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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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thermopylod · 3 years

Link

It’s been a while, huh? I finally finished a little Souyo fic I started almost 2 years ago. 5k words, T-rated. I hope you all enjoy it--it’s probably the last fic I’ll write in this fandom, but I’ll never stop loving Souyo 💗 “So, what’s in the bottle, Yu?”

Yu spun the small vial around by the chain it hung on, holding it up to the light so the emerald liquid inside shimmered. Squinting, he bit his lip and took a deep breath as he focused; there was a trick to this, a little like trying to see an optical illusion, one of those spinning images that could be mentally reversed with just the right… Ah, there.

“Truth.”

Chie raised an eyebrow at his concise answer, and he laughed softly before elaborating. “Well, not truth itself. Something related to it. Maybe a truth serum of some kind? Though, I’m not sure what a Shadow was doing carrying that around…”

Rise hummed, looking over their notes from the day’s fighting. “That reminds me a little of those sedatives we got off the Trance Twins back in Yukiko’s castle. Remember? You said they made you feel… ‘sanity,’ I think it was.”

“Yeah, you’re right. It’s definitely some sort of mental-impairment remedy, but I don’t remember us getting hit by any new status effects. Do you?”

Rise flipped through her notebook. “Hm, nope. Well, we only got the one, right? You should save it, maybe we’ll need it later.”

Yu nodded and slid the truth serum, if that was what it was, into one of the many inner pockets of his TV world supply bag, before they moved on to discussing how Yukiko’s new improved fire attack could best be used for their next excursion.

The vial stayed in the bag, unused, for many months afterwards. In fact, Yu entirely forgot its existence until early February. On a particularly snowy Sunday, Yu, trapped at home, decided to clean up his now-unused TV world equipment. He’d emptied and sorted all the supplies in his bag, and was about to put the bag itself through the wash when he heard a clinking sound. After five minutes of searching through empty pockets—there truly was such a thing as too much organisation—he found the vial, remembering that they’d saved it in case it might come in handy later. Now that he thought about it, perhaps it would have been useful during Namatame’s interrogation, or with Adachi, but they’d figured things out fine without it. He set it aside for now, figuring he’d sell it at Shiroku along with the rest of the leftover supplies, and continued his cleaning.

To his surprise, Old Lady Shiroku refused to take the serum from him.

“This may yet come in handy to you, young man,” she told him with a twinkle in her eye as she pushed it back across the counter.

Not for the first time, Yu wondered who this woman truly was. There was more to her than a casual shopkeeper-turned-midnight-bartender; how else would she have known where to find Goho-Ms and Vanish Balls, known what they were called even, when outside the TV world they resembled nothing but shiny overpriced marbles? He’d asked once, and she’d only winked at him and held a finger up to her lips. “You should know a lady never tells, darling,” she’d replied, and the next time he’d gone shopping all her prices had gone up a hundred yen. Yu wasn’t an idiot. He hadn’t asked again.

So when she left the vial on the counter and ignored his confused look, he took it back without any further questions. It wasn’t as though he was hurting for money, and it was a rather pretty bottle if nothing else; it would look nice on the shelf over his desk.

The bottle looked nice on said shelf for approximately three days, until Teddie, invited over by Nanako, bounced into his room one afternoon and spotted it.

“Sensei! Can I have this?” he asked as he snatched it up, turning puppy dog eyes on Yu.

Yu knew better than to fall for the look, but he didn’t see anything wrong with letting Teddie have the potion if it made him happy. Maybe something about its link to the TV world appealed to him, or maybe he just liked how it looked; Teddie did have a certain fascination for shiny, pretty things.

“Sure,” Yu replied as he gently ushered him back downstairs before he could touch anything else in his room. He’d had to spend a good two hours doing damage control after the last time he’d visited, when he’d smashed two of his models together because, “They’re fighting, Sensei! That’s what they’re made for!”

He’d thought that was the last he would hear of that small bottle, but unfortunately, it showed up again a very short time later. The entire Investigation Team was gathered in a large reception room at the Amagi Inn, which they’d hijacked for a sleepover party. The guys had just finished relaxing in the hot springs, and everyone was sitting around on pillows chatting while waiting for the girls’ turn. Then they would have dinner, gracefully provided by the inn, and after that probably stay up way too late telling ghost stories that would make Yukiko giggle and Chie and Yosuke scream. Yu smiled as he leaned back on his hands and looked at the ceiling, a bit of a bittersweet feeling coursing through him. He only had a scant month of this left to enjoy, and then it would be back to the city for him—and for all that Yosuke kept making plans for them to go to university together, for all that Rise and Naoto would be moving back there too, well… he was still going to miss this, right here. Everyone, together under one roof, with nothing more important to think about than school and what they’d do next weekend.

He pushed himself back upright, and all his nostalgic feelings fled in an instant as he saw Teddie jump to his feet with a mischievous expression that he’d learned was always followed by a very bad idea.

“Let’s play truth or dare!”

[read the rest on ao3!]

#souyo #persona 4 #souji seta #yu narukami #yosuke hanamura #fanfic #fic #truth or dare #truth serum #confessions #oh man it's been so long since I wrote a tag list #I messed up my post the first time lol

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a-cluttered-gordon-freeman · 3 years

Text

Unclouded Days, because I'm not an idiot and I definitely remembered this story exists, part 3.

Part 1 | Part 2

"If I wanted to have a family... I'd have it with Alyx... Or Barney... But for right now...."

Gordon looked up from his journal. Taking a glance at his clock, he noted the date and time. 6:37 a.m. on a cold Thursday, April 13.

It had been a whole 2 months since he last visited Alyx and Barney. Gordon could remember the chill of the incoming blizzard as he trudged through the snow, and he remembered the chill coming back home afterwards.

His cabin was a safe haven away from the chaos of the society he helped create. Gordon wanted nothing to do there. He wanted to be by himself, for all too long he had been surrounded by people and he couldn't stand it. He thoroughly enjoyed the moments spent being away from everyone, where he was on his own, doing whatever. Nobody would boss him about. He wouldn't have to fight.

Barney had brought up a good point, but by accident. Gordon had mocked Barney by making such claims as having a family. And with Barney asking if he had one, Gordon spent long nights thinking about it.

No, he didn't have one, but Gordon couldn't deny that he had thought about having one, and having some kids of his own. He was still young enough to, but with whom? Barney would say yes, he and Gordon were always intimate with each other and would be asked constantly at Black Mesa when they'd marry. But it'd rule out children, as niether of them could reproduce with each other. Alyx would be uncertain about getting married, probably, mostly because she didn't know to the fullest what it meant. And niether of them felt a strong attraction towards each other, so would it even be considered a real loving relationship?

Gordon took another look at the clock. 7:15 a.m.. Temperature dropped a few degrees in the cabin. He sighed.

Another night wasted.

Closing the journal, Gordon stood up and stretched before opening the window to let it the sun and some fresh air. He stared outside, some animals crossing in and out of his vision, the leaves from last fall stuck down under the remaining snow. It was cold out, but the kind of cold one craved for in the spring. A nice and peaceful morning with a slight chill, the forestry just now waking up with snow melting around, providing nutrients to the life nearby.

He felt tired. Not unusual, as he lost quite a bit of sleep since that week in February. But Gordon couldn't fall asleep.

It was the entire point of that journal. To write his thoughts until he felt as though he could sleep. Some nights he considered heading back over to Eli and Kliener, maybe chat a bit. But being 40-something miles away would mean he'd arrive there sometime by noon. Other nights he considered working on some projects he laid out. But that would mean Gordon would have to turn on the other lights- all that artificial light would keep him up more than the red-light alarm he used to write in his journal. More often than not Gordon would just sit at his desk, writing away from 8 in the evening to 7 in the morning. The rare nights were when he didn't write in his journal, but instead bathed in the pitch black darkness.

Writing in the journal helped though. Gordon wouldn't have to worry about making sense to anyone, as long as it made enough sense to him. No need to appropriate a sentence, give it structure. It was a place where he could write what he was feeling, with no worry of harming anyone else.

Though sometimes Gordon wished he could actually tell someone, get advice or some help. It would have been useful as hell for him.

To ask for help gave Gordon the feeling of uselessness, a feeling he had been trying to avoid hard. To be told to do a thing gave him a purpose. So he did things that made him feel useful- took care of alien enemies for those that couldn't, provided backup to those who could, saved humanity, rebuilt society. Gordon did it all. There was no way he was going to ask anyone for help. He'd feel guilty as hell.

Gordon decided that he was done thinking such thoughts. And he had also decided that he would relax with a nice, warm shower, taking some time to ease off some stress.

Silence had been filling the lab. It was as if quiet things could become quieter, if it didn't make sound then it would start making other things stop making sound.

Alyx and Barney found it uncomfortable. The silence was deafening, and they could hear their thoughts much too clearly. It also provided a sort of laziness, a feeling of boredom, to the lab. A place once bustling with life and loud noises now only inhabited by two people with nothing better to do that they hadn't done forty times before.

"What if we went out of town for a bit?" Barney broke the silence, startling Alyx, who had been slowly falling asleep.

"What do you mean? To where?" She stretched.

"To Gordon's."

"I don't know, would he even like visitors right now? We have no way of asking him."

"Surprise visit?"

"We can't ask him, Barney! We've got no way to talk to him." Alyx rested her head on the table, letting out a drowsy sigh.

"I know where he lives." Barney said, causing Alyx to look over at him. "He had told me an approximation, he lives east near the giant trees."

"In the shack?"

"Yeah."

"Barney, thats forty miles away. We'd have to start early morning to arrive at his house with some daylight left. And besides, there is no way we'd be able to spend the night there, it has four rooms- a bathroom, a tiny bedroom, a kitchen and a main room."

Silence filled the lab once more. Alyx had a point, it was already too small for one person, much more with three. And there would be no way of confirming with Gordon if they could even get there- if anyone else saw them leave, and it would be a given that many people would see them leave, then Gordon's privacy would be violated by everyone else knowing where he lived.

It'd be rude to arrive uninvited, and unpleasant if he wasn't there or was too busy to let them in.

"Can't you talk to him?" Barney stared at Alyx, who sat up with exhaustion.

"How do you think I would be capable of that?"

"With that weird vort-connection-thingy you two have."

She took a moment to think. "I'm... Not entirely sure. I don't think I can."

"Should we ask a vortigaunt?"

Gordon finished dressing and took a seat on his bed. He was disappointed. His bath hadn't helped to relieve any stress whatsoever, instead he was convinced it added more and made it worse.

Which... Isn't good when you are a sleep-deprived physicist who has just been to a version of hell and back at one moment and wiping the enemy off the face of the planet.

His clock now read 9:00 a.m. exact. He could take a walk around the forest, or maybe cook up something.

Or, instead, he could lay in bed, the window open, the covers over him. Which is what Gordon did.

It made the annoying sleeplessness much worse but one could not deny the relaxing comfort it brought. And slowly, just so slowly, Gordon began to drift off to sleep.

"You can communicate feelings and pain without words, but you cannot talk to the Freeman directly." The vorts had answered, causing a sigh from Alyx and Barney.

"Well, then, fuck how are we supposed to get him now?" Barney huffed.

"We wait until he decides to come over." Alyx replied, getting up to go back to the lab.

"Have either of you decides to meet the Freeman yourselves?" A vort inquired, walking up to Alyx and Barney.

"No." The both of them responded.

"It'd be rude to walk up to his house uninvited, seeing as others could follow us." Alyx look over at the vortigaunts, who gave the appearance of understanding.

The two left the vortigaunts and returned to their eerily quiet lab, where boredom struck again.

Gordon shot up, panting hard. Beads of sweat trailed down his face, his heart and mind racing. He glanced at the clock.

5:21 p.m. on a now warm April 13.

Gordon took a second to calm down. He couldn't remember what had caused him to be so hyped up. Was it a nightmare? Bad memory?

What ever it was, it was gone now. Gordon could be thankful for that at least.

Chest still pounding, Gordon took a second to gain his bearings and calm down. He found it extremely difficult to do such on his own. As a result, he went out on a walk. He found it best to take in the nature, listen to the trees and wildlife.

As much as Gordon would have liked to hunt, a gun would raise back past feelings of fear, anger and pain that the Resonance Cascade and the Uprising caused. He couldn't stand to hold such a weapon nowadays, the only reason he'd have one anymore is for safety purposes. But even then, Gordon would much rather fight with a knife.

Bored with his little house and, unfortunately, the forestry around him, Gordon set out to the lab. It was best for an escape, as he wasn't feeling all that great by himself.

It was daybreak by the time Gordon arrived at White Forest. He had taken some time to visit Eli and Kleiner, and had also gone for a bit of shopping in the main town. Once done with that,he made his way to the lab.

"Hey Barney."

Barney turned around and was greeted by Gordon.

"Gordon?"

"Yeah, I'd hope so. How have things been?"

Barney smiled. "Its been good. And you?"

"...not good." Gordon sighed and looked down a bit. "Haven't been getting good rest."

"Would you like to spend a few more nights here? At the lab with Alyx and I?"

"Yeah... I'd appreciate that thanks..."

Barney took Gordon's hand and led him to the lab, where Alyx greeted them both with an excited smile.

Gordon got set up in his old room again. Sitting upon his bed, he stared at the ceiling in silent contemplation. Closing his eyes, he began to silently cry, for no reason he could find.

When Alyx stepped into the room, she caught a glance of the tired and teary-eyed man. She took that as a moment to sit next to him and offer weak support.

Gordon glanced over to her and wiped off his eyes. "S-sorry..." he muttered weakly, his voice shaky as hell.

Alyx smiled. "No need to be sorry. Just let it all out."

END OF PART 3

---------

Heyo! Its yours true. I need help to try to make it towards the end by offerring your support for the story and reblogging/asking more about it/ messaging me! Rb>likes, and the reblogs offer me more motivation to continue writing the stories, and same would go for my ravenholm comics, that you can read at @returntoravenholm-awgag ! I'd appreciate all the support I can get from anyone! Thank you!

