the guise of the plot just being so sad. Jungkook sits beside you just as you click back on to finish off your episode. “Baby, I don’t get it,” he sighs. “You’re always talking about how much you want this or that, and I go out and get you it all but now you’re mad?”

You bite down on your lip, eyes lasered in on the pictures moving before you. “Jungkook, just forget it.”

“No,” he says, more sternly than he’s ever been with you before. “If there’s a problem, tell me.” There’s a heavy pause, and then he says, “don’t make me waste my time guessing what’s wrong, okay?”

“Waste your time?” you scoff, sitting up with pinched brows that you find match his. “I’m not trying to waste anyone’s time— in fact, that’s hot coming from you, Jungkook.”

He rolls his eyes. “What are you even saying? You’re mad because I took a little long getting presents, for you, might I add,” he huffs, plopping down on the edge of the mattress beside your knee. “You’re always saying you want this and that, but you can’t handle me going out to get those things? Do you hear how weird you sound?”

You whip the covers off of you. “Me talking about things doesn’t always mean I want them,” you defend.

Jungkook snorts. “Yes, it does,” he says. “Anytime you ramble about stuff for minutes like a little kid it’s because you want me to buy it for you.”

You blink. “Like a little kid?” you repeat, stunned by his comparison. Granted, you always knew you were the more childish of the two, but you never thought that would equate Jungkook thinking of you as a child. Something red and nasty flares in your chest. “Well sorry,” you spit, crossing your arms over your chest defensively, “sorry we all can’t be perfectly mature golden boys who would never see the light of day if I constantly wasn’t dragging them out.” You know it’s a somewhat low blow, especially because Jungkook’s told you before how his introverted tendencies were a sensitive issue growing up, but you can’t help it.

Jungkook groans, dropping his head into his hands. “Baby, don’t do this now,” he warns, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Stop acting like this.”

“Like how?” you spit, “like a kid?” Jungkook says nothing, leveling you with a blank stare from the corner of his eye. You roll your eyes, phone falling off your lap. Another episode of Phineas and Ferb had started, the corny opening tune filling the space between the two of you. “At least now I know what you think of me,” you mutter over the guitar riff.

“Oh my god,” Jungkook blurts, sitting up wildly. “Of course I’m gonna think of you as a stupid little kid, look at you,” he seethes, gesturing at the phone beside you. You flinch. “All you do is watch kids shows and whine whenever I wanna watch anything normal adults watch. You complain every single day about the most normal things, like your job? Why should I fucking care that you’re working a dead-end office job in a field you didn’t even study for— that’s not my problem, __!” he snaps, eyes narrowed into little slits. “I just won an award last night,” he says suddenly, voice back to its regular volume. “I’m at the height of my career and I’m only going up, but I can’t even enjoy that because I have to come home and cater to you,” he finishes, a loud scoff punctuating the final word.

You had never imagined Jungkook finally bragging about himself would be at your expense.

A beat of silence passes, the angry glint in his eyes quickly fading away the longer you don’t say anything. You sniff once, turning your head idly to the side where Phineas and Ferb is still blaring loudly from your phone speaker. Picking up the device, you throw it across the room where it hits his closet door with a terrifying bang the breaks the silence.

The sound snaps Jungkook out of whatever shock he’d been in. “Baby…” he says slowly, carefully, like you’re a caged animal that’s just escaped the zoo.

“I’m going home,” you say, also a little too calmly. You saunter over towards his closet where your shattered phone screen glares up at you as you yank a pair of sweats off a hanger. Jungkook is still frozen on the edge of the bed, watching you with wide eyes as you move about the room.

It’s when you’re in the hallway leading downstairs that Jungkook finally snaps out of his daze, scampering behind you as you descend the stairs. “Baby,” he rushes out, loudly bounding down after you, “___, wait,” he gasps, catching you by the kitchen counter collecting your keys. “I-I didn't mean that,” he rushes out, eyes wide and frantic as they flicker over your expression. “I don’t think that—I don’t, baby, please, just… let me explain, please.”

“Jungkook, let go of me,” you respond, shaking your wrist in an attempt to release yourself. He’s not even holding you tightly— he never would—but the sound of your heart pounding in your ears makes your movements jerky and erratic. “I wanna go home.”

“No,” he chokes, cornering you against the counter. “No, baby, please just listen to me, I-I—“

“You what, Jungkook?” you snap, placing a hand on his chest and forcefully pushing him away. He lets you, stepping back with a wobbly bottom lip. “You need to tell me how you’re too good for me? How much I hold you down because I wasn’t lucky enough to get a job like yours straight out of college?” He says nothing, swallowing roughly as you jab a finger into his chest. “Well let me tell you something,” you snarl, chest heaving, “I may be childish and a huge complainer, but I’m not stupid enough to let someone walk all over me like this.”

With that, you make your great escape. Truthfully, you don’t want him to see the tears in your eyes as you yank his door open, stomping down his steps and in the direction of the nearest bus stop. The door opens right after you tug it shut, painting your shadow across the sidewalk. There’s the scrambled sound of house slippers against the concrete that follows you down. “Go the fuck back inside,” you snap without missing a beat.

Sensing your obvious anger, he pauses before he can reach you. “Text me when you get home?” he calls out quietly.

“No,” you respond.

You would never admit to anyone that you spend the entire night eating a tub of mint chocolate ice cream. It’s disgusting and makes you gag, but it’s the only one you have in your apartment. And of course, it was brought over by none other than Jeon Jungkook himself a few days ago. Even when you’re trying to comfort yourself over how mean he was, on your anniversary night no less, you’re plagued by thoughts of him everywhere.

As much as you want to brush his words off, put on that cool girl exterior you’ve maintained since high school, there’s something different about this situation. You guess it’s impossible to brush off such hateful words when they come from someone you love and adore so much.

Were you too childish? You had always believed that side of you was what made your relationship with Jungkook so perfect. The two of you meshed well because of your differences, like yin and yang. So how had he been able to so easily deconstruct every inch of that balance in a matter of a few seconds? Was this perfect reality all in your head this whole time?

You want to tell yourself it was just a heat of the moment outburst from Jungkook, give him the benefit of the doubt because he’s never snapped at you like this before. Of course you’ve fought a couple of times in the past year, but neither of you had ever stooped as low as you did yesterday. Furthermore, the insecure part of your brain says he obviously felt this somewhere in his heart to bring it up at all. What he had said to you wasn’t something someone could make up on the spot.

You don’t text him when you get home, partly to spite him, but mainly because you had left your phone at his place anyway. You know he tried calling you last night because the call log is synced up to your laptop. He called on and off for about thirty minutes before he probably found your phone in his room. Whatever, he can mope in his regret for all you care

—is what you wanna say, but the longer he goes without showing himself to you the more your insecurities and hurt fester. Was this it? Was this the end of what was probably the best year of your life? It’s too painful to think about, to even consider the possibility that Jungkook might have gained a new insight last night and decided, hey, maybe this is for the best after all.

You drown yourself in an ungodly amount of sugar for breakfast, your laptop blaring yet another episode of Phineas and Ferb on the dining table. Muscle memory has you making Jungkook’s favorite pancakes before you can stop yourself, and by the time you do realize, you’ve resigned yourself to the blueberry smell anyway.

There’s a pounding on your door a little past noon, so hard and rough, that you almost think it’s the police finally coming to catch you for all your years of illegally pirating Phineas and Ferb.

It’s not.

It’s just a really drunk boyfriend wailing for your forgiveness at the door. You open the door with a fright, jumping back when he slumps forward and almost crashes face-first into the floor. “You didn’t call,” Jungkook cries, leaning a little too much of his weight onto you when you reach out to steady him.

The thundering of your heart slows upon registering it’s him. “Kook?” you frown, nose pinched at the ungodly stench of alcohol wafting off his clothes. “Have you been drinking?” you ask even though the answer is staring you right in the face (and in the nose).

He groans, staggering deeper into your arms. You blindly push the door shut behind him, resigning yourself to this new situation while your pancakes grow cold in the other room. “Baaaby,” he slurs, letting you guide him into the living space. He’s unceremoniously dumped onto the couch, half-opened eyes gazing up at you. “Let me,” a hiccup, “explain.”

You won’t lie. There’s a very obvious sense of discomfort sitting in your chest, torn between two paths that you don’t wish to choose between. His skin is warm and flushed like he’s just walked all the way here in this morning sun. You step over to the window that faces down onto the street below. There’s no sign of his car; you would have killed him if he ever tried to drive in this state.

“Did you walk here?” you ask instead, deciding there’s no need for one singular path, not when you can walk straight down the middle, both cleaning him and grilling him at the same time.

Jungkook’s response is delayed, head lolling from side to side as you help him out of his sweater. His skin is sweaty beneath, scorching to the touch. “Uh-huh,” he groans. Jesus, you sort of assumed but him confirming it really set things into perspective.

By no means did you and Jungkook live on opposite ends of the earth. On a good day, a drive from your place to his took about ten minutes. But walking? Easily an hour. Had he walked all the way from his place, drunk on top of that?

You brush his hair away from his face, his eyes fluttering shut at your touch. His lips are pouty yet chapped, dehydrated from the sun and the alcohol he reeks of. “Sit up for me,” you instruct, scampering off to your room for chapstick and water.

“Anything for you,” Jungkook wheezes, throat probably dryer than a desert. When you return, he’s two seconds from face planting into the coffee table and breaking that pretty face of his. You catch him with a hand on his shoulder, keeping him balanced. “Tell me what to do,” he chokes out, voice hoarse.

“Just need you to drink some water,” you say, pressing a cup against his lips. He drinks it, but a drop still dribbles down his chin.

“No,” he groans, catching your wrist in his hand when you reach up to apply some chapstick on him. “Tell me what to do,” he stresses, “to fix this. Fix us.”

His words make you pause, the tube of chapstick hovering over his plush lips. “You don’t have to do anything,” you respond quietly, trying to finish the application so you can pull away.

Jungkook doesn’t let you go. You try to look away, but there’s something about him that looks off. Maybe it’s the raw skin under his eyes, red and swollen. Or the sad droop to those same eyes that hold you captive. Or maybe it’s the subtle tremble in his hands, the fingers that hold tightly to your wrist, not to keep you there but to ground himself. “I don’t wanna lose you,” he rasps out, shakily bringing your hand to his mouth, where he presses one airy kiss to your knuckles. “Tell me ho-how to fix this and I’ll do it,” he pleads, a vulnerable look in his eyes.

Unable to withstand the sheer amount of agony on his expression, you look away. “___, please,” he chokes out, stumbling off the couch in his drunk and desperate haze until he’s kneeling in front of you. “I can’t… I can’t,” he sniffles, tears clouding those pretty eyes you’ve come to love so much. “I don’t know who I am without you.”

You clench your jaw. “You’re Jeon Jungkook,” you murmur, slipping your hand out of his hold to run through his hair. It’s knotted and a little too greasy, two things Jungkook would usually never allow. “This year’s Platinum Mobile Standard of Excellence Award recipient,” you remind him, trailing your thumb across his cheekbone when he turns to look up at you with those big Bambi eyes. “Sweet and shy, but you love being rowdy with your friends. You love movies and TV and organizing your shirts according to fabric type. You work harder than anyone I know and never complain. You date me, even though I’m a huge child,” you smile sadly.

“No!” he jumps, turning that frantic stare back into you. “Y-You’re not— it’s not,” he stammers, words still slurring together. “I’m a liar,” he cries, resting his forehead on your knees. His shoulders shake. “I don’t deserve you,” he weeps quietly. You place a hand on his shoulder. “Y-Y-You make my life so much better, ___, so colorful and fun. I-I wish I knew you in high school,” he admits, “maybe I wouldn’t have been so emotionally constipated now.”

“You’re not,” you reassure him softly.

He disagrees. “You bring out the best,” he hiccups, “the best in me.” Your heart skips in your chest. “I-I love you, you know that?”

You sputter, eyes wide at his sudden confession. “I… love you so much, y’know? I think about you ev-every night, ___,” he rambles, eyes dreamily gazing off into some miscellaneous spot on the wall behind you. “I can’t get you out of my head. Like you're a song, o-on repeat but it’s not annoying because it’s my favorite song, and I could listen to it for the rest of my life, y’know? My favorite song, I know all the words b-because it’s all I think about! I love... My love… I love you so much.”

“Kook,” you rush out, cheeks flaming as you try to pull him away from where he’s slumped over your legs. His passionate speech has you abuzz, body tingling everywhere until you feel overwhelmed, head spinning like you’re on a rollercoaster. “Let’s get you to bed.”

He nods sleepily, seemingly coming down from whatever alcohol induced rampage has allowed him to walk for an hour straight in this searing heat just to confess to you. “Y-You don’t have to say it back,” he continues to stutter as you guide him through the living room on wobbly legs. “I just-I just— can I?” he babbles. “Can I love you, ___?”

You pass through the kitchen space, where whatever you were watching on Disney+ is blaring loudly. It distracts Jungkook for about two seconds before his attention returns to you. When you don’t answer, he presses on. “Is that okay?” he asks, whirling around to face you, catching your shoulders in his hands. He towers over you by the entrance to your bedroom, dark curls tickling your forehead. His eyes are dark and glazed over, both in tears and an emotion so raw and unfiltered it squeezes around your chest until you can’t breathe. “Is it okay for me to love you?” he murmurs softly, knocking his nose against yours.

Your cheeks blaze. “Yes, th-that’s fine, Kook,” you blubber, placing a hand over his chest, where his heart is also hammering away. “Just need you to go rest now, okay?”

He nods sleepily, nudging your nose with his one last time, like a soft almost-kiss, before letting you push him into the room. “Yes, yes,” he breathes, his body finally crashing from his adrenaline spike. He flops down onto the bed unceremoniously, dark waves fanning across your pillows. You try to wiggle him out of his shirt, but it only gets about halfway up his chest before he blindly reaches for the covers. His legs stick out awkwardly, clad in the sweatpants you’ve come to associate with him.

When he’s all swaddled up in your blanket he finally goes limp, tiny snores leaving his lips as he dozes away from reality. You sigh, pressing a palm to his forehead. He’s still warm and clammy, but at this point, there’s nothing you can do but wait for him to sober up.

With a final kiss to his forehead, you leave the room, closing the door behind you before sliding against the wooden surface. There’s a trapped bird in your chest, wildly flapping its wings in an effort to get out, and it’s all stupid Jungkook’s fault in the next room. Stupid Jungkook who demolished and remodeled your heart all in less than twenty-four hours. It doesn’t calm down, even when you rush off into the kitchen for a glass of water, or when you try to immerse yourself in some other show on Disney+. It stays beating against your ribs and your chest until you’re forcing yourself to sit down on the couch and process.

He wakes up a little before dinner. You hear him from the living room, where you’re flicking through the options on Disney+ for the nth time that day. You’ve seen the first fifteen minutes of about twenty different series and movies by now, always growing antsy and abandoning them early on. The only reason you know he’s awake is because the shower turns on for a few minutes, and then his bare feet are heard padding across the hallway back into your room.

By the time he resurfaces in the living room, you’ve resigned yourself to just more Phineas and Ferb, nonchalantly watching the silly cartoon. (Except you’re anything but nonchalant, and your heartbeat rings in your ears.)

Jungkook hovers by the door, clad in a pair of shorts he’s left here before, and a t-shirt you stole from him. “Hey,” he says quietly, lingering by the doorframe. You nod back in response. “Can I watch with you?” Again, another nod.

Slinking over to the couch, he’s rather careful as he sits down, leaving a few inches of space between the two of you. You don’t even think he can see the screen of your laptop until he murmurs, “he’s my favorite character,” when Perry the Platypus appears on the screen.

You hum. “Thought you didn’t like these kids shows?” you ask. You don’t mean it to sound as petty and backhanded as it comes out, but that’s really no one's fault but his own.

Jungkook’s breathing tightens beside you. “No,” he admits, “I don’t. Only watch them because I know you like them.” You contemplate pausing the episode and engaging in a real conversation with him, but at this point, you’re very tired from the events of the last day. Jungkook doesn’t press either, just shuffles more comfortably beside you.

You get about five minutes in, quiet chuckles shared between the two of you, before he strikes. “I’m sorry about yesterday,” he says, so hushed you almost don’t hear it. His hand is resting in the space between you, pinky brushing against yours. “About… being late. And the presents.”

You inspire slowly. “That wasn't even the problem, silly,” you brush off. From your peripheral, you see Jungkook’s slow nod. “I didn’t want any presents,” you mention, “I just wanted you.” You look away from the screen immediately after, pretending like the spot on the ceiling is actually really interesting.

