#clawing out of tutorial hell

[jtshock-devlog]

10/1/2023 Update

Howdy! I made a lot of progress this week regarding developing my room algorithm. I accomplished most of my initial goals. It isn't pretty, but it is functional and that is what matters. There is a lot to be improved, as the way I generate the hallways and similar is not very robust and breaks really easily, which in turn can cause a lot of issues, such as many crashes (seriously, I'm trying to fix the problem since I crash almost every 4th time I try running in debug mode or regenerate the rooms).

As always, here are some cool WIP screenshots during the development this week.

This was the first ever test of actually trying to spawn walls lol! It wasn't long before I managed to get it to actually work!

Godot has been pretty straight forward so far and it really helps that they have native C# support, else this all would've taken a lot longer. After I managed to get 1 room generated, I then implemented the logic for other rooms.

I got a proper algorithm to ensure no rooms would generate on top of each other, and it has worked well so far! Once I knew I could make multiple rooms, I then focused really hard on getting the hallways. I am not 100% happy with how my code works for the paths, as it only really works for L hallways and I already want to try and work on refining the dungeon algorithm before I go super far into developing other mechanics for the game. However, what I have works for now.

The corridors were backwards! This was a headache to fix mainly due to sloppy code. But eventually...

I ironed out a few more cases afterwards, but I had it good enough I wanted to implement spawning in the player/ other actors within the dungeon. It made me really learn how the node system worked in Godot and it actually is very intuitive, I like it a lot. This all culminated in this short video!

And that is where my development is! I am having a lot of fun and really proud I figured out most of this stuff on my own, only looking up some basic stuff or what a function is called.

My current goals are going to mainly comprise of refactoring and cleaning up the room generation and tile placement. But the next big hurdle is figuring out how to handle the Turn-Based combat & updating. Definitely a big goal but I am excited to figure it out! Gonna be busy this week with more schoolwork, but should have plenty of time to keep developing.

[cilil]

Today I unearthed a folder in which I saved some good memories from school, mostly drawings and doodles I made together with friends or by myself, and it's making me emotional.

I... found that I made fanart for a game I loved at that time and... the art wasn't bad. Especially for a teenager and beginner artist (yes, I am a beginner artist to this day, it's embarrassing, I know). The art was cute, even has some attempts at shading and converting colors to black and white. I like it. A lot actually.

And now I just sit on my bed, holding these old sketches, and wonder why I never pursued art. I loved it so much. I had fun. My younger self wouldn't have kept these drawings if not, and my older self can see it on the paper, in every line, every stroke, every tiny grain of pencil dust.

What made me think that this wasn't worth pursuing, not worth trying again until many years later? What discouraged me? I don't remember an exact moment or anything; the only thing I know for sure is that I knew and believed - and know and believe to this day, to be honest - that there's a lack of innate ability on my part and that others my age are so far ahead and were back then as well. Hell, I've been behind since I failed to color within the lines in kindergarten.

It feels and felt like a fool's errand to deal with my clumsy hands and messed up back for hours just to end up with something that is... maybe charming in my eyes, but so, so subpar in the grand scheme of things.

I stuck to writing in the end because it was the only thing people said I was good at. And I'm glad I - just this once - had the courage to do so and to keep going and, eventually, push myself into sharing it on the internet too. Through sheer delusion and determination and lots, oh, lots of writing I clawed myself up to a place where I feel just confident enough in my skills to not constantly question myself and happily create.

And therein lies the answer for art as well, doesn't it? "Just keep trying, just put in all those hours and days and months and years of work for it as well, until your hands bleed and your back gives out, eventually you'll get there! Talent is not required either!"

But it's not that simple. I'm not sure I can do this again, muster enough courage and delusion to be terrible for years until I finally start making things that go from subpar to mediocre. And maybe never from mediocre to decent or even good.

When I learned to write, I had other people's claims that I was talented to fall back on and wasn't as hopelessly behind other people. Now motivation is lower and frustration is higher. Learning curves and empty canvases paralyze me; the last time I made art it took me 2 full hours until I could push past it. Not to mention that I'd picked out all references and tutorials and everything a week before.

Where does this leave us? What will I do, you ask? Well. Even if I never beat these demons I can assure you that, every once in a while, the urge will overcome me and I will attempt something. Maybe I'll learn and improve just a little by accident. Maybe I'll even get my ass up and actually learn sometime.

I am technically currently doing an art event somewhere else, so at the very least I will be forced to make a few pieces.

And I know myself a bit better these days. That also helps.

I know that, if anything will get me past the demons, it's obsession, the need to illustrate my own fics and, most importantly, porn.

[wrenanigans]

SAW A SKYRIM POST YOU REBLOGGED. SKYRIM FAN???

YES! New skyrim fan! I finally started playing the game 12 years after its release and I am HOOKED! I’m gonna use this ask as an excuse to ramble so uh, long post beware xD

Okay so my first ever run has been the most chaotic shit. I just finished the main questline, but it was a JOURNEY to get there.

I’ve been playing with my gf @bucca2 who introduced me to the game. The first thing she did, as soon as we got out of the tutorial (and got mods working, including multiplayer), was take me to a little farm up north to meet somebody. “You liked Kefka, I think you’ll like this one,” she said. Cryptic and concerning! And I found this wagon and met Cicero.

To quote Aby, “Yeah, honestly, it was like taking a kid to Disneyland for the first time. There was this quiet wonder in his voice like he was discovering magic was real...honestly, I wish I had been recording. It was very adorable. He was hooked from Cicero's first voice line.”

Dude, when I say “blorbo at first sight” I mean I was down bad in an instant. I was writing fanfic based on that interaction alone (with some helpful hints from Aby). I had dreams about the bastard on night one. I got obsessed.

That feral enthusiasm did not wane as the game went on, because I went straight for the Dark Brotherhood questline. I was the Listener before I had even spoken with the Greybeards. I even updated a mod from an old Skyrim edition myself so I could marry Cicero. I was all about that wretched little fool and it was making a fool of me.

With Cicero as my first companion, I went onto the Thieves’ Guild quests next. Did you know that you can fail the tutorial pickpocketing quest? Because that’s what I did! They recruited me anyway. I got up to the Sepulcher quest, but never finished it, so I just have the skeleton key xD

When we assassinated the vampire in the DB questline, I got infected, and decided “eh, why not!” So I became a vampire. This made the inheritance of Bloodchill Manor extra fun — I simply sat back and watched the bloodbath! I only had to lift a finger when the Dawnguard came knocking xD

I went to the Bards’ College next. We’d “acquired” an expansion mod for it (do not get me started on other modders who charge for their shit. i have strong 🏴‍☠️ opinions) so that was a fun extra questline.

Up next was some Daedric prince shenaniganry. I got the Ebony Blade and did some light murderizing to buff it, then met Sanguine for some debauchery. My stealth archer build got even more broken when I stopped by to pick up Barbas from Clavicus Vile. Immortal dog to tank for me? Yes please!

Then I did the Dawnguard questline! I accidentally-on-purpose cheesed the pilgrimage to go fill the ewer. I got so lost in the Vale that I found the palace treasure room when I was only on shrine two. Seeing Serana shove the snow elf bastard off the cliff was fun, though I did miss the loot…

After that, I decided it was time for some warmongering, and signed up for the Imperial Legion. Which was a little awkward, considering I’d assassinated the Emperor already, but what they don’t know can’t hurt me! I had great fun in the battles where I simply perched up high and picked Stormcloaks off, like some sort of nefarious gargoyle. Also, General Tullius? would. He also saved my ass when I got lost in the Whiterun battle and found by 7 or so Stormcloaks, and he tanked while I shot them down. Sometimes the game’s mechanics make for great story :P

Finally, it was time for the mainline quest. I tolerated Delphine until she was no longer useful, at which point I turned to Parthurnax for guidance. Being told to go on a grand quest to find the Elder Scroll I already had was pretty entertaining, especially considering I’d done the same thing with the dragonstone from the first dungeon (which I’d gone to early to retrieve the golden claw). It was also funny as hell when I tried to talk my way into heaven and the only faction dialogue choices I had where the two that the dude didn’t like xD

After that, I went, “well now what? …probably lunch.” So I went and munched on somebody, as a vampiric treat. That’s where I last left my playthrough! I’ve had an absolute blast with the game, even if I am playing it ass-backwards. I may go do the Dragonborn DLC content next. If you have any recommendations for more shit to get up to, I’d love to hear it! Especially if it involves murder xD

[kaizenkhaos]

This is my contribution to the Harringrove Relay Race! ✨

Gift Giving: A Priest/Demon AU story Based on mine and Simplydes' Priest Billy and Demon Steve AU, this is a short xmas fic about Steve having an idea for a present to make for Billy ^^

It didn't really make the most sense to him but he was trying. The fact he was actually sat here, items ready, ideas set and was about to get started, that was the main thing...right?

Since coming to the Human Realm, the upper layers of this world called Earth, Steve the Incubus Demon had learned so many things. How humans used bits of metal and a thing called "paper" in exchange for other items. How they used objects (which he still called monsters) to cook and lived in dwellings that didn't react well to open flames. How their winged creatures weren't fast enough to avoid a curious and hungry little Imp.

And how two needles of this thing called "wood" and this material called "wool" could be turned into the most beautiful of things.

Steve had gotten the idea for Billy's present when they had last been to the mall, wanting to find some things for Steve for their camping trip. Whilst going through a shop designed to sell such things, he'd seen all this clothing which the Humans used for what they called "winter", or as Billy had also explained to him, for areas which got much colder than here.