-marc

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rumor-imbris · 3 years

Note

Hello, Lady Connor! I want to ask out of unbearable, suffocating curiosity in my heart, even though in the previous post you already said to not mention "that certain comic". Could you please enlighten me about your view on that comic and what you despise about it? I would love to read your detailed thoughts about it even if just once. But if this is too triggering for you, I'm truly sorry for your discomfort and you don't need to answer it.

Hello, dear Anon and welcome ^-^ It's weird you naturally called me Lady Connor, as usually only my little fairy @giuliettaluce does. Well, I guess her magic put a spell on everybody here!!

If you really care to know, I'll answer, but brace yourself, it's going to be very long, almost an essay, because I can be very detailed about that comic being a failure in its every part. There's so much to say. You're right, as I mentioned before, it can trigger me, but I have attentively analized it and I know it makes not a single atom of sense. So nothing can actually bother me that much, don't worry ^_-

First of all, my general consideration of the AC Reflections comic issue #4, (yeah, that thing -.-) is that of a mere attempt to desperately make Bayek's remote vision through Senu's eyes a canon feature. It was created and published in 2017, the same year AC Origins was released and yes, they needed an excuse to make believe Connor's alleged daughter inherited a skill someone (who isn't even their direct ancestor!!) that lived 1700 years ago in ancient Egypt had! OMG, this should be funny enough, but I'll go on. Also, I think it was likely a carelessly arranged way to satisfy those AC3 fans demanding a "happy ending" for unlucky Connor (quite 5 years later, of course).

I'll better go step by step to figure out where to start from, seriously.

1) In the comic, when Otso Berg opens the file related to Connor, the scene is set in "1796: Upstate New York." Now this is chronologically and spacially incoherent and illogical. We see Connor still wears his assassin outfit in it, right? According to AC Initiates (2012) in 1804 Connor invites the Dominican assassin Eseosa at the Davenport homestead to provide him some advices and further training as he's involved in the leading of the Haitian Revolution. That's a really cool character, read about him, if you want!

So, until then Connor is still an assassin, probably the mentor (by now) of the Colonial Brotherhood. He still runs the homestead and he still commands the Aquila, I guess, he's the captain still. I calculated the distance between the homestead and the then upper NY frontier territories is approximately 260 miles (quite far nowadays with cars and planes as well). Then, why the hell should he have a family located in the forest upstate NY? It sounds very unconfortable to run back and forth to reach them and go back to take care of all the Brotherhood matters, doesn't it? Unless he knew about teleportation!!! Also, wow, he lives all alone in a nice massive villa with all the comforts of that time while his children and wife still live in a Native village constantly menaced by settlers wanting to steal their land? Beside the fact that Connor, at least in my point of view, seemed at last very familiar with european way of living by the end of the game, this leads us to the next point.

2) By the time the game and the comic are set (second half of 18th century), most of the East Coast Native tribes were facing the tragic and forced migration to western and northern territories (mostly towards Canada, protected by the British) because of all the consequences of the Revolutionary War (lost territories, failed alliances, settlers advancing and buying their lands and so on). So tells us history, unfortunately. It's a fact. And this is wisely showed to us in the AC3 main game when, after all the Kanien'kehá:ka tribes had left the territory around Connor's village (yes, even those near New York, to be clear) even Connor's own tribe at last migrates west, leaving an empty ghost village. They had remained all along to protect the secret temple, but in the end they as well were forced to leave. So, to me it's highly improbable that in upstate NY, one could still find a tribe and even if so, that Connor would let his family live there and risk their safety everyday.

3) The whole comic plot revolves around the fact that Io:nhiòte has a "special gift"... She inexplicably knows how to read the ground and find animal traces, she also can perform a perfect twisted acrobatic flip in the air and land unharmed to the ground. Do we know why? No, don't ask! xD She simply knows U.U, even if right after the next scene she slips and falls miserably down a cliff xD, but... ok!! Beside that, when Connor is far away to search for some water and is about to be attacked by a wolf hidden in the grass nearby, she sees the whole scene from the eyes of an eagle flying in the sky above her. As I said before, this reminds us of Bayek's (never clearly explained) ability to see through his eagle Senu's eyes and spot dangers and enemies. Now can you tell me why the hell this little girl has super powers and a skill Bayek had? As I said, they are not even directely related, as Bayek is not one of Desmond Miles' ancestor, we know him simply because Layla's new Animus is magical and can inexplicably read fragmented DNA from people who died a thousand years ago (it can also prepair coffee, I think!). So, where did she get that from? Magic? Mysteries of life? Convenient improbable connections for marketing's sake? We'll never know and you should simply accept that and ask no question!

4) From her height, way of speaking/moving/running, I assume Io:nhiòte is at least 8 years old, 8 - 9 minimum. She's the youngest of three siblings, who must be at least two years older than her and than each other (according to a human woman pregnancy timing!). If the comic events are set 12 years after the main game ending (1784, when Connor also starts to train the young ex-slave Patience Gibbs, arriving at the Davenport homestead with Aveline De Grandpré, according to AC IV Black Flag bonus mission with Aveline), so, this means that in that same year Connor must have found hastily the love of his life in a Native village (as if he was easy to open himself with other people after all he's been through), married her, impregnated her and seen her give birth to their first child, all in the same year when (let's not foget! xD) he still is the leader of the Colonial Assassin Brotherhood at the Davenport homestead training novices. Now, this may even be possible humanly speaking, (well, if you force the things a bit and hurry up!) but highly unlikely to happen!! xD

These are the main problems affecting the logic of the comic in my opinion, the points making its foundations crumble apart. Though I'm sure there are many little others to point out, such as Otso Berg "opening" Connor's files... like what? Where did those data come out from? I remember playing AC IV Black Flag and uncovering a file where Abstergo researchers themselves closed access to his memories as there was "nothing appealing to this character anymore"! So, if no more researches were conducted on him since 2013, where did Mr Berg magically or conveniently discovered such data in 2017?

Or... do we want to talk about the cover? It shows Connor in the spirit outfit from the Tyranny of King Washington DLC, which has apparently nothing to do with the comic, since it is set in his present day and he wears his assassin standard robe. Now, I think that can be either a simple marketing choice to make the comic more appealing, as... well, that cover is so cool, let's admit that, or maybe the subtle suggestion that the events told in it are just a parallel Disney-like reality and are not to be considered true at all! xD i don't know, maybe both explanations are right.

I'm sure that the deeper i dig, the more nothing rational I'll find!

If you played the old games, if you know well the franchise and its lore, the true, good, old AC lore, you definitely realize by yourself how that comic is useless and senseless.

This doesn't mean I do not wish an "happy ending" for Connor. But I'd rather accept something coherent with the main game events and AC chronology. Also, it doesn't necessarily needs to be a "happy" ending, as they conveniently created to please complaining fans. I wished for something real... coherent with his personality, acquired life-style and endless sense of duty and values.

Maybe that's what pushed me to write my FanFic novel in the first place, after all... To give him MY OWN cohesive ending, including my love, for love is always needed, I guess.

I'm so sorry if the answer took this long in time and words, but you were warned! ^w^

Though, thank you... Seriously, thank you so much for asking. You made me reflect once more about this matter.

Come visit me again, if you want. Take care

- Rumor Imbris 🦋

P.S. Oh, and if you're interested, this is my "jelousy song", for when things like this trigger my inner witch!! xD

#ask #ask me anything #I Am the Storm!!!!#AC3 Reflections #why it sucks #why it makes no sense #thanks for asking #anon ask

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hedonisthierophant · 4 years

Text

Aching abyss

The doctors proclaimed that he was alive, crowed over their victory, their triumph in snatching his fragile form from the jaws of death and conspiracy. Clay wasn’t so sure that he believed them. Oh he knew intellectually that he lived. His eyes beheld what unfolded before them, he was aware of various scents perfuming the air, he heard the constant drone of life around him, he was able to process the flavors of his food, his body was warm, his lungs filled and emptied themselves of air in a regular fashion, his bones muscles ligaments and tendons obeyed his commands, he felt sensation against his skin, and most importantly, his heart beat. This could be objectively verified, all he had to do was press a hand against it and feel its steady rhythm. Yet, despite overwhelming empirical evidence to the contrary Clay felt that he had died during the faithful procedure and what the doctors had so pridefully revived was merely an empty shell, a purposeless, empty husk of a man.

Before the operation Clayton had always looked forward to it as the door through which he would step into his new lease on life. Now he looked back on it ruefully as a pyrrhic victory. The result of a twisted covenant with some deity who was spiteful at worst and apathetic at best, they had given him a new life and in exchange taken away Clay’s sense of being alive. Yes his body was here, but was Clay here? That was a more complicated question altogether.

Clay tried first to explain his situation to his physicians, they assured him that these sorts of feelings were par for the course in transplant patients and would pass in time. Clay next set up a meeting with a therapist, discreetly and through a series of intermediaries. He didn’t have the courage to go on any websites or call any numbers for himself. Instead he delegated what he assumed was the more burdensome task to an assistant, he was certain he’d known her name at one point but since the transplant everyone who worked with him seemed to lose their individuality in a sea of faceless underlings, drones whose existence was based around snapping to his soft commands. His sleek black town car pulled up to an equally sleek glass skyscraper. The glass had been tinted green and was interspersed with frames of obsidian. He mumbled the name of his destination to a security guard in the lobby.

He was directed to the 151st floor, some hopeful, grateful voice buried in the back of his mind spoke with an abrasive cheer and reminded him that he’d never have been able to walk up 151 flights of stairs before the operation, maybe he should just to say that he had, after all he had plenty of time before his appointment. A petulant, bitter, far louder voice simpered in return that perhaps he should and his unfeeling misery and run up all 151 flights until his new heart gave out and he ended up in the ground where he belonged. The loudest most omnipresent voice spoke next, it commanded him to simply ride the elevator instead, this voice was the herald the emptiness inside him, a mouth that spoke for the vast abyss where his feelings had once been. He rode the elevator, contemplating whether this parody of life was the price for cheating death? He had been so afraid of the silence and stillness of the grave he’d never considered the idea that they could be draped over him like a burial shroud before he passed away. As he strode down the hall he was steeling himself for some unimaginable and invasive horror. The things his mother would say if she knew that he was seeing shrink. A much younger Clayton had actually mistaken the word “shrink” for a slur such was the venom with which he heard it passed his mother’s lips. He’d used it as a weapon hoping to strike back at a girlhood called him to fragile to play and had been met with laughter that was cruel and worse yet laced with pity.

He entered an upscale reception area suffused with an aura of enforced calm. Diffused light came from a few lamps that had been covered in simple cloths in addition to their shades. Some well concealed noise machine was causing an approximation of the sounds of the surf to bleed through the space, the floor was covered by an enormous, lush, pale green carpet. A portly woman with mousy hair and oversized spectacles handed him the intake forms. He stared at them, his brain lazily processing words like “health conditions, medications, prior diagnoses, history of treatment, presenting issue, drug use, alcohol use, suicide attempts and ideation,” he stared numbly at the forms wondering what the correct pattern of checkboxes was that could possibly communicate what was wrong with him. After several idle minutes the receptionist looked over “don’t worry about it dear many people find it difficult to put in writing, you just have a talk with our provider and she’ll fill one out for you afterwards, it’s no trouble at all.” His mother was laughing at him berating him for his inability to fill out a simple form, his dawdling would make this person’s job that much harder, he was already inconveniencing them and he hadn’t even met them, he was overwhelmed by the feeling that his mirror presence here was a bother.

This entire endeavor was a mistake. For once his body reacted, his pulse hammered, beads of sweat carved frosty path down his brow, he couldn’t get enough oxygen, he was dizzy, his deal with death had only bought him a minor reprieve apparently, he’d come here to discover how to feel alive again and instead he was going to die in this waiting room. Distantly, some part of him wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. The rushing of his blood and the incessant pain in his head brought back memories of the table and what was left of his composure shattered as it was assaulted by those recollections. He heard a faint whirring, it grew louder as though some angry machine were approaching him. His beleaguered mind wandered if perhaps the Grim Reaper rode a scooter? A powerful voice broke through the chaos within him. He was commanded to raise his head, instinctively he did so.

A woman sat in front of him he thought but he couldn’t be sure, his vision swam, threatening to blur into unconsciousness. “Mr. Beresford?” Hearing his father’s name brought a fresh wave of turmoil it felt as though his throat completely closed, in a few moments it was possible that he might be face to face with his father and bare the full brunt of his ridicule for this display of frailty, for the disappointment he caused his father, for the failure of a son that he was. “Clayton?...Clay?” Someone was calling him, it’d be rude not to respond, he couldn’t be rude he would be punished. Reflexively he fought to bring the image before him into focus. He failed, but he was able to force us stammered “Yes?” past his tremulous lips. His effort was immediately rewarded, “Clay I’m Dr Mensah. If you would like I can lead you in a breathing exercise that may provide you with some relief. Would you like me to do that? If not I would like you to know that panic attacks pass and I will stay here with you until this one does.” Her voice was infused with an iron certainty. Clay gave her a weak nod of his head that was almost perceptible amidst his twitching and hyperventilation. She spoke in a calm voice , “I would like you to inhale whilst I count to four, then hold your breath whilst I count to four again then I would like you to exhale whilst I count to four, and hold your breath a second time whilst I count to four final time. We will repeat the process if necessary. She began to count in a determined rhythm. One… Two… Three… Four. As though he was experiencing this from far-flung distant place he was aware of the ritualized pace of his lungs filling, waiting and then emptying. The chaos that gripped him receded ever so slightly. They completed the exercise twice more.