The two of you fall into silence, the animated characters on your screen rapidly chattering away. “Oh,” Jungkook says after a moment.

You roll your eyes. They’re moist but you don’t want him to see. “Yeah, oh,” you parrot back softly, relaxing into the couch again. “Did you eat the food I left out?”

Jungkook shuffles beside you, the soft lull of the speakers soon being cut as he reaches over to pause Phineas and Ferb. A couple of seconds pass and then he’s leaning into you, head resting on your shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes again, placing a palm over the hand he had been teasing for the past few minutes. “I thought I knew what I was doing but I was wrong.”

His voice is so soft and sincere, it makes your chest ache. You try to burrow your face against your opposite shoulder, try to hide the stray tear that escapes out of the corner of your eye. “It’s fine,” you brush off, voice choked off and hoarse.

Jungkook leans up, pecks your cheek so tenderly it makes you go mushy. “No, it’s not fine. I acted like a know-it-all and said something way out of line,” he murmurs, raising his head to look at you. His hand feels warm over yours. It’s the touch you craved all day and yesterday, the warm feel of his body against yours. You’re embarrassed at how easily you melt into it. “You’re the best thing that has happened to me in a long time,” he tells you, holding your hand close to his chest. “I had no right to say those things to you.”

You sniffle, resting your head against his shoulder now. His heart beats loud enough for you to hear. “Was it true?” you mumble. “Do you really think of me like that?”

He shakes his head, his soft breaths fanning across your forehead. “No, never,” he answers. “I think you’re incredible. My brain was just trying to justify my dumb anger.”

You nod, even if you don’t believe it just yet. But that was a conversation for later, you suppose, sometime in the future when you aren’t on the verge of tears and threatening to crumble apart at the simplest word that leaves his mouth.

“I should have come home like you wanted, thought about my words before saying them,” he says, snuggling closer to you. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop,” you sniffle, covering your face with your free hand as he presses a kiss to the vein that runs over the back of the hand he’s holding captive. “Now it just sounds like I'm just being inconsiderate of your gifts and a crybaby.”

Jungkook kisses your temple softly, gently. “Don’t think about the gifts,” he says. “Just tell me what you wanted to do, doll.”

His voice calms you, has you like putty in his arms. “Watch movies,” you mumble, toying with a thread on your couch cushion. “Be with you.”

He hums. “Then we’ll do that,” he says, reaching for your laptop again. The screen nearly blinds you when it flickers back to life before you, Jungkook’s low breaths against your ear making it near impossible for you to process the titles on the screen. “You liked Disney+?”

Belatedly, you nod. “I like the animated movies,” you admit quietly, the anxieties of before slowly melting away, even more so when he slides his arm around you, pulling you close against his chest.

Unlike other times where he’ll critique the hell out of such childish films, Jungkook says nothing as he starts up the Zootopia movie instead, the same one you had wanted to show him before, right from the beginning. “That bunny looks like you,” you murmur when Judy Hopps first appears on the screen.

Jungkook snorts. “You say that about every cartoon bunny.”

You turn your head to glance at him over your shoulder. He meets your gaze with a small smile you return. “It’s because you’re so cute,” you say softly, lips twisting playfully when his cheeks grow scarlet.

He knocks his forehead against yours, eyes fluttering shut. “Not cute, just lucky,” he chuckles. “Lucky enough to have you.” Your heart turns over in your chest, threatening to burst out of your rib cage at his words. You try to turn in his arms. Before you can say the words that have been sitting on the tip of your tongue for months now, he’s beating you to it once again. “I love you,” he confesses in a hushed whisper, no alcoholic influence.

Something inside of you blossoms, eyes wide as he chastely kisses you. He pulls away without you ever reacting, too caught up in surprise to kiss him back properly. He stays close, curls tickling your forehead as he leans over you. “You don’t have to say it back, I just wanted you to know. I love you,” he says again, long lashes blinking down at you. “So much. It makes me feel like a stupid teenager again, going to the mall to buy a gift for my crush.” He laughs sheepishly, reaching down to tangle your fingers together. “Is that okay?” he asks quietly, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

It mirrors the confession he’d given you that morning, those slurred words and teary eyes. It had been difficult to pinpoint the legitimacy of it before, the meaning scrambled by his hazy mind. But with him staring at you like this now, like you single-handedly plucked the stars from the sky to put them in those sparkly eyes of his, it makes something inside you ache.

Still, you choke on your own spit. “I-Is it okay for you to love me?” you sputter incredulously, realizing the oddity of the same question he’d thrown at you earlier. But now, you’re both sober and you can really tear apart that sentence. Jungkook nods a little too seriously for your liking. “Are you crazy?” He blinks in confusion, brows pulling together as you slowly but surely lose the last bits of your sanity. “You’re an idiot, Jeon Jungkook,” you huff, “a stupidly handsome, rich, walking dream, idiot who goes out with stupid girls like me.”

“Not stupid,” he murmurs, closing in on you again as he finally understands the truth behind your masked insults. He smells minty and like his favorite body wash of yours.

“No,” you deny. “You’re actually, like, insane. You have a bachelor pad, make enough money to sustain an entire litter of kittens, look and talk like every teenage girl’s dream boyfriend— but you mess it all up by dating evil, conniving hoes like me who lose their shit over Disney cartoons.” He says nothing, watching you with an amused grin as you talk over yourself, basically regurgitating his statement from yesterday except it kinda seems plausible now that you’re over it. “It’s stupid. No, you’re stupid. No— I’m stupid.”

Jungkook chuckles, kissing the corner of your mouth gently. “Done?” he says, a dimple appearing on his cheek. You could kiss it away, but you need him to know the amount of stupidity in this room was astronomically high. “You’re not stupid, baby,” he says. You level him with a look. “Well. You have your moments.”

“Moments?” you repeat, standing up in a hurry that has him flopping down beside you. Your laptop is lost somewhere on the cushions, the voices faded as they grow farther away. “I am so stupid. I called Namjoon a whore for taking you out for lunch!” you cry. “I am the stupidest person in the world.”

Jungkook cackles, standing up beside you. “Yes, yes, you’re my stupid girl,” he teases, tapping the pout on your lips playfully. “So stupid she slanders herself instead of just telling me she loves me too.” He bumps your noses together, dark eyes staring at you almost daringly after his claim.

You fold soon enough. “I love you,” you mumble, “even if I’m too stupid to say it.”

He rewards your confession with a kiss, pulling you into his arms soon after. He sighs, almost wistfully. “Whatever shall I do with my very stupid girl?”

After exactly three minutes of feeling safe and loved in his arms, he abandons the living room in favor of leading you back to your room, where he pushes you down against your mattress. You cling to him, leaving him positioned over you at an angle. His chest presses against yours, arm curled around the back of your head. “Gotta get up, baby,” he laughs.

You shake your head, caging him in your arms. “Nuh-uh,” you murmur, legs wiggling when he places a hand on your hip.

Jungkook chuckles, pressing a kiss against the side of your ear. “Your movie is still playing in the other room,” he reminds you, thumb drawing soothing circles on your hip. You don’t release him, his mindless touch only encouraging you to keep him close. “Babe?”

You say nothing, relishing in the comfort of Jungkook’s presence. His hair smells good and feels even softer against the side of your face. The cotton shirt he found is crumpled beneath your fists, dark blue pattern wrinkling. Finally coming to terms with his new home, Jungkook eventually relaxes into your hold with a sigh.

“Alright,” he hums, patting your hip as he repositions himself more comfortably. “I get it. My pretty girl must’ve missed me, huh?” You nod, soaking in every detail about him in this moment. Jungkook shifts, the hand on your hip suddenly falling over your thigh instead. “Or should I say my stupid girl?” he purrs, hand slipping between your thighs. “My stupid, little girl?”

A gasp catches in your throat when he runs his fingers over the front of your panties. Your legs kick out wildly at the sudden touch, toes curling at the hands you dreamt about all day and night. “Oh,” you pant, each brush of his fingers feeling better than the last.

“What?” he says, mouthing against the side of your neck. His tongue feels warm, but the trails of saliva he leaves have you shivering. “Too dumb to speak?” he scoffs, biting down against a particular spot on your neck. You whimper, unsure if it’s because of his hands or his mouth.

“N-No,” you try to sneer back, fingernails digging into his skin through his shirt. His hands are getting braver now, the pad of his pointer finger dancing over your engorged clit. The sheer material of your panties certainly doesn’t help, each touch feeling like it’s being magnified three times over. And if it felt this good with underwear, you can’t even begin to imagine how it’d feel without.

You don’t have to ponder for long, because soon after Jungkook is slipping his hand beneath your waistband, touching your sensitive pussy head-on. “Kook.”

He uses your momentary vulnerability to ease himself from your hold, finally recoiling enough to smother your mouth with his. You moan in surprise, thighs quivering as he gets to work circling your hardened bud sans your panties. Jungkook isn’t the least bit kind as he kisses you ruthlessly, likes he’s trying to compensate for something with his movements. When he finally pulls away it’s with an obnoxious pop and cherry red lips. He huffs, glancing down to see where he’s got his fingers pleasuring you.

Your thighs are squirming back and forth, closing around his hand every few seconds. Jungkook snorts. “Huh, look at that,” he mutters, trailing down until his fingers are gliding over your quickly sopping folds. “Stupid girl is good for something.”

Your cheeks burn. “Kook, I’m not—“

Jungkook levels you with an unimpressed glare. “Not what? Not stupid? But I could’ve sworn you just spent the last few minutes saying you were,” he drones meanly, landing one light slap against your cunt that makes your hips buck.

You bite down a whimper. “I was just…” you trail off, eyes rolling back when he teases one finger against your opening.

“Kidding?” he supplies. “Well, I wasn’t.” Your heart stutters in your chest, eyes growing wide as he finally pushes himself off of you, propping himself up with an elbow beside your head. His gaze is dark and unrecognizable. “I think you’re so fucking stupid, doll,” he sneers. “And what are you gonna do about it?”

You should have seen this moment coming, the manifestation of that shiny side of the coin finally reaching its full potential.

While Jungkook wasn’t exactly shy about his interests, he certainly wasn’t tripping over himself to tell you every new kinky thing he wanted to try. You sort of guessed he had some interest in this sort of play a few weeks ago when you watched the Barbie movie at his place. A lot of that night had branded itself into your three am wet dreams, but there was one particular moment that stood out to you. That was you, on your knees, with him condescendingly patting your head. Or just last week, you vaguely remember the term slipping through his lips as he pleasured you with The Bullet Bestie.

The thing about Jungkook was that, until last night, he would have never admitted, or so much as even thought, that he was better than you. That was fine because you would say it enough for the both of you anyway. Did you think Jungkook was amazing, an absolute diamond among these measly rocks? Absolutely. (Were you slightly biased because you were his girlfriend? Skip.) However, you also had this insane evil villain complex that made you want to brag about everything you possibly could, especially if that meant bragging about your boyfriend.

Realistically speaking, he was better than you, that much you could look past yesterday’s anger to admit, and not even in a stuck-up, conceited way; he had a really good job, an architecturally amazing house, and a hot girlfriend. Meanwhile, you had a mediocre job, an okay apartment, and an insanely sexy Calvin Klein boyfriend, half of which he had pointed out yesterday. Regardless of how powerful that third factor was, he still outnumbered you three to one.

Sue you, Jungkook was amazing. Anyone could see that! Except, maybe, himself.

And if the only time Jungkook would openly brag about his greatness or establish how much better than you he was, was in a post-fight, sex-induced setting, then you were more than happy to be his punching bag. So long as it was on your terms, and not as a result of his weirdly bottled up feelings.

(Yeah, you would have a long talk about that tomorrow.)

But for now, you pout up at him, clamping your thighs shut purposefully. “You’re stupid too,” you defend, “stupid and mean.”

Something in his expression changes. Suddenly, he’s moving at superhuman speed as he snatches his hand out from where you had previously trapped him between your legs, yanking you up by the front of your shirt. “Mean?” he mocks. “Isn’t that what you always wanted?” You shiver, fingers wrapping around the wrist that holds your sweater. “Wanted me to be mean and push you around like a little rag doll?”

Jungkook looks at you for another two seconds, before he’s slowly pulling away from you, leaning back on his knees. His tongue is pressing against the inside of his cheek, jaw tightening from the movement. “Baby,” he says so quietly it instills a prickle of fear in you, tainted with delicious excitement.

“Yeah?” you whisper, sitting up tentatively as you watch him, He was a bit frightening, like a wild animal about to devour you whole.

Jungkook rolls his neck, the joints in his spine cracking as he begins tugging off his shirt. You salivate at the sight, too focused on the sinewy muscles of his body to catch the dark gaze he levels your way. He throws it off to the side, his sleeve of tattoos that wraps around his bicep and begins to crawl down his chest wonderfully unobstructed now. “Eyes up here,” he says and you quickly meet his gaze. He leans forward, muscled arms coming to cage you against the headboard. “Stupid little sluts don’t have the room to make such comments,” he rasps out, unamused expression adorning his normally soft features. “Don’t you think so?”

“I-I don’t know,” you stammer, leaning away as he comes closer and closer, eventually just turning your head to the side to avoid that emotionless look. It’s the wrong move, and Jungkook lets you know as much by forcefully digging his fingers into your cheeks and turning your face back around to meet his gaze.

A hand grabs beneath your knee, tugging harshly until you’re flopping down onto your back with a squeal. You settle with his knee pressed hotly against your core. Jungkook stays towering over you. “Dumb little girls who make me watch cartoons,” he spits, tracing a hand over your chest, molding your breasts beneath his hands roughly enough to make you gasp. “And watch little animal movies on Disney+. Aren’t they just so stupid?”

“So stupid,” you concede, subtly shifting your hips for some desperately needed friction. Jungkook snorts, finally granting you your wish with one rough slide of his thigh against your core.

“I agree,” he says, and surprises you with a hand around your throat as he leans in to properly grind his thigh into you. “All they’re good for is being dumb little sluts with good pussy,” he murmurs darkly, thumb pressing into the side of your neck forcefully. “Sometimes, they don’t even do anything,” Jungkook continues, his other hand on your hip hauling you higher up his thigh. You mewl, soaked panties rubbing roughly against your folds. You miss the soft swirl of his thumb, the gentle prod of his fingers. Even so, you can’t deny this change in Jungkook is doing something to you, riling up a part of you that you hadn’t known existed. Maybe it’s the horniness from yesterday that was left unfulfilled, the one year anniversary sex that was put on pause. “Just lay there and take it, too fucked out and dumb to say anything.”

His fingers loosen for the briefest of seconds and you gasp for breath. “That’s terrible,” you whimper, rolling your hips up into his thigh, so close to his swollen cock.

Jungkook chuckles without an ounce of humor, pressing your foreheads together as he helps grind you to completion. “Isn’t it? I think that stupid little girl is cute though.”

“I’m sorry,” you blurt, vision spotting as he tightens his hand back around your throat. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you moan, stomach tight from all the stimulation.

Jungkook hums, slowing you down with a tight grip on your waist. “Hm, what are you sorry for?” he croons, pink lips pulling into an evil smile. “You said you weren’t that stupid girl, __.”

You shake your head, trying to roll your hips up again but he’s holding you too tightly now, rendering you immobile beneath him. “I am,” you choke out shamefully, grabbing at the hand on your hip in a feeble attempt to remove it. “I am a stupid little girl.”

Jungkook smirks, leaning down to slot his mouth over yours. “That’s right,” he murmurs, “nothing but a dumb little slut.”

You shiver, opening your mouth when he slides his tongue against your bottom lip. He’s not the slightest bit nice, and more messy than usual. He pulls away with a bite to your lower lip, meeting your trembling gaze with that same unrecognizable glint in his eyes. “Come on, dummy, keep up,” he snarks before devouring you again. You try to, you really do, but he’s moving like an animal today, despite his slow and drunken movements from that morning. So you end up with his saliva dripping down your throat, clinging to the corners of your lips as he begins slowly grinding you against his thigh again. He flashes you a wicked smile, pearly teeth on display for you as he glances down at your messy appearance.

“Are you gonna touch me?” you ask, lower lip trembling at the thought after your desperate rutting. Jungkook purses his lips together in thought.

“Mmm,” he hums. “Don’t know yet.”

You whine. “Jungkook, please,” you whimper, wrapping your legs around his waist. “I need you.”

Jungkook chuckles, running his hand up your waist and taking your shirt with him. He slips his fingers beneath your bra, pushing the wire over your chest as he mouths at your neck. “Cute,” he says. “Can’t do it yourself?”

You tremble, chest arching into him as he rolls your nipple between his fingers. “I-I can,” you gasp. “Just feels better with you.”