Steve got the concept of cold....kinda. Despite the myths, Hell did in fact freeze over in some parts and he and his family had travelled to a few of them before.

But the cold meant extra layers for humans. Not all of them apparently were like furnaces like him and many of his Demon brethren. Humans also didn't have thick skin or fur to help them with that sort of thing either. Unlike some of the animals up here, they seemed very poorly equipped.

And so as Billy had explained to him the different clothing, the hats, the gloves the scarf, the idea came. He already knew Billy liked to receive gifts, as much as the Priest was humble and all that. He knew also that the thought behind the gift was also important to Billy. Even more than the presents.

Since the pair had come to a common understanding (and much more than that), Steve had wanted to repay Billy for his kindness. His compassion, his....everything. He was just the nicest person. He looked out for others. Cared for them and rarely did anything for himself. He was getting better at that, with Steve's not-so-gentle nudging and encouragement, but Steve still felt that the priest just didn't put himself high enough up. So if he wasn't going to treat himself, Steve would do it. In any way he possibly could.

Armed with Billy's laptop and sat at the table, the young Demon had his tongue firmly between teeth, as he worked the needles in and out, trying his best to follow a video tutorial on how to make a scarf.

This was his fourth attempt.

The first had been an utter disaster of tangled thread.

The second, a certain mischievous Imp had interfered, playing with the ball and then ending up in a mess even worse than what he'd himself had made beforehand. It had taken a while to untangle V, especially around his tail and wings, and after some play and a little nap, he'd managed to bundle V up in a blanket and get him to go to sleep. No mischief could be done if the little Imp was in slumberland.

The third attempt had gotten him to a few rows, a huge achievement but then he'd managed to mess up a few stitches somehow, so had tried to unpick them. But on doing that, he'd gone a few stitches too far, forgot how many stitches he'd gotten along and then he just decided to start again. After all, the numbers seemed to be important and he didn't want to get it wrong.

His claws would clink and click against the needles as he concentrated harder and harder as the scarf came to life in his hands. It was a dark red, almost maroon, with a little bit of a metallic sheen. He'd not really known what he'd been looking for when he'd been getting the wool. Just stared for ages and ages until someone asked if he needed help. They'd been really helpful, helping him choose the right thickness of wool, the right needles for someone like him who had never done this "knitting" before. And after a lot of deliberation over the colour, he chose red. V certainly approved of it too. Trying to play with the wool as soon as he's gotten his pesky little self into the bag he'd brought home. He was sneaky like that and like a cat, loved bags and boxes. And apparently take away tubs.

He smiled as he thought about that, pausing to cast off and start another row. Another red object V liked. He would even sleep in the chicken tubs and scream at them when they'd have to throw it out because it was stinking the place up. V loved chicken as much as he and Billy seemed to as well.

Back to the knitting. More rows, more clinking. Steve yawned and put the needles down. He was tired, the day was dragging on and soon Billy would be back home and he'd have to put it away. It seemed a shame too. He was so close. It wasn't....the thickest of scarves but it would be a good start and once he got better, he'd make him another one. Maybe one day he'd even be able to make him a jumper.

Now that would be a goal.

But right now, he could do this. Make it more. His hands started to move again as he yawned. More and more and more..... And then he was done. He wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting there, doing things over and over before he ended it off and then sat there staring at what he'd managed to do. He'd done this. By himself. With help of course from this Kind Human on the Internet.

But....he'd actually been able to make Billy something.

The breath caught in his throat as, with shaking heads, he slowly put the needles down and then gently picked up the scarf between his hands. And it looked so.... beautiful to him. So thick and warm looking and Steve couldn't help but see the swell of pride within his heart. Hopefully Billy would like it. Hugging it to his chest, Steve then carefully rolled the scarf up and slipped it into a small gift bag he'd bought to put under the tree. Usually he'd just put the present somewhere the person could see it but Christmas, as with birthdays, seemed to be a time when Humans liked to hide their presents. So the bag went under the tree and Steve went to hide the knitting items. Wanting for his creation to be a surprise for Billy and then accidentally spoiled by him leaving things out

The laptop was quickly shut down and moved back to its place and sitting on the sofa, Steve quickly dozed off, his eyes dropping before he was off to Dreamland just like his little Imp beside him.

He didn't even hear Billy come home, or see his eyes light up as he saw the little red bag nestled under the tree in the pile of presents which were for him. He didn't see Billy slip off his jacket and shoes and pace over to him, gently sitting next to him and putting his arm around him. The Demon softly shifted in his sleep and ended up in his arms. He didn't feel how Billy stroked slowly through his hair, kissing the top of his head before turning on the TV and making sure the volume was on low.

He didn't know what Billy had planned for Christmas as much as Billy didn't know what Steve had planned for him. But both of them were going to have some really nice surprises.

Please look forward to the awesome work from the next contributor, @greyghoulclub ^^ I know I am :D.

[demon-of-side-quest-hell]

"Seeing what on Earth went wrong"

(Commentary under the cut!)

character belongs to @joltning! Thank you for sending in the request!

Reblogs > Likes If you would like your Halo or RvB Spartan/Elite rendered pleass shoot me a message or ask!

Okay so originally I had an entirely different idea in mind for the render of recreating a doodle of Josies but I was told the character I wanted to have be the POV wasn't theirs so I changed the idea.

Near the end what I was doing was mainly fiddling with lights and camera angles but FUCK was it annoying to figure out how to do the sword glowing (tutorials make me wanna claw out my ears and eyes)

There's some texture funkiness around the armpit but I can't/won't do anything about it since it's well outside my wheelhouse, maybe one day, but not today.

The lighting and color grading makes it look someone more orange to me? but that honestly might just be my stupid eyes since I'm so used to orange spartans.

Spartans in reach have such fat asses that I actually curved him inward real hard so it didn't look painful as hell with how much the back arches.

Unlike the other one I basically knew immediately what I wanted and how I was gonna get it so I didn't need multiple renders to convey the ideas.

Also this one is at A4 paper resolution, just in case you wanted to print it out ig lol.

[ixmelodix]

Eridan: Craft

Erisol Week Day 3 - Gift

[This takes place at the beginning of Chapter 8 (Sollux: Care).

This is the tutorial he's following, if you're curious :)

Recommended listening: Golden - Scars on 45]

----------

“This was supposed to be easy,” Eridan grumbled, staring at the mess on the ground in front of him.

He was sitting on the floor in his wardrobe-storage on the lower deck - somewhere Sollux would almost certainly not come looking for him - surrounded by paper, scissors, tape, a cut up pair of tights (and why had Seahorsedad had an entire drawer of those? Eridan didn't remember ever wearing anything like that...), several kinds of paint and ink and brushes, and - last but absolutely not least - several shirts, Sollux-sized.

In his hands he held his first attempt at making a frame for screen printing. It was this mess of a contraption - covered in tape trying (and failing) to hold the tights fabric on it - that had prompted the disgusted comment.

He set it aside and shuffled through the papers to find the one he wanted again. Sucking on a finger that had ended up with a splinter in the process of frame-making, Eridan squinted at the poorly-printed image and tried to make out what he was doing wrong.

It would have been so much easier to do this with the instructions up on the computer... but then it wouldn't have been a surprise, with Sollux so often on the computer, even if Eridan could have commandeered it away from him for so long without feeling guilty about it. So, printed guide it was.

It would also have been far easier to do it with a kit of some kind, but, well. They were scraping by as it was; he didn't have money for anything like that. Everything here was stuff he'd already had (and thank fuck for his various 'crafty' phases as a wriggler, or he wouldn't have had pretty much any of this) so it didn't cost him anything to do this. Well, aside from time and effort. And sanity.

The instructions gave him no help; the original poster had apparently been able to use tape, but tape was not working for Eridan, and he couldn't see the image well enough to figure out if there was a particular way to use the tape for it to actually work. The fabric kept coming loose from the tape no matter how carefully he placed it.

He bit his lower lip in thought. Maybe something to anchor the fabric first...?

----

An hour later, he had his frame, complete with image blocked out and ready to use; it was awkward as hell to work with, with nails poking out all over the place (if only he'd had a 'woodworking' or 'construction' phase, to place them neatly...), but it held together, and most importantly the fabric was stretched properly and didn't look like it was about to fall off anymore.

He moved on to the next step. Inking.

It took a bit of maneuvering (and another splinter, this one bigger and more painful than the first) to get the shirt laid out, a flat piece of wood inside it to prevent leakage to the other side, and the frame securely pressed against it so it wouldn't move and ruin the image.

He was extra careful now; the ink was permanent and if he made a mistake there would be no undoing it. The printed guide got consulted about eighty times before he even poured the ink onto the frame.

Inking took most of the rest of night; Eridan's stomach was complaining loudly by the time he was finally able to start putting things away, letting the shirts hang to dry fully. Tomorrow he would iron them to set the ink properly, then run them (with bated breath and bitten claws) through the washer to make sure it stayed in place; and then they would be ready for Sollux's wriggling day the night after that.

----

Eridan watched avidly as Sollux slit and pulled away the wrapping paper, then opened the box.

“What... ED, how-?”

The seadweller smiled a little nervously. “I, um, I thought you might... like somethin', you know, with your symbol an' all.”

“You didn't like, order them-”

Eridan pulled himself up straight. “Obviously not,” he replied, a little offended. “What kind 'a goddamn idiot do you take me for? You're off the fuckin' grid, I'm not gonna risk that by givin' anyone else your damn symbol.”