Clay was finally able to open his eyes and properly take in his rescuer. But he had some difficulty parsing the vision that greeted him. Her voice filled his ears again almost hypnotic in its steadiness and placidity. “I imagine that was quite a difficult experience. Would you like to talk about what you are feeling or would you prefer to rest? Perhaps some water? Clay nodded mutely. She turned away from him and the whirring returned, she made her way over to a low table he had noticed before that had the trappings of a miniaturized café. She retrieved a recycled paper cup from a pile and extracted a glistening portion of water from an expensive looking machine. She crossed the space between them accompanied only by the sound of whirring. She offered the cup to Clay. He reached out and nearly splattered it over the both of them. His hands and started to shake just as he may contact with the edge of the cup. He was already prepared with a thousand apologies ready on his tongue, already hearing a lecture from his mother about making a full of himself. But the woman’s grip was steely and sure. The cup hardly moved despite Clay’s embarrassing flailing. Her expression remained unchanged “may I assist you?” Clay’s face was burning with shame that all he could do was nod unwilling to risk another bout of tremors. With one hand she brought the cup to his lips and placed the other at the back of his neck as a sort of support as she tipped the cup up and he drank in the cool liquid. Clay should’ve been humiliated, should’ve been outraged should’ve been indignant. Yes he given his permission but how dare this woman presume to help him in this way as though he were an invalid or worse yet, a child. He was about to make her regret her trespass with some scathing remark but he was consumed by the thought that this woman was the first person to touch him in months since his mother died. He looked down at her and realized for the first time that the source of the whirring had been the wheelchair that she was occupying. “Would you like to accompany me to my office?” All Clay could do was nod, he rose, his limbs being more cooperative than he anticipated. The sound of Clay’s shoes against the carpet was all but inaudible so close to the whir.

He followed Dr. Mensah into a lushly appointed space. Gently lit by fairy lights with a single enormous couch arrayed against one back wall. Round the space there were several chairs pointed in the general direction of the couch. The wall was painted a pale green broken up by paintings of forests, mountains, and oceans.” Please sit wherever you’d like, or stand if you prefer. Make yourself comfortable.” Clay obediently perched on the edge of the couch fighting the natural instinct let himself sink into it his mother had disapproved horribly of anything that ruined his posture. The woman parks her wheelchair directly across from the couch, and waits. They sit in silence for about a moment before Clay blurts out the first thing on his mind. “I don’t like doctors.” “Perhaps it would be better for you to think of me simply as Beatrice then?” Again the only tool in his repertoire was to nod . “I would like you to tell me about what brings you in today if you feel so inclined, I got a glimpse of the distress you experience but I’d like more information so that I may place it within the proper context.” Years of being and vandalized and thought of week have left Clay with a bit of a sore spot around being anything less than perfect in the view of other people. He makes an effort to straighten his back even further and speaks in the distant tone his mother had employed when dismissing other people’s preposterous ideas as she so often did. “Distress? You must be mistaken ma’am. I’m fine.” He stares at her impassive face. The woman before him is perched in what Clayton assumes is an extremely high-end model of wheelchair looking for all the world as if she were in a throne and questioning an errant peasant. Her body framed by black leather and paint of the same color. Her right leg sits crossed over her left, giving Clay the impression that he is but a subject addressing a monarch, he hasn’t felt that way since his mother died. She is dressed for all the world as though she is one of the many high-stakes powerbrokers that have surrounded Clay’s entire life. Cream colored pants and a cream-colored blazer adorn her form, Clay’s first impression of her would have been that she was distant and inaccessible, unconcerned with those beneath her but this train of thought was derailed by the decidedly more human touches that graced her ensemble. Bangles that would’ve been out of place in Wall Street office, a tribal necklace, nails done to perfection but not merely buffed and coated in clear polish as was the habit of ladies on Wall Street face painted with only the lightest coding of makeup, a subtle red to her lips and black around her eyes.. Her nails glimmered a soft lavender color and several rings adorned her fingers. Her hair was in locks and gathered into a regal looking knot atop her head, secured by a lavender colored cloth. As they stared at each other Clay felt that he was being examined by some class of being several orders of magnitude beyond his comprehension. Finally she spoke, her voice bathed in a quiet authority, “people who are fine do not often experience panic attacks in our waiting room, Clay.” With that simple sentence it’s as though she’s drained all of Clay’s reserves of hostility. She continues, “I would imagine that this was the first time you’ve experienced something like that, perhaps your standard experience is more that of numbness?”

The floodgates open and Clay imparts to her all the apathy that has infused his existence since it was restarted that day on the table. She listens as he describes feeling like a windup doll merely going through a set of preprogrammed motions, acting alive but not feeling it. He describes the profound disconnect between himself and his emotions. The well of nothingness that has consumed him. She listens without interruption and when Clay can no longer think of anything to say they are enshrouded in silence. Clay can’t bear silence, it was quiet times like this that he hated the most before the transplant. When there were no distractions around and he could hear his own heartbeat. He’d made a macabre game of counting the beats wondering how many he had left before he hit zero. The average person’s heart beat 3,195,648,000 during their lifetime Clay had been obsessed with cardiology as a child after learning about the ticking time bomb inside his chest. He been able to recite all sorts of minutia related to the organ and its functioning, of course a particular attention was paid to transplants and the various gruesome fates that could await poor souls who had no choice but to undergo them or worse yet be denied the opportunity to do even that. Clay had always known with certainty of the doomed that he would experience but the smallest fraction of that instead. People were supposed to live to around 80 and yet it was a miracle that he made it to 22.

Clay imparts all this to Beatrice in the same unfeeling monotone because the crushing silence summons the screaming voice of his mother commanding him to take control of the situation, do something say something, be the performer that she had raised and not the useless lout. It is with a serene tone that Beatrice tells him that all his feelings are be expected from someone who’d been living on borrowed time, with one parent absent in the other abusive, suffered a near-death experience brought on by betrayal, followed by the trauma of a string of losses. Her words were cloaked in validation and understanding, enshrouded in a sincere seeming empathy. Hearing her speak made Clay want to cry but he knew he would be unable to. The session lit a tiny spark of feeling within him for the first time since his rebirth. Clay instantly became an addict, he booked a session next week and mustering what dignity he could left the office bed goodbye to the receptionist and descended back to the mass of scurrying mortals living their lives far below the glittering towers that had made up Clay’s. His town car was waiting at the entrance to the building, piloted to perfection by Mercy. Mercy was his chauffeur, assistant, bodyguard, confidant, and the closest thing he had left to a friend. She wore a simple black chauffeur’s uniform and, her face bare of any makeup, red hair concealed. Since his death he found it hard to trust people, to let them near him either emotionally or physically. Mercy had impeccable references, a degree in management from Harvard. She was proficient in three forms of martial arts and possessed a frightening level of accuracy when wielding firearms. She was the only one allowed anywhere near Clayton, any requests from his father’s company all were filtered through her, she ran his calendar, made all the arrangements for every facet of his day, and so shepherded him through his life. These two women were the light houses in Clayton’s so-called life. Mercy roused him each day, presented him with decisions that needed to be made, drove him aimlessly through the city, provided his meals, kept up with his medication, she was an almost invisible, almost silent, benevolent guardian. Beatrice in their weekly sessions helped Clayton begin to assess the level of damage that had been done to him long before you died. She helped to foster that flicker of life within him. Until he confronted her with a dilemma that he was certain would cause her to leave him.

Clayton tried his best to bask in the pleasures of life, to rekindle the flame of actually living life. The finest food tasted like bitter ash, and had to be forced down his throat. He walked the galleries and viewed great works of art, pieces that had once stirred his soul. Before he died he could’ve stared at those paintings for hours and been absolutely captivated, now they did no more for him than a child’s fumbling scribble. He visited the Opera and bought expensive equipment with which to listen to his favorite music, everything sounded as though he were hearing it from underwater, dull, distant, and boring. Films that he loved as a child played before him on the vast expanse of his home theater screen, he couldn’t bring himself to connect with a single scene, to feel anything whatsoever. This is where Clayton ran into trouble, he was forbidden from doing anything strenuous, for anyone else that might be fine. However, when you lived in the condition that Clay did nearly any activity that could bring the faintest spark of enjoyment was considered strenuous. No more gentle laps in the pool, no more mild jogs in the park, no more calm morning workouts, anything like skiing or basketball was completely out of the question. So yes, Clayton lived but he wasn’t alive. He took his questions to the Internet he figured what he needed was some shot of dopamine or else a blast of adrenaline but every activity suggested by the thrill junkies in their wild and free death-defying corners of cyberspace was well beyond Clay’s current ability. He was not permitted to travel by plane as the elevation might put stress on his heart, so visions of some faraway location where he could simply bask in the beauty of nature or a new culture would have to remain so. What drove at Clay the deepest however was the physical manifestation of his loneliness, there were days when his limbs failed him and Mercy efficiently helped him dress, her steady hands doing work that his had been ,capable of since he was a mere child. Fastening buttons here, tying laces there. The experience would leave him burning with shame every time despite the fact that he had no pretenses at an invalid such as himself ever being afforded much modesty, let alone dignity. Worse than the shame though was the ache that burrowed deep within him, the lightest touch of her fingers against his flesh soothed the hollow throb within him reducing all-consuming agony to the slightest aching twinge for an exquisite instant. Vicious vultures circled constantly in his mind filling his thoughts with wicked whispers imparting upon him the knowledge that he may as well already be dead, that this wasn’t a life worth living. He laid all of these burdens at Beatrice’s feet, she sent him to a psychiatrist who prescribed first this antidepressant, and then that, the happy pills gave him energy, but no purpose or drive, he was merely a remote control toy whose batteries had been supercharged. He no longer slept until two in the afternoon and the vultures screeching had been reduced to near silence but the absence of that cacophony and the less time he spent in blissful unconsciousness, unburdened by his reality for precious hours he wished he could stretch into eternity, the more he was enveloped in emptiness. When you were always drowning in pain its briefest absence induced an incredible sense of euphoria, there was no pleasurable feeling but the sheer existence of even a single iota of life, of a moment free of agony became a dangerously addictive high, the sort of sheer bliss that all hedonists would trade their souls for. Clay’s realization came through his dreams. The nocturnal adventures that his subconscious conjured for him were often replete with reminders of his suffering. His father’s abuse and death, his mother’s disappointment, Sam’s betrayal and Jack’s complicity, his mother’s death. It was as though his psyche was daring him to find even the single weakest reason to go on, as though some demon, livid that it had been cheated when he escaped death, embarked on a quest to torture Clay night after night, to remind him of all his pain and loss until he saw the price he paid for the cursed gift that was his second chance and chose to reject it, this malignant creature would use his own mind to rake him over the coals, to turn his only sanctuary into a place of torment until he gave in and died, probably by his own hand, then the demon would be satisfied and absconded with his prize back to hell, satisfied in having righted this imbalance of the cosmic scales that had allowed Clay, however transiently to escape his fate.

Having survived the table and experiencing the visions or astral projection or whatever type of hallucination he had during the process had left Clay with at least some ability to command his mind to come to his aid. Like a mantra he hurt himself repeat over and over, “show me something nice, make me feel alive.” Once, twice, thrice, upon the fourth repetition there was a change. It was early morning and the once brilliant light of dawn that would’ve drawn a smile from Clay no matter what his mood had saturated every inch of his apartment. Clay was lounging in his favorite chair, luxuriating in the feel of the plush cushions conforming to his body, Mercy stood over him gently carting her fingers through his hair draining his worries away and causing the slightest flicker to spark in the candle that had come to represent Clay’s joie de vivre…for the first time since his death he awoke hard.

Clay was groggy at first and then conscious of the delicious friction of his cock rubbing against his underwear, the ghosts of dream-Mercy’s hands still gliding over his scalp. He reached down to cup himself astounded at the arousal he felt, it had been so long, since the morning before his death that his body had given him even a phantom help that he might be able to indulge one of his most base urges. He’d miserably resigned himself to subsisting on half memories of his last morning with Sam before he discovered her betrayal, the colors bled from those images and he hated himself. Distantly he wondered if he’d given himself the opportunity to seek other inspiration some thought not tainted with her memory to make him hard if it would’ve worked, but his body was so thoroughly uninterested in the possibility of ever feeling pleasure again right up until this morning. A happy sigh escaped his lips as he teased himself through the fabric of his silk pajama bottoms. In his nascent pleasure his eyes open sleepily and he realized that Mercy was due to enter his room in a matter of minutes to wake him and begin their daily routine. His arm darted out with the speed and urgency he had not felt since that day and he fired off a terse message to her informing her that he intended to sleep in for at least another half an hour. Predictably, Mercy responded with a simple affirmative nearly the instant after his finger pressed the send key.