Jungkook follows your statement with a nip against your skin, tongue soothing over it right after. “Why? Because I do everything better than you? Even make you cum better than you?”

Your cheeks heat up at his blatant ego rearing its head, hands carding through the hair at the nape of his neck. You say nothing, and that only eggs Jungkook on. “Come onnn,” he teases, finally, finally rolling his hips down onto your core. You squeak, head falling back against the pillows as you’re granted the one thing you’d been chasing. “Say it.”

“Say what?” you ask, voice wobbly as he continues to slowly rut against you, the front of his shorts pressing against the soaked crotch area of your panties. “Oh, oh, Jungkook,” you whine.

Suddenly he bites down harshly, teeth digging painfully into your skin. You yelp in surprise, pussy throbbing at the pain that shoots throughout your body. Jungkook pulls away and doesn’t bother soothing over it as he leans up to capture your jaw this time. “Say you’re a stupid little slut who can’t do anything without me,” he purrs, kisses too soft for the words he says.

Your mind blanks, torn between the humiliating phrase he wants you to say and properly checking him in his place. In the end, it’s with a twisted need to please him that you’re repeating the words back to him. “I-I’m a stupid slut,” you whimper, fingers digging into his shoulder blades as he continues pushing you right along the edge. The rope pulled tightly in your core is slowly being pulled apart, threads hanging on for dear life. “Can’t... can't do anything without...”

“Without who?” he asks, reaching down and untying the front of his shorts. “Can’t do anything without who, baby?”

“Without you, without you,” you cry, bucking your hips up against his, the combined movements of both your bodies making you shake like a leaf. “Ah, K-Kook,” you wail, hips stuttering as your orgasm finally swallows you up. Your panties quickly grow wet and icky from your own arousal that pools between your thighs. Jungkook lets you writhe beneath him as you chase your high, mouth sucking a pretty blossom against your jaw.

You know better than to expect the night to end here, especially after seeing the glint that had been in his eyes as he watched you unravel.

He leans close, let’s his nose brush against yours as you catch your breath. “So perfect for me,” he groans, slotting his lips against yours. You can barely keep up with him, languidly going along with his hot tongue. “Perfect, perfect girl,” he murmurs, a stark change from the less than friendly adjectives he used just moments before. “Tell me you love me?” he says softly.

You nod, mind fuzzy as you wrap your arms around his neck. “Love you,” you exhale, letting your fingers knot in his hair. Your proclamation does something to him, makes him grind the front of his cotton shorts hard against you. For someone that was often rough and brutal with you in bed, he sure was sensitive to the mushiest of things.

“Don’t deserve you,” he huffs, hot breath fanning across your skin. He switches gears fairly quickly. “Tell me you hate me,” he begs hoarsely, rutting against your soiled panties. “Tell me I’m a piece of shit and you could do better without me,” he pleads, voice too airy to be another one of his usual sex-induced thoughts.

You shake your head, pressing a kiss to his cheek as he rolls his hips. “It’s not true,” you whisper, “I love you more than you’ll ever understand.”

Jungkook groans, suddenly winding back and tearing your ruined panties down your legs. You gasp in surprise, letting him haul you about in his blind, self-inflicted rage. “Stupid, stupid,” he huffs, though at this point you can’t tell who it’s directed at. With your underwear out of the way, he wastes no time plunging his fingers back into your cunt, bypassing the tight ring of muscle around it without any of his usual care. “You should hate me,” he snarls, lips pressed against your ear.

You moan, back arching at the sudden pleasure that blossoms between your thighs. “I-I don’t,” you gasp, toes curling.

Jungkook groans, the sound traveling down your spine and straight into your pussy. “Stupid girl,” he huffs, slipping an arm around you to pull you so close until you can’t breathe, chests lined up together. His skin is warm to the touch, scorching almost. “Fuck,” he groans, curling his fingers inside of you. You whimper and moan, incapable of staying still beneath him as he tortures you with a thumb to your clit. “Tell me you hate me,” he seethes again.

Despite the fog that’s settled over your mind, you still manage a resolute shake of your head. “N-no,” you cry, digging your nails into his back. They run dark red lines over his skin, making him hiss at the sting.

Whatever punishment he’s trying to put himself through is falling through with your refusal to admit such a thing. It aggravates him even more, your adamant stance on loving him so, and he’s retracting his fingers before you can cum again. “Please,” he chokes, face tucked into your neck. He’s sloppy with his movements; as he pulls his shorts down and kicks them away, he nearly suffocates you with his weight. “I don’t deserve you, ___, please.”

“I love you,” you whimper for lack of explanation. Jungkook leans back, that same madman gaze in his glossy eyes. He’s looking at you in disbelief almost, pouty lips puckered and swollen. Your hands slip from around him, falling on either side of your head.

Like a cobra he strikes, collecting your wrists in one hand he pins above your head. The sudden movement has him leaning in close, lips brushing over yours. His lashes are coated in a wetness he refuses to acknowledge, looking at you like you drive him insane. “If you ever try to leave me,” he whispers, jerky breath fanning over your skin, “I’ll lose my mind.”

He loves you so much it aches.

“I won’t,” you whimper, feeling your own eyes well up with an emotion that consumes every inch of your being. “I’ll never leave you, you stupid, stupid boy.”

A faint smile crosses his features at your words, lips quirking to the side. You relish in it for all of two seconds before he’s ramming his cock into you, your sensitive walls spawning around him. You sob loudly, eyes rolling back into your head. Your legs instinctively hook themselves around his waist, digging into the base of his spine as he rolls his hips into you.

You feel full and complete like he belongs there in this moment and every moment after this. It makes your heart constrict painfully. Jungkook’s soft groans follow your more unraveled noises, the vulgar slapping of skin on skin the underlying melody to it all. “Ffffuck,” he spits, greedily swallowing your moans up. You whine, arms bucking in an effort to hold him close. But he’s determined in his act of restraining you, long fingers tightening around your wrists until they hurt. “I warned you, didn’t I?” he huffs, snapping his hips into you.

Your walls clench around his hard cock, the drag as he exits sending shivers throughout your body. Jungkook’s body towers over you, glistening in sweat as he nails you into your mattress. “Remember what I said?” he asks, voice but a shuddery exhale. You shake your head numbly, overwhelmed by the rough drag across your walls. “All those months ago, when you first came over,” he adds. The hand on your hip abandons its post to cup you beneath the jaw, palm pressing sinfully against your throat enough to block the tiniest of airflow. “I’ll fuck you and keep you forever,” he murmurs, voice deeper than the pits of hell. He licks a fat stripe over your cheek like you’re nothing but a sweet for him to devour. “Do you remember that, pretty girl?”

You nod jerkily, hips arching up into him when he thrusts into you again. It’s a memory that replays in your mind every so often, your first night with the man you had planned to humiliate over a mere misunderstanding, now your boyfriend of one year. “Want that,” you gasp, tears blurring your vision when he begins picking up the pace. “Wanna be y-your pretty girl forever.”

Jungkook groans, kissing the corner of your mouth. His thighs are some magnificent beings, keeping his pace consistent even as he loses himself in his overwhelming need to kiss you. “Always,” he manages, soft lips pressed against yours. “I won’t ever let you leave.”

A shriek tears itself from your lips as he picks up that harsh piston, releasing your jaw to hold both wrists above your head. It makes his curls dangle in front of his eyes, covering that beautiful dark gaze. It makes his thin little necklace swing back and forth too, though it’s too small to actually touch your face. The rhythmic swing has you hypnotized, just like everything else about Jungkook.

With the length of his hair, you’re left staring at his lips, pulled taut between his pearly white teeth. The word from before sits heavy in your chest, begs to drip from the tip of your tongue. But he’s moving too fast and too hard, scrambling your thoughts until all you can think about is the cock plunging into your heat. His name falls from your mouth like mindless blubber instead, arms thrashing as your second orgasm swallows you up. It sends you crashing, body spasming as the sheer euphoria waves over you slowly and then all at once.

“Perfect,” he grunts, leaning down to slot his mouth against yours, “my perfect girl.” Your cum makes the sound of his hips erotic, the loud squelching following your panting. Still sensitive from your high, your body unconsciously tightens around him, keeps his cock from fully leaving. It brings a soft whine out of Jungkook, one he tries to muffle against the side of your face.

“Inside,” you whimper, even though your body feels like jelly beneath him. “Cum inside, Kook, please,” you beg.

It only takes a few more thrusts into your leaking hole for him to finally reach paradise, hips stuttering when that first shot of pleasure hits him. “Fuck, fuck,” he growls, wildly snapping his hips into your achy cunt. You moan, feeling just about brainless at the overstimulation. His cum leaves you full, almost makes your belly bulge from it. When he’s done he doesn’t bother pulling away, simply slumping into your limp form. His cock, though quickly softening, serves as a plug for the cum threatening to spill out of you.

There’s a muted noise coming from the other room, the faint sound of the mail slipping through your letterbox, the quiet chattering of the street outside. And of course, the loud blaring of your laptop playing the Phineas and Ferb theme song. Jungkook registers it at about the same time as you, a soft chuckle leaving his lips.

He pushes off of you soon after, leaning on his palms over you. He’s got that molten look on his eyes, the heat of a thousand suns burning behind those irises as he looks at you. Like he can’t get enough, even though he’s just about taken everything there is to take. “Love you,” he murmurs quietly.

A drop of sweat rolls over his forehead, clinging to the end of his eyebrow. You reach up and brush it away, let your hand trail down his face to cup his cheek. Immediately he leans into the touch, eyes falling half shut. “Love you more,” you respond.

“Impossible,” he scoffs.

Soon after you’re both stumbling out of bed, clothes haphazardly shrugged back on as you drift through the living room. There’s a thin, hot pink package sitting at the door, just having slipped through the letterbox; the stark Sexuality Unleashed logo is printed on the visible side, so you have to wonder what Doyeon could have possibly ordered this time that could be so thin. The laptop is awkwardly sandwiched next to a throw pillow, barely open a crack. Jungkook retrieves it, sets it on his lap as you scamper over to the couch.

“More Phineas and Ferb?” he asks quietly. He hates it, you know he does. And still, he wants to watch it with you.

You nod. “Please.”

He isn’t so concerned with the plot as you, clicking some random episode to start. You snuggle into his side, quietly singing along to the opening. After a moment, Jungkook speaks again. “Phineas and Flirt?” he offers cheekily.

You roll your eyes. “That might’ve been your worst one yet,” you sigh, trying to drown out his indignant huff by focusing on the screen.

“I don’t exactly see you coming up with these,” he points out, obviously feeling wronged.

Without missing a beat you say, “Disney+ and bust.”

epilogue

commercial break one ; the resolution

#goldenclosetnet #networkbangtan #bangtanhq #ksmutclub #jungkook smut #jeon jungkook smut #jeon jeongguk smut #jjk smut #jeongguk smut #bts smut #jjk♡#jeon jungkook #mine

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babybirdarmy9 · 3 years

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To fakeclaim or not to fakeclaim: Why I think this goes deeper than a simple “yes” or “no”

TW/CW: fakeclaiming (duh), briefly describing a fear of causing accidents

If you have a short attention span, you may skip ahead because the first few paragraphs will be me explaining a bit about myself and why I decided to write this. I should strongly emphasise that this is my personal opinion as a neurodivergent. No I do not have a PHD, no I do not think that my words should be treated like a textbook. Just some thoughts of my own. Heads up: I have neither DID (Dissociative Identity Disorder), Autism, nor TS (Tourettes Syndrome) a.k.a conditions that fakeclaimers believe “fakers” enjoy pretending to have. I am clinically diagnosed with ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder) and NVLD (Non-Verbal Learning Disability). When I use the term “faking” I am referring to the act of pretending to have a disorder in general and not faking any specific neurological condition. I originally intended to let this stay inside my head as a thought but it’s been a few days and it isn’t going anywhere. I feel like I have to say it out loud and I don’t care if no one sees it or sees it and thinks I’m stupid for having these opinions. I’ll confess that a while ago I subscribed to r/fakedisordercringe because I had heard that there was purportedly a rise in people faking disorders and as a neurodivergent I was fascinated and disgusted that people would perceive mental disorders as “fun” and “quirky” and turn it into an aesthetic which pop culture is indeed guilty of, my impression being that the subreddit would be aimed at calling out neurotypicals clearly proven to be faking. It seemed a nice enough place that could serve as a platform for neurodivergents to correct misinformation spread by known fakers and spread awareness and also had strict ground rules against doxxing, misgendering and direct harassment. There was an automod that would encourage users to NOT submit any genuine cases and to provide evidence of the person in the video faking their condition. I thought that the subreddit was well maintained and run for the first week or so I was there. Until I found a post containing a tiktok clip in which the person stated something along the lines of “walking in circles around the pole in my room is my favourite stim”. It was submitted by a user of the subreddit who described themselves as “diagnosed with autism”, and their argument was that “walking around in circles is not a stim” and that the person was “undiagnosed”. As someone with ADHD that has similar habits, I was confused as it felt very genuine to me. I replied that as someone with ADHD I exhibited similar behaviour and that the tiktok individual could be having ADHD, even in my comment I linked a WebMD of the medication I am currently taking. I reported it to the moderators of the subreddit under “bad evidence” and to their credit it was removed very quickly in under 5 minutes of me reporting it and slapped with the “bad evidence” flair (it could have been that others did the same) but in the time it was still up I was downvoted for my comment. This left me stunned and disheartened because I was under the impression that the users there were familiar with how mental disorders typically worked and that the majority of those subscribed are neurodivergent like me. That was the moment I began losing faith in it. The moment I was no longer certain they were 100% knowledgeable about the things they talk about. As soon as I was downvoted, I instantly went to check if “pacing around is a stim” because I started doubting whether what I am doing is what ADHD people are supposed to do. It made me question myself. And yet, I can’t argue that the subreddit has no purpose and that all they do is falsely accuse genuine sufferers. Because they have defended an individual from accusations of faking by other subreddit users. Because they have actually called out proven fakers like ticsandroses who earned money from faking tics and stopped spreading awareness about TS after they were exposed (correct me if this bit is wrong). Which is why I am still temporarily subscribed, and remaining cautious. Still, there’s now that lingering sense of wariness when a new post comes up: Is the person in the video actually a faker, or are they neurodivergents whose manifestation of the condition can be interpreted as “fake”? But I did have a realisation: Fakeclaimers and “fakers” (at least those who are really faking) are two sides of the same coin. They have the same problem. Both of them fail to view disorders as a spectrum, thinking that the behaviour of one member of the community is indicative of what the average sufferer should behave like. For “fakers” (again, those who are actually pretending), they take an extreme end of the spectrum as the “model” example, which is why some of the proven ones often can be observed to imitating the behaviour of well-known users that are known to actually have the condition when trying to create the illusion that they actually have it when they may not. (TheTrippyHippie is one of these genuine sufferers that documents what it’s like for her to live with her condition, Tourettes) They often set a low bar for the diagnostic criteria. “Blinking on the beat is ADHD!” “Shaking on the “my anxiety” song is an indication of anxiety!” “You like organising your snacks? OCD!” And when I, with ADHD am unable to do these and am under the impression that people like me are SUPPOSED to, I can’t stop the thought that “maybe I’m the faker” from popping up in my brain. Why am I not shaking my hands to stim? I can’t focus on one song in this blend of audios but I’m apparently supposed to instinctively be able to do if I have the condition? Fakeclaimers are the opposite. They often fakeclaim by downplaying the condition. “You’re faking because I know people in my life with *insert disorder* and I barely noticed that they had it while you’re trying to make it obvious”, “you don’t have it, you’re just neurotypical and acting out a tv show stereotype” or the one that hurts me the most “real sufferers wouldn’t be happy about their condition because it is the worst thing ever and all of them don’t want to have it and would pass their disability onto you FAKERS since you want to be neurodivergent so bad”, which I am often conflicted over because ADHD has its good and bad. On one hand the bad is really bad: The drowsiness I slip into when I’m unmedicated fucking sucks because it instilled in me a fear of driving because I always imagine myself falling asleep at the wheel and killing someone on accident, when I’m jittery and can’t sit still and my deadlines are running at me. But some aspects of ADHD can be really helpful like when I enter hyperfocus and actually get more stuff done than before, when new ideas rush into my brain out of a sudden and I’m overwhelmed yet happy. So to say that neurodivergents must resent their condition wholeheartedly makes me uncomfortable. I have a love-hate relationship with it but can’t deny that it has some hand in shaping my personal identity. To them, it’s fake because they think everyone should be on the mild end of the spectrum. Both of them don’t seem to understand that we all act differently. It’s a spectrum for a fucking reason! People who react more severely might not be fakers but be on the far end of the spectrum. People who barely react might be medicated at the time or having a mild version of the disorder. God, we’re not robots. Why can’t people just understand that? I wanted to argue for a particular side, but I can’t bring myself to do that. Not when either option brings about negative consequences and ultimately hurts people. I wish there was a definite answer. I wish there was a foolproof way to identify fakers and not drag actual sufferers by accident in the process. I wish there was a way to “just know” someone is faking. But there isn’t. But I hope that this rant on a hot afternoon in my country does add something useful to the discussion.