“...Okay.” Sollux wore a little grin. “Just checking.”

“Hmph.” But Eridan was unable to hold onto the irritation for very long at all, and started to shift nervously as Sollux went back to inspecting the shirts printed with his symbol. “So, um, do you... do you, you know... like them? They're the right size an' all, I checked an' a little loose 'cause you like them that way-”

“...It should probably surprise me that you know how I like my clothes, ED, yet somehow it doesn't.” Sollux raised an eyebrow, looking over at the seadweller, and Eridan flushed brightly.

“I don't, it's not-”

But Sollux interrupted with a gentle smile. “They're really great, ED. I didn't... expect anything like this. It's really sweet of you, thank you.”

Eridan felt he nervousness drain away, replaced by a warm feeling spreading out through his chest. Seeing Sollux's approval, that he liked it, made everything - all the work and frustration and pain, all of it - absolutely worth it.

“I'm... I'm really glad you like them,” he replied, a shy smile hovering around his lips. “...Happy wrigglin' day, Sol.”

[jtshock-devlog]

9/23/2023 Update

This is the beginning of this blog.

Current project is recreating Pokemon Mystery Dungeon map generation completely on my own using C# and Godot (since that is what I know best).

This is not a tutorial blog. I am literally figuring this all out on my own as much as I can all while trying to stick to mostly documentation and vague questions (i.e. I am not using any tutorials for this. All my own discoveries).

Look at these fuckin notes!

Plan to update once a week with small amounts of progress and use this to help motivate me in the future.

Current Accomplishments:

Set up the various classes for the number logic (Dungeon, Room, Dungeon Manager, and Game Manager classes)

Successfully had the generator spit out the values for the number of rooms, the size of those rooms, and pick one of those rooms to have the exit (see picture below)

Current To-Do List:

Get some sort of spawning algorithm for the rooms so they are visible.

Figure out how to make the connections between the rooms, which involves signaling what spaces are walls.

While I am making all of this myself and not using tutorials, I will always appreciate discussion about how to solve some problems, should I happen to bring them up.

I hope this blog can be a good learning experience for other developers and get out of tutorial hell.

[rapid-prototyping-project]

Level display

The main reason I only have a health display is because I couldn't find a way of displaying everything else and keep it all looking as good. Regarding my level display, it doesn't need to stay on screen - I can have it just pop up when starting a new level.

The first thing I did was add thin black bars covering the entire screen. I then manually added a layered animation where they would grow in thickness from 0.25 to 1.5, and the opacity would scale from 0 to 1. Every other bar would have a 1 second delay, hence the 'layered' bit. Unfortunately I forgot to actually make them disappear at the end, so I went about fixing this. About a quarter of the way in, I realised I had not beeen doing the same to the scale so I spammed control-z, then UE5 decided to autosave

It stayed like this. And then crashed. I have removed the entire animation because i genuinely do not care anymore and i regret even thinking about it. oh god its happening again

After that debacle I came to two realisations. 1 - I am unfathomably stupid. 2 - I can just use an image with the texture of a hell of a lot of bars instead. And it worked.

I made a 1px wide texture of black and transparent, and applied it to two images. Since I couldn't apply a fade in a direction without obscuring the text below, I decided to move the images as I changed their opacity. It creates a different effect but god is it easier to deal with. However, as soon as the animation finishes it disappears - it should reverse to load the next level. I realised this was probbaly due to the level being loaded during the animation, resetting it. My best bet would be to have the screen black by default, it transition when the level loads, and transition back to black when the game is over.

I DID IT

Turns out, you can create widgets in game instances. I shifted my widget code from the player to the instance and, after a bit of tweaking, it actually worked oh my god

I originally used a Do Once node and a boolean check but these broke it - so i took them out to see what would happen and it actually worked good lord.

Next, I had to make the text for the level counter. I reused the code from the tutorial, casting to the game instance and looked through a few fonts for a thematically appropriate one. These were the fonts I narrowed it down to, and eventually selected E4 Digital Arcade as it was the thickest and most readable whilst being in keeping with the arcade feel.

The first thing I did for my level display was set the colours to a random array of colours taken from the game. I was actually going to change it every 1/4 second or so but I'm happy with how this looks. My next problem is that the level display updates immediately - I need it to update after the transition as that's the point between the two.

This was as simple as adding to instead of incrementing level in the instance, and incrementing it after the transition. Huh, neat

This is my animation. I encountered a problem where the text would blur when scaled up. Although there doesn't appear to be a fix, the below post suggested I set the text size to really big, then scale it down in the animation immediately - which very much worked. The animation also reverses once complete using a Get Play Length plugged into a Delay. I'm VERY happy with this The opacity track was a suggestion from Reece I'd forgotten to implement - the flashing text was a bit abrasive, so fading it in long enough to read it then fading it out at all the beginning of the level fixed this.

[ihadtohaveone-blog]

The moment Cervan turned the handle father burst through the door.

"how dare you! I allowed you to watch over her because I trusted you to keep your hands away. But no. You finally reveal your hand." Fathers eyes landed on you and in an instant he was at your side. "Your hair and dress is mess! Are you alright?"

"Father!" You squeaked. "I'm-i'm fine. Wha-what's going on? Why are you here?"

"What's going on is this snake sent me a farce of a letter!" A crumpled price of parchment was peaking out of father's vest. One with silver handwriting.

"Perhaps it is best to discuss this somewhere else? Perhaps over dinner?" Cervan proposed with a smile. The bastard was enjoying this. Enjoying your confusion. Enjoying your father's fury.

You glance at the grandfather clock. 7:30. "It is rather late." Your stomach agreed. Cervan laughed. "Fine" your father sighed.

The walk to the carriages was short. You could hear whispers here and there. You picked your transport, entered and off you went. Off to who knows where.

You were never one for meditation but you needed to make sense of this mess. What better place to start.

focus. Breath in. Breath out.

Why did silver handwriting so familiar? Something about the game? It been a lifetime since you played it. The game you were playing before you..... ended up here was divided into four levels.

The first two were the tutorial: one where you learned about the world and the layout, how much time you had in your day, and meet the male leads. The other was where you learned what you needed to do. Given small quizzes and events. There were no wrong answers. More of a personality test then anything.

The third was when the dating started. You had to juggle your classes, events, and dates.

The fourth and final level test your knowledge of the game. Questions about the world and characters. It would be easy if you had good memory. If you passed, You'd then be given a opportunity to confess and if your relationship was high enough, you'd received a picture of an envelope.

One wrapped in metallic colors, gold for the envelope, bronze for the stamp and written in silver. One that told you your happy ending.

Not that she ever picked anyone to get her happy ending! There wasn't even a harem ending! How the hell-

Focus. She's not important right now. Breath in. Breath out.

So Cervan sent father a proposal letter. Lovely. Stay calm. He'd need three people's approval for the engagement to through. Your fathers, which would be hard to convince him, given his reaction. The record keepers, his appeal came with checking for previous proposal contracts. And the king, his approval was more ceremonial.

Oh god. The king. What if he tells the first prince? And what if he tells the protagonist? Would she be happy? Upset? Angry? Your certain her harem would be. You getting married before us? How dare-

FOCUS.

Why would he do this? You weren't that important all things considered. You weren't high upon the ladder. You were from a merchants family. One that sold and bought that sought the nobles fancy. One that clawed and scraped enough to buy their title.

You have to admit you weighed the scales in your favor for your little portion. You used your otherworldly knowledge. No lead make ups. No pewter plates. No arsenic paints. You weren't stupid. You only annexed products you could connect injury too.

Perhaps that's why? Your knowledge from the other world? You can't be sure you didn't speak of any of it during your more drunken get togethers. Drink enough and anything could happen. Cervan could of taken advantage but he didn't because he cared for you.

Cervan cared for you.

You paused you musing to glance at him. He met your eyes and smiled. Your face heated up.

Would it be worth it? Marrying him?

You hope so. Because from the look in his eyes you don't think he'll let you go.

" We've arrived." The attendants voice called. Well.... onto dinner you suppose.

Bad End: Kept Safe (1)

[Art by Miu_A]

You ever give someone advice, knowing full well they aren't going to take it? Even AFTER they have begged and pleaded and WHINED at you, for hours, for it? Even after they poured their heart and soul out to you? And you, a good friend, carefully and tactfully, tried your best to help? LIKE THEY ASKED?

Ever find yourself the designated "run too dramatically weep in the arms off" friend?

I have.

It is hell. I am in hell.

This is my punishment for all those hours I spent reading and playing Otome Isekai junk instead of, I don't know, solving world hunger or something. Because it HAS to be. I am clearly being punished. Repeatedly. By some sort of petty, petty, anime God.

Fuck you too, buddy.

A fresh round of highly dramatic Protagonist sobbing peirces the air. Dear lord, she has a set of lungs on her, does she? It's like an air siren. But more... upset toddler. It was bizarre. I'd LIKED her as a character. I HAD. Bright and cheerful, determined with a good heart. She'd been a bit naive, yes, but she'd grown. Love had changed her for the better.

But THIS?

This was some middle school "he threw away my secret note, that I didn't sign, so that means he HATES MEEEEE~" bullshit. It went on and on and ON! God, it'd been MONTHS! Years!

I made friends with the Protagonist when we were in The Royal Academy. The story's setting. It SHOULD have finished by graduation. SHOULD. HAVE. But DID it? No! This nonsense had spilled into the COURT! The general population! Actual political factions were starting to get involved!

All because my "friend" COULDN'T PICK A MAN.