Without her Clay was free to bask in the return of at least a fragment of what it felt like to be human. Sure, it was the most primitive and unworthy fragment but it was something. He slid his clothes off with trembling h hands gasping at the feel of smooth fabric rubbing over the most sensitive parts of his body. He shivered and his nipples became rock hard as he was exposed to the chill air. The illicitness of the situation alone was enough to have him leaking, he brought a shaking index finger to slit and sent it on a slow journey back to his mouth. The taste of himself sent a spasm of shocked pleasure through his whole body. He had worried somewhere distant in the far dark reaches of his mind that he forgotten this. But resonance of recollections guided his movements and he moaned in quiet pleasure as his hands trailed up and down his body causing every hair to stand on end. He circled the shaft with his right hand and gave it the gentlest squeeze, a spurt of precum issued from the head and he laughed in boyish delight, delirious in the joy of rediscovering the art of self-love. Clayton spat into his hand and returned it to his twitching cock. Under normal circumstances he’d of turned his nose up at the idea of using saliva as lubricant but desperate times called for desperate measures and he was willing to abandon some of his principles for the chance to make this feel even the slightest bit better. He tweaked one nipple and almost embarrassed himself with the keening sound that it tore from his lips, rather he would be embarrassed if enough of his mind was not submerged in an ocean of want and could muster enough conscious thought to care. He brought his hand up to the other nipple and began playing with them in unison delicious shivers and twitches racing up his spine crossing him to cross and uncrossed his legs curl and uncurl his toes throw his head back and moaned as he wallowed in wildly wanton madness, mesmerized by the long forgotten pleasure he was capable of bringing himself. For the stolen half an hour he wasn’t Clayton Beresford Jr, the poor fragile billionaire, he was Clay, a horny 22-year-old like any other across the world who had the strength to do something about it. Delirious laughter escaped his lips as he began to massage his balls rolling them between his fingers gently tugging on the sensitive skin as it sent breathy gasps and moans up his throat. His head thrashed this way and then that in response to his ministrations his body giving a rapturous response to its own performance. Some faraway part of him was aware of the sweat that was beginning to soak his skin and distantly ever so faintly as though he were listening to the memory of the shadow of an echo from deep beneath the surface of water he heard his heartbeat. Clay let out a joyous little whoop as he brought himself closer and closer to that elusive peak of pleasure that he was chasing. His body on fire from the delicious torture, screaming at him that it wanted this, no that, that if Clay failed on this quest to satisfy himself that his very form would punish his loss by severing the single gossamer thread that allowed him to remain tethered to this mortal plane. Retribution for teasing himself and failing to deliver on the ultimate few instance of pleasure that would silence all the noise in his head and the complaints of his overtaxed body would be death, brutal in its suddenness. He felt as though he was quite literally, jerking off for his life. If he didn’t ascend to the peak of ecstasy the fire would reach his heart and it would stop once and for all and there would be no one to sacrifice themselves this time for the sake of him getting his rocks off. The train of thought made him laugh deliriously, winds and moans escaped his lips as reedy, needy breaths were all his lungs were capable of producing. He felt absolutely soaked with pre-come, a glance downward confirmed that there was so much of it that it spilled over his significant shaft and coded the light dusting of pubic hair and had spread to drip off his hips on both sides. He rutted mindlessly against his own hand for a few minutes more chasing ever ascending bubbles of bliss. His jaw hung open, his hair and body covered in sweat, heat rolling off him as though he were running a fever yet still he could not reach his peak, his moans turned to sobs of anguish as he pursued a climax that was constantly just out of reach. His muscle contracted, his heart beat like a machine gun, his cock twitched and spasmed, all to no avail. No! No! No! He wanted to scream with every fiber of his being to roar out his anger and sadness at the uncaring gods who cursed him to live this way, tears streaked down his face as he felt the waves of pleasure begin to crash further and further away from him, for the storm that had gotten him this far to subside. Part of his body began to relax, this was for the best he was pushing himself too hard, this was his new normal and he was condemned to adjust to it. Was he to be denied final satisfaction even after all this momentum had been built up? He snarled in rage, no he looked down at himself and saw that his cock had turned a pained shade of purple and was gushing precum with anticipation, he was so close just a few more strokes, just a bit of a tighter grip, and he would come, come like people all over the world did every day and, he would spend a precious few seconds gliding on a cloud of euphoria. He would be alive again. Clays hips jerked and bucked wildly as, his stomach clenched and his toes curled in anticipation of Nirvana. He let out a guttural, wanton moan, half pleading with his body and have commanding it to finish this, to let his live for just a few seconds, to let him feel. Tears streamed down his face as the pleasure turned to pain and his body refused. Clayton’s desperate wail of sorrow was cut off by a sharp pain in his chest. Agony brought him back to himself and through eyes that could see all too clearly he heard an alarm shrieking on his phone and Mercy burst through the door, her fingers keying in 911 and bringing it halfway to her ear before she got a good look at her employer. The shame roasted Clay alive.

An hour later after a litany of apologies and offers to find her better employment elsewhere and incoherent sobs, he whispered a stuttered explanation of his situation to Beatrice through the phone that Mercy held to his shaking body. His salvation arrived an hour after that. Mercy opened the door to his sprawling penthouse apartment and brought him a simple black blindfold which she affixed for him with customary professionalism. Clayton’s world was reduced to sounds than, he heard the enticing click of high heels on tile as a third person entered his bedroom. “Hello Clayton, I am Madame Olivia, I am a professional intimacy expert, a sexual surrogate, I’ve been informed of your difficulties and asked by Dr. Mensah to lend my talents to provide you with some relief and sense of normalcy. The blindfold was my suggestion as I worried that seeing my face might cause you to feel a sense of shame or unworthiness.” Do I have your consent to proceed?” Clay nods, her voice rings out, gentle yet firm, “Speak when spoken to Clay.” He shudders as a breathless Yes” escapes him. I am going to start out with small but intimate touches and we shall go from there until you give me a safe word.” Clay, what shall be your safeword?” she asked in a tone that spoke in equal measures of clinical competence and indulgent care. With absolute certainty Clay spoke the word “awake.” “And what shall be your return signal if you wish to resume our activities after you’ve used your safeword?” “Starving,” he says with an unfiltered honesty that surprises him.” “Very well.” Her voice is like warm honey, enticing and comforting all at once, but she speaks no more she advances upon him.

Clay has started to drip with anticipation again as he hears the click of her heels signal her approach. Each sharp, sure step a herald of his impending salvation. He whimpers as delicate, elegant fingers encircle his own, he’s only able to stand the rush of emotion and Ron need it comes from the simple pleasure of holding her hand for a pair of minutes before tears prick his eyes and he’s reminded of how pathetic he is before he gasps out his safeword. Instantly the hand is gone from his, as if by magic. If her touch had lit him aflame, her absence had frozen him he’s only able to bear one minute of wintry isolation and a fear of never having this opportunity again before he gasps out the return signal. They spend hours like that in a tortuously slow dance of advance and retreat, her hand moves from his to his forearm to his shoulder to his neck. He can only stand a few minutes of each touch at a time but even sooner he’s calling out for her again. She gently massages his neck and he mewls with pleasure. Only stopping her because he feels as though he could come from this alone. After his retreat is canceled and she moves forward once more her enchanted, soft hands caress his hair and rub gently against his scalp. He’s floating on waves of satisfaction. Eventually her fingers brushed delicately over the blindfold and he imagines that he can feel them running ever so gently over his eyelids themselves. Over the course of another few minutes she makes her way down to his nipples and begins to work them so much more softly than he had, he cries from the pleasure. She trails her hand over his abdominal muscles rubbing gentle circles into the quivering flesh. When he thinks that she’ll at last reaches caulk she takes a detour and skips over entirely and begins rubbing gently at his feet, massaging them with oil, that warm and has him twitching and gasping from the sensation of pleasure it’s causing to run through his body. They have to take five separate breaks before she is able to complete her work with his feet. Satisfied, she runs her hands back up his body and gently encircles his drenched caulk in her hand, his fluids mixed with the oil on her hands and create a divine sliding sensation free of all but the barest trace of friction behind the blindfold his eyes rolled back in his head. It feels so different from when he had done it in that ill advised session earlier, her hand is much smaller and more delicate than his own, the feel it creates is velvety. It smelled different the first time too, his fumbling attempts had filled the room with the smell of sex, sweat, and desperation combined with the odor of sadness. Now his senses are filled with the gentle floral notes of her perfume, some spice that seems to be emanating from the oil she uses, the faintest trace of his own arousal. The sounds are different as well, before they had been wild and desperate now his soft sighs, whimpers, groans, and moans, along with murmured pleas gently collide with the otherwise quiet air around them. She fondles his balls and works his shaft, tweaking and pulling just so. They are however engaged in a delicate balancing act, her mission is to help them achieve orgasm without putting too much strain on his body. It would be easy this would be over in a matter of minutes instead of the hours it’s taken so far if he could handle even the slightest bit of rougher or more frantic treatment. But the flame of pleasure inside him needs to be gently stoked and built up over time so that it does not burn him again. Eventually her hands wander back up and down his body in soothing patterns that he is not quite aware of. She returns and applies a helping of oil here and there massaging his chest tweaking his nipples in a heavenly rhythm and allowing his cock to relax and soften again before making another attempt. The edges of anger and desperation well up inside Clay and he begs her to be just a bit rougher with him let her nails dig into his skin to get this over with so that he no longer has to be spread out and vulnerable before her so that he can get off just like any other god damn young man in the city. She gives no verbal response instead she merely places her hand against his throat and squeezes gently, the most gentle of threats. His mouth goes dry as she massages his Adam’s apple and he murmurs an apology even as he can feel himself spilling a bit of pre-come at this change in dynamic.

There’s one part of his body that she’s avoided so far the garishly ugly scar that came with his new hollow existence. Clay can even bring himself to look upon it in the mirror. Eventually she slowly let her fingers trace it and he gasps as the sensitive scar tissue reacts to attach and waves of pleasure rolled down his body. He wants to stop her he wants to beg her not to do that not to remind him what he is not here in this safe place where it’s just the two of them under Mercy’s watchful eye. In response to his mumbled protests she merely presses harder against scar rubbing soft little circles into it that have him making a high keening sound somewhere between distress and pleasure. Tears fall freely from his eyes and soak the blindfold as he shakes his head vigorously but he cannot bring himself to use the safeword. She must sense that he’s conflicted about this because she redoubles her efforts rubbing it gently and stoking the flame of pleasure that she spent hours coaxing to life and to reaching new heights safely. Clayton can feel himself dripping, that’s not new he’s been absolutely soaked and alternating between rock hard and soft but hypersensitive in this slow burn arousal he’s been feeling for what feels like an eternity now. “Let go,” she commands. Clayton can only desperately shake his head filled with the new fear that if he does come that the fire will burn him again and stop his heart and he’ll die right here right now, he doesn’t like the way he’s living but he doesn’t want to die he’s terrified suddenly petrified of what the end of this night of pleasure will mean. “You’re safe, I’ve got you,” let go she impresses upon him yet again. Clayton is openly sobbing now. He knows he could use the safeword and bring this to an end but he’s trapped between death by fire and death by ice because he knows that stopping her before she’s done will kill him just as surely as allowing her to finish. “Let go,” Her words are infused with an unshakable authority as though she’s an angel giving a pronouncement from on high. Faced with that command, Clayton begins to relax, plenty of people say they want to die during sex. If this is how his life is going to end it’s not such a bad way to spend his final few moments he thinks, wryly. She leads him right up to the edge. No longer fighting his resisting body he allows himself to get closer and closer to oblivion pre-come pouring from his cock and his entire body shuddering, loud noises of pleasure leaving his mouth, but he’s unable to take that final step, to allow himself to plummet into a free fall of pleasure, until she presses a lingering kiss to the scar adorning his chest and says “Good boy.” Clayton’s world explodes. He hadn’t ever realized what the slow journey up the hill of pleasure could feel like, always concerned with raising up the mountain. It’s as though he’s burning but not with heat, as though he swallowed liquid sunlight all his nerve endings dance in pleasure, as electricity travels up and down his spine, his muscles clench for all their worth one final time and for the moment right before release he suspended in beautiful agony before his muscles relax and a euphoric moan leaves him as his cock spurts wave after wave of cum in the air, painting his stomach, torso, lashes and brows in his own seed. Tears, sweat and cum stain him and blend together as he collapses back onto his pillow and falls asleep, a beatific smile, his first since he died, adorning his angelic face He’s finally alive again.

#clay beresford #smut #awake

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shirbertshitposts · 4 years

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Things you can do to help Anne With An E be Renewed

There are so many different ways big and small you can help in the fight to get Anne With an E renewed. I’ll do my best to compile all the ways you can contribute.

1) One of the easiest ways to let networks know there is a demand for more Anne With an E is to request it on their help page. Request Anne with an E season 4 so they know you want the show to continue. There is also no limit to the number of times you submit requests.

https://help.netflix.com/en/titlerequest

https://help.disneyplus.com/csp

For Disney+ click “Give Feedback” then “Request a film or show” then you can type in Anne with an E season 4

2) Watch Anne with an E on Netflix. Just constantly stream it in the lead up to the season 3 premiere. When the show premieres Jan 3rd make sure you stream the new season that day and in the days after. Not only do we want Netflix to know that the new season has a big audience, but we also want as many people watching at the same time for the show to make it to the “Popular on Netflix” category. New people may be attracted to the show if they see it is popular on Netflix.

3) Write emails to Networks. Netflix and CBC are not the only options when it comes to Networks that could renew Anne with an E, since it seems that the rights to the show are currently owned by Northwood Entertainment the production company behind Anne with an E. Many other fans have done the hard work of compiling lists of emails of network executives. I will provide links to various tweets I have seen with important emails. (of note, most will probably not check their work emails again until after the holidays, so you can draft emails now and send them out after Jan 1st) Also below is a google doc that includes emails of many network executives.

https://twitter.com/LeaOux/status/1205485569691680768

https://twitter.com/KindredsParty/status/1208518970002870272

https://twitter.com/KatVal11/status/1206141522820976640

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1StN_dHgHjhPhYkfgS_7AbeMbmu0KXhrtJW1ytAASUaw/mobilebasic

Template for writing emails and email addresses to send emails to: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1nkEu-ZyIiBkCABleKRBLU21T8lRSwRxwWXuVDZ7cxeo/mobilebasic

4) Write emails to magazines, newspapers, websites, etc. Any form of Press about Anne with an E will draw attention to the show from people who may not have heard of it before. You could write emails to ask them to cover the news of the show's cancellation, to review the new season, to discuss certain topics the show addresses that set it aside from other shows and more. Anything that you could dream up that could be an article that could be written about Anne With an E you could pitch the idea to someone to write about.

5) Appealing to other fandoms with similar interests. Two big movies that are about to drop that have an audience that may be interested in a show like Anne With An E, would be Little Women and P.S. I Still Love You (To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before sequel). Little Women is also a period piece with a feminist heroine, so you could point out the similarities in the stories’ themes to appeal to fans of that film (which premieres Dec. 26th). For P.S. I Still Love You, the big connection is that in the third book of the To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before trilogy, Forever and Always, Lara Jean, Lara Jean states that Gilbert Blythe is her ideal man. Screenshots of this quote have been going around all over tumblr and twitter since the P.S. I Still Love You trailer dropped. The selling point could be that if you enjoy the films and relate to Lara Jean then you should check out the stories and adaptions of those stories that Lara Jean considers peak romance. ( It also helps that the premise of the films relies on love letters and AWAE season 3 features love letters as well). When entering into other fandoms tags to recommend Anne With An E make sure you are always being RESPECTFUL and don’t just spam the tags with Anne promotion. You could always create side by side edits of the two programs to demonstrate how similar they are. Basically, make sure your posts in their tag don’t seem like a blatant promotion for AWAE.

6) Rate Anne with an E on IMDb. (Note: It is listed as Anne(2017) on IMDb). Right now Anne is listed in Top 250 TV Shows, but it is toward the bottom of the list at #248, with an average show rating of 8.4 stars. If enough fans rate it, the show could move up on the list, which may attract new people to watch the show. You can rate the show overall, and rate each episode individually. Plus you can leave a review.