#tw fakeclaiming #fakeclaim #actually adhd #my rants #serious talk #personal opinion #sorry for the rant #neurodivergent #discourse

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khangowrites · 3 years

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Is it a Complaint Essay or is the Workplace Unsuitable?

Ah, what am I writing today? Oh, well I suppose it’s almost 12am. Seems like a good a time as any. I wanted to just jot down a few re-occurring experiences I’ve had in the workplace and sometimes in other social spaces, and attempt to analyze them.

CW: mild mentions of abuse and bodily ailments.

A bit of forward: I tend to mask myself heavily whenever I am in any social situation; whether it be at work, at home, with friends or online (although I’m getting better at being myself on Discord at least. I owe a lot to my friends who accept me and whom I care so much about.) What this means is I often plan out what I’m needed to say in advance of a situation. I have an arsenal of about 5 minutes of small talk before I tank and several small greetings/placations I can cycle through on any given day if I’m not overloaded. I also limit my natural inclination to movement.

It’s called unprofessional/unsightly to sit with your legs folded under you, or to sway and shake your arms and legs back and forth in time to music in your head. But it’s okay if you tap your pencil. Everyone does that.

I have to wonder how noticeable my ‘masked’ self is. How real or fake it appears.

There have been a few trends I’ve seen with the way people treat me as an employee in the time I’ve been in the workforce. For clarity, I am a 23 year old 5’1” AFAB person with a face that looks like it stopped aging when I was 12. I’m non-binary, but I’ve seen that many have a hard time using a different pronoun for me because I look ‘so feminine’. I had one old man repeatedly tell me that my body was too pretty and that I shouldn’t hide it and ‘pretend’ to be something else. I was and still am quite unsettled and disgusted by that comment.

I haven’t used my full preferred pronouns at work simply based in fear of being fired or discriminated against further. Same thing at home- I haven’t told all my family out of fear. I may look back on this at some future date where I fully respect myself and I’m confident. I look forward to that day.

Oh, and I’m autistic.

Perhaps it is one of these things or all of them that cause people to treat me certain ways. I’d like to find out.

I worked outdoors at an Orchard for a season. They called me Cinderella because of the way I looked when I cleaned. They gave employees gloves and heaters. Only not me. When I asked, I was given a broken one and told to fix it. A coworker who had intellectual disabilities and poor eyesight was not offered a heater at all. I did not renew for the next season. Kim and I stayed in touch though.

I worked next at a gift shop at a historical site. I loved the history and the old buildings, but the cashier work was admittedly difficult. Most of the employees were kind, retired old ladies who treated me gently, like a child. Sometimes too much like a child. The assistant manager seemed wary of me, and she often avoided me. I don’t know why. I’m not good with eye contact, and I always fear that people will mistake my zoning out as being creepy or disrespectful; maybe it was that. She never brought her kids with her on days I worked.

The head manager was courteous, but always called me Special. We had an older man work in the last 2 years I was there who had a strong inclination to associate with the children at the shop, and in turn, me as well. He would always want a hug or pat me on the back, but ignored the other workers. I told the managers my uncomfortable feelings about him, but it went mostly unnoticed.

When it was found that I was decent with computers, I was tasked with entering jewelry into the system and creating labels with number associations. I enjoyed it, and they promised me a decent raise. My pay was raised a dollar several weeks later, and I found myself being tasked with more and more computer work, to the point of becoming an office manager myself, earning a grand total of 9 dollars an hour while my counterpart who started a year earlier owned a home on the same work.

I left that job after 4 years to be the music director at a local church. I love music and was excited. Maybe too excited. I developed acid re-flux and was hospitalized the week before my start day due to a panic attack. I realize now it was from stress. I also had an ovarian cyst removed a year later- it took up my entire pelvis and its formation was also attributed to stress. I’ve since been diagnosed with generalized anxiety, and I continue to have ever changing digestive issues, muscle problems and panic attacks.

After realizing I was autistic and also non-binary, so much of the stress of life started to make sense. The past few months I have been making life changes, and working towards finding a workplace that is accommodating and safe for me. My stress has lessened.

I worked at the church for 2 years. My last day is actually at the end of this month. As is the trend, I was not treated with respect when it came to my job. My pastor started choosing the hymns over me, and would make comments about me during services. His favorite was to say that my music made him fall asleep, and wait for laughter from the congregation. He had no musical knowledge, and forced me to play every song as fast as I possibly could. He didn’t believe I could do my job. Any attempts at mutual work failed to manifest. I unfortunately was groomed by a member of the hiring committee there as well, a type of abuse I didn’t even realize I had fallen into until several months after it was too late.

I currently work at a high school as a choir accompanist. I use she/they pronouns there, but no one uses they and I’m too worried to be fully they like I am outside of work. I am wary of soiling my relationship with the director further. She’s quite religious in the ‘gays don’t have rights’ way, so I have my fears.

The director is kind, but sees me as this innocent child that happens to have natural piano abilities, and the mutual respect that I’ve come to dream of just isn’t there again.

The director has the key to the doors and lets students in without fail, but conveniently forgets to let me in almost every day. At one time, I was in physical therapy and had a hard time standing and walking for any period of time. I almost went home because she didn’t answer any communication, class started 20 minutes previously, and it was 90 degrees outside and I needed to sit down because my legs were cramping. She plans the music weeks in advance, but doesn’t give them to me until the day the students get it, despite my repeated asking for time to prepare.

One day I was on zoom and she and the student teacher greeted me and then ignored my presence and played the piano herself for class. She struggled with the parts and commented to the choir that, “wow, Ms. Khango is actually pretty dang good at this- that little girl can play!”, but didn’t listen to me when I offered to play. I left the zoom after an hour.

The online students seemed to share my surprise at least, and I am grateful to them. They kept me grounded and reminded me that I matter and should have the same respect as everyone else in the room, zoom or not. They talk to me about not being heard and their chats not being read during class. It bothered me, too. The next week I brought it up to her in the form of making sure the zoom students were heard and she quickly dismissed it, like it was a puff of smoke. The students online now ask me questions directly and I relay them. It’s met with annoyance by the director.

They have voices too.

One of the scariest moments of my life was last week- I wore my ‘disability rights are human rights’ shirt to school. (Okay, maybe not scary to some, but it very much was for me.) After class, one of the students came to me and asked if I could help him find a way for his grandfather to get a seat at the concert, as he was disabled and he didn’t know how to proceed.

It filled me with joy to help him, and it filled me with rage when the teachers asked if his grandpa could just get out of the wheelchair instead.

My overall conclusion to all of these things is that people simply don’t understand, or don’t want to because it makes their lives harder.

Is discrimination and ignorance really easier than respecting people?

I’m not sure if this is all just one big complaint essay. I guess it is. What I needed to do was write it all out. All the things that make me uneasy or feel like lesser of a person. And I wanted to know why.

I note that at every job I am perceived as a child, or as someone naïve. I am not treated the same as another adult employee. I was ostracized for my way of moving and talking. Taken advantage of. My needs were not accommodated.

Even now, I feel guilt for writing this, like I’m just playing the victim for attention or something.

I want to be strong enough to stand up to it and ask to be treated with respect and have it follow through.

I want to unmask myself more and let myself move and talk naturally, and use my real pronouns.

My respect for myself and for others must become a powerful force.

My friends on discord- my real, genuine friends, have become monumental in my life. Most of my life I did not have true friends. Without them and their unconditional love and support, I would not be where I am right now. We are all equals. I want to embody that strong respect and bring it to others.

It’s getting late. 1 a.m. now. Well, I have tomorrow. Plenty of time for Star Trek.

#workplace problems #actuallyautistic #essay #nonbinary #figuring out life

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bigskydreaming · 4 years

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I was about to say, I can't see Jason letting his guard down as much as intoxication would. I CAN see Jason drinking apple juice and pretending to be drunk. (Funny how I can remember Dick drinking, never more than one or two drinks, and Jason refusing wine, but the fanfic writers get it al wrong.)

Yeah, tbh, I don’t really see any of the Batkids ever being or becoming even casual drinkers. They all value control too much, and have too much experience with mind and mood-altering substances for it to be appealing to them in my personal opinion.

Just my personal headcanon is like, they tend to treat drinking as like, another skill to acquire. They try it to maybe just have enough experience with it that they can fake it undercover and know what they’re doing, or that if they end up in a situation where they have to take at least a quick drink to sell their cover like, they’re not going to be totally blind-sided by the taste or sensation, especially because most of their reputations don’t or aren’t likely to lend themselves to being completely unfamiliar with alcohol. And maybe they occasionally make an point to build up a tolerance in case for some reason they need it, but I honestly can’t really ever buy any of them as casual drinkers.

I mean, I focus a lot on Dick’s times brainwashed or under someone else’s control, and also his rigid insistence on self-determination in his life, and I just can’t honestly see any mindset where he’s like yes, lowering my inhibitions and lessening my ability to be in control of myself is exactly what I’m looking for. Its kinda like how I drastically disagree with takes on him as submissive in any kind of dom/sub fic, lol. Its not about the partner, its about the fact that Dick isn’t the kind of control freak who looks for opportunities to take a break from the stresses of holding such an iron control over his self.....rather, IMO, Dick is that way BECAUSE of how often he’s had virtually NO control of himself or what happens to him, and how much that always....sucks for him.

He tries to maintain self-control and control stuff in his life wherever and whenever he can because he’s not about to lose any of the basically rare opportunities to not HAVE to push back against someone else’s will or expectations for him, where he can just be uncontested in being in charge of his autonomy and own destiny. And I honestly have never seen anything in his character that suggests he’d ever remotely be looking for or welcome to opportunities to basically just....willingly hand over the control of himself that he fights soooo damn hard to obtain and maintain....because when has that EVER ended well for him, you know? So I just....don’t buy sub Dick and never have, and I don’t buy Dick as a casual drinker even, for pretty much the same exact reasons.

Jason I see as a bit more complicated, because of a couple factors. First, there’s the presence of drugs and alcohol in his early life and how much that affected his life as just a bystander, essentially. And its not like every child of an alcoholic parent grows up to be hostile to alcohol, etc. But in Jason’s case I feel that he would be, like he’d almost personify drugs and alcohols as an actual antagonist in his life that have made him suffer, been the actual enemy that prevented him from having a real go at a family with his first parents. And thus he’d just be viciously opposed to them in their entirety, like even as a expansive, nebulous concept of them and everything related to them. Which would also play into things like his insistence that drug dealers in Gotham not sell to kids, etc.

Also, there’s the fact that Jason kinda ended up with....gap years in his development, where the normal linear timeline of developing as a teenager was derailed by his death and then supplanted by a very unorthodox later development that was guided by assassins and influenced by an external-turned-internal force that had a definite influence on his emotions and thought patterns at times. So Jason kinda missed out on a number of years where he could have potentially worked through a lot of his childhood issues with abuse, his parents and drugs and alcohol to a degree further than he did in canon, but just......never got the opportunity to. So it was like....hitting pause on all of that and then unpause when he actually came back to Gotham and rejoined society in his own way, as that put him around these kinds of things again and forced an internal confrontation with how he felt about them now.

And then there’s also the matter of the Pit itself.....much like Dick, but in entirely different ways, Jason has been extremely impacted by things that are not his fault or choosing, that originate OUTSIDE of him and end up controlling or influencing him internally, again through no choice of his own.....and thus, same as Dick, I don’t see how any substance that lessened his control over himself during the times he actually HAS it, would like....remotely appeal to him.

But then again on the other hand, I do think Jason is very self-destructive at times, not more so than Dick, as he can be very self-destructive as well, but just in different ways. Like, Dick IMO is someone who self-destructs quietly and over time. Suffering in silence, not availing himself of any of the opportunities he has to get help from others in various matters because he either doesn’t trust that they’ll prioritize him or he doesn’t feel that he deserves to be, or a combination of both. Jason, IMO, is neither innately more self-destructive or less, its just that....his tendency towards self-destruction manifests pretty explosively, like, in singular burning bright kind of instances that flare up, are just colossally bad decisions that he very quickly regrets, but then die back down and leave him cleaning up the aftermath, but at least having gotten whatever caused that particular turn towards self-destruction like, kinda out of his system.

So his means of self-destruction tend to just be LOUDER, and more.....in your face...but they also come and go more quickly, IMO. And one of those are pretty much the only time or reason I can see for him ever engaging in drinking or voluntarily giving up control.....like, the appeal specifically is a kind of self-punishment, and thus makes for an ideal weapon of choice at least once.....BUT again, the caveat there is like I said, I view Jason as someone who cycles through periods of self-destruction, but then he like...moves past it (or at least on a surface level, like, he FEELS like he has, though the initial problem often stil remains under the surface). But the point is, I think he regrets these instances of self-destruction soon after they happen....and I also think he’s someone who believes very strongly in not making the same mistakes twice.

Like, he knows not to take things for granted better than anyone. Shit doesn’t go according to plan, my personal headcanon for him is his ideal followup is the immediate realization well, that didn’t work, time for something completely different....and then he does something completely different in the hopes of getting closer to his actual desired result. So I could see him doing something like getting black out drunk, etc, as one of these bouts of self-destruction....but the key in my mind, is I could only see him doing that ONCE. Once he’d done it and regretted it, it’d be crystallized in his mind as a Mistake and like, nope, not doing that again. Even when having another tendency towards self-destruction at a later date....I think he’d do it in a different way.

Also, I’ve never bought Jason as a smoker, like, I could see him faking it for The Mood or whatever, lol, but like.......this is a kid who grew up malnourished and thus had to take on criminals as a very under-sized Robin. He comes back after the Pit like, over six feet tall and well-oiled muscle that makes it SO much easier to kick ass as a vigilante? Why the FUCK would he ever screw that up by messing with his lungs or anything else, you know? If anything, I see Jason as being like, as much a ‘my body is my temple’ kind of guy as Dick is, just for different reasons.

I’ve always said I see Dick and Jason having a lot more in common than they’re usually credited with, and all of this is a huge part of why. They both just have HUGE issues with control in regards to themselves and their lives, and just being able to HAVE it and to take advantage of it, do what THEY want to do rather than constantly being moved about by the whims of others and having to always adjust or adapt to whatever everyone else was doing or the box they were being forced in by situations, etc. They’ve BEEN without control, self-autonomy, in ways and to degrees most people couldn’t imagine, so, like....its IMO more likely to be that much more precious and valuable to them than it is even to most people? Like, these are two men who I don’t see ever giving it up without a fight, and thus, they’re just like.....I’m gonna hard pass on the alcohol, etc.

And its got nothing to do with judgment on their part, I don’t think, like, other than the fact that they can’t personally relate to seeing the appeal. Its just the end result of lowered inhibitions/loss of self control or autonomy that they’re like...yeah, that’s what we’re not on board with, thanks but no thanks. Not for us.

I don’t have as strong of headcanons about the other kids just because they’re either too young or it just doesn’t come up as much, such as with Cass (though you can probably guess my headcanon for Cass there given that I talk about the similarities ALL three of the eldest Wayne kids share in a lot of ways, lol) but honestly I think it’d be more of the same with all of them, even if not always for quite the same reasons or quite as strong of reasons. Like, they’ve all been raised with too much reason to value self-control and too little cause to see lowered inhibitions as appealing, so the Batfam as a whole I personally headcanon as being nah, we get our highs from adrenaline and being weird as fuck, thanks though.

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izaswritings · 4 years

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all that’s left in the world | chapter five

Title: all that’s left in the world—

Synopsis: —is me.

Neku’s been shot and Shibuya is threatening to go the same way as Shinjuku, but just because the first Game is over doesn’t mean they’ve forgotten how to play.

Or: Neku deals with a nightmare city and his most annoying (and mathematical) partner yet; Shiki and Joshua commit an escalating number of illegal moves, Beat and Eri hunt down a stray Reaper, and Rhyme watches and waits for the counter-attack. Shibuya refuses to go down easy.

Fandom: The World Ends With You | TWEWY

Warnings: references to past canonical character death, self-esteem issues, vague descriptions of an apocalyptic event (Shinjuku at the moment of Inversion, etc), and Joshua, again. Please let me know if there’s anything I missed.

AO3 Link is here!