And she didn't listen. I tried. God, how I TRIED! No matter HOW I phrased "just fucking TALK to them" it didn't get through her dense fucking skull. I tried taking a break. To calm down. She HUNTED ME DOWN with her little Harem of political trainwrecks!

That poor port city STILL has yet to recover from the chaos they unleashed.

I don't... God, I don't even LIKE her anymore. I've just been reduced to her HANDLER. Forced into girlish tea parties devoid of any taste, because no one ELSE will come. Followed by winces and pitying looks by every lady in all of polite society. The sacrifice to keep HER distracted, lest her gaurd dogs decide its a good idea to do something unhinged again.

It's exhausting.

I'm not even listening.

She seems to have worked through her usual cycle of "cry, mope, what about meeeee~, then I going to go be Plucky at them! Tee Hee~♡!". Good, good. You go have fun, you little train wreck. I'm going to go find an actual ADULT to hide behind.

I have my maids change me out of an outfit that, frankly? I am too old for. I am not sixteen. We are not GIRLS, for the heaven's sake. We are WOMEN. It was a cute outfit. I enjoyed wearing it, back when I was physically young enough that it was appropriate. But even THEN... that's the down side of the whole "isekai" thing.

You keep your mental age.

Everyone around you? INFANTS. Fresh faced babies. You are being flirted with by fourteen year olds and? It is DISGUSTING. They can never be anything more then "cute kids" to you. The characters you once thirsted over? Reduced to actual, living, breathing, pre-schoolers.

There's no going back after that. I'll NEVER unsee it. Can only continue to age, even as they simply... grow up. And then? When they started behaving like FOUR YEAR OLDS? Forget it! I'm beginning to share my parents fears I may die single.

At least I have a refuge. A place of SANITY and SENSE.

I grab the imported wine I had purchased. I'd noticed him drink it before on special occasions. Found a tea seller that was willing to also bring some back. Mother LOVED the tea and my friend was going to love the wine, I could just tell.

Cautiously poking my head out of the guest apartments i was staying in, I checked the hall. Left. Right. Left. Thank god. No Protagonist in sight, she hasn't come back yet. Better hurry though.

I walk fast and keep close to the wall. Ducking into alcoves at every new female voice. Passing servants, Nobles, and the occasional Knight either murmur what they know of Protagonist's last known location or politely pretend not to see me. For anyone else, this would be scandalous behavior. For ME? Well... everyone knew EXACTLY why I was being driven to such extremes.

I thankfully reached the governance wing unmolested. It was far quite and none of the pack of fools ever really set foot here. Not ever the ones who were SUPPOSED to be busy learning their future roles as leaders of this country. God, I could only hope the third prince somehow quietly pulls a coup.

Not that I'd SAY that.

The gaurds don't even bother to announce me, I'm here so often. Merely opening the door. I maintain my decorum none the less. JUST long enough for the doors to finally close and I am able to drop my social mask like whipping of my bra after a long day. Oh thank fuuuuuuck. FREEDOM!

A familiar chuckle, like incense smoke, wafts from the second floor of the office.

"Oh my~, so tired?" My friend muses, his voice that ever lilting purr. I hear him closing whatever heavy tome he's currently studying. "And so early in the DAY! Was it the little nuisance again? Surely she must have SOMETHING better to do?"

Gently putting the wine I'm gifting him on his desk, I then throw up my arms. You would THINK! Wouldn't you?! It's an old complaint. And frankly? I'm glad he still let's me vent about it. It HAS to get old. Yet? He let's me complain anyway.

I met the, roughly translated, "Keeper Of The Shield" at one of the Crown Prince's many ridiculous parties. I was dragged along as Protagonist's plus one. Because GOD FORBID she bring one of her suitors! That might lean towards CHOICE! Can't have THAT!

It was an overly dramatic, gaudy, slow motion trainwreck from beginning to end. I? Got very, VERY drunk. I knew I shouldn't. It was wildly inappropriate. But I was HORRIFIED. Hid near the balconies and drank to forget. Contemplating jumping.

Was likely the only one there my age NOT in ten layers of bows and fabric flowers. It was probably why Crevan decide to talk to me. That and the look of abject suffering. He informed that, sadly, the balconies were locked. But if I planned to maim my self to escape, he could probably boost me up enough to reach the upper windows.

I choked on my drink and guffawd like an idiot. It was SUPER flattering. Very pretty. And honestly? The best conversation I'd had in YEARS. He was droll. Witty. Snarky. In just as much hell as I was. We gleefully narrated the drama playing out before us in as cutting a manner as possible. Grown adults, government officals! Behaving like fucking CHILDREN.

Only after, did I learn I had been chatting with the equivalent of the minister of the Defense. THE commander of our nation's defensive forces. All of them. Knights, army, spies. All of it. And the poor man had been dragged from his desk to play party prop by a glorified teenager. I was horrified. Appalled. Fucking OUTRAGED to learn that it was just... normal!

This country was a nightmare! Otome games are HELL. Lacey, sparkly HELL!!!

But at least I had Crevan to keep me sane. He was always willing to listen. Advise when he could. We had HOPED that Protagonist would start maturing... I'd even mentioned it, but it just seemed like she back slid again and again! Trapping me. Isolating me! Ruining my chances to move ON and have a LIFE!

I don't know what went wrong! Is it me? Am I too hand holdy? It's starting to destabilize the country! Not that the royal family even seems to notice! God no, if it weren't for Crevan, the whole PLACE would have collapsed!

I flop down on my couch. Technically it's not "mine", but honestly? He's fooling no one. The man barely had ANY guest furniture before we became friends. It's totally my couch. (He even got a tea table for us, the softy.)

"Oh? A gift? How thoughtful, dear~" It's only months of friendship that keep from jumping these days. I should get that man a BELL. "Would you like some?"

I can't help but huff a laugh. He always looks to PLEASED when he gets the jump on someone. Startles them. A mischievous asshole, that one. Touchy, too. Forever cupping my cheek or earnestly taking my hand. Patting my head. Guiding me by the elbow or shoulder. He has so few friends... I am certain he is touch starved.

A thought occurs to him, as he pours two cups. A sly grin stretching across his face as he turns to offer me a cup. The wine's scent mixes, burning and delicate, with the ever present smells of incense and his favorite herbal cigarettes. Blurring the senses and relaxing. It's a pretty strong drink.

"You KNOW... it just occurs to me! Darling, if you want to avoid that pest? Why not spend the day HERE? I'd love to have you. " his voice becomes low and serious for a moment, almost catching me off gaurd, bouncing back before I can really think about it. "You could trash my shelves again! Camp out on my couches! It'll be like a little party~ Just you and me! Not a care in the world. You won't have to worry a single thing~"

He grins, glasses catching the light, toothy like the old scheming fox he is.

"I'll keep you nice and safe~"

[arcplaysgames]

Man do y'all remember when I was sad at the start of P4G because the game did not adequately pat my head and feed me soup and give me friends on day one like P3P did

that was fucking little leagues. I'm gonna light everyone in this game on fire.

Anyway, we are in the tutorial stages so lemme sum up except with there's weird shit I wanna pontificate on.

Reverie missed a bunch of school on his first day with frankly doesn't look amazing for him. We met Ryoji GODDAMN RYUJI on the roof, because all Persona games love the school roof, and he wants to go back to the App World so he can poke around on Kamoshida.

There is palpably some Beef between Ryuji and Kamoshida. There is some fucking t-bone 3-inch cut that I have seasoned in mushroom salt and fresh ground pepper and left to air-dehydrate for three days, there is soooo much beef between them.

In the Not-Velvet Room-- Look, I am gonna start calling it the VR for efficiency's skae but be aware I do not think this is actually the Velvet Room, or if it is then someone has booted Igor and is pretending to be him.

But yeah Notigor says our rehabilitation can begin and I just wanna claw my hair out. What's funny is I know for a lot of fans, Persona 5 was their entry point. Did they know this was as severely fucked as it is? I feel like the game is pushing Fucked As Hell vibes pretty well, so maybe it was obvious even to the initiated.

Oh so Notigor is the one pushing the unauthorized APK onto my phone. I think Reverie is rocking a Samsung, it's got that Chonk to it.

Also, I dunno what it's called in the Japanese... hang on, to google!

Isekainabi, or "Otherworldnavi" that's pretty good. Which, the adjustment of "navi" to "nabi" reminds me that Japanese doesn't use 'v' does it? Or.... wait.... R is also a no, right?

(That is shit I learned from fucking Metal Gear Solid 2 actually, because my beloved Problematic Fave Kojima called the big villains the La-Li-Lu-Le-Lo, because they were 'invisible', they weren't even a part of the language, metaphorically speaking, which when I understand that I thought was fucking smart as hell, though I imagine the original voice actors who had to say it a lot and rapidly did not agree.)

ANYWAY I AM GETTING DISTRACTED, POINT IS, I picked a hilariously un-apt name with Reverie Vantas. That is a tongue-twister and I am sorry.

what the fuck was i even talking about OH YEAH Netscape Navigator, yeah. That's our Dark Hour/TV World, the Metaverse. I find it cursorily interesting that Persona has many different manifestations of the whole Jungian Collective Subconsciousness. P4's TV World was fully separated and impossible to access without the power of Persona. But Reverie and Ryuji stumbled like idiots into the....

wait, that cutscene from the start, that was Reverie's awakening to Persona. So what caused it. Also: Is that relevant to the mystery here like it was in P4, because in P4 that was super important, and I would prefer it wasn't Super Important again lmao.