7) Watch the Anne With An E Netflix trailer and share it with others. The more views on the trailer the better. The trailer is available on Youtube and Instagram. On twitter, people are organizing trailer boosting parties for Dec 23rd - Dec 30th.

This calendar shows when trailer boosting parties have been planned detailed descriptions of what those events include with links to tweets and posters

https://calendar.google.com/calendar/embed?src=potatolightbulbs%40gmail.com&ctz=America%2FNew_York

8) Sign the petition for the show to be renewed and get anyone you know who likes the show as well to sign it as well.

https://www.change.org/p/netlfix-awae-fans-renew-anne-with-an-e-for-season-4?recruiter=916548586&utm_source=share_petition&utm_medium=copylink&utm_campaign=share_petition

9) Recommend the show everywhere. On twitter search “What to watch on Netflix” or “tv show recommendation” and reply to any of these tweets with Anne With An E and maybe a reason why you recommend the show. If someone has already recommended Anne With An E don’t recommend it again, we don’t want to spam or annoy strangers. This can also be done on reddit search “What to watch” , “Netflix recommendations” , “Period Piece” and comment on any of the relevant results with Anne With An E.

10) Tell EVERYONE you know to watch Anne With an E. A great way to spread the popularity of the show is by word of mouth. People trust the opinions of people they know, so your friends and family are more likely to listen to your recommendations than strangers on the internet (but there is no harm in trying #9 anyway).

11) Continue to be your amazing creative selves. Gif sets, fanart, video edits, memes, etc. All of these can help attract new fans to the show, so continue to create and post things related to Anne With An E.

12) Make bookmarks or small promotional posters and leave them in public places. I have seen a trend of this on twitter and it's not a bad idea. One amazing fan even took it to the next level and made tiny posters that have QR codes on it that when scanned takes people to the Anne with an E trailer or the show on Netflix. Below is a link to tweets showing what those looked like and how they dispersed them.

https://twitter.com/itsMaeWithAnE/status/1208618422768033792?s=20

Here is a tweet thread with templates for the posters if you want to print them out yourself:

https://twitter.com/itsMaeWithAnE/status/1208816797555671040?s=20

13) Buy official merchandise for the show and wear it around. You could be a walking advertisement for the show if you want (and can afford to). There is different merch available on the official Anne With An E shop website and on Amazon. Also sales of the merch may be considered by networks when they consider whether to renew the show.

https://shopannewithane.com

https://www.amazon.com/stores/page/A8C18641-8ECE-4892-A276-6A0A952A125C

14) Join the r/Anne community on reddit. There has been some encouragement to grow the size of the community on this thread because it shows a static number of how many people are apart of it. This number could be used to approximate how much interest there is in the show. It currently only has 2.5K members. Even if you’re not very active on reddit, joining the subreddit would be helpful.

https://www.reddit.com/r/Anne/

15) Donate to the campaign to have a billboard to promote the show. Details can be found on the gofundme page.

https://www.gofundme.com/f/renew-anne-with-an-e?sharetype=teams&member=3295372&rcid=r01-157601384514-6d847f2ab5bb49bd&pc=tw_co_campmgmt_w&utm_medium=social&utm_source=twitter&utm_campaign=p_lico+share-sheet

16) Donate to campaign to run instagram ads for Anne With An E. More details on the gofundme page below.

https://www.gofundme.com/f/anne-with-an-e-season-3-ad-campaign

17) Let’s Make Some Noise Campaign. Some fans are encouraging people to write messages on white rags, like the ones the avonlea students use during their protest, and sending them to various streaming networks or Northwood Entertainment, the production company behind the show. Details can be found in the tweet below.

https://twitter.com/kindredsparty/status/1206624186342559745?s=21

18) Rate and review Anne With An E on Rotten Tomatoes. You can do this for each season. Currently there are a fair amount of negative reviews so it would be incredibly helpful to explain why you love the show. Good reviews would attract new potential fans to start watching.

19) Vote Anne With An E up on Ranker.com lists. This might attract new get people interested in the show if it consistently ranks high on lists of best shows.

https://m.ranker.com/list/the-best-new-original-shows-on-netflix-hulu-and-amazon-of-the-last-few-years/ranker-streaming?ref=also_ranked&pos=2&a=0&l=85370943&ltype=n&g=0

20) Take care of yourself. THIS ONE IS MOST IMPORTANT. Don’t sacrifice your health in your efforts to get the show renewed. If you need to take a break please do. Also don’t feel guilty if you need to step away or you can only do one or two things on this list. Every effort counts and is greatly appreciated.

I’ll try to update this as more stuff comes up. Good luck with all your efforts Kindred Spirits!

Remember “Dreamers change the world”

#anne with an e #awae #anne shirley cuthbert #anne with an e season 3 #renew anne with an e #anne with an e spoilers #awae spoilers #awae s3 #save anne with an e

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bartzechariah · 3 years

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shannygoatgruff · 4 years

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Big Scary Love

(Header made by the talented @flowers-in-your-hayr)

For @a-mess-of-fandoms Kayla’s 1K Writing Challenge: Prompt #20 (prompt in bold in text below)

Characters: Ivar || Ubbe

Genre: Romance

Warning: None

Rating: PG

Summary: A little brother seeks approval as he’s about to make the biggest decision of his life.

A/N: I was supposed to have written and submitted this one-shot for @a-mess-of-fandoms months ago, but I suck! I have struggled with this thing so much. I have literally rewritten it 19 times. I don’t know why one-shots are so hard for me. The only have to be one scene, but I struggle with did I choose the right scene, how much do I want to say about it, did I find resolution? Needless to say, I was never happy with anything I wrote. It still didn’t turn out exactly as I hoped, but it’s close.

Congrats on your many followers! I’m sorry I’m so late.

Big Scary Love

Lothbrok’s Bar and Grille sat approximately two miles south off of exit 131B between Kattegat and Hedeby.

Established in 1990, the bar was built from the ground up by the Sigurdsson brothers, Ragnar and Rollo, as a place where the blue-collar people of both towns could get a good meal and stiff drink. It was also the place where Ragnar’s sons had grown up and naturally where they chose to carry on the childhood tradition of their monthly family game night.

Dating back to when Bjorn first taught Ubbe and Hvitserk how to play Go Fish, when they were the ages of 6 and 4. respectively, the boys would meet at a table in the back of the restaurant to play games. It helped keep them close, especially since Bjorn lived in Hedeby with Lagertha and the other boys lived in Kattegat with Aslaug. But, the bar was in the middle, on neutral territory. It provided a place where they could all gather and remain close when distance and the common dislike between the adults threatened to tear them apart.

Almost thirty years later the tradition continues at 7:30 pm on the third Thursday of the month. Bjorn and his wife Gunnhild, Ubbe along with his wife Torvi, Hvitserk and his girlfriend Amma, Sigurd with his boyfriend Kalf, and Ivar who vowed to start bringing his girlfriend, Cami, would gather, at the table in the back left corner, to play the game of choice according to whose name was next on the chalkboard.

Watching the door, Ivar’s brows raise when he recognizes his older brother cross the threshold. Slowly, he continues to organize the colorful money so that all the faces aligned in the same direction and before placing it back in the bank. A quick nod acknowledges the fact that Ubbe is headed to the bar to get a drink before he takes a seat at the large table in the back corner of the room, already set for the brothers’ monthly game. Tonight’s game is his pick, Monopoly.

Ubbe shivers slightly, trying to knock off the outside chill as he brushes the fresh snow from his black wool pea coat. As he approaches the bar, he removes his gloves and smiles at his younger brother. “Hvitserk,” he sings, clasping the younger Ragnarsson’s hand before drawing him into a manly hug, “How’s it going, brother?”

“Pretty good,” Hvitserk answers patting his brother on the back with a smile, “What are you doing here so early? We’re not supposed to meet for another,” he looks up at the clock built into the ship’s wheel on the far wall, “hour.”

“Ah,” Ubbe puts one his foot on the wooden rungs of the bar stool and balances his weight on his other leg while he plays with the coaster, “Ivar asked me to meet him here early.” He looks over his right shoulder toward the table in the back and holds up a finger to his youngest brother and then points to the bar to ask if he would like a drink. “Do you know what’s up with him?”

“He probably wants you to help him cheat,” Hvitserk explains as he takes the towel from over his shoulder and wipes down the side of the bar to Ubbe’s left. “The usual?” He prepares two drinks, when Ubbe holds up two fingers, for both of his brothers. “Oh, Angrboda just made a huge pot of Helga’s seafood stew.”

Ubbe’s eyes light up as he nods his head, “That sounds great. I’m fucking freezing. Send over a large bowl with bread, yeah?” He knocks on the bar twice, as is customary, before picking up the glasses and makes his way to the table.

Ubbe sits the drinks on the table and smiles cheerfully, “Hey, baby boy.” He walks around and hugs his brother’s head before leaning down to kiss him on the top of his hair, “How you doing, kid? You good?” Receiving a pat on his forearm, he playfully pushes Ivar away before flopping down on a chair beside him.

“Hey,” Ivar answers watching his brother sit, holding an awkward smile on his lips, “thanks for meeting me early.” He takes a look out the window at the falling snow covering up his uneven footprints on the sidewalk, “It’s getting bad out there?”

“Nah, not really. Should have a good covering come morning, but nothing too bad.” Ubbe picks up his glass and takes a drink, stretching his lips across his teeth as the sour taste of the vodka gimlet settles on his tongue. He takes note of the way his brother is arranging the game pieces and watches for a moment before he speaks, “So…what’s going on? Why did I need to meet you here before the others?”

Ivar takes a sip of the Guinness Stout and picks up the Chance cards to arrange them all in the same direction, “Well, uh, Ubbe. I wanted to talk to you, about…about, Camille.”

“What about her?” Ubbe isn’t sure where this conversation is headed. He’s only met her a handful of times and she seems nice enough, though he’s not sure she’s the one for Ivar. There’s no reason for him to feel that way, it’s just something in his gut that says the relationship will be short-lived.

“So,” Ivar takes in a deep breath. Having rehearsed his speech for the better part of the day, he struggles to remember to pace himself and breathe, “You know we’ve been together for a little over a year now and things are going in a really good direction with us. She’s moving in with me. We’ve even talked about looking for a small house together.” He looks up from the game box to gauge his brother’s reaction. Unable to read Ubbe’s face he continues, “I want to ask her to marry me.”

Ubbe coughs down the gimlet that gets caught in his throat as he swallows. He sits back in the chair and leans against the backrest folding his arms across his chest. He tries to keep his mouth closed to let his brother finish but the words start to spill out his mouth, “Oh, Ivar,” he chuckles, “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“Why because she’s Afro-Latina and not Viking? I thought you of all people would understand that our differences don’t matter to me. Hell, I’m different, and it didn’t stop her from wanting to be with me,” Ivar defends.

“Of course not, brother. I’m not a dick,” Ubbe places his hand on his brother’s arm to calm him, “I only meant that she’s your first girlfriend. I get that you’re excited, and everything is still pretty new with you two. But, you don’t have to run out and propose to the first girl that you -” he raises his brows and ducks his head to signal Ivar what he’s talking about. “You will have lots of relationships. You will meet a ton of beautiful women that will blow your mind in bed. Hell, you might even want to marry them all. We all know Bjorn tries to,” both brothers chuckle at that, “but it’s not necessary.”

“You don’t understand, Ubbe.” Ivar interrupts, “it’s not like that.”

“You don’t understand, kid. Bjorn will never release your shares from this place before you’re 30. Especially not if he knew you would be just turning it over to some girl and knowing you it would be without a prenup. Without the interest on that trust, what will you do for money, huh? Work for Hvitserk?” He raises his brow at Ivar while ignoring the flash of anger in the younger man’s eye. “Rollo and Father put every dime and ounce of sweat they had into this restaurant to give us a legacy. You are too young to remember, but there were nights when Father would not come home because he was here laying the foundation, brick by brick. There were also many times when Mother had nothing but soup to feed us all because there was no money to buy meat; father spent it all to see his dream come true. His dream was for us to have a better life and we did. When he died, we all got a piece of this place and the money from it is for our future.”

Ubbe blinks his blue eyes thoughtfully at the younger man beside him, “Besides, baby boy, you are so impulsive – as soon as you get an idea, you jump on it. You don’t always think things through. Have you really thought about this?”

“When Bjorn decided to join the Army and go to war, we didn’t tell him he couldn’t go. We let him go live out his dreams of being one of the Avengers. And was Hvitserk being impulsive when he decided that he wanted to take this place over after Helga died? He did not know the restaurant business. Liking to eat and running a restaurant are two different things, but none of us tried to talk him out of it?” Ivar rolled his eyes and slammed the game cards onto the board, “We all rallied around him and pooled our money together to help him remodel this place how he wanted. We promised that even if he fucked up we would pitch in and help keep this place afloat. My money is here, too. I should be able to have it if I want it.”

“But, Ivar…”

“I’m not finished, Ubbe,” Ivar runs his fingers through his long, loose hair and pulls it over to one shoulder, “When you decided to marry Torvi, a woman that had three children that weren’t yours, did any of us say anything? No. We could see that you loved her and that she made you happy and that was enough. And Sigurd? He was scared as hell to tell us about Kalf, but in the end, it was fine, because he’s our brother and we support each other. But why not me?”

Ubbe takes another drink and sets his cup down silently. He regards his little brother and smiles at him softly, “Because you, my little Ivar, are my baby brother and I don’t want you to get hurt.” He squeezes Ivar’s shoulder lovingly, “I have always looked out for you. I have been your legs since you were a child. You are a part of me, brother, and I must protect you.”

“You can’t protect me from love, Ubbe. She’s my big scary love,” Ivar’s eyes drop bashfully as the blush stains his cheeks.

“Your what?”

“That’s what we call it – big scary love. You know that love you feel all the time, but sometimes you wake up in the morning and you just say to yourself, ‘I love the fuck out of this woman?’ It’s that love that after a year I still feel fluttering in my chest when I hear her ringtone and why my world spirals out of control when I see tears in her eyes. And she loves me that way, too, Ubbe. I mean, look at me,” he opens his hands in surrender, “In my opinion, the best thing you can do is find someone who loves you for exactly what you are. Good mood, bad mood, ugly, pretty, handsome, what have you. Well, she does. She loves me like that and so much more. My legs, crawling around, breaking bones, the pain, my temper...hell, she loves me despite those things. To her, they are just additional sides of me to love.”