Previous chapters are here!

part five: joshua

Joshua opens his eyes to a wasteland.

Beside him Shiki Misaki has fallen to her knees in the dust and dirt, hacking up half a lung; Joshua politely gives her a moment to collect herself like the very considerate and understanding person he is, and steps forward, scanning their surroundings with a frown. Empty streets filled with white dust that clings to his hand like snow; the air smells of nothing, devoid even of the stench of smoke. A low fog has settled over the city, so gray and dense it could be mistaken for a storm, the buildings vacant shells and the roads worn smooth and featureless. It’s more than a ghost town—it’s a city hollowed, its heart destroyed, and Joshua frowns momentarily, picking up his phone, fiddling with the settings.

For the first time, no call goes through. “Interesting,” Joshua decides, and tugs at one lock of hair, twining the strand around his finger.

“W-what is?” Shiki asks, and Joshua tilts his head and snaps his phone closed. Her breath catches. Ah, she’s noticed the city. “Where are we?”

“Shinjuku, I believe,” Joshua says, and even though he’d guessed as much the sight makes him frown, disgruntled. Joshua’s always liked a good Game, but this one promises to try his patience. “Well. What’s left of it, anyway.”

Her eyes scan the wasteland, expression faltering. “That’s impossible,” she says, though she seems half-convinced already. Quick to adapt, isn’t she? Maybe this partnership 2.0 won’t be so boring after all. “That’s... how could this be Shinjuku?”

“Inversion,” Joshua sighs, and when Shiki’s brow furrows at the term he giggles and waves his hand. “A UG phrase. The RG and UG have merged here. The planes have gotten all tangled together—too many frequencies at once.” And, actually, liable to give Joshua a headache. He misses Shibuya’s song already. Ironic, considering his plans for it just last month. “Noise manifest in the RG, reality gets unstable...”

She’s pale. “And this is where Neku is?”

“Mm-hmm.” Joshua shrugs. “Unfortunate, isn’t it?”

“Yeah...” Joshua blinks at her, but Shiki has already stepped away, looking up and down the empty street. “I don’t understand. Where are all the people? And the stores...” She peers into a shop window and blinks fast. “Huh?”

“Oh?” Joshua steps up beside her, peering through the window, and then leans back, hands in his pockets and eyebrows raised. “My, my. That’s certainly something.”

The shop is empty. Not just devoid of people, but of anything—the mannequins stripped featureless and bare, even the fake features wiped away. The hangers hold nothing. The stands are empty. Even the picture frames on the wall, the art and decor put up just for flavor, have become hollow, the frames undecorated, the pictures turned to white noise.

Joshua lifts his hand, curious, and presses it against the glass. Against the blank slate of the store, he and Shiki and the colors they wear seem almost like a spotlight. Shinjuku is grey and cold around them, featureless and repetitive. Scrubbed clean of any life at all.

Joshua takes his hand back, frowning outright now. “Hm.”

“That’s so creepy,” Shiki says, drawing back a step. She shivers. “It’s like... anything that would have stood out, or anything that would have meant something...”

“A clean slate,” Joshua agrees, and rests his chin in his hand, thoughtful.

Shiki looks away, apparently unable to keep looking into the empty shop for long. “Is this... normal?” she asks, squinting up at the sky, like if she tries hard enough she’ll be able to see the sun. “For, uh... Inversions?”

Joshua giggles. “I have no idea.” It’d be a delightful mystery, if the situation weren’t so dire. He sobers. “This is the first time I’ve seen it myself. Though, I will admit...” He casts a glance at the sky, too. His eyes narrow. For a moment, there in the clouds... hm. “This doesn’t quite match up with the stories I’ve heard.”

“Creepy,” Shiki repeats.

“Quite.”

She rubs at her arms. “...Let’s go look for Neku.”

Ah, yes. Neku.

Joshua looks back at the shop, no longer smiling. His reflection in the display glass is pale and dim, faintly opaque. As if he isn’t quite there at all. He rubs at his arm, and wonders what Shiki would say if he told her Composers weren’t meant to stay outside of Their city.

Well, what’s done is done—he’s agreed to this, after all, and her reaction probably won’t be all that entertaining. Shiki Misaki, Joshua thinks, is too accepting. Adaptable to an annoying degree. At least Neku had a few moments of wanting to strangle someone before he compromised.

How funny, he thinks. The memory almost makes him want to smile, except he doesn’t feel like laughing at all.

In the dusty glass of the shop window, his own expression looks strange to him. Joshua turns away. He shakes his head and tugs at one bang, then drops his hand and sighs. “Yes,” he says, light. “Works for me. Lead the way, dear.”

She frowns at him, and he smiles back at her uncertain side-eye. And as Shiki picks her way across the city, and Joshua trails after her, he curls his hands to a careful fist, feeling the quiet tremor in his fingers with every step away from Shibuya, and cheerfully pretends that it hasn’t started after all.

It doesn’t take long for the first problem to rear its head. Ten minutes into the Game, Joshua and Shiki encounter their first Noise—and unlike how Noise are supposed to act, this one attacks on sight.

Joshua would suspect Taboo Noise, but no: normal Noise, just ten times more bloodthirsty. Shinjuku is getting more bothersome by the minute.

It takes a moment for them to work together—Joshua is back to summoning beams of light from his cellphone; Shiki apparently likes using her stuffed animal to rip the opposing side to shreds—but in the end, they sync up rather well, if Joshua is any judge. The Noise are nothing but static by the end. Joshua is half-way pleased. He’s missed this.

Shiki doesn’t look nearly so happy, however. At the end of their most recent battle, she kneels in the dust with the cat toy in her lap, staring down at it almost despondently. Joshua weighs his options, sighs, and goes to stand over her shoulder.

“Is this going to be a problem?”

“Maybe.” She opens her hands, glumly; Joshua looks down and tilts his head. “I forgot. Mr. Mew has a ripped seam. He’s fine for me to carry him, but...”

On second look... Joshua can see it. He presses his lips. “I hope you don’t expect me to do all the work,” he warns, coolly. “I hate working up a sweat, and this endeavor was your idea, Shiki.”

If she’s bothered by the over-familiar use of her first name, it barely even seems to register. Then again, she did offer. “Maybe I could stitch him up?” she wonders. “But I don’t have the right thread... I was going to buy some tomorrow...”

Joshua frowns at her, but Shiki isn’t even looking at him, mumbling under her breath. After a moment, he sighs—and reaches out, picking away one of the pins she’s clipped to her cardigan. He turns it in his hands, thoughtful. “Do you have any idea how you control him?”

She glances at him, startled, then looks uncertain. “Eh...”

He giggles, and flashes the pin at her. “Groove Pawn,” he tells her. “It’s a form of psychokinesis. You didn’t know?”

“Really?” She glances at the stuffed toy in her hands. “It always felt more like Mr. Mew was just doing his own thing.”

Interesting. “Maybe so, but without you to provide guidance, it wouldn’t be nearly as effective. It could be that your familiarity with the medium creates a stronger control of it... less direct commands, and more obeying of the implied commands—what you know you need?” Joshua tugs at his hair. “Hmm. You made him, yes?”

“Mr. Mew?” She hugs the stuffed animal to her chest. “Yes. Why?”

Joshua’s getting an idea. He smiles. “And your clothes?”

“I made those too, but why...?” She trails off, eyes widening. “You think—?”

“Worth a shot, isn’t it?”

She studies her sleeves, frowning slightly, considering. “I don’t know...”

“Try it,” Joshua cajoles. “Your pins will work here. The one nice thing about the merge between planes is that the Noise frequency isn’t needed to activate the pins. Lucky you.” Which is perhaps the only advantage they have in all this. But, regardless.

Shiki looks uncertain, but one last glance at Mr. Mew and her jaw firms. “Okay. I’ll give it a shot.” She rises to her feet, hand outstretched, and takes a breath. “Here goes!”

Silence. Nothing happens.

Joshua spins a strand of hair between his fingers. “...Have you considered—”

Thread cuts through the air like a whistling blade. Shiki screams.

Joshua, for his part, blinks over at what used to be a wall, and whistles through his teeth. “Wow,” he says, honestly impressed. “That’s going to be incredibly useful. Nice to see that you can pull your own weight after all, hm?”

Shiki doesn’t appear to be listening, but then, that’s little surprise. Her cardigan has been unraveled up to her elbow; the loose thread of the sleeve has reached long past its actual length and cut apart the air, slipping through stone like a hot knife through ice.

It’s like a net, Joshua thinks, and circles her, intrigued. It really is something. If she concentrates the threads, and focuses the force onto one impact point, she could cut right through the core of a larger Noise. Even the net of thread could cut apart quite a few of the smaller Noise, too... my, he thinks. Could she catch one? Fascinating.

His musing gets cut off by the loud, creaking groan of breaking stone. Shiki’s eyes go wide. Joshua looks up, startled, and steps back just in time to avoid a bit of rubble falling on his foot, as the building Shiki hit creaks, tilts, sways, and then ultimately tips back and falls apart into a burst of dust and debris.

Silence. Joshua stares. The building just behind the first, now walled off with ruin, also creaks, and then caves inward with a crash.

“Oh my god,” Shiki says, eyes wide and horrified behind her glasses. “Is that okay!?”

“…It’s fine,” Joshua says. A beat. He considers the rubble. “Well, maybe.”

There’s another pause, almost thoughtful. A wall on a third building goes loose and spills out onto the road. In the distance there is the sound of falling rocks. A small pebble rolls from the pile, taps Shiki’s shoe, and then falls sadly on its side.

Shiki covers her face.

“Useful, anyhow,” Joshua decides.

“Maybe this was a bad idea…” Shiki sighs, rubbing at her face. Then she lifts up her head— and at last seems to get a full look at her unraveled cardigan, because she blanches, and holds out her arms in horror. “Oh, no, my sleeve! I spent days on this!”

“I’m sure you can put it back.”

“Oh, you think?” She takes a breath, focusing again, and Joshua watches with interest as the thread pries loose from the rubble pile, pooling together and re-weaving back into the cardigan. Shiki peeks one eye open. “Did it work?” Pause. “It worked!”

Joshua claps for her. “Well done.”

She beams, then seems to remember who she’s smiling at and visibly falters. Joshua giggles at her. What a face!

“Um, thanks.”

“No problem at all.”

She tucks the stuffed cat in her arms, hugging it close as if in comfort, staring down at the ground. She bites her lip, then shakes her head and exhales hard. “I… never mind. I guess we should keep moving.”

He gestures. She looks at him for a very long moment, then nods and takes the lead, walking down into a small back-alley street.

Joshua follows leisurely behind her, one hand in his pocket and the other fiddling with his phone. He tries to place another call, but isn’t surprised when it fails once again. Well, he’s glad to still have the camera, at least, though he’ll have to be careful of its use. If he could find Shinjuku’s Room of Reckoning… though unfortunately, he has no idea where the Composer of Shinjuku might be located.

Hm.

He fiddles with it some more, as they walk, and the rest of the day passes by in routine—travel, fight the Noise that converge on them, move on. Joshua gets more in-tune with this new partner, and finds to some delight that their attacks mix well. Shiki is focused, direct, and methodical, as expected of her talent as a seamstress; she attacks her enemies one hit at a time until it falls, and then moves on to the next. Matched with Joshua’s habit of just blasting a general area and catching as many Noise as possible in the light, it covers a lot of ground. He flattens the ones he can without frying his phone—and she, in turn, picks off the stragglers.

After one such battle, Joshua touches to the ground and turns to smile at her, far more genuinely than before. He can say this for Shiki Misaki— in addition to being a living wrench in the works of Joshua’s plan, she’s also just a genuinely talented Player.

“This might just work,” he tells her, cheery, and toes a line in the soft dusting of ash lining Shinjuku’s streets. “I’ll admit, I had my doubts.”

She glances back at him, looking more confused than offended. “Then... why did you agree?”

“Hm.” Joshua tilts his head. “Why indeed?”

Silence, for a moment. Shiki’s expression flattens a little. “Okay. So you’re not going to tell me.”

It’s a little cruel, maybe, but this girl’s already thrown the first stone, back in the Shibuya River; really, this should be expected. “What makes you think you deserve the answer?”

His word choice is deliberate, and Shiki, of all people, sensitive enough to catch the subtext—her steps stutter, and she tugs the stuffed cat closer. “I... I didn’t mean it like that.” She eyes him again. Her fingers tighten. “You’re rude.”

He shrugs. “It’s an honest question. Really, Shiki, you haven’t changed much at all, have you?” He eyes her. “Wanting recognition is all well and good, but don’t go expecting it from me.”

She falters, steps stuttering in the dust. Joshua keeps walking, humming lightly. She doesn’t follow. He turns around. “We don’t have much time to waste,” he chides. “If you could, Shiki...?”

“How did you know that?” Her voice is tight. “How did you—”

“Composer,” he reminds her. “It’s my Game. I put in the entry fee requirement in the first place, you know.” Not for the reasons she probably thinks, but then, Joshua’s never claimed to teach kind lessons. “And you were Neku—my proxy’s—partner. Of course I kept an eye out.”

“Of course,” she echoes, a little hollowly. “So—so you know...”

That she is jealous? That she wants to be more than herself? That Shiki Misaki wants to be popular, and important, and at the center of it all? That she wants so much for herself she came to seethe at others who she thought stood above her?

Joshua knows a lot of things people wish he didn’t know.

“I do, yes.” He considers her, and sighs a little. She’s stepped on his toes, so to speak, but Joshua can relent where need be. “If it’s any consolation, you have changed.” Neku’s choice hadn’t been the only factor influencing Joshua’s unintended change of heart regarding Shibuya, though Joshua is never going to admit that out loud. “If this Game had an entry fee, yours would no longer be yourself.”

Green is a good color for Shiki Misaki. She’s still envious, even now. But it doesn’t fester in her anymore. She has come to learn her own strengths, started to realize her own Imagination— the value of herself. And Joshua will never, ever say it aloud, but he can admire that, a little. If all the world is secret gardens, then hers is finally growing again, no longer crushed beneath her own heel.

Shiki looks down like she can’t decide whether to be happy or offended about his words. Joshua shrugs and turns away. “It would probably be that ‘friend’ of yours,” he continues knowingly, and grins, a little wry. “Or maybe Neku?” The idea of Coco’s plot getting upended by something as a simple as an entry fee makes him snicker. “What a plot twist that would be, hm?”

“W-what?” And then her head snaps up, eyes wide behind the lens. “Wait, oh my gosh—entry fees— I completely forgot—” She stops, and visibly rewinds the conversation in her head. “There isn’t one?”

“Thankfully.” People really aren’t meant to play the Game more than once; Joshua shudders to think how much of Shibuya would have vanished if Neku’s fee had been taken again. “It’s more than the RG and UG merge. Whatever Game we’re playing...”

Shiki looks stunned. “There’s no Reapers.”

“Did you just notice? Well, anyway. That’s right. No Reapers, no walls, no mission mail...” Joshua frowns a little. “I’m... a little uncertain if anyone’s in charge of this Game at all.”

“What about that Reaper girl? Coco?”

“Let me reword. No one official, at any rate.” He leaves it at that, but deep down, Joshua can’t deny he’s getting uneasy. There is too much off—too much lack. A Composer encroaching on another’s territory is a heinous crime, and bringing an illegal Player with him? Even with his powers limited by sheer virtue of being outside Shibuya, that should have warranted some interaction, if nothing else. But no— instead they have been walking undisturbed, the city silent as a grave.

The Music gone.

It’s as if there is no Composer at all, Joshua thinks, but then—how is that possible? If the Composer were killed, both power and title would transfer to the killer; if the Composer were captured... well, the city still wouldn’t be like this. The power would live on and the Music continue. But this... what has happened to Shinjuku...

For once, Joshua can honestly admit he has no idea what’s going on. It’s kind of annoying.

“Either way,” Joshua says, with finality. “It’s not for you to know.” He smiles at her. “May we get moving again?”

And just like that, her hackles are back up. Sigh. “I’m just trying to be nice!” she snaps back, fierce. “Though I’m not sure you deserve it.” Her voice lowers. “You’re as bad as Neku was. We’re partners.”

“That’s a bit rude,” Joshua says, amused.

“Still. We made a pact. You could at least act like it. We have to work together!”

Joshua stares at her, a little disgruntled; Shiki crosses her arms and tilts up her chin and glares right back. For a moment Joshua considers pushing the issue, or perhaps ignoring her and continuing on anyway... and then, just as quickly, his annoyance fades, dull and tired. Joshua looks away first.

Shiki Misaki, Neku’s first partner in the game. Neku has learned a lot from her. And Joshua, though he is still only just able to admit this to himself, has learned from Neku in turn.