God the Izanami thing was dumb. ANY FUCKING WAY.

I briefly meet THAT ONE GIRL FROM THE INTRO on the train, and her personality traits seem to be "worryingly doormat-ish" and "thin'

Like man, P5R is not hitting me over the head with DIET SODA ADS but we are still fatphobic, don't forget! BTW if you want a Persona game that doesn't do that shit, P3P Girl Route baybeeeee best Persona.

I am apprently ribbon girl's senpai and she bows to me twice nad runs off to school. Later, gator.

holy shit this game doesn't fuck around with its classroom questions, are you kidding me

also I am sitting behind Moot in class. how's your life been since relinquishing 4chan, moot? I hope it's better.

Mitsuru would use her rapier to carve you like a chunk of roast.

Kamoshida's influence over everyone is kind of baffling to me. It's a VOLLEYBALL TEAM. Oh is that the Japanese equivalent of a football team? Because then I TOTALLY GET IT, CARRY ON.

Like, I understand sort of academically that having sports teams is good for students but also I fucking hate school sports culture. Dunno if its as vile in Japan as in America but if its even half as bad, yeah, abolish it.

Ryuji is so far not the brightest bulb on the tree, bless him. He keeps trying to locate a castle and getting frustrated. Finally, we put him out of his confused misery and use the app to make castle happen.

HE IS JEALOUS! In almost every jock there is a theatre kid's soul, crying to get out.

Ryuji has like no indoor voice, Morgana, I am sorry.

Also, I have so far zero indication of Morgana's gender, which I do like. 8) Gender don't matter, just don't call me a fucking cat.

There is a huge tutorial section, and I immediately understand why this game is +100 long, these sequences are much more complicated now. There's psuedo-stealth mechanics? Blurgh.

Ryuji wants to save the volleyball slaves and Morgana explains that these aren't actually them, they are cognitive copies that are.... essentially the projection Kamoshida has of each person in the school.

I don't wanna be a jerk Persona but this is adding more and more complexity to your already complex world. But maybe I am still in P4G mode, where every aspect of how the Midnight Channel worked was a clue. At this point, there is no central mystery.

hey yo what the fuck

Somehow Kamoshida broke Ryuji's fucking leg?????

What the fuck happened there? Also yeah, Ryuji, I don't know you super well yet but I'm with you, we can wreck this guy. Holy shit.

boy howdy getting your persona stings a bit in this one huh

Ryuji has Captain Kidd as his, with is pretty fun NGL. So our theme is literally Various Types Of Thieves in this game, huh? I'm cool with that.

[twstarchives]

Leona Kingscholar・Voice Lines

Additional Voice Lines: Gala Couture Event Card

School Uniform - R

Unlock Card “Why should it bother anyone how I look? Let me do what I want.”

Groovy “Hmph. Is my school uniform really that unusual?”

Home Setting “What’s up?”

Home Transitions “Ugh, I’m tired. Everyone telling me to get to class is so annoying.”

“Ruggie was lookin’ for me? It’s probably nothing important. Leave me alone.”

“If you’re bored you should just sleep all day. Think about how much time you could waste.”

Home Transition (Login Greeting) “Why’re you staring at me? What, you wanted to see me? Heh, you’re so direct.”

Home Taps “A necktie? You seriously think I’d wear something that fancy?”

“I’m starvin’... Oi, go get me something to eat. Don’t worry, I’ll share if there’s any left over.”

“I don’t like restricting clothes. Who cares if I look a little sloppy?”

“Your life is something that’s almost entirely decided for you the moment you’re born. You’re not gonna get far with dedication alone.”

“Stop poking at me; it’s pissin’ me off. If you need something then use your words.”

PE Uniform - R

Unlock Card “I don’t like getting hot and sweaty, but I hate losing even more.”

Groovy “Well, my magift skills will get rusty if I don’t take it seriously every now and then.”

Home Setting “Like hell am I putting any effort into this class.”

Home Transitions “Other dorms challenge me all the time in magift. Obviously I have very good sportsmanship.”

“It’s so hot... I’m feeling like a cold bath. I wanna head back to Savanaclaw.”

“I like competitions. If you ever want to challenge me, I’ll take you on any day.”

Home Transition (Login Greeting) “Strength training... hm. I don’t think it’d make a difference to me if I trained like that or not.”

Home Taps “Brute strength is way better than pretty-looking magic. But obviously the most important thing is using your head.”

“Ah, whatever should I do? I just hate doing things so feral like using fangs and claws to take someone down, but...”

“Jack? His stubborn side is irritating, but with a build like that he’d make a great magift player.”

“I enjoy the ‘using your wit to take down your opponent’ aspect of magift. I don’t really like the physical part of it.”

“My hair tie’s coming loose? Then fix it for me.”

Lab Coat - SR

Unlock Card “It’s boring having to do things you already know how to do. Classes are so tedious.”

Groovy “C’mon, stop followin’ me around like a little kitten. I hate being around kids.”

Home Setting “Let’s make it quick.”

Home Transitions “The Botanical Garden has the perfect temperature; it puts me straight to sleep. Don’t you feel that too?”

“You can tell what’s in something if you smell it, right? ...Ah? Must be inconvenient not having a strong sense of smell.”

“I’ve been looking for a good place to take a nap. Let me use the Ramshackle Dorm.”

Home Transition (Login Greeting) “Why are you looking at me like that? Even I sometimes participate in class. Just depends on how I’m feeling.”

Home Setting (Groovy) “...Achoo! Oi, you left some kinda weird pollen in the Botanical Garden. Go get rid of it outside.”

Home Taps “Ruggie washes my lab coat for me too. What’s wrong with that? It’s convenient.”

“I hate the smell of chemicals; they give me a headache. Makes me wish I had the same nonexistent sense of smell all of you have.”

“You want me to help you with your work? Ha, you must really be stuck if you’re coming to me of all people for help.”

“There are a lot of plants back in my hometown you’d never see at this school. Actually, it’s just full of nature over there.”

“Knock it off. You’re going to get it if you keep playing with my tail like that.”

Home Tap (Groovy) “You reek of strong chemicals... Go take a bath or something and wash off that odor.”

Ceremony Robes - SR

Unlock Card “A ceremony? I hate formal things.”

Groovy *yawns* “...Oi, let’s go nap somewhere.”

Home Setting “My plans after this? Like I know.”

Home Transitions “You wanna know if I’m skipping today...? ...I’d be doing that if I could. Ruggie was warning me not to.”

“Let’s go and get this over with already. Ceremonies are just child’s play anyway.”

“Having to listen to all the teachers’ long speeches now... Hah. Just thinking about it makes me depressed.”

Home Transition (Login Greeting) “Trein’ll blow up at me if I don’t have my hood on during the ceremony. ...Hah, it’s so annoying.”

Home Transition (Groovy) “Heh~ Even you can pull off these ceremony robes. Heheh... Don’t get mad, I’m just messing with you.”

Home Taps “No one’s gonna notice if one or two people are missing from the ceremony. Let’s dip.”

“Crowley always talks for so damn long. Doesn’t he know how to make things brief?”

“Savanaclaw will stay in line even if I’m not there. That’s what it means to be trained.”

“My ears are so pushed down... Why are the school’s ceremony robes made like this?”

“Yeah, yeah, we gotta go. You don’t need to pull me; I already know.”

Home Tap (Groovy) “You’re always so serious about things. Don’t you ever get tired? ...Ha, yeah, that was a stupid question.”

Dorm Uniform - SSR

Unlock Card “Calling out to me like this—you don’t seem to know fear.”

“I usually don’t let my prey slip by me... but I’m in a good mood right now. I’ll make an exception and won’t eat you.”

Groovy “I’ll show you what ‘leader of the pride’ really means.”

Home Setting “Savanaclaw students need to hide their vulnerable sides.”

Home Transitions “The Ramshackle Dorm is really nice. There’s no life or anything there so it’s the perfect place to sleep.”

“The ways of my dorm are simple. It’s a survival of the fittest. You better be careful if you don’t wanna get eaten.”

“If you need something then go talk to Ruggie. He’ll tell me if he thinks it’s important.”

Home Transition (Login Greeting) “Are you curious about Savanaclaw? Alright, I’ll tell you about the dorm life here.”

Home Transition (Groovy) “For an herbivore, you’re really lax about getting near me. Aren’t you scared? ...Heh, you’ve got guts.”

Home Taps “It’s annoying how the feathers on my staff are swaying all the time... but they’re supposed to pay homage to the bird that served the King of Beasts, so I’d get yelled at if I took them off.”

“Where I live, scars are seen as a sign of bravery. They say the King of Beasts had a big scar going through his left eye too.”

“A vice dorm leader? In the past I let some people try their hand at it, but everyone who challenged me lost and gave up. So we don’t have one for now.”

“‘Why did I become the dorm leader?’ Isn’t that obvious? It’s ‘cause I’m the most superior.”

“Oi, stop clinging to me. I hate the warmth. And you’re not a kid anymore.”

Home Tap (Groovy) “I don’t have time for you right now. The afternoon hours are the perfect time for me to sleep.”

Duo Magic Leona: “Oi Vil, after me!” Vil: “Don’t order me around, Leona.”

Tutorial “Oi, let’s go. Come with me.”

Lv Up “Getting some support feels nice.”

“This isn’t bad, but I’m still not full.”

“No amount of power in the world is going to get in my way.”

Max Lv Up “Haha, it feels like the whole world has become mine. Keep devoting yourself to me and I’ll let you have a reward.”