Ubbe listens to his brother, trying to keep the tears that threaten to spring to his eyes at bay. He can hear it in Ivar’s voice that he is truly happy. Now, he regrets not getting to know Cami better, but he admits to himself that he did not think that their relationship would last. “I am happy that you found love, Ivar.”

“She’s pregnant.”

Ubbe unintentionally holds his breath as he tries to think of something else to say, but no words will come out. Why can’t Ivar see what he’s doing? This is all the more reason for him not to make this mistake.

“That’s not the reason why I want to marry her, though.” Ivar smile doubles in size as he thinks about the prospect of becoming a father, “I’ll admit the idea of having a baby is like…fuck! But, I want to marry her because I want to make her my family. I want it all, Ubbe; a family of my own, with her. She’s it for me.”

“So, what do you want from me?”

With a shrug, Ivar relaxes, “Your permission? Your blessing? Congratulations? I don’t know. You’ve always been my favorite brother – I guess I just want to know that I’ll still have you in my corner. I don’t give a fuck about the money from the restaurant. If Bjorn wants to be an ass and tie it up for years, so be it. I’ll get a real job and stop living off of the family name. The only thing I want is Mother’s ring. I want to propose the right way…and maybe you in my corner.”

Ubbe cups one hand around Ivar’s cheek and gives him a few hits, “My baby brother has finally grown up!” Leaning in, he places his other hand on Ivar’s other cheek before pulling his face toward him to kiss him on both cheeks, “You’re going to be a father and husband! I’m so proud and happy for you! Of course, I will stand up for you, brother. All I have ever wanted was for you to find your own happiness.” Ubbe can’t stop the laughter coming from him as he notices Hvitserk coming over to the table. “And it would be my honor to give you Mother’s ring.”

“Sorry, it took so long. Porunn was late for her shift again. Know any good people needing a job? I could use some help around here.” Hvitserk says, sitting the bowl of soup on the table. He looks at his brothers and smiles at them laughing like loons, “What are you idiots up to?”

Ubbe gives Ivar a knowing smile as he hugs him around the shoulders. “Nothing. Just our brother here has some wonderful news to share tonight when the others arrive.”

Nodding, Hvitserk punches Ivar’s arm and picks up Ubbe’s glass to toast, “Well, to whatever your news is, Ivar,” he clicks glasses with his youngest brother and finishes off Ubbe’s drink. “I’ll get you another, Ubbe.” As he turns to walk toward the bar, he yells over his shoulder, “And you’re not banker during Monopoly tonight, Ivar. You always cheat!”

Tags: @youbloodymadgenius @idea-garden @kol--mikaelson @mooniemouse @didiintheblog @waiting4inspiration @tempt-ress @where-beauty-goes-to-die @crazyaboutmotleycrue @oddsnendsfanfics @geekandbooknerd @ivarthebloodyking @honestsycrets @xbellaxcarolinax @zuxiezendler @inforapound @a-mess-of-fandoms

#big scary love #ivar lothbrok #ubbe lothbrok #ivar ragnarsson #ubbe ragnarsson #ivar lothbrok fic #ubbe lothbrok fic #modern ivar #modern ubbe #vikings fanfic #vikings fandom #shannyland #kayla's 1k challenge

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princess-sengoku · 3 years

Text

Secret Santa Fanfic

@hunny-pp This is for your request in Secret Santa for this year. I hope this is great. Merry Christmas to you and Merry Christmas to everyone else. AAAA My first fanfic to be posted on Tumblr :')

Carnival Competition

Rating: K

Modern AU

Summary: Shingen and Kenshin are going to Osaka carnival to see who can win the most games at the carnival.

The carnival's in town as everyone from all over the land of the rising sun go to one of the most underrated festivals in the land; Osaka Carnival. The fun games, great food, and amazing rides that it had was all in good fun for everyone to enjoy. Once Shingen heard for himself that the carnival was going to be in town tomorrow, he just had to call Kenshin to join him for the carnival. He was disappointed that he didn't show up last year, then again they weren't dating at the time. Maybe this year would go in his favor? He and Kenshin could at least compete in the games, kinda like a battlefield? Shingen was in Osaka for a quick vacation and the carnival would be the top of the cake. With that in mind, Shingen picked up the phone and began to text to Kenshin.

Shingen: My stoic dragon "nemesis", are you still awake?

Kenshin was comfortable on his futon at his Castle, just starting to head off to bed and sending a quick prayer to Bishamonten to thank the god of war for allowing him the pleasures of life. There was wine, business, and finally Shingen. Shingen was probably one of the most worthy friend and business partner he could ask for in this life. Although he didn't show much happiness on his stoic face, his actions show that he cares for him, especially when he accepted to be Shingen’s boyfriend. Speaking of Shingen… 'Bing Bing'. Kenshin heard his phone go off. "It is almost time to go to bed… Who's texting me?" He said, visibly annoyed. He picked up his phone and once he saw the message, he softened a little bit. It was Shingen.

Kenshin: Tiger of Kai, my "nemesis", I was about to go to bed, but I can talk for a bit.

Shingen gave a good-natured chuckle at Kenshin's message sent a couple of minutes later. Of course he forgot that Kenshin would be getting to bed around this time.

Shingen: Sorry about that, I was hoping maybe this year we can go to the carnival together. Think of it as a date.

"A date?" He mouthed to himself. When was the last time they had a date together? It had been a while. They were both taking it slowly so they wouldn't be discovered and to have it at a carnival, that everyone was going to…

Kenshin: Are you sure you want me to go?

Shingen was not giving up on making him go to the carnival. They were always competitive when it came to the games. A lightbulb went off in his head. He can use the games as an excuse for him to go.

Shingen: I bet I can win a lot more games than you. Don't worry I'll give you some prizes :)

Shingen always knew how to push Kenshin's competitiveness button. They both were like strategists in their own businesses but eventually one must come on top eventually. He really now was interested in this carnival but he would conceal his intentions to him.

Kenshin: It is tempting to go to the festival to have a friendly competition. Go have fun. Good night "nemesis"

Shingen shrugged at his message. At least he tried to convince him to go. At the back of his head, he did feel that Kenshin would come here. He just had that hunch.

Shingen: Good night. Don't have a rough night.

As soon as he got Shingen’s message, Kenshin got dressed again, called his limo driver, and took a blanket. He would now begin to surprise Shingen to the festival date. "Shingen, let's see who wins the most games." he thought with confidence. They always liked competitive plays over each other. He just thought of what kind of games would be there to play as the limo left with him inside, going to Osaka, as he drifted to sleep.

~The next morning- 8 AM~

Shingen saw the shining sun glimmer in the curtains as morning came and he was just starting to wake up from the tiger's slumber. This short bald man yawned as he sat up in the bed, slowly getting his act together. It was also very hot today when the festival and vacation was in the summer. He could only imagine what the south had to deal with like the Shimazu in the summer. After 10 minutes of just sitting there, he finally got up to brighten the room. The curtains opened and Shingen shielded his eyes from the brightness a bit. Once it got adjusted, he finally saw a limo in front of the hotel. It had the Uesugi symbol on the side and the limo was white. He could see Kenshin come out the doors. "Hahaha, I knew Kenshin would be here!" Shingen said to himself. He put on a tiger print t-shirt with some khaki shorts and some sandals.

Kenshin walked out of the limo with a nice short sleeved buttoned white shirt with white pants with some nice black loafers. He was casually sleeping the whole ride so he would be well rested for today. Carnivals are mostly energy sucking. The driver let him know he's here so he doesn't have to rest during the day. "Great Bishamonten, please give me strength to have fun today and beat Shingen in a whole bunch of games." He prayed. They both met in the lobby and gave a hug. "Haha, I knew you would come. So are you ready for the carnival?" Shingen asked. Kenshin gave a small smile and nodded. "I am. Looking at the clock means that it had just started." Said Kenshin as he looked at the clock which read 9:00A.M.

Looking out at the carnival laid out before them, it was full of life and high fun energy. Many games, food stands and other attractions can be seen before them. People were walking around them full of laughter and friendly talk. You can't really hear what they had to say because there were so many people and they were loud. Shingen and Kenshin simply walked side by side together holding pinkies looking out at what games they should play.

The first game they saw was kinda strange with a huge log and there were lines in the ground. Musashi was actually the one hosting that game. "Hey you two! Do you want to try the log toss? 1 yen to try it and the rules are clearly read on the sign." He managed to get Shingen and Kenshin's attention. "You want to have a go Kenshin?" Asked Shingen. "Sure" said Kenshin blatantly.

They both walk up to the wooden sign. It was well made with no chances that anyone can get a splinter and it looked really smooth for writing on as shown in words that are painted on. It says the following:

Log toss:

'You throw a log as far as you can. This can be played for competition. If you are solo, you win a prize no matter what. If you are against each other, then the winner gets a prize.'

Shingen was known to do some lifting at the gym sometimes, Kenshin watched him while he worked so he knew as well. They've decided to do the competition version. The prizes included stuffed animals, posters and pins. Shingen went first as he went and picked it up by the sides then he spinned around a few times getting ready for the wind up. He threw it up and away pretty far and it landed with a thud and the ground shaked a bit. Musashi ran to where the log went with a measuring tape and a flag. "150 feet-1st person!" Musashi announced. Kenshin smiled at Shingen’s impressive performance. It was as expected for him as was a worthy challenge for Kenshin to try to beat.

"You're next Kenshin." Shingen said as he stood back with a smirk, a smirk that Kenshin loved a lot. "I have practiced a bit in lifting." Kenshin remarked as he picked up the log. He winded up by standing back a bit then using the force that he gathered to launch the log forward as he stepped forward. It flew not as high as Shingen did but it definitely was going far. There was a thud in the distance and Musashi was running fast with the other marker. "Not bad! It's about… 160 feet. The second person wins!" Musashi announced happily as he went to pick out a prize. Kenshin kissed Shingen on the forehead proud of his own victory. "Well done 'nemesis'." Shingen said, congratulating him. Musashi gave Kenshin a big tiger plush. 'It would be perfect for Shingen.' Kenshin thought.

Many hours go by with more prizes, food, the times they went through a funhouse and a haunted house in a succession while holding many little toys, pins, posters, more stuffed animals. It was a lot to carry for a long time, then again they had played lots of games. Games were ring toss, balloon pop, guess what's approximately in the jar, bumper cars, test your strength, and many other games.

It was the last few minutes of the carnival to be open for the day. There was one more game they wanted to try for a magnificent dragon plush. Shingen was immediately reminded of Kenshin when he saw that plush. "Kenshin! Before we go let's try this game!" They both look at the bucket of water with ducks floating right along. The sign read the following:

Lucky Duck:

'You hook a duck on the hook stick provided to you. Get a star duck (which the star is on the bottom) to win any prize you want.'

"This game sounds simple and quick." Kenshin remarked. "You can do this game." Said Kenshin as he gave the game owner 1 yen to play the game.

Shingen concentrated on the pond itself like a fire trying to get hotter by the minute. Any of those ducks could have a star on the bottom and any number of the ducks could have stars. They all looked the same. All he could do would be to guess which one had the star and which ones didn't. He took the hook stick on the ground and just went for it, eyes closed. When he opened them again, he looked underneath the duck and a gold star was at the bottom. He won the game and the dragon. "This is great!" thought Shingen as he got the dragon in his hands.

As Shingen turned he saw Kenshin take the tiger plush out of the mass of prizes they won and handed it out like it was a gift for him. Shingen saw a slight blush on Kenshin's stoic face. "So umm… this is for you 'nemesis'." Kenshin said in a softer voice than usual. Shingen laughed out of kindness a little, knowing that Kenshin wasn't used to the sometimes sweet moments of their relationship. "Thank you 'nemesis'. In return, I will give you this dragon I just won." Shingen blushed a little bit as he received the tiger and Kenshin received the dragon. They soon divided all of the prizes in between them. Shingen’s vacation would go on and Kenshin would join in for the last week that Shingen had left.

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P.S. as a bonus I give you some headcanons of the pairing on google slides that I made myself. This helped me create the fic lol.

#pokemon conquest secret santa #samurai warriors #kenshin uesugi #shingen takeda #shingen x kenshin #musashi miyamoto

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thevoilinauttheory · 4 years

Text

FFXIVWrite2020 Prompt #13 - Extra Credit

Character(s): Caromont Allard, Astrid Allard; a couple unnamed tutors and teachers. Setting: Sharlayan (Motherland); approximately 1475 of the Sixth Astral Era -- approximately 1480 of the Sixth Astral Era -- approximately 1494 of the Sixth Astral Era, just before the events of Prompt #22 What: Caromont is introduced to his new abilities, much to his dismay. Content Warnings: Explicit physical and emotional, familial, abuse; implications of trauma Author Notes: My spouse wanted more Caromont lore, so I used it as my extra credit prompt. Honestly, that’s all I gotta say. I had fun writing this one, because Caromont is my “enigma” character. Everything about him is hidden under the veil of the classic case of amnesia, but even if he does remember - no one ever knows, he doesn’t communicate if he’s remembered anything or not. So even in my private RP with my spouse, he’s still something of a mysterious character. --

Violet eyes cast a glance outside of the window of his classroom, it was a nice day. He was stuck here. Again. And again. And again. Everyday it was the same thing. When the click of a switch against the podium at the front assaulted his ears, he flipped the page of the book in front of him with no regard to the words written. Another snap, another page. There were whispers of other students beside him - he paid no mind. There were clouds to watch and he was far more interested in those. Crack, flip. Whap, flip.

“Allard!”

The boy’s head whipped to the front suddenly, his attention drawn by the sudden shout of his name. When he realized it was just his teacher, his posture relaxed, eyes squinting into a pure sense of utter boredom. He exuded it as he slid his arm over his desk to rest his head on his fist. The eye contact showed that he was listening… at least more intently than before, yet he said no words. His teacher walked her way to his desk, snatching up his textbook.