Joshua sighs heavily, the sound as loud as he can make it, and lifts a hand to his hair, tugging at the strands. “Oh, fine,” he says, only a little sullen, because he has learned something from his time playing his own Game and to pretend otherwise is probably beneath him, or something. “If you really want to know, I’m beginning to suspect this Game doesn’t have a Composer at all.”

Shiki looks a little stunned. Possibly she never expected him to admit anything; Joshua tries not to feel too offended about that. After all, if this were a month ago, she’d be right. (If this were a month ago, he wouldn’t have accepted her deal in the first place— but that’s not important either.) “Oh,” she says. “...Oh. Someone—someone killed Shinjuku’s Composer?”

Joshua clicks his tongue. “Not quite,” he says. “Killing the Composer wouldn’t cause an Inversion. Neither,” he adds when Shiki opens her mouth, “would kidnapping, or anything else of the like. This city has no Music. It’s silent. It is…” And this Joshua doesn’t like to admit, because the very idea is enough to make his skin crawl, but it’s the truth: “It’s as if it has no Imagination at all.”

“Um,” Shiki says. “Which is... bad?”

“You remember that storefront?” he asks her. “Yes, it’s bad. Imagination is what the entire UG runs on.”

“Oh. Oh.”

“Exactly.” He huffs, irritated. “Unfortunately, whatever happened, I’m rather in the dark. This event has very thoroughly erased any clues left behind.”

Shiki frowns, looking thoughtful. “Is there a place for Shinjuku like there was for Shibuya? A river?”

“Of sorts. I don’t know where it is, though.” Unfortunately. Joshua likes mysteries, actually, but it’s a bit more fun when there’s actual clues to follow.

“I remember the Noise around the river were pretty strong. The station underpass in general, too. Like they were just drawn there…” Shiki holds the stuffed cat in both hands, looking down at it. It’s almost as if she expects the cat to talk back to her; Joshua stifles a grin. “I wonder if we could ride on them.”

Joshua blinks. Backtracks. “On. The Noise?”

She looks a little red, but shrugs. “I mean, could we?”

He almost laughs, but then he makes the mistake of thinking about it. With the thread… and, well, Joshua understands the Noise better than anyone else, so…

There’s a long pause. Joshua looks over to the Noise, far off down the street. He thinks about it some more. And it is with great regret when he says, at last: “Mm. Better not.”

Mr. H would never let him live it down. Also, less importantly, “While stronger Noise tend to gather around the Composer’s place, it’s not exactly a homing beacon. It won’t lead us to the Composer.”

Disappointing, though.

Shiki hums, but seems to accept that, tapping her finger to her chin. “Then maybe...” She trails off, brow furrowing. “If not the Composer, we could find where it all centered? Like the Inversion? It had to start somewhere, right...?”

She sounds uncertain, but Joshua straightens up. He’s not entirely sure the issue of Shinjuku’s Composer and the Inversion are so directly linked, but if one mystery can’t be solved, it stands to reason they should move on to the next. “It must have.” He tilts his head, then grins. “Ah-ha. I have an idea.”

“What is it?”

Joshua is already on his phone, flipping through the settings. When she approaches, he generously doesn’t shoo her off. “Here,” he says, and tilts the screen to her. The idea has emboldened him; his foot taps lightly on the ground. Finally, a place to start. He has no doubt they’ll run into Neku on the way there, if he gets this right. Neku usually finds himself in the center of a disaster. “A while back I had a few... adjustments made to my phone. I never did remove them. This camera can take pictures of the past.” He waves the phone at her, grinning outright now. “Pick a direction, dear.”

Behind her glasses, Shiki’s eyes are wide. She claps her hands in front of her face. “Oh! So if the Inversion started somewhere, we can see what direction it came from?”

Her excitement is rather charming. Neku never got nearly as involved in the everyday mysteries as Joshua did; this response feels pretty gratifying, honestly. “Exactly! I’m impressed.”

She giggles, a little. “This is so exciting. I feel like I’m in a detective movie.” She spins on her heel, stuffed cat swinging from one hand, finger tapping her chin. She points down a random street, a once-main road turned hollow. “How about there?”

“As good a place to start as any, I suppose.” Joshua snaps the photo—he already knows the time they need, thankfully. Shiki leans over his shoulder; Joshua eyes her briefly, then sighs and lets it go. He opens the photo.

Oh, how fun. White light, the buildings crumbling, terrified people beginning to fade out... but it is vague, source-less, and impossible to tell the direction from which it’s coming from.

Shiki blinks at it, though, her eyes flicking from photo to the ruins and back again. “Oh, I know that building! Isetan department store… I went with Eri once.” She frowns a little. “Hmm. So we’re near the station?”

“Valuable info, but not quite what we were looking for… Well, two more photos left.” Joshua tilts the camera. “Choose wisely.”

“Uh... well, if we’re near the station, um, maybe the government building? Oh, where was it…” Shiki squints down a street. “There?”

Joshua snaps the photo, then sighs. Shiki frowns too. He’ll give her this much: she’d been right about the direction; he can see the tip of the Tokyo Metropolitan Government Building and even some of Park Tower, but beyond the vague reddish light and screaming people, nothing indicates the epicenter of the event. Tsk.

“Last one,” Shiki checks, and at Joshua’s nod, worries at her lip. “Hm...”

Joshua considers it. His finger taps against the case. After a moment, his eyes flicker up. He’s never known Shinjuku too well, even when he was alive; he’d stayed in Shibuya most of his life, and then the entirety of his afterlife. “Have you been to Shinjuku before?”

“Well... once or twice. Not as often as Shibuya. Uh, mainly around the station. Why?”

He frowns at the screen, not really seeing it. “Can you guess where the center of the city might be?”

“That’s...” She trails off. Her brow furrows. “Um. Maybe? One second.” She takes a deep breath. “Er... where’s Shibuya from here?”

This, Joshua could answer in his sleep. He is so aware of the city it nearly dizzies him; he smiles to hide the sudden tremor in his arms. Ah, it really does set in quick, doesn’t it?

“To our right,” Joshua says lightly, and cheerfully ignores the headache spiking behind his eyes.

“Okay.” She bites her lip. “Then... from there, to... and then turn left... by Golden Gai, maybe…?” She trails her eyes across the ruined landscape and finally settles for a direction slightly north-east from them. “There? I think. It’s hard to tell, with the buildings all... you know.”

“That’s good enough,” Joshua decides. He lines up the image. Then he pauses. For a moment he frowns. And then, not entirely sure why, he lifts the camera, taking in not just the street and the buildings but also the sky, high above.

He takes the shot.

His fingers tighten. His smile widens, but there’s no joy in it at all. “Bingo.”

“Yes!” She looks at the photo. Her eyes go wide. “...What?”

The photo is exactly what they need, but neither is it a welcome sight. The distant high-rise of the buildings is turning to dust and ash. People are cowering in the streets, covering their heads. A pale white light, tinged faintly bloody with red, shines out through all the streets with a piercing glow.

And high above, settled in the sky like a brand, the Reaper’s skull bears down on the city, blood red and burning bright.

“Interesting,” Joshua murmurs, and thumbs the phone off. “I believe we just got our first clue.”

Shiki bites her lip, then seems to shake herself. “We know where to start looking, now. So that’s good.” She brightens, a little. “And Neku’s sure to be there! He gets in too much trouble not to find it himself.” She’s smiling outright now, and pumps a fist to the air, triumphant, turning to Joshua with delight. “We did it!”

He giggles at her enthusiasm, and her smile falters, falling awkward and flat. Her eyes catch on his face and she seems to remember who she’s talking to for the first time. Her smile fades. Her fist lowers.

Joshua considers her, shrugs, and turns away to mess with his phone. His hands are still annoyingly shaky from earlier. He doesn’t speak. Shiki doesn’t say anything either. The silence stretches.

When it’s clear she’s not going to break, Joshua sighs again and closes his phone, looking down at the case briefly before tucking it back into his pocket. “You really don’t like me, do you?” Joshua muses, and tucks his hands in his pockets. “What stories Neku must have told you, I wonder.”

“He told me enough.” Her voice is quiet again. “But you already knew about that.”

He hums, not really answering. Another silence. This time, Shiki looks away.

“I can’t forgive you,” she announces, apropos of nothing, eyes on her stuffed animal. She hugs it close. “Which sounds silly, doesn’t it? Considering you never did anything to me. But even if Neku does forgive you, one day, I don’t think I ever will.” Joshua keeps his eyes on the skyline, and half an eye on her; he sees her fingers tighten. “I don’t know why you did it, and even if I did, I don’t think I really care.”

Something hardens in her voice. Joshua waits, patiently, for her to finish. “Your point?” he prompts.

Her jaw clenches, and for the first time she seems truly angry with him. “You hurt Neku. You hurt him— a lot. I remember that much. He was crying. I’d never seen him cry before. You did that.” I’m aware, Joshua thinks. Her eyes are fixed on the ground, now. “And you hurt him after it was over, too.”

Joshua frowns, briefly, the barest flicker of an expression, and Shiki looks up and smiles at the sight, an expression that is half-hearted and small and not very happy at all. “Yeah. I figured you didn’t know about that one. Neku doesn’t either, I don’t think. But he— he wanted to see you again, you know? No matter my feelings on it, that’s still true. Maybe he just wanted to hit you, or yell at you—um, maybe he just wanted answers?” She shrugs. “Maybe all three. But he did want to see you again. Whenever we meet up, he’s always getting distracted, looking for someone else. And I’m not stupid. I can guess.”

He has stayed silent thus far out of some amused hope of getting this out of her system; now Joshua is regretting that. There is something ashy on his tongue, settled cold in his throat. He takes a thin breath and exhales it slowly, like a test.

“You never came,” Shiki says, simply, a little harder. She’s looking at him, Joshua can tell, but he keeps his gaze turned away, fixed on the sky. “Maybe you meant that as a kindness? I don’t know. That doesn’t really matter either. Because it hurt him either way.”

Another pause. Joshua closes his eyes, opens them, and then finally looks back at her. She glares at him—not angry anymore, not really, just stubborn, stiff and holding her ground. He considers her.

“I don’t think you’re a bad person,” Shiki says, at last, reluctantly. Joshua raises an eyebrow at her. She huffs. “Which kind of makes it worse, maybe. But I don’t. Neku doesn’t either, otherwise he wouldn’t be trying so hard.” Her chin lifts, determined. “You probably aren’t sorry for what happened. You’ll probably never say it; it’s not really my business. But Neku’s trying. I don’t know why, but he is—and you know, if nothing else, you could stand to try too.”

Joshua doesn’t say anything. She’s caught him off-guard with this—of all things, this is not what he was expecting her to say. And maybe that is Joshua’s fault. Hasn’t he learned this lesson already? Isn’t that why Shibuya’s still standing? They lost the Game, all of them, Neku and Shiki and the Bito siblings; they lost the game, but they had changed his mind. They had surprised him. They had changed him in turn too, even if Joshua still doesn’t quite know how to admit it.

“Just a thought,” Shiki says, hotly, and this time she’s the one to turn away. “I don’t know if you even… N-never mind. This was stupid, I told myself I wouldn’t— let’s just go.”

How silly. All of his little asides, and yet this is what riles her up. It probably shouldn’t surprise him. She’s broken into a Reaper’s Game just for the chance to help; likely Joshua should have seen this coming. It’s still annoying, though. Why has he agreed to this again?

But he doesn’t move. He feels weary, and strangely drained, and he pinches at the bridge of his nose with a quiet exhale. Hah. He could say he’s still not sure why, but then, that would be lying, wouldn’t it? And while Joshua is rather good at lying to himself, he prefers not to make a habit of it.

He thinks, once, he would have been angry at this. He’s not sure what to make of the fact he’s not. He’s not sure what to say at all, actually—and isn’t that funny? That doesn’t happen often either.

Mostly he just feels tired.

Joshua watches Shiki walk away, and lingers there, at the edge of the sidewalk. His gaze draws back, turning away toward Shibuya; he looks past the ruined buildings to the streets that are His and His alone. He taps his fingers against his thigh. Trying, he thinks.

But there is no time. And so Joshua pulls his gaze away, and leaves Shibuya and his thoughts behind him.

#twewy #the world ends with you #joshua kiryu #yoshiya kiryu #shiki misaki #neku sakuraba #joshneku #twewy fic #iza fanfic #fic: all that's left in the world

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dukearchive · 3 years

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When the Moon Found the Sun

By Skyler Graham

PART I: THE MOON I’ve always been fascinated with lights: Christmas lights, street lights, illuminated advertisements surrounding the skyscrapers of uneasy cities. There is something comforting about these contained fireworks, something calming yet invigorating in sustaining hope in the darkness. This light, however, may also be a destructive force. As my mother grew in her career and my father fell in his, tension in the house became the firecrackers of a once glowing family. No lights, just jolting explosions of anger. I felt my dad giving into his insecurities, allowing his wife’s success to feast on his ego. Yet, rather than establishing a sense of equilibrium, he became the guilty victim of female domination. No job turned into no friends. When you only have one adult to socialize with, conversations turn into arguments. A joker turns into a hermit. I spent winter months silencing their screams with a complete infatuation with the fireplace. I focused all of my energy on the flames; if I could match my breath with the rise and fall of each quivering light, perhaps I could stay distracted long enough to forget why I needed a breathing tutorial in the first place.

But the screams only continued. My mom kicked the garage door shut, one hand grasping a cup of ice and the other a bottle of Tito’s. “Don’t worry about it, asshole. Just stay in the house, like you do all day, while I’m out working for this family.” “For this family? You’re never home!” This had become my parents’ daily routine: ignore each other throughout the day, argue about familial obligations and financial irresponsibility, anesthetize the anger with liquor, wake up, and repeat. Wash, rinse, repeat. I distracted myself at school; I focused on wall clocks and bus windows and half-completed math worksheets with lyrics doodled across the page. I stared into spinning washing machines and living room rugs and TV screens and interstate billboards. I stared out the window on every car ride, untouched by the heat rising from arguments at home. When I was sixteen, I glared at the bathroom mirror, finding only the reflection of a reckless dreamer with a warring psyche. My parents were in marital purgatory by this time; they knew the end was approaching, but they were still trapped in the same house by laws and loans and realtors. They were too occupied with hating each other, though, that my reckless bursts of naivety went unchallenged. My worries embraced a pair of scissors and a box of bleach. “Damn,” I whispered. “Now I look like a fucking Wal-Mart brand Kurt Cobain.” It was nearly one in the morning, but I couldn’t sleep. The light of the full moon radiated on the cigarette butts and stolen jewelry resting on my windowsill. There’s an everlasting magic to moonlight; not merely in its aesthetic brilliance, but in the effortless coexistence of the sun and moon. I admired how the sun highlights his lunar partner, allowing her to carry the tides and sustain hope in the darkness. He asks nothing in return. And the moon, shining on my orange-blonde head, willingly hides in the morning and allows the sun to warm the earth; she asks nothing in return. Their sacrifices are not of hopeful reciprocity, but a selfless balance of their earthly children. I lit a white candle and kneeled by my window. “God, or gods, or whatever powers control our universe, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know who I am, or who I’m becoming. I know, I’ve been acting out lately. I guess I’m just confused. But I need some type of balance; I can’t keep pretending like it’s okay — like I’m okay — when I want to be there for my family but I’m always put in the middle and I have no one to talk to and I’m scared of what Mason thinks and—” My mom came in and sat on the edge of my bed, the home of my nightmares and tear-stained pillowcases. Ignored the candle. “I can’t do this anymore, Steph. I can’t — everything I do is for you and your brother. I want to be home with you guys more, I do, but I can’t when he—,” her tears stifled her cries. But it didn’t matter — I knew what she meant. I knew what she felt. I could read her fearful despondency and immediately understand her confusion. How did her marriage end up like this? How could she escape? I didn’t know if my empathy was purely intuition or something greater (or if there’s a difference), but I knew she was desperate for change. I blew out the candle as she shuffled through the doorway. “So Mote It Be.” *** After my dad moved out, my mom introduced me to our next-door neighbor, Mike. He had lived next to us for months, but the only thing I knew about him was that his motorcycle, Jeep, and Mustang were cleaner than his soul. “Hey Mike, I’m Stevie.” A backwards snapback and graying beard looked up from his phone. “Oh, hey — yeah, your mom’s told me all about you. Said you might want to babysit my girls.” Great. This guy has kids? “Uh, sure,” I responded. “How old are they?” “Two and six,” he grumbled. “I love ‘em, but damn, it’s a difficult age.” I awkwardly laughed. “Yeah, just wait until they’re teena-” “Oh I know,” he interrupted. “I got another daughter about your age. We don’t talk much though.” My mom came out and proudly gestured to our backyard. “Look at what Mason did!” The grass was cut, the bushes trimmed, and the dirt stains on the fence were covered with a fresh layer of white paint. “Mike showed him how,” she said. “Mason, of course, complained the whole time.” She crossed her arms and looked away, squinting vaguely at the fruits of a renewed suburban paradise. “He would be used to all this work, you know, if your dad taught him better.” I hated that; the universal “Dad” had turned into “your dad,” as if he was an unknown figure in her life. As if they never met. I don’t know — maybe that was her way of hiding in the flames. *** PART II: THE SUN “Just let me know when you’re coming, and I’ll open the garage.” Mike invited me over that night, offering beer and a backyard bonfire in exchange for some company. My mom and Mike had become good friends, sharing time, vacations, and secrets with each other. My mom was on a business trip that night and unable to console her friend. I, however, was in town, bored, and seventeen without a fake ID. I walked over to his house in the same tan dress and cowgirl boots I wore to a concert that night. He was sitting alone in the backyard staring at tattoos on his wrist. “Annabelle,” it said. Is that the older daughter? One of the younger ones? One of the mothers? What happened between them? I sat down next to him in a plastic lawn chair. “What’s been going on, man?” I knew he needed comfort. But I had to remain cautious. “My friend’s girlfriend has been texting me all night — crying to me, complaining about her boyfriend and all this other shit.” Mike handed me a beer. “I’d love to help her — hell, she’s only nineteen and needs some type of guidance — but I don’t mess with girls in relationships. Not something I’m tryna get involved in.” “Doesn’t it bother you that she’s, ya know, nineteen?” “Age doesn’t bother me — I like younger girls anyway. Once they get to a certain age, women just — aren’t fun anymore. Young girls are exciting, they want to go out, they want to try… new things. After about, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, they’re not interested. They’re not interesting.”