Episode Lv Up “I told myself I wasn’t going to hang around herbivores, but I’ve been getting interested in you. I’ll keep on looking after you as long as you’re not causing trouble.”

Magic Lv Up “Wanting to stay with me while I’m practicing my magic is so typical of you. Most people would just curl up their tails and whine about it.”

Limit Break “Obviously I can do it if I try. ...I just don’t wanna do it.”

Groovy “You wanna see me actually being serious? ...Haha. It’s 100 years too early to show that to an herbivore.”

Lesson Select “Hey, sit in front of me. If I’m in the back I can sleep in peace.”

“This isn’t really something to think so hard about. I’m getting tired of waiting.”

“Everyone’s sittin’ side-by-side working together? I’m good, thanks.”

Lesson Start “Ah~ Boring.”

Lesson End “...That class was so boring; it was all stuff I already knew.”

Battle Start “I know how to fight with more than just power and fangs.”

Battle Win “Didn’t you know I was going to win?”

Other

Profile Quote “Life’s not fair, is it? Don’t you agree?” ¹

January 2020 Trailer “Before joining this academy, don’t you think you should work on that little roar of yours?” ²

Countdown Poster “If you want to see the light of another day, then curl up your tail and do as you’re told.” ³

Login Bonus “You’re here again? It’s a waste doing this everyday. But I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you that someday your efforts pay off.”

Player Birthday Wish “You don’t have to look at me with those pleading eyes. Of course I know it’s your birthday. Forgive me for not leaping for joy.”

Magic History

Good ★

“The king, huh...?”

“The weather’s nice.”

“I made eye contact with the cat.”

“Wish I skipped.”

“Struggling with an incompetent king...”

“Zzz...”

“I’m tired...”

“He was a passive king.”

“Finish this already.”

Great ★★

“Doesn’t everybody know this?”

“I don’t need the textbook.”

“What are you surprised about?”

Perfect ★★★

“It’s feral instinct.”

“Move on already.”

“Obviously.”

Special Lesson Perfect ★★★

“Why’s Crowley here?”

“Making a country thrive...”

“It doesn’t matter who’s here.”

Flying

Good ★

“I’ve been tired since this morning...”

“That all you got?”

“What a pain...”

“Easy win.”

“Coach Vargas is so annoying.”

“I’m starvin’...”

“I don’t wanna move around when I just ate.”

“Have Jack teach you.”

“I caught a bird.”

Great ★★

“I’ll just do it.”

“Too easy.”

“Watch.”

Perfect ★★★

“I could do this in my sleep.”

“Aah? I was asleep.”

“This is easier than walking.” 

Special Lesson Perfect ★★★

“Does he really have free time right now?”

“Look ahead and fly.”

“How long do you want me flying for?”

Alchemy

Good ★

“Just do it however.”

“Gold... Not bad.”

“I'm not in the mood for this.”

“Seems like something Ruggie would like.”

“Crewel...”

“The smell of chemicals hurts my nose.”

“It’ll work if you just mix it.”

“I’m getting hungry.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Let’s take a break.”

“Pay attention.”

“I wanna sleep in the afternoons...”

“Ah, the pot scorched.”

“Finished.”

“Is this enough already?”

Great ★★

“You didn’t even know this?”

“Don’t make light of me.”

“I’m tired of this.”

“Feels like my nose is acting up.”

“I did this last year.”

Perfect ★★★

“I’m bored.”

“I want an actual challenge.”

“I can do this without even thinking about it.”

“Do that later.”

“Need some help?”

Special Lesson Perfect ★★★

“Teach, explain this.”

“I don’t even have time to sleep.”

“Oi, smoke! By your hands!”

“Crowley’s real pushy.”

“I just have to do this, right?”

References from The Lion King:

Life’s not fair, is it?

You might want to work on that little roar of yours

You shall never see the light of another day

[mimithings97]

ABSTRACT ft BOB ROSS (M) - JJK

Summary: Paintbrush in one hand, joint in the other and you sitting on his dick is what Jeongguk wants. And what Jeongguk wants, Jeongguk gets.

Genre: smutPWP, timid crack, established relationship

Word Count: 6k

Warnings: jeongguks horny! getting high, body painting, fingering, oral (both receiving), edging, slight subJK, unprotected sex, cockwarming, masturbation (fem), dry humping

A/N: Jeongguk being on his Bob Ross thing to help us through quarantine had me inspired. Fr Bob Ross was a legend. This gets steamy btw

Also pls stay safe everyone and don’t be selfish. Enjoy x

*Masterlist Link*

*Bold italic is JK speaking Korean*

“Tap it off… and just beat the devil out of it.”

“JEONGGUK FOR THE LOVE OF JESUSSS!”

“Isn’t that fun.”

“...What? Just doing what he tells me to do.” 

And he persists, batting brush to easel with a rate of knots only a testament to how fast he jacks off. It sends diluted paint across the room so you’re left as a life size dot to dot, with splatters lining your lips down to the hem of your shirt and it’s cold and wet, and this isn’t what you signed up for when he said ‘couples bonding’. 

“I’m fucking soaked.” He scoffs, that man sized brain of his conjuring a classic. 

“That’s what she said.” 

You’re four hours deep, and four hours too many by your standards. Jeongguk was always an avid painter at heart, finding joy in the freedom of all things creativity, but he was also a perfectionist, a competitor. It led him from tutorial to tutorial, because, whilst he’s got portraiture down, his landscaping needed a little brushing up - mind the pun - and it was only an amount of time before you stumbled across a Bob Ross tutorial in all things serene and panoramic.

You shake yourself off in some attempt to help the splay of wet paint and to ease your job with the washing machine later, and lean back on your heels to gather your bearings. Yet, Bob still drones on despite your misery, and your boyfriend’s all too eager to comply with his every word.

“Jeongguk!” 

He’s laughing off to himself, easily pleased in the scheme of all things pensioner humour, but murmurs off a halfhearted ‘yeh’ in your direction to ease where he knows you’re about to nag.

“Look at me!” 

He does. And it throws you off a little because he eyes you once over, twice and a third time before settling his gaze on your breasts - easily pleased for many more things than just Bob Ross.

“You’re messy.”

“Yeh fuck I am! You listen to Bob more than you listen to me, cockless.”  

He quirks an eyebrow, and shuffles so the laptop settled between both your easels can be paused, leaving Bob frozen in time and you to deepen your scowl.

“Yeh, um, cockless, cool... Bob tells me how well I’m doing and lets me hit paint brushes on wooden sticks. You don’t even let me feed Sassy nugs of weed when you sure as hell fucking know she’s a stoner cat.” 

Jeongguk was deep into his second joint after he fucked the first two paintings up enough he put a lighter to the edge of each. He even questioned using them as a roach, and you became one step closer to pleading insanity to your landlord and bolting the fuck out of you joint tenancy. But then he got you high and you persevered.  

Four more questionable and highly abstract paintings later, he’s got the hots for Bob, and you're left staggering on your words to rope him into lucidity again. 

“Guk, he’s a virtual man with 4 million followers, don’t take it personally and-.”

“But-” You deadpan, and point your paintbrush with emphasis. 

“And you know full well Sassy gets baked anyways off of fumes. The smoke gets in her fur as well and it was me” he looks innocently at you, muted by your outburst, “who got clawed when she had to be bathed. So tuck your balls away from Bob, and sober up!” 

He’s quiet. As are you. And even Bob lies dormant off in your peripherals. 

The room grows small as you size each other up, paintings left aside with the sole purpose of being witness to argument, and you think he might just look hot with his nipples standing cold against the open air and abs rolling beneath the line of his sweats. 

He’s on the same wavelength: 

“I can see your tits through that shirt.” 

You take a quick peak yourself, eyeing from one to the other, ignorant of the double chin you’re exposing, but all in the name of making sure the ladies stand perky. He’s got a glint beneath the surface now when he eyes your chest, and the paintbrush in his hand falls a little limper. 

“Yeah?” 

“Mmm.” He tongues his lips. Hungry. 

Self control in such a situation as this seems important. The ability to stand your ground no matter where your argument lies on the scale of idiocy. If you curtail into being seduced, he might still make you wash the shirt yourself, figure Bob Ross is a turn on and have Sassy seeing smoke rings by the end of the night. No. You’re not a pushover.

He’s an inch closer when you break the silence, the tumbleweed rolled aside. 

“Turn it around. Let me see.”

“Ey?”

He’s horny and you’re not playing ball, something his brain can’t quite transfer to his dick yet.

“Turn yours around I wanna see how you did.” You give a nod in the direction of his painting. A spout of curiosity as to what monstrosity he’s conjured this time, but also a distraction, something for him to latch onto aside from your chest. 

“I thought we wait til the end. It’s unfinished.” And one thing Jeongguk hates being is unfinished. 

“Baby, Bob’s been overworked tonight and I wanna light the last spliff.” You air a finger and twizzle it, “give it a whirl.”

Being the competitor he is, Jeongguk plasters a smile and spins his easel, the pride practically radiating from him with the way he eyes the two trees and awkwardly sculpted sky. The clouds are askew and the lighting is directioned all wrong, in fact, it’s more a Picasso than a Mozart, blocks of colour screaming attention rather than the realism Bob was hoping for. 

“What’s it abstract for.”

Jeongguk frowns because your tone clearly isn’t close to praise and that’s what he’s learnt to expect. What Jeongguk wants, Jeongguk gets. Tonight's seen enough of your short fuse, however, that he’s not in the running for your good books. 

“Jagi-ya,” he pleads, “you know I speak in small English only when I’m stoned.”