“The answer to number four, please.”

A deliberate attempt to sabotage him, taking away the text he paid no attention to and asking a question on it. It would’ve made any student fluster, yet the boy didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. “Teleporting is breaking down your aether and confluencing it with the Lifestream, carrying you to your destination so long as you don’t break contact with your thoughts. There are dangers to teleporting, such as losing focus and losing self - where your aether cannot conjoin together. Other effects can be severe aether sickness, crystal sickness, and possibly ending up at a different location.” Before any words could be spoken, he continued. “Aether sickness is caused by an increased intake of aether, causing a variety of symptoms such as nausea, vomiting, migraines, dizziness, vertigo, and temporary blind and deafness. There is no known cure for aether sickness, and it’s recommended to just let it pass. If it does not, though, a transfer of aether can be used to reduce the amount of aether stored in another’s body.” A sharp inhale. “This can also lead to aether deprivation, where there is too low of aether in another’s body; causing malnourishment, lack of appetite, inability to move certain body parts, loss of certain bodily functions, and numbness - death, within a matter of bells or suns.”

His eyes turned back to the window. “Answers four, five, and six. I am paying attention, and I dislike that you are accusing me of not.”

His teacher let out a soft sigh, setting his book down, then returned to the front of the class - allowing the child to continue daydreaming in peace.

When his classmates filed out at the first sound of the bell, he gathered up his belongings slowly and meandered his way to the door. “Caromont.” “Mm?” “Stay here, your mother will be arriving shortly.” “What did I do wrong? I answered your questions, did I not?” She shook her head. “It’s for both praise and punishment. You’re above your class clearly, but it feels as if you’re not invested in this path.” “I am not, I would much rather be doing something else.” “Then why do you continue?” “My mother wants me to. It’s the best way to make money and take care of my family.”

There was another shake of her head, yet she gestured to the door. “Take a seat outside.”

When his mother appeared, near stomping down the hall; heels clicking- he hated that noise. She could afford nice heels, but not a proper bed for her children. Nice clothes, nice makeup. In his loathing, he neglected to realize she was right beside him and a hard yank on one of his ears made him cry out. “What did you do this time! Ungrateful child, I send you to school and you do nothing but get in trouble!” “I do not want to be here, regardless! Let go!” He tried to pry her hand off, but her nails caught the cartilage, causing a sob to break from him. “Stop!”

“Mrs. Allard, if you please.” His teacher caught her before a hand could crack over his face - a save he couldn’t have been more grateful for. She seemed to recognize the situation, then smiled. “There is naught for him to be punished. I wanted to give only praise and a proposition.” A change in her previous statement. “Is that right? Why didn’t you say so before?” His mother let go of his ear, following his teacher inside the classroom while he was left outside to tend to his injured and now bleeding ear.

“I wished to convey just how brilliant your son is, he is far ahead of his peers in his aetherology studies - and I believe he is ready to move on to higher skills. Might I suggest astrology? He seems keen on being outside, and studies regarding the stars would allow him that enrichment he needs. He could be Sharlayan’s greatest healer with just a bit more effort and motivation from outside sources, such as his family.” She stacked up some papers, sitting herself down at her desk. “I can provide the necessary documentation of his successes, and present it to the head of the board. He’ll be ready to move on by next moon. Until then, I would have him stay and take tutoring classes to help him further. No extra charge, I assure you.”

“I see… if you believe he’s got that much talent wasting away in him, I suppose moving him forward wouldn’t hurt. Tutoring - if he’s so brilliant, then why--” “Because he will be entering in the middle of the school year, Mrs. Allard, and he will need to catch up on everything his new peers have already learned. Just because he has mastered this class does not mean he is a born master of every other class. You expect too much of the boy, he needs to be nurtured, and he needs to grow; and I will be frank with you - you are stifling him. Do not get in his way, or you will be the cause of the rift between you and your family.”

“Take your reading now, Caromont - allow yourself to connect with the gates as we last practiced. Your first reading is always the most important, to see your progress.” His mentor sat on the other side of the desk from him, watching intently to Caromont’s now bright-eyed enthusiasm to his new path. He hadn’t thought of astrology - while Sharlayan was well known for their astrologians, he never considered something like that to speak to him.

The first card was flipped over. “The Spire.” He spoke softly, and he allowed the card to speak. It hurt at first. He rubbed at his temples and within a few seconds his head hit the table as if he had fallen asleep there. His mentor quickly stood to check on him, frightened that something might have gone wrong - but when his head snapped back upright with his eyes wide, he turned to his mentor in tears. “...I- I-... I am sorry… I did not mean…” “What is wrong, child? Dear heavens, I thought you had performed a spell wrong.” “N-No.. I just. My reading is for you… and this position is the past, with the Spire, and… I saw. I saw what happened, I…” “Saw? You saw the past with the flip of a card?” “I just wanted them to speak to me…” “Cards don’t speak, Caromont. The stars do. I think… we may need a different tutor for you. I do not know if there is anyone with your talent, but. I do know that we have a section of professors and students all learning about an innate ability we have called the “Echo”. I would like to make certain that if you do have the Echo, you have a proper tutor to teach you about it - despite the fact that it manifests differently in everyone.” He gestured to the cards again. “Sit upright this time, against the back of the chair instead of forward. Close your eyes after drawing the card.”

He followed. The next card was drawn. “The Spear.” Immediately, he closed his eyes; still the tears fell. He shook his head as his eyes opened again. “...Maybe I should not do readings on you… I see too much.”

“No, this isn’t the Echo.” “Are you sure? What other explanation could there be for such a talent?”

Caromont was the talk of the Studium. Professors and peers wanted to know more about his ability - this was the day that his enthusiasm turned to responsibility. He hadn’t realized it yet.

“The stars speak right to him!” Those were the rumors. There had to be more, a person, or magic… something was doing this to him. He delved in libraries for years to tell him, what was he, what was he supposed to do? Everyday it was another person in need of help - everyday he had to make the choice whether someone should live or die - how heavy a burden on a man barely thirty winters old. Was this his fate and destiny? His cards were blank when he tried to read them for himself - like the stars only spoke through him, rather than to him.

He stood out in the dark, up at the sky did his eyes turn. He was never a wishful thinker, he was studious, uptight, he had to be the responsible one. This was the night he cried. He cried and he cried - how many more times would he have to sentence people to their deaths, how many more times would he have to tell people that there was nothing he could do. He would take the fates into his hands time and time again, always promising to never do so again. Everytime, the consequences of doing so would be worse than the original outcome - the fates ever escaping his grasp. He only wanted to help, why was he burdened with this responsibility?

#ffxivwrite2020 #prompt #history will be written #reading the stars #about: Caromont Allard

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bro-stoevsky · 4 years

Note

Could I please request Hartving and the class differences prompt? Love your writing!

oh friend. please understand i tried with this one. i really tried. like i have seen the terror approximately 5,000 times and i still started this fanfiction by googling “hartnell the terror” so that’s the level of sophistication you’re dealing with. this is my first attempt at writing either of these guys and I hope you like (don’t mind?) it! thank you for this prompt & sorry in advance

Tears Into Thy Bottle

In which Tom Hartnell’s brother dies under mysterious pre-canon circumstances, Irving tries to do a Good Deed, and no one is happy for even 30 seconds.

Tom Hartnell removed his brother’s things from his sea chest one by one, feeling miserable and invasive. The chest had been left in disarray; the unruly boy who came home so many times with mud on his knees had, in the end, not even had a clean shirt to be buried in.

Hartnell took out trousers, the badly-folded coat John had worn on land, a pipe, and another pipe. Shoes that would not fit him and shirts he did not need. When he came upon a silhouette portrait of a woman he looked it over, curious, for a name, and his heart throbbed when he recognized their mother. He would have to be the one to bring her the news. He would tell her that her firstborn son had carried her portrait from Gillingham to the end of the map, and kept on carrying it.

“Alright, Tom?” He tore his eyes from the portrait, noticing belatedly that someone had put a hand on his shoulder. It was Harry Peglar of the foretop, quiet and tactful. “Mr. Armitage is here for you, Tom.”

“Mr. Armitage?” said Hartnell, not understanding what the gunroom steward would want of him or what interest he might have in a dead man’s old clothes.

“Mr. Armitage,” Peglar affirmed. “He has a message for you.”

Armitage was indeed there waiting, wringing his hands. “I’m awful sorry,” he said, “but Lt. Irving would like to see you, Tom.”

It made less and less sense. “Lt. Irving? What could he want with me?”

Hickey laughed. The crass, rude caulker’s mate had been somewhat in John’s orbit, at arm’s length but never entirely rejected, and he had come for his share of the dead man’s tobacco.

“What couldn’t he want, that one? I’ll tell you what I think: you on your knees,” Hickey paused for a long time as he puffed on his pipe, grinning as he held everyone’s attention. With visible relish he reached his conclusion: “In prayer.”

All at once, Hartnell’s friends hissed at him.

“Can’t you show some fucking respect,” said Gibson. “His brother’s just died.”

“And the good lieutenant will pray for his soul,” Hickey replied.

“See what the lieutenant wants,” Peglar advised, “and I can keep my eye on John’s things. I’m sure you won’t be long away.”

Hartnell nodded, rising to follow Armitage up and aft to the officers’ cabins.

“Lieutenant,” said Armitage as he knocked on one of the doors. “Tom Hartnell is here for you sir, as you asked.”

The door slid back. Hartnell knuckled his forehead.

“That will do, thank you, Mr. Armitage,” said Irving. “Mr. Hartnell. Will you come in? I’m afraid there isn’t much room, but I should like to speak privately to you.”

“Aye, sir,” said Hartnell, and stepped inside. It was the finest and most rarified place he had been aboard the ship, and it disappointed him to discover that the cabin was miserably small, little more than a bed and a cramped writing desk. Irving’s bed was neatly-made and there was a writing set on his desk, a sheet of unmarked white paper waiting for him. Hartnell searched these items for a clue in Irving’s purpose and could find nothing.

Irving shut the door behind him. “I grieve for your loss,” he said, meeting Hartnell’s eyes. “Your brother was a good seaman and well-liked. Will you accept my condolences?”

“Of course, sir,” said Hartnell, uncomfortable. He had known that Terror’s third lieutenant had a serious, searching gaze, but to have that wide-eyed attention pointed toward him at close quarters was unnerving.

“You do not need to stand,” said Irving, himself taking a seat at his writing desk. There was nowhere else to sit except the bed, and Hartnell hesitated at taking that liberty. “Please be at your ease, Hartnell. I’m sorry I can’t offer you a chair, but the bed will do you just as well. Are you—have you had your rum? I could call Mr. Armitage back.”

“I have had it, sir.” And more besides—the bosun having seen fit to measure out a final tot for John. He sat down on the bed, and the frame creaked. “There is nothing else I need.”

They passed a moment in silence. Irving laced his fingers together and separated them. “Death is harder to bear when it comes far from home,” he said. “It should not be so but it is. Would it comfort you for me to say that it matters not a whit, how far we roam? For our true home is in Heaven, and on Judgment Day your brother will not be forgotten.”

It was not comforting at all, and in fact Hartnell did not like to think about Judgment Day or any of the other more dreary Christian aspects. “Thank you, sir.”

Irving sighed. “But I haven’t eased your mind a bit. I can tell from your face. You know, I asked Lt. Little for permission to speak with you, and his reply was, ‘If it please you, only don’t frighten the boy with your talk.’ And of course that’s just what I’ve done.”

“It would have to be worse than that to frighten me,” said Hartnell.

“Good man,” said Irving. His face did something that was nearly a smile, and it made his gaze less uncomfortably luminous and more congenial. “You know it was never my intention—is never my intention—to be such dismal company. Of course it would have been better for me to have said something more benign, your brother is on a cloud somewhere looking down on you.”

“You would not be the first to tell me so,” Hartnell admitted. He had, for the better part of the afternoon, been assured that John watched over him and sang in a celestial choir and would guide them all to the Passage.

“I know it. And you have all my compassion. It is only that I think it is a hard world, and it does us no good to pretend it is not governed by hard philosophy.”

This was altogether more speech than Hartnell had heard from an officer in his entire career at sea. He looked at Irving and was reminded that this man was very near his own age, and the only officer to wear a beard, very probably to obscure the boyishness of his features. From his conversation, it was clear that he did not find much sympathy with his views from his fellow officers—at once the tiny room and the privilege of privacy seemed horribly lonely.

“You make sense to me, sir,” said Hartnell, a little unsure who was being comforted.

Irving smiled completely. “You are kind to say so. But I had asked you here in the hope that I might provide you a more practical service. I do not know when we shall next have the opportunity to post the mail, but when we do, it will be better to be prepared. Should you like to send a letter to your mother, I will gladly take it down for you.”

“Sir?” The blank sheet of paper and the inkwell was explained, then.

“Your mother—she is living, yes? I thought I had seen it in the purser’s log.”

Hartnell saw her in his mind’s eye. He wondered if it was possible she did not already know what had happened. Surely she did. Surely the mystical powers bestowed by motherhood had alerted her already to calamity. And if not, John would have found some way to inform her.

“She is living,” he affirmed. “But sir, I can read and write.”

Horror dawned on Irving’s face. “I had not thought,” he said. “But of course you can. It was not my intention to insult you—I shall not take more of your time. Will you please express my consolation to her?”

Hartnell felt his face flush as he realized his misstep. He had contradicted an officer, the very thing that above all was not done in the sea service. For even young, even lonely, Irving was the third lieutenant of their ship and his word was as God’s to the ratings. But Hartnell’s mind was soft and fatigued with grief and he had not reacted correctly.

He tried to revise his story: “I should not have said that, sir, forgive me. I mean I can read and write a little, but not very well. I should be glad of your help.” He wondered, in the back of his mind, how Irving proposed his mother to read the letter, if she had indeed raised an illiterate child.

Irving’s smile in response was enough that Hartnell was ashamed to have thought any ill of him. Young, he thought again, and lonely.

“Is this time convenient?” Irving asked, already wetting his pen.