“We just understand each other. We’re going through the same things, we can joke around and go out and talk about anything,” my mom sighed and smiled, then briefly glanced down. “He just doesn’t want a relationship, I guess… but neither do I. We’re just friends. Just friends.”

Mike opened another beer. “Was he at least good in bed?” He was asking about my ex-boyfriend; Mike knew him and watched his minivan creep out of my driveway almost every Friday night that spring. I broke up with him that June after months of frustration with his insecurities manifesting themselves as emotional dependency. I was tired of giving more than having — I didn’t want to take anything, just have: have mutual friends; have kind conversations with each others’ parents; have a reciprocal love. There is magic to mutualism, a feeling that transcends the power derived from systems of domination. I guess some people aren’t prepared for that type of power. It’s easy to succumb to others’ control, and tempting to take that control for yourself. It is grueling, however, to accept the power that lies in its absence. “Honestly, no. It felt like it was always about him; whenever he came, we were done. It felt like my only purpose was to satisfy him. I always just wanted it to be over.” He poured a shot for me. “Don’t worry honey, it won’t always be like that. You just need a man with experience to treat you right. Find an older man, someone who knows what he’s doing.”

“But I trust him. Even if we’re not “dating,” I know I can rely on him. I know he wouldn’t do anything to hurt me or you guys. Yes, he’s tough on your brother, but he’s just trying to teach him. He wants the best for you guys.”

I stared at the bonfire. I could look only at the bonfire. If I looked in his eyes, he would take it as an invitation. He pulled his phone out of his back pocket. “You ever watch porn?” Fuck. “My ex and I, we used to make our own,” he continued. “Wanna see?” I couldn’t see the flames anymore. I felt them rising to my face, but the flood of alcohol suffocated them. I couldn’t say no. It wasn’t really a question to begin with. And he wasn’t doing anything wrong, right? He didn’t touch me or make me do anything, right? Why am I so worried? I thought, I can trust him. I can trust him. Can I trust him? The flames kept growing. I handed back his phone, a drunk half-grin on my face. “Nice. A fine piece of cinema, Mike.” He ignored my sarcasm, as expected. He stood up and motioned toward his bulging crotch. “Look what you did to me, Stevie.” The flames were now in my cheeks and knees and hands and I couldn’t escape. He stumbled toward me. “All this sex talk, you got me feeling different.” I laughed. He didn’t. He looked me up and down, his hands in his pockets. “You know, if you weren’t my neighbors’ daughter, I would so have sex with you right now.”

“So nothing happened?” I asked, “And you guys were staying in the same room?” My mom sighed. “Nope. Nothing on New Years’ either. Whatever.” She stirred her drink. “I just don’t understand — what is it about me? Why don’t guys like me?” I felt her concerns, a nauseating red-green-blue energy pouring from her soul. “Don’t worry about them,” I explained. “Most guys are assholes anyway. You don’t need them.”

I walked back home. It was 7:00 AM. The moon was out of sight, her solar partner taking control. *** “Thanks for hanging with Mike, by the way,” my mom said after she got home. “I know he was feeling down and just wanted someone to talk to.” “Yeah, of course. We had a good time.” Mason looked up. “No kidding, you didn’t come home until five in the morning.” My mom’s eyes went cold. The red-blue aura had returned. “You what? Why? What were you guys doing?” The flames were back. This time, they were ashes swirling in the pit of my stomach. “Nothing, just talking.” “Talking about?” “I know I don’t need them; I’m better off without your dad than I was with him. But it’s still nice to have someone — you know, someone you can trust and talk to without any tension.” I watched my mom’s emotion shift to a pale yellow. She put down her drink and looked at me with hope shining through her eyes. “And I feel like that’s what I have with Mike. I know, we’re not “dating”, but things could turn around.”

I exhaled. “Nothing.” *** “Dinner’s here, just come in when you’re ready,” my mom texted me. I walked over to Mike’s to grab a slice of pizza and leave; I did not want to be back in that house any longer than I needed to. My mom still didn’t know what we talked about — what he talked about — and neither Mike nor I had the heart to tell her. I walked in to my mom playfully laughing at one of Mike’s jokes. The ashes began swirling. He didn’t care. She didn’t know. I walked in to both of them ignoring my presence, one out of infatuation and the other out of arrogance. Or fear. The flames started rising. No “Hello,” no “How was your day?”, no “Sorry I hit on you despite the fact I’m old enough to be your father and your mom is obviously obsessed with me.” Nothing. The fire kept burning. Mike finally put down his pride long enough to acknowledge me. “Hey Stevie, could you run out to the garage and get me another beer?” The fires are rising higher and higher Uncontained Unrestrained I stomp into the garage. I grudgingly open the fridge and my elbow knocks over his “bar.” The Mustang. There’s vodka and whiskey and cheap mixers all over the hood of that damn Mustang. Maybe if you spent less time worrying about your vehicles, Mike, you could see the truth. You could see what I see. The fires are now swirling, exploding from the inside out. I can feel it in my stomach and chest and hands and feet. I harness it, however, and focus on the car. I focus on the flames. I focus all my energy — all my anger and resentment — on sparking the conveniently flammable coating of his prized possession. I watch the fire rise and fall, then rise again, then spread through the window into the car’s interior. She’s melting, Mike, and you can’t save her. I can’t hear your screams, either, as I am consumed by the flames. Consumed, but in control. Finally taking control of all of my worries, all of the anxieties I hid with bleach and stolen jewelry. I can harness this energy under the guiding moonlight. Some of us can maintain harmony with our souls and our surroundings. And some of us — most of us — aren't prepared for that type of power.

#fall2020 #prose

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princeleyjeans · 4 years

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Hannigram headcanon: The conclusion.

Even if season 4 never comes, we have our minds (And broken souls) to keep us company and well sated with possible endings as to how Hannibal truly wraps itself up. Even if we never come to know EXACTLY how it ends, we can guess, and hopefully, we imagine something so off peak that the creator has to confirm/deny our ideas because his heart can’t take it. Here is my script: Cliff fall, jagged rocks, bumpy thrashing against the ocean floor until a miracle sees two bodies wash up on a nearby shoreline, not so much a beach, more a spot for pathetic loners to vibe our their eternal rejection. One man sputters for breath, despite his being having multiple stab wounds in all the worst places, he’s alive, moving, looking around frantically for help while the second remains still, chest faintly bopping for air rather than it’s usual, healthy, rise and slow fall, the other is barely hanging on as their forms are get bathed in a contour of dulled reds and blues as undercover police cars line the area and several familiar faces come to the rescue, regardless of the previous violence occurring minutes ago, everyone rushes to their former colleague and fight to get him into a separate ambulance, he argues, demands to follow his partner in some vague sense of “If he dies, I need to see it for myself, to prove he is really dead”, and perhaps their boss views his request with some ounce of grief fueled mercy, or maybe he just can’t be asked to preach reason in the midst of what is a crime scene he will later have to deal with. Will Graham follows Hannibal Lecter in their shared ride to the hospital, faking simple interest in the possible, likely death of the man who drove him insane to mask a viable concern, that of a lover, that of someone dedicated to another beyond the realms of what others consider normal, healthy, and upon arrival Will makes it evident to medical staff the extent of Hannibal’s injuries, in the moment forgetting he is no longer part of the agency and what he is listing is bringing all sorts of questions, from the nurses and Jack’s crew. Once the situation is manageable, Will is patched up, deemed stable (Regardless of a few broken ribs, concussion and dislocated hip) and kept on surveillance while Hannibal deteriorates enough to warrant resuscitation, emergency surgery and soon after, time in the ICU on numerous machines to take the stress off of his body, the fight with the Red Dragon and near fatal journey to dry land taking it’s toll beyond anyone’s comprehension. For the first time, Hannibal’s life is in gods hands, his reckoning is neigh and the lord has come to collect. Days pass, questions are made, agents flutter around the hospital like bees to a dying queen and those days become weeks and Jack is battling some brothers in mourning urges while Alana and Margo offer up their home to a now discharged Will who has somehow avoided being instantly taken into custody, again...miracle, and had every file on him and Dr Lecter thrown onto a judges lap. Despite the circumstances, it is a sad time, and against everyone’s better judgement, they cannot help but offer solace, early condolences and heartfelt gifts of food, advice and lame comfort to the broken Will Graham, speaking false hope of regaining his job on the force or at the university, of a book deal detailing all the events leading to this moment, to clarity and rising from the depth of being dominated, controlled, gas-lighted, misguided and framed by the infamous Chesapeake ripper! obscuring his true identity behind the veil of a psychologist working under the FBI. Whether or not Will should be feeling betrayed, hurt, generally confused by the elements contributing to this change, his transformation has reached its peak and there is no turning back as he struggles to explore his new life beneath the microscope, behind those his holds dear and without causing anymore suffering to Alana, Margo or Jack. As you can guess, tensions, indifference and lack of love cause Will’s relationship with his wife to break down, she sees him as a danger to the family and so, takes everything, including the dogs (THAT MONSTER), his wife doesn’t blame him, but she doesn’t see the man who stood by her and her son, who loved animals and a glass of scotch before bed, whose dry humor raised enough eyebrows in their social circle to bring worried friends to her door, only for Mrs Graham to giggle them away with the flick of a wrist. Will used to be hers, now he belongs to another and Molly’s only hope is that they understand what it is they’re taking on with her ex husband. In a flurry of past, present and future coming at them from all angles in a Montague that would puts most 80′s movies to shame, Will and his friends are thrown around like rag dolls as he is tormented by romantic feelings, platonic intrigue and dreams of an echoing phone call from the hospital, there is no longer rationality in their world, only shadows, mystery and unspoken truths which send everyone scrambling for normalcy. After months in a hospital bed, Hannibal awakes and has to start his life over again, Will as his guide, his protector, the hand of god with the capability to give or take, and in such a weakened state...Hannibal wonders if all he will receive...is take. Their newfound identities are plagued by Jack’s presence in every aspect, no more than two days go by before he is there, pretending to come on behalf of the bureau who’ve offered them both a get out of jail card if they draw out other serial killers, allow routine check ins and not leave the state without permission or multiple logs of where they plan to go, the deal is not a perfect one, or something they feel they should have to agree with but with Hannibal a former shell of his previously glorious self and Will learning the ropes of double agent, no better can be asked for, especially if they want to stay on the other side of the bars. their relationship dynamic has manifested into one of codependency, of love, worship, respect and slight distrust but if Hannibal wanted to be killed by anyone, it would be his Will. always his Will. ---- I might continue this later or leave it just because my butt is too lazy to write most ways. Enjoy and if anyone wants to fight me...lemme have my coke first

#hannigram #omg #duuuuuddddeeee

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keylethwasleft · 4 years

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Wise Mother, Coughing Infant

My first thought after I was born was "this feels familiar."

Okay, yeah, I was just trying to make that sound dramatic and mysterious; my first thought was really billions and billions of thoughts all at once, but the familiarity of it was the real hook there. I guess that's not a really great way to demonstrate what I mean, though.

I was born in so many different ways and at so many different times, but I don't think this last one was technically "being born" so much as having the cosmos sorta mush its power into itself to figure out how I managed to exist where I did. I can only guess—what's it called, circumstantial evidence? One day, there was an empty piece of stretch of Death Valley, full of unhindered sagebrush, Joshua trees, and way more scorpions and coyotes than most people want to deal with. The next day, there was a human baby.

I wanna say that at the time I knew enough about living on Earth and being human and everything not to just start crying right away. I'd done it all before, you know? Plus, I did plenty of other species on top of that, and I could remember everything as far as my brains would let me. I at least remembered being a goldfish or a tiger or a whale or a mosquito. I wasn't the best at measuring time when I was doing those ones, on account of sea snails only barely know we're snails, let alone know how long a "year" is, as decided by some random animals on a planet bigger than I could've conceptualized. Do you know what a sea snail's brain looks like? Neither do I! A sea snail has no reason to know!

The point is, I had all this experience and memory to look back on, but it didn't help. It all hit me at once like a shot. It just made me feel like... It's just not something that happens, you know? And all I could think about was what it felt like to smell and taste things as a housefly, or a hundred houseflies, and I had every opinion anything could possibly have about that. And I was a baby and a parent that could remember what it was like to miscarry, and a parent that could remember holding my newborn twins, and a pregnant feral cat looking for a safe place to lay for a while.

There's so much time stretched through my head at once now, I still kinda don't remember a lot about the timeline between being a cosmically manifested nightmare baby and becoming the Coughing Infant. Someone calling herself the Wise Mother found me pretty soon after. That's something I know for sure, but she sure as anything on or off the Earth ain't the Wise Mother for real. I never bought into that hoax—or at the very least I had doubts most of the time—but she was the only one that knew what I was. That counted for something, I guess. I really didn't have a lot of options. Most newborn humans don't get a lot of freedom of choice, even if they have memories that exist eons longer than they have.

She named her messed up orphanage after me before I even knew it was my name. I mean, I had so many, I could barely manage not to react to every name I heard. Pretty sure most of them I might not have ever even had. Some of them might've just been regular words, actually.

But like, the orphanage was called Wise-Mother-Coughing-Infant, and it started as something that...

Okay. I wanna be really clear about something: memory isn't my strong suit. Getting this all in words is just as bad 'cause I can barely remember what point I was trying to make when I'm halfway through a thought. And I know, I know all of this definitely sounds like I'm trying to blow a bunch of smoke or like I'm delusional or trying to sell you something, but if you don't believe me, you can just toss this letter in the garbage and get on with your day.

The town, though. She told me it was supposed to start as an orphanage, and I don't even think she was saying that to talk down to me because she knew I wasn't a real child and she wasn't a real Mother. I think that was just a side effect. It was always a lie or a metaphor or a mix of the two though, because the first building there was a radio tower. I was barely managing speech around then, but I couldn't figure out how to comment on the fact that the thing wasn't constructed. It just was.

But all I said in my stumbling, stuttering child's voice was, "This doesn't look childproofed."

It feels so stupid looking back, even if now I know for sure the Wise Mother didn't actually care if I said something embarrassing like 24 years ago. I think it was probably more memorable dealing with this nightmare baby who simultaneously could and couldn't manage complex thought and fine motor control. I don't even know if that thing was capable of embarrassment, anyway.

Anyway, you might guess that the radio signals coming from that tower started all the awful things that happen in this town. You'd be completely wrong, but you might guess that. The truth is, the radio signals started the town itself to begin with. Everything else is the same as the way the Wise Mother talks up and around you and through you without meaning to. A side effect. The town itself is its own awful thing.

Wise-Mother-Coughing-Infant was only the tower, then I blinked, and I was learning how to speak, and there were other buildings. A motel, a pit stop, a casino. Just a few basics. Supplies and short entertainment for the typical Mojave traveler. The words I spoke to the people that actually passed through weren't English, though. I didn't understand that, either. I couldn't figure out why the people I spoke to never understood what I was saying. I don't even remember what it was. Probably four languages all at once, for all I know.