You don’t even attempt to stifle the giggle. His eyes are round and his neck’s falling into his shoulders. A defence mechanism he’s well versed in because he knows it gets you in the feels. The jagi too.

“Yeh and this is how you paint when you’re stoned,” he eyes the work he’s made like your words have got him curious, like he’s never seen the capability of a weed induced state on canvas, “your lines get all boxy.”

He shifts, putting criticism to the test as he takes in his artwork from a new vantage point. In the meantime, the final joint lays naked and unused, almost sculpted like it was made for your fingertips. So you appease it’s calling and bringing tip to mouth, lighting the end until the embers begin to wisp away into smoke. Jeongguk breaths in like he wants it, but there’s an epiphany in sights instead.

“Mmm, it’s more like Picasso,” that’s my boy.

“Exactly!” 

“...Bob doesn’t accommodate for high people.” He takes the joint when you offer it. 

“Guk! That was a big word!” And he earns himself a kiss on the cheek, perhaps a hand to fiddle with his shoulders too, because those muscles aren’t gonna touch themselves. 

He drags long and hard. A third joint kind of high taking hold from where his eyes grow thinning and his posture caves into your touch. 

“Heard it on University Challenge,” you scoff at him. Since when was that on cable, “figure if I watch it enough I’ll be just as smart as them.”

“I’m not sure that’s how it works, bubs.”

Your hands grow fond of his skin, and it’s only when he leans away to trash the fumes away on a burnt out scrapped painting that you realise he finished all the weed. Guk’s a kid in a pram when it comes to sharing his green goods. He compensates with good sex though. 

And it’s where his mind lies - beneath the thin layer of your white painting top, a scrap piece of clothing donned for only the messiest of times. He seems to find inspiration in the idea. 

“Jagi.” 

“Mmm,” the air buzzes somewhere between stoned and excited with how he eyes you. 

“Let me paint you like one of my Korean girls.” It’s said in a tone laced with enough lust that you ignore the reference and are turned on by the novelty of being painted. And you know he doesn’t mean Jack and Rose kind of style.

You offer him a smirk. 

“How d’you want me.” 

Jeongguk nips at his bottom lip and lets his mind and dick go wild at the thought of free reign. The contemplating drags on, but when his eyes settle on how your pussy lies just south of the hem of your shirt, he’s struck a vision.

“Back, legs spread, and shirt off- wait, no, actually, shirt on.” 

He’s easy to comply with in the circumstances of things stoned and shirtless.

Your head is light, limbs soft when they stretch against the carpeted floor and you’re so prepared to be a canvas you’re wondering if maybe Bob had turned you on a little. And everything grows that bit more ambient, strewn into background noise. The paints you’d used now only exist with purpose of your skin, the Sam Cooke vinyl, now on its fifth round, is merely a melody to curl your toes to and the chiaroscuro lighting serves for the curve of your cheekbones only.  

He’d call you artwork if only it did you justice. 

“It’s cold.” He readies you.

His forth fingertip is crimson red. You think it’s a tester for temperature until he runs it down your thigh. A bold stroke for a starting place, but Jeongguk was never shy with paints.

“Mmm, yeh, cold.” 

“You like it?” He asks like he wants to be in tune with you.

“I can get to like it.” 

What you mean is you can get to like your boyfriend, in his half naked glory, playing temperature torture on your skin. 

He’s beautiful like this. A little lost in the high, but even deeper in the depths of you and your body and your lips and how you lay for him. A shy boy at first now with the pick of the litter. And he’ll take his pick wisely.

“So pretty.” You’ve got enough understanding to writhe in the praise, “Can I ruin your top?”

You are high, careless and ultimately curious. 

“Yeh,” and the shirt was fucked anyways. 

He pulls up the palette next to him, drawing a sketch with his eyes because paint doesn’t allow for takebacks and twiddles the brush in circles with practised ease. 

“Close your eyes for me?” 

“Ey?” You question. 

“Please, just, for now.”

And you’ll blind yourself for the sake of surprise, but now you’re sure you’ll just end up playing guess the drawing through touch alone, a mimic of what Jeongguk does on your naked spine in the mornings when you’re allowed a lie in. 

It’s cold, he’s right, that first stroke. And it dances close to where your breasts hang. 

“Can I touch you down there too?” 

OH fuck yes. Multitasking you can get on board with. 

“Please.”

He’s straight to it. A quirk on the line he was painting down you because suddenly he’s got you pleading and wet in unintentional places. 

“You plead so nicely for me, jagi. So good.” You gush to the tune of his native tongue.

It’s all at once. An overload of the senses. Sam Cooke a soulful prayer in time with your boyfriends hum. There’s a perfect juxtaposition of nimble fingers on your clit and a flat planed brush streaking unabashedly on the cotton against your nipples. It’s cold and hot and light and dark and everything in between. It’s sexy. 

You delve headfirst into the pleasure of it all, throwing an arm over your eyes and allowing the moans to spew and your body to convulse a little every time you’re hit with a newly loaded brush. Your body brews up a tempest and yo-

“DONE!”

Oh. 

You’re panting. Soaked to the bone beneath your silk panties, and when you open your eyes, everything is in disarray. 

The lust felt when in the thrones of your imagination is suddenly scattered, albeit, Jeongguk still looks like a feast. Because Sam Cooke doesn’t sound so harmonic and your skin doesn’t glow as bright when you assess the masterpiece you’d been distracted by. 

“YOU GAVE ME PICASSO TITS!”

Fucking Picasso tits! 

You’re horrified. And Jeongguk looks like he’s won the lottery. 

“Yeh. Jagi! Abstact!” 

“It’s abstract…” you whine.

Tugging and pulling at the hem of the cotton in some attempt to render the mess undone is your stress ball . Something to help it or just unsee it. Anything. But it’s useless, because the display is etched in primary colours only, a demand for attention that your Vanish Ultra won’t even touch the sides on.

Your eyes fume when they meet his crescents, “and you gave me square tits you freak! I have perfectly good tits, underneath, and this top was clean before you violated it!” 

There’s enough rage in you to stand and peel the wet shirt from your body, only to find a coloured imprint on your skin and bra that seeped through the thin fabric. Pick a younger man, they said. It’ll be fun, they said. Hildy can shove fun up her ass.

“Baby, it’s kind of funny.” 

“Its not- its-,” he’s laughing. You’re exasperated. Both high. And maybe Hildy had a point once you let go of the burdens of sensibility and just crave what he’s having. Go, fat, high, fun. 

“Gukkkkkkk.” So you end up whining. And, you don’t resist when he’s off his feet and drowning you in his chest, muscles vibrating to the tune of his giggles. 

“Like, now, whenever we Bob Ross paint, I get to be reminded of the time I squared off your boobs then sexed you real good.”

You scoff from under his armpit, but refuse to depart from the embrace. He’s got a sweaty smell you only like on him and there’s nothing like Jeontits in your face. 

“Never Bob Ross painting again and you’re not sexing anything, perv.” 

“No?” 

“Mm-hm,” he giggles over your dramatic head shaking, a true fan of you when he’s got you swaddled and in that high happy place. Jeongguk also, whilst he won’t admit it, likes owing you something. Likes poking and prodding at your sensitivity until he’s got something to make up for - he’s a people pleaser, what can he say. 

So it’s a kiss here and a peck there. A mouthed map from shoulder to jaw before you’re the one to shift until your mouths align. 

“I’mhard y’know.” Tongue deep into yours because he’s got nothing to hide.

“Mmm, and you’ll stay that way.” 

But he really is oh so hard. His sweats hold little surprise under the surface because Jeongguk forgoes underwear on his days off and there’s a perk to his chest from his lunchtime weights set. It’s a self control that the weed in your brain isn’t quite abiding to.

“Jagi, come on,” the way his stance has a gain on your height means he can find friction where your groin lays. The perfect snuggle for his length to cant up into. He’s teasing himself, and pining for the quirk in you that’ll have him squirming later. 

“Guk. You’ve stained my top. You’re not about to cum on my La Perla panties.” Yet he’s driving himself deeper into a painful withdrawal. And he can’t wait. 

“You wore them without anything on your legs. You should know the risk,” his lips dance from collarbones to shoulder as he indulges in your skin, “You get me so hard, Jagi. So hard it hurts,” he’s biting whilst he ruts, “yet you tease me. How can you do that?” 

Your resolve won’t crumble, but you may indulge a little. Press encouragement beneath his boxers and under the small of his back so he can carry himself away in the friction. He glows in it. 

“Urgh, god.” 

“Mmm, you still can’t cum you know that.” 

Frantic. He nods frantic, and rolls his eyes back harder. He’s got balls so tight from the weed induced delusion that he’s lost in, but he knows you’ll have them blue and him mewling soon.

“Want it.” Submissive Korean sounds almost too good on him. He bows into your shoulder and grunts words, understandable in content, but so much more in context. An unfiltered, raw need he can only express in his way. 

You almost give in. 

Almost.

“Jeongguk, stop- stop.” He stills, and is pliable enough that you can cup his jaw tightly and meet him at eye level where he’s hazy. There’s a smirk nestled deep too because you let him go this far.  And you got riled up in the process. 

You eye him. Hairs flicking out from the thin headband he donned for painting and painting only. There’s a shine on his skin you can’t ignore and he’s so damn beautiful when he glows with want. Your man. A ‘my eyes only’ specimen except you get to touch. 

So you do, hands to peck that draw up and down until you play peek a boo with his tip between the flap of his sweats. It’s the crimson that stains your thigh and the glossy look he’s edged himself to. You’re ravenous. 