Hartnell thought of his brother’s sea chest—the mess that John had not meant anyone to see, the junk that had turned in the space of a few hours into relics of the dead, the heartbreaking portrait of their mother—he had no desire to return. He had no desire to see any of it again, to dole it out to their friends, to hear the caulker’s mate make his crude remarks. “There is nowhere else for me to be,” he replied.

Irving gave him that shy look again, and wrote something on the sheet. “I am writing an introduction,” he explained, “in case she does not recognize the writing. And then you may say what you like, and I’ll write it down.”

“Can you start out with, ‘My dear Mother—’ or, ought I to put our location at the top?”

“I have already done so. ‘My dear Mother,’ it is a very good beginning. What then?”

“And then—I should go to the point. ‘I have terrible news,’” he tried to think of how to put this terrible news, but he could not take his mind away from the sea chest. He thought of his mother, darning one of John’s shirts, complaining that he was too rough on them. He thought of her portrait, which John had never showed him. “‘Terrible news, Mama,’” he repeated again, and when he tried a third time his voice broke and he began to weep.

Irving set down his pen. “Hartnell?” he asked, and there was a scrape of his chair as he crossed the step or so to the bunk. “Hartnell, let me get you a handkerchief—I have one—” there was a clattering of things around the desk, and then Irving was handing him a white square of fabric.

“Forgive me, sir, ” said Hartnell, wiping at his eyes and his nose. “I should return to the fo'c’s'le. I am not fit for your company. You have been too kind already.”

Irving sat down beside him, and after a minute’s hesitation took Hartnell’s hand in two of his own. “There is nothing to forgive. Come now—come now, your brother is with God.”

Grief did nothing to dull Hartnell’s other senses, and he realized that Irving’s palm was damp. He thought, distantly, of the propriety of their position, and Hickey’s crass remarks, and he was not compelled by these objections. It did him good to feel another living person beside him, someone whose attention was only on his comfort.

“Do you think so, sir?”

“I am certain,” said Irving.

They sat in silence for some time as Hartnell reeled himself in and regained his composure.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said again, looking at the handkerchief. The initials J.I. were embroidered on it. “I can wash this.”

“Do not trouble yourself,” Irving replied. He withdrew his hands. “It is a gift. As for the letter—I should have seen I was keeping you from your mates. Perhaps we shall try again tomorrow.”

“Of course, sir. But you’re not keeping me from anything.”

Irving stood up, and paused during his step to the desk. He looked at Hartnell again—shy, round-eyed and eerie—and he nodded with satisfaction. “Stay then, and we will finish your letter.”

#my fic #it's saturday night time to post MISERABLE FANFICTION #hartnell x irving #sort of #they just touch hands #sorry to psalm 56 #and god #also i am just noticing that this is my 666th post #so extra sorry to god

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The 4 Golden Rules of UI Design by Nick Babich

The user interface (UI) is a critical part of any software product. When it’s done well, users don’t even notice it. When it’s done poorly, users can’t get past it to efficiently use a product. To increase the chances of success when creating user interfaces, most designers follow interface design principles. Interface design principles represent high-level concepts that are used to guide software design. In this article, I’ll share a few fundamental principles. These are based on Jakob Nielsen’s 10 Usability Heuristics for UI Design, Ben Shneiderman’s The Eight Golden Rules of Interface Design, and Bruce Tognazzini’s Principles of Interaction Design. Most of the principles are applicable to any interactive systems — traditional GUI environments (such as desktop and mobile apps, websites) and non-GUI interfaces (such as voice-based interaction systems).

The UI design principals are:

Place users in control of the interface

Make it comfortable to interact with a product

Reduce cognitive load

Make user interfaces consistent

1. Place users in control of the interface

Good UI s instill a sense of control in their users. Keeping users in control makes them comfortable; they will learn quickly and gain a fast sense of mastery.Make actions reversible – be forgivingThis rule means that the user should always be able to quickly backtrack whatever they are doing. This allows users to explore the product without the constant fear of failure — when a user knows that errors can be easily undone, this encourages exploration of unfamiliar options. On the contrary, if a user has to be extremely careful with every action they take, it leads to a slower exploration and nerve-racking experience that no one wants.Perhaps the most common GUIs where users have the ‘Undo/Redo’ option are text and graphics editors. While writing text or creating graphics, ‘Undo’ lets users make changes and go back step-by-step through changes that were made. ‘Redo’ lets users undo the undo, which means that once they go back a few steps, they are able to move forward through their changes again.‘Undo’ can be extremely helpful when users choose system function by mistake. In this case, the undo function serves as an ’emergency exit,’ allowing users to leave the unwanted state. One good example of such emergency exits is Gmail’s notification message with an undo option when users accidentally delete an email.

Create an easy-to-navigate interface

Navigation should always be clear and self-evident. Users should be able to enjoy exploring the interface of any software product. Even complex B2B products full of features shouldn’t intimidate users so that they are afraid to press a button. Good UI puts users in their comfort zone by providing some context of where they are, where they’ve been, and where they can go next:

Provide visual cues. Visual cues serve as reminders for users. Allow users to navigate easily through the interface by providing points of reference as they move through a product interface. Page titles, highlights for currently selected navigation options, and other visual aids give users an immediate view of where they are in the interface. A user should never be wondering, “Where am I?” or “How did I get to this screen?”

Predictability. Users should be provided with cues that help them predict the result of an action. A user should never be wondering, “What do I need to press in order to do my task?” or “What is this button for?”

Provide informative feedback – be acknowledging

Feedback is typically associated with points of action — for every user action, the system should show a meaningful, clear reaction. A system with feedback for every action helps users achieve their goals without friction.

UI design should consider the nature of interaction. For frequent actions, the response can be modest. For example, when users interact with an interactive object (such as a button), it’s essential to provide some indication that an action has been acknowledged. This might be something as simple as a button changing color when pressed (the change notifies the user of the interaction). The lack of such feedback forces users to double-check to see if their intended actions have been performed.

Show the visibility of system status

Users are much more forgiving when they have information about what is going on and are given periodic feedback about the status of the process. Visibility of system status is essential when users initiate an action that takes some time for a computer to complete. Users don’t like to be left seeing nothing on the device screen while the app is supposed to be doing something. The use of progress indicators is one of the subtle aspects of UI design that has a tremendous impact on the comfort and enjoyment of users.

Accommodate users with different skill levels

Users of different skill levels should be able to interact with a product at different levels. Don’t sacrifice expert users for an easy-to-use interface for novice or casual users. Instead, try to design for the needs of a diverse set of users, so it doesn’t matter if your user is an expert or a newbie.

Adding features like tutorials and explanations is extremely helpful for novice users (just make sure that experienced users are able to skip this part).

Once users are familiar with a product, they will look for shortcuts to speed up commonly-used actions. You should provide fast paths for experienced users by enabling them to use shortcuts.

2. Make it comfortable for a user to interact with a product

Eliminate all elements that are not helping your users

Interfaces shouldn’t contain information that is irrelevant or rarely needed. Irrelevant information introduces noise in UI —it competes with the relevant information and diminishes its relative visibility. Simplify interfaces by removing unnecessary elements or content that does not directly support user tasks. Strive to design UI in a way that all information presented on the screen will be valuable and relevant. Examine every element and evaluate it based on the value it delivers to users.

A good example of an app that follows the ‘less is more’ approach by avoiding overloading the interface with content or features is iA Writer.

The interface of iA Writer app is a clean typing sheet with no distractions. It allows users to focus on what they’re writing and hides everything else.

Don’t ask users for data they’ve already entered

Don’t force users to have to repeat data they’ve previously entered. Users are easily annoyed by tedious data-entry sequences, especially when they have provided all the required information before. Good UI performs a maximum of work while requiring a minimum amount of information from users.

Avoid jargon and system-oriented terms

When designing a product, it’s important to use language that is easy to read and understand. The system should speak the user’s language, with words, phrases, and concepts familiar to the user, rather than jargon or system-oriented terms.

Apply Fitts’s Law to interactive elements

Fitts Law states that the time to acquire a target is a function of the distance to and size of the target. This means that it’s better to design large targets for important functions (big buttons are easier to interact with).

It’s also important to remember that the time required to acquire multiple targets is the sum of the time to acquire each. Thus, when working on UI design, to increase the efficiency of an interaction, try to not only reduce distances and increase target sizes, but also reduce the total number of targets that users must interact with to complete a given task.

Design accessible interfaces

When we design products it’s important to remember that a well-designed product is accessible to users of all abilities, including those with low vision, blindness, hearing impairments, cognitive impairments, or motor impairments. Good UI is accessible UI because improving your product’s accessibility enhances the usability for all groups of users.

Color is one of the elements of an interface that has a strong impact on accessibility. People perceive color differently — some users can see a full range of colors, but many people can only make out a limited range of colors. Approximately 10 percent of men and one percent of women have some form of color blindness. When designing interfaces, it’s better to avoid using color as the only way to convey information. Anytime you want color to convey information in the interface, you should use other cues to convey the information to those who cannot see the colors.

Use real-world metaphors

Using metaphors in UI design allows users to create a connection between the real world and digital experiences. Real-world metaphors empower users by allowing them to transfer existing knowledge about how things should look and work. Metaphors are often used to make the unfamiliar familiar. Take the recycle bin on your desktop, which holds deleted files, as an example – it’s not a real trash bin, but it’s visually represented in a way that helps you understand the concept more easily.

Engineer for errors

Errors are inadvertent in the user journey. Bad error handling paired with useless error messages can fill users with frustration and lead them to abandon your app. A well-crafted error message, on the other hand, can turn a moment of frustration into a moment of conversion. An effective error message is a combination of explicit error notification together with hints for solving the problem.

Even better than writing good error messages is having UI design that prevents a problem from occurring in the first place. Try to either eliminate error-prone conditions or check for them and present users with a confirmation dialog before they commit to the action. For example, Gmail prompts you when you forget to insert an attachment.

Protect a user’s work

Ensure that users never lose their work. Users should not lose their work as a result of an error on their side (i.e. accidentally refresh a web page with a form that has user input), a system error, problems with an internet connection, or any other reason other than those that are completely unavoidable, like an unexpected power loss.

3. Reduce cognitive load

Cognitive load is the amount of mental processing power required to use a product. It’s better to avoid making users think/work too hard to use your product.

Chunking for sequences of information or actions

In 1956, psychologist George Miller introduced the world to the theory of chunking. In his works, Miller says the human working memory can handle seven-plus-or-minus two “chunks” of information while we’re processing information.

This rule can be used when organizing and grouping items together. For example, if your UI forces users to enter telephone numbers without normal spacing it can result in a lot of incorrectly-captured phone numbers. People cannot typically scan clusters of ten or more digits to discover errors. That’s exactly why phone numbers are broken up into smaller pieces.

Reduce the number of actions required to complete a task

When designing a user interface, strive to reduce the total number of actions required from a user to achieve the goal. It’s worth remembering the three-click rule, which suggests the user of a product should be able to find any information with no more than three mouse clicks.

Recognition over recall

One of the Jakob Nielsen’s 10 usability heuristics advises promoting recognition over recall in UI design. Recognizing something is much easier than recalling it because recognition involves more cues in our brain (cues spread activation to related information in memory, and those cues help us remember information).

Designers can promote recognition in user interfaces by making information and functionality visible and easily accessible. Visual aids, such as tooltips and context-sensitive details, also help support users in recognizing information.

Promote visual clarity

Good visual organization improves usability and legibility, allowing users to quickly find the information they are looking for and use the interface more efficiently.

When designing layouts:

Avoid presenting too much information at one time on the screen. This results in visual clutter.

Remember the principle ‘form follows function.’ Make things look like they work.

Apply the general principles of content organization such as grouping similar items together, numbering items, and using headings and prompt text.

4. Make user interfaces consistent

Consistency is an essential property of good UI—consistent design is intuitive design. Consistency is one of the strongest contributors to usability and learnability. The main idea of consistency is the idea of transferable knowledge — let users transfer their knowledge and skills from one part of an app’s UI to another, and from one app to another app.

Visual consistency (style)

Users should never question the integrity of a product. The same colors, fonts, and icons should be present throughout the product. Don’t change visual styles within your product for no apparent reason. For example, a Submit button on one page of your site should look the same on any other page.

Avoid using different styles for elements on different pages of the site. Users should not have to wonder whether a transformed button like this example means the same thing.

Functional consistency (behavior)

Consistency of behavior means the object should work in the same way throughout the interface. The behavior of interface controls, such as buttons and menu items, should not change within a product. Users don’t want surprises or changes in familiar behavior — they become easily frustrated when things don’t work. This can inhibit learning and stop users from feeling confident about consistency in the interface. Do not confuse your user — keep actions consistent by following “The principle of least surprise,” to have the interface behave the way users expect it to.

Consistent with user expectations

People have certain expectations about the apps/websites they use. Designing your product in a way that contradicts a user’s expectations is one of the worst things you can do to a user. It doesn’t matter what logical argument you provide for how something should work or look. If users expect it to work/look a different way, you will face a hard time changing those expectations. If your approach offers no clear advantage, go with what your users expect.

Follow platform conventions. Your product should be consistent with standards dictated by platform guidelines. Guidelines ensure that your users can understand individual interface elements in your design.

Don’t reinvent patterns. For most design problems, proper solutions already exist. These solutions are called patterns. Popular patterns become conventions and the majority of users are familiar with them. Not taking this solution into account and continuing to design your own solution can lead to challenges for users. In most cases, breaking design conventions results in a frustrating user experience — you’ll face usability problems not necessarily because your solution will be wrong, but because users won’t be familiar with it.

Don’t try to reinvent terminology. Avoid using new terms when there are words available that users already know. Users spend most of their time in other apps and on other sites, so they have certain expectations about naming. Using different words might confuse them.

Conclusion

The goal for UI designers today is to produce user-friendly interfaces: interfaces that encourage exploration without fear of negative consequences. Without any doubt interfaces of the future will be more intuitive, enticing, predictable, and forgiving, but most principles of UI design listed in this article will surely be applicable to them, too.

Source https://xd.adobe.com/ideas/process/ui-design/4-golden-rules-ui-design/

#ux #ui #uidesign #ui development #uxdesigner

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