That's sort of how the town came to be, too. It was just basics, like a messed up baby of pure cosmic circumstance learning to stand on its own two legs, but then it starts thinking maybe it actually had four. People went through, though. They took it in stride. Not a lot of tourists heading to Reno, exactly, not like it is now. Mainly truck drivers making stops on their routes. People moving between cities for business or family. If a kid you don't know starts meowing and walking on all fours, you think it's kind of funny for a second, and you go on with your day, you know. It's that dry weirdness you expect on a night drive through a nothing-nowhere town in Nevada. Not even notable enough to tell your spouse about when you finally get some cell service.

But the radio kept pumping information to the town. By the time I realized I remembered how to work the sails of a ship despite having never seen the ocean, it was a fully realized ghost town, one big enough to catch your notice real fast. But it was more than that. The memory came to me when I realized salt was in the air, and it was still arid as any part of the desert could be, enough to make you cough, but I swore I could hear the braying of seagulls when I went to bed that night.

It took a while, but eventually I started to hate how much I had to depend on the Wise Mother for. I knew too much about the world for what and where I was, for how long I'd been in it. I knew the taste of copper in cotton fiber. I remembered thinking it was nutritious, and that was the only thing that mattered to me. I knew what flying above the clouds felt like. I knew what kind of vertigo you could feel past the point of vertigo, a millisecond after your parachute fails. I knew war and disease. I knew power and how little I had ever had. And even though my body had finally grown into something resembling a human, I could hardly do what other humans did. Ones my own age. Ones much younger or older.

I can't describe to you the knowledge of what a phantom limb feels like, but a lot of people feel like they understand it even if they've never felt it. People talk about it 'cause it sounds so fake, right? But it's real to so many. I kind of get pissed off thinking about it, because I feel like a sham when I know I have two arms and two legs, ten fingers and toes, but I'm still trying to compare it to that. But I've felt that before, in bodies before this one. Maybe it's still insensitive. Maybe I've written way too much in one sitting and my mind's racing faster than I can move.

My handwriting sucks. I used to be a calligrapher. I just can't hold a pen the way I know I could before, even if it wasn't in the past century.

I have to take so many breaks and even so I'm way more independent from that thing pretending to be a Mother now. I can't remember a lot, but I'm pretty sure I know exactly when the last time I saw her was. The radio tower is really big, you know, so it's more like I'm living in the same building than we actually live together. I can leave if my body's feeling up to it. She doesn't stop me. I don't think she cares a lot about what I do, just that I am. I still don't fully get what that even is, but I still think she wanted me to be more.

She still sometimes calls this place an orphanage. I think she might really believe it is one. I think how much she doesn't get about the world is the most dangerous thing about this place.

I think none of what I’ve been writing even makes sense anymore. I don’t know what I thought I was going to accomplish by writing this to you. I guess I thought you might make some sense of it. Maybe what I really wanted was to tell even one person and lie to myself that they could ever really get it. I guess I miss knowing other people. Humans get that way a lot. I should know, I am one, right?

If I actually send you this, then you know where to find me. Try not to die before that happens.

—Coughing Infant

#sometimes write #narrow fruit #coughing infant #this is some writing i did a while back for narrow fruit lol #wanted to get coughing infant's voice down so i just went for it

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gazing-imagination · 4 years

Text

How to put 'It Works' to work for YOU!

The powerful idea presented so simply and well in 'It Works' will change your life. I know this because it has changed mine. The fantastic results that I have created using this idea have motivated me to investigate these principles for 25 years.

I want you to be rich with things that make you happy. I'm going to give you ideas and images you can use to help you be more successful with the list technique presented in 'It Works'.

What I have Done With 'It Works'

My annual income is now 35 times greater than it was the day I first read this little book. I have gained houses, cars, boats, businesses, friends, a family, and numerous creative and prospering ideas using the principles set forth in this book.

In the last 25 years I have spent thousands of hours teaching these ideas to other people. I've seen many people use the ideas in this book to create something new in their life, and I have seen others who are not so successful with it. I want you to be one of the successful ones.

How to Succeed with your List

First, let's take a little test. Take a sheet of paper (or your word processor) and without looking at the book write down the 'Three Positive Rules of Accomplishment' that are the key to this technique.

Then go back and compare them to the text. How did you do?

Did you miss a few? I did when I first tried this test myself.

If you read this book and it never goes farther than words and ideas in your mind, then you have lost the advantage of it.

The key to success with this method it to DO IT, not just think about it. Don??t think that by reading it, even many times, that you will know it. That would be like thinking that you know how to ride a bicycle just by reading about it. In order to master the bicycle, you have to get on it and ride, learning to keep your balance as you move forward. That is exactly the way you learn the principles of conscious creation taught by ??It Works??.

When I first started using the technique in this book, I wrote my first list, and started getting great results. Then after a month or so, I stopped writing and reviewing the list, and tried to 'do it in my head'. I didn't get the same results.

I went back to using the list, and the great results started happening again. Then I got what I wanted and let things slide, and the cycle repeated.

Meanwhile I started studying the ideas and teaching them to others. In the process I learned some interesting things I am sharing with you.

What I learned is that each of us has a spark from the Creator which is our own personal creator, like a genie from a magic lamp. The problem with this genie is that he responds to every thought in my mind as if it were a command. If I think of something with desire, he starts creating that for me. If I start to worry or fear, he starts to erase that creation.

Wherever I put my attention, the genie starts multiplying that attention into a real experience in my life. All of this creation takes place in a part of my mind called the subconscious mind. The subconscious mind is the part of my mind that holds the tremendous creative power that I can learn to tap into and use. However, it has a special way of working that I must understand if I want to use my subconscious mind power effectively.

If my attention wanders all over the place, my subconscious becomes full of half-created thought-forms and my life is chaotic or boring. That??s because the genie is busy trying to do a million different things at once, many of which contradict each other. His efforts always follow in the track of my attention, and until I get my attention going in a constant direction, I don??t get the results I would like.

The plan given in 'It Works' helps me to control my attention, and put that genie to work with enough time and focus to produce real and complete results. It will work the same way for you.

My conscious mind sets the agenda, but I often get distracted by the half-formed and malformed effects of previous wishes and desires. Many of those desires are unconscious, created with incomplete understanding or fear or worry. The genie does what I tell him, but he listens to my daydreams and worries and treats them as commands.

This creative power responds to what I believe. I have come to realize that what I believe is not necessarily the same as what I think. It's easy to know what I believe - it is what I act on. It is what I do. Even while I am unable to admit to myself what I really believe, my subconscious mind is working to make circumstances, opportunities, and events in my life to experience those beliefs.

How do I change what I believe, so that I can get what I want? There is a simple way to do this. It has been discovered and rediscovered by teachers and writers throughout the ages.

Here it is:

I can imagine what I want, I can pretend that it is so, and I can repeat this over and over.

The creative genie of my subconscious mind responds to imagination, focused attention, and repetition. That's what the book 'It Works' is all about.

How to Get Faster and Better Results

Here are things that will help you create more successfully when you use the technique presented in ??It Works??. These are things that I have discovered in the last 25 years of using 'It Works.' Each of these is a suggestion based on actual experiences with using the list. Use the ideas that sound good to you.

The most important thing is to do exactly what it says. Follow the plan exactly: Create a list, include what you really desire in order of its importance to you, read the list three times a day, think of the items on the list as often as you can, and don't tell anyone what you are doing.

For faster demonstration of results, you can rewrite the list each day, even if it hasn't changed. Reorder the items on the list according to their importance to you. Doing this makes the ideas new again, and will lead to more rapid success. It??s also important to do something physical with your ideas, as soon as possible. Writing them out is a way to give them entry into the outer world of manifestation. It creates a toehold for their growth into physical reality.

If you have a tape recorder, you can read the list out loud in a firm voice and tape it. Then play the tape over and over again (perhaps in your car as you commute to and from work). This needs to be done and played in private. That's easy nowadays since you can get an inexpensive tape player with headphones.

I found a little digital recorder that records into it's own computer memory, and then plays it back over and over again through headphones. You can also do this with the 'Sound Recorder' program that is built into most personal computers.

Put real amounts, specific items, and specific dates in your list. Some people worry that this is 'outlining' and delays manifestation. But what good is it to get Coke when you want Pepsi, or Pepsi when you want Coke? You don??t plant strawberries and expect to harvest watermelons. The most important thing is not a particular item on your list, but developing your power of conscious creation.

Do you have trouble remembering the items on your list? If so, it may be that they are not really that important to you. Try memorizing the items on your list.

Are you having trouble finding ten things to put on your list? Are you unsure which things should really be on the list? Here??s an easy way to build your list: ask yourself- ??What do I think about all day??? That is what should be on your list. You may have to start by listing your worries, and then turn each of them into a positive desire. For example, what do I worry about? What would need to happen for me to not worry about this any more?

If you have trouble finding things that you want, try thinking of it in another way. What would you like to see happen?

How will you know it is working?

When you receive an idea about something that is on your list, act on it in a positive way. Sometimes the thing you want requires a few intermediate steps. Be ready to go through several doorways as they open before you, to reach your goal. If you want a car, perhaps you will find yourself creating a new set of tires first, or a garage to keep the car in.

Realize that many of the things you want will find you. You will be tempted to say, 'but I didn't do anything, it just happened.' Your inner mind genie will use the simplest and most efficient way to create the results you imagine. It doesn't care who gets the credit. After a while you won't either!

Remember that your genie is working nonstop, according to the program that you set for him. If you say, ??this can??t be working??, he will do his best to make that seem true ?V even while he continues his nonstop creation of the other things you ask for.

How will you know it is working? For most people it is not one thing, or two things, but the fact that one thing after another manifests in their lives. The first thing you get from your list seems to be a coincidence, the second is luck, the third is serendipity, and the forth is a miracle. Finally after many creations, when your friends start wondering what the heck is going on, you will realize that there is a simple and rational law in operation, and that you know how to use it.

Get excited and enthusiastic about the good things coming into your life. If this doesn't seem natural to you, go ahead and use your 'power of pretend' to fake it until you make it. Appreciation is the oil of the engine of creation. Enthusiasm and excitement are manifestations of your appreciation, and confirmation of your positive expectation.

The attitudes that will delay your success or confuse your creation are jealousy, envy, resentment, reservations, uncertainty, and indecisiveness. Put all of those to the side. The more you recognize your own creative ability, the less you will care about those things that these attitudes have been attached to. You just won??t have time for those ways of thinking any more.

There is no such thing as a negative thought - every thought has a positive result in reproducing itself. Every thing you think about grows in your mind and becomes part of your physical life. That??s why it is so important to control what you are thinking. The key to controlling your mind is replacing the thoughts that create what you don't want, with the thoughts that create what you do want. You do not resist the old thoughts, you replace them by putting your attention somewhere else. Using your list is your key to accomplishing this. Use this physical tool to reinforce the thoughts that you want.

Think of your subconscious mind as being like a sailboat in the middle of the ocean. The sailboat is blown everywhere, back and forth, by the wind, which is the power of thought. It needs a keel and a rudder to be able to set a course and make way to a certain destination. Your list is the keel and the rudder of your subconscious sailboat.

Thought follows a certain structure in your mind. The idea comes first, then the belief, then the attitude, and then the behavior. Your strongest foundation, the anchor of your thinking, begins with your behavior. Change your behavior, then change the attitude that changing the behavior reveals, then change the belief that inspires the attitude. Grab hold of an idea that is bigger and more inclusive than the small ideas that have kept you poor and unhappy.

When you are tempted to tell everyone what you are doing to make the changes in your life, send them a copy of this book instead. After you have received 40 things you have asked for, you can start talking about the process you are using. Keep a list of everything you get until you receive 40 things you have asked for.

Many people find this book, and use it to get one important thing, and then abandon this method. How did this book come into your life? Your genie brought it to you, or brought you to it, in response to your conscious or unconscious desire to create a specific experience, or to understand creation itself. Take advantage of this experience, and make this intelligent, conscious creation a way of life, not a one-time experience.

??Hey Peter, get back in the boat!?? - the other 11 apostles

Trying to control other people and make decisions for them is a misuse of them, and of your own creative power. The most important thing you can make is a decision. Trying to take that opportunity for creation away from others is based on fear, not love. Fear in your mind will generally create things you do not want. Lewt people learn their lessons. God loves them, too.

I learned something wonderful long ago, that will give you freedom. I can??t prove anything to you about anything important or meaningful. However, I can tell you how you can experiment and prove these things to yourself. If I walked on water, you would be looking for the rocks. If you walk on water, you will know that there are no rocks. Using this list will show you how to walk on the water of your life. You will have to learn to politely ignore your friends as they yell: ??Hey Peter, get back in the boat!??

The Toyota Principle

The subconscious mind creation process goes on all the time. You don't have to be good to make it work. You don't have to chant, exercise, or repeat magic words. You are rich now with the results of what you have been thinking about. Your life is always full of something. If you want to be rich with something else, change what you are thinking about.

As you develop your ability to consciously direct your creation process, as you build your confidence and increase your will power, your results will come more quickly and be more satisfying. Don't delay this process by calling the results coincidence. Wait until you have received at least 40 items on your list (by receiving something and replacing the list item with a new item) before you judge the results as coincidence or creation.

You are already a success at creating what you are thinking about - everyone is. The biggest enemy of conscious control is self-importance - which may manifest in disguise as self-deprecation, worry about what others think of you, or the desire to have others approve of you. Don't let your ego distract your from taking control of your mind and your life.

Everything in your life is there because you have asked for it through either desire or fear. Nothing comes to you by itself. I call this the "Toyota Principle" because there used to be a commercial advertisement on television for a certain car company with the catchphrase "You asked for it - you got it - Toyota!' When you have used your list for a while, you will begin to see this is true, and then vast realms of possibility will open in your life.

It's a friendly universe.

If you are of a certain religious orientation, you might be concerned about this creative process and think it is a possible affront to God. I don't think it is. Think of the New Testament phrase, ??Pray without ceasing.?? I have decided that this is a description of what we all do all the time. We pray nonstop without knowing it. Practice of the method of conscious creation will show you what prayer is, how it works, and that it is always functioning. I am firmly convinced that learning how my mind works, and how to use it more effectively to help myself and others, is what God wants me to do. How about you?

You don't have to believe in God to use the list. However, don't be surprised if using the list shows you that there is order and structure to the universe, including your mind as a part of that universe. Your world is a lot closer to you and more responsive to you, than you may have considered it to be. It's a friendly universe.

Be careful about including other people on your list. If you want joy and happiness with Jane or Bill, is the joy and happiness more important, or the relationship with Jane or Bill? Maybe the best way to be happy with Jane is let her go find Bill, and let Suzy come find you. As long as you are focused on what someone can give to you, you aren??t yet completely experiencing love.

It may be tempting to think your success is dependent on the channel it happens to come through - your job, your family, a particular relationship or thing you possess. Time and experience will show you that this is not so. In the meantime, place your sense of appreciation and thankfulness on the Creator within you, who has made you in his image as a creator. When the river of your life changes its channel, you had better be ready to go with the flow.

How fast will it work? Faster than you will expect. I put the number one item on my list last week and it manifested in two days ?V and I thought it would be six months or maybe never. Fortunately, while writing and then rereading that list item, I suspended my disbelief. Even before your pen finishes the sentence, the act of creation has begun. Of course there is no magic in the pen or paper ?V the magic is in making the decision a physical thing instead of just a mental idea. No matter how long you use this method, there will be times when you are just utterly amazed at what ??happens?? to you. (It isn??t happening, you are creating it.) How fast can it happen? Don??t blink twice ?V you??ll miss it.

Everything you think will try to prove itself ?V including your skepticism. If you are afraid of what others will think of you, or of what you will think of yourself, then you may be fooling yourself while thinking you are being completely rational. The world is plastic to the molding power of your thoughts ?V even while you think this is untrue, or don??t have a thought about it at all. Everything lives and moves and has its being in a sea of self-modifying thought. You can prove this to yourself, and put it to effective use, with the simple experiment of work with the list for a few weeks or months.

It doesn't take much time or effort. You have nothing to lose. No one will even know you are doing it. They will just think that you have suddenly become incredibly lucky, intelligent, charming, and good looking. It helps to smile a lot.

Creating complete mind pictures is very helpful. That is another book in itself. Feeling joy and enthusiasm about your mental creation is very helpful. It will start to happen naturally as you use this process over and over, because ?{

It Works!.🏄‍♂️ ~Brad Jensen

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