“Jagi, don’t just look. I’m dying here.”

You take one final glance, watch it bob when your nails scrape his abs and then quirk a look his way. 

“Mmm, I’m still angry at you.” You’re not. Not really and never were. Just wanted something on him so you’d have him like you do now:

“Take it out on me” He doesn’t stutter. Doesn’t smile, smirk or indicate humour. Ready to risk it all. 

“Lie on the sofa how you want it then… and them,” you once over the material on his legs with your finger, “off.”

He’s so compliant when he’s hard and no one will ever find you complaining at the notion. 

There’s easles to dodge and paints that threaten to brim onto the wooden floors, but your apartment never had ‘perfect’ written on the lease, so you’ll let him settle his clothes haphazardly - teetering on messy. 

You follow the path he’s strewn, bra off to join his boxers, until you settle your knees against his, shadow elongated on his face by the direction of the sunlight and hair swept over to one shoulder. His eyes follow your curves. 

“Will you touch me now?” He’s craving and the concept has your mind whirling and eyes stuck on where he’s hard. You’ve only now come to notice the way he sits on his hands, wrists dug into the sofa from the pressure of his thighs. Filthy. It’s filthy that he edges himself for sport. 

With a twitch at the side of your mouth because there’s a million and one different ways to have him crying, you descend so skin is on skin and he’s captive to you. Drunk in the way he looks. Nervous in the way his dick twitches. 

“How d’you want me to touch you?” 

“Any way, fuck, any way.. Please.” The pleasantries aren’t necessary. He’s at your mercy physically but this boy’s got a hold on you like no other, enough that what Jeongguk wants, Jeongguk gets.

“Here?” His dick is expecting when he sees your hand move in his peripherals. It’s sure and ready for your touch. But then you moan. Eyes roll back just like when he touches your cl-, “Is here good, Guk?” 

“Oh fuck.” You’re two fingers deep and a palm to your clit. He’s taken note in the way you touch yourself before, mutual masturbation a 2 month-in kind of job, but this is different. Your pussy makes him salivate and the way you touch yourself makes him feel all too primitive. Like he’s never heard a girl moan before. “Jagi. Come on.”  

It’s so damn hot to you that his dick sits there untouched, hips still glued as though he’s unaffected. You’re tuned in, though, to those things that tell you otherwise. The strain on his neck from where his bottom jaw clenches. English sidelined because he can’t think straight. His dick bobbing every time you hit an upstroke into yourself and the squelch rings out. He’s so damn horny, but he’ll wait on you. Knows seeking the end untouched is like drinking water after parching in the desert. 

“So beautiful. You’re so beautiful. The way you touch yourself is beautiful too.” His eyes are fluttering and he can’t look away from you. It has you shamelessly moaning. “God I’m hard.”

You laugh, knuckle deep and feel the spasm of your walls. He’s really hard with precum immodest and when you meet his eyes again he’s vulnerable, too thirsty, maybe, for what he’s subjected himself to.

You’re left wanting, “I really wanna taste.”

“Jesus.” Jeongguk whispers under his breath, throws his head back for good measure because he’s got a visual before the main course has even happened. “You can’t be so shameless, it has me thinking things.” Vivid, things. 

And his imagination plays out in real time when you descend onto the wooded floor. He stutters, splutters on his tongue when you’ve got long nails all up in his groin.

“F-fu- wait, Jagi, wait wait wait, jagi.” You’re an inch off, breath catching his tip and so close you can smell him. God you want a taste. “I’m- You can’t just.”

Ohhhh. 

“You’ll cum?”

He’s not ashamed, embarrassed or anything in between. Just the longing for more, eating away at him, and knowing he’s a gonner in less than a minute if you’re to lick him. 

“Just, fuck, Y/N. Just kiss me.”

You do. The head of his dick too appealing not to offer a peck to. 

“Fuck.” He hisses it between his teeth and seeks refuge under an arm as to not concern himself with the way your tits look under him. “Not ther-” but not all cravings can be fixed, and you’ve got a mouthful. 

His hand jerks out from where it situates beneath him. The dilemma as to whether his dick can handle the back of your throat, seemingly easier to combat if he can claw at his thighs. But you’ve fallen into a rhythm despite the discomfort of hard floorboards and empty walls, and he’s keening for it, low moans and harsh breaths when your throat constricts. 

“Jagi, I real- oh shit, I really might cum.” You want him to. But the look that glazes over him when he’s edged is too good to wait for. Hit hits your throat deep, “fuck fuck fuck fuck,” hands thrown into your hair because he thinks maybe he wants you to stop.

But there’s the edge, and for a second he thinks he’s too far past it, balls tightened and his chest caves at the promise of lodging a load in your throat. 

“Fuck!” You’re off him and shuffled back before he can cry wolf. Jeongguk helplessly grasps at his base, and screws his eyes tight to curb the feeling of blood rushing everywhere. 

You’ve got a vantage point like no other. A vista genuinely for the ‘my eyes only’. 

His chest violently rises and falls and his thighs shake at the same rate. It’s hard to reserve yourself from kissing up his legs, so you don’t, soft nips where the seam of his trousers would run and even though he was driven to maximum sensitivity, he wants you as close as you are.

You litter the expanse of his body until he can vent the lost orgasm into your mouth. A rage of tongues and spit that has your centre warm again. But he mellows out into you and plays seduction. 

“Jagi.”

“Mmm,” you speak amongst the twine of lips. 

“Let me kiss you.. Down there.” His eyes plague with sincerity. A wholehearted desire to taste you and taste you again, and you’re one to oblige. 

The sofa, whilst a two generation hand-me-down, offers more comfort than the floor and you bask in being pampered when Jeongguk lowers your front to it, situating a littered pillow below you to accentuate the curve of your back. Your behind sits bare with panties discarded and you look beautiful enough he’ll tell you. 

“Look at your body Jagi. How can you be mine?”

It’s unnerving being like this. Subject to alien words and a stare you can’t dilute. But it’s a package deal and Jeongguk doesn’t take long to offer the incentive. 

“Smell nice too.”

He traces the curve of your back with his palm the same way he strokes you between your legs. Fluid and warm and...

“Goddd, that’s good.”

Jeongguk basks in all things praise. An inflation to his own high. So he hums approval into you as you begin to writhe. 

You bite back the urge to push into him and seek a salacious end, frantic in the heat of lust, but Jeongguk keeps a controlled hold on you and eases the pressure away from the good spots, just so it’s better when he comes back for more. 

“Mmmm, good, good there.” Where he’s spreading you and planting muscle deep. He doesn’t resist the temptation to go north either and explore tighter areas, and he hums a smile when he garners an entirely different noise from you because, fuck, that’s sensitive.

“Jeongguk, oh- I might cum.”

“Yeh?” He’s in you and around you and kneading at your cheeks like he’s rallying himself up. He is. Running his body in time with your movement so there’s a subtle rut to edge himself to.

“Yeh.”

“I want that. Bad.”

You’re loud and knocking on the door of something breathtaking, now that he’s left romance for dead. He wants you to cum, and hard 

Fumbling an arm behind you until you can grapple onto the hairs of his head does little to prevent the sensation, the quaking and the tightening. He’s sinking a thumb against your rim and a tongue in your pussy and you indulge in it all.

“Shitshit oh my fucking god.” 

He moans when you strike gold and pulse from every point of your being. Entrapped in that disembodied feeling where everything’s too good and all at once. It lags and Jeongguk’s hands purchase hard when you clench on his tongue. 

“Shit.”

He lets you down easy though, mindful of all of the places that could be a cause for over-sensitivity - save that for another day - and nuzzles into your thigh. 

The need to move lingers whilst you carry yourself away into the thrones of exhaustion, mind fizzing as you boyfriend sucks the meat of your ass with tempt. He’s wanting and you’ve got a craving to see him cum, but everything's numb. 

“Jagi.”

“Mmm.” 

You feel him before see him crawling up you, his front flush to you just as a means of exaggerating where he lays hard and in wait. He let you edge him and made you cum, a cause for a gold star among other things, so you flip over, careful not to knock him where it hurts, and pull at the straggling hairs the band can’t accommodate for. 

“I want you. I want you really bad.” He feels selfish for feeling like it’s his right to claim an end. But there’s a genuine cause for concern that he’s been hard for so long, and will be as long as you lay bare and beautiful, and the biology of the situation isn’t just coincidental with his want. 

But he kisses you soft and the sense of obligation dissipates into the desire to see him undone. 

“You gonna fuck me?” He’s desperate to, and you laying pliant beneath him has his lust escalating quickly. 

“Yes, yesyesyes jagi.” But as to not cum to quick he settles into stroking his length between where you’re wet. The sensitivity has lessened, but the rush of blood still is a cause for a grimace. Jeongguk kisses it out of you, settling into a rhythm of tongue then teeth then tongue then teeth. You’re lost enough, he’s sinking into your walls unhinged. 

“Fuck.”

“God, how can you feel like this every time.” He’s driven to the edge of insanity with every feel of your walls, like a first time every time, uncharted territory he wants to explore as soon as he’s explored. 

You grapple from the sweaty hairs that line his neck to where his muscles contract and sink now that he’s easing you into compliance. Not that it wasn’t easy to. But your walls, spent previously, make the glide a little harder in the promise that it’ll make him cum quick. 

“You good? This good?” He caters for you in a strained plea. 

“Amazing. God. A little faster.”

He’s sure to combust, purchasing his mouth on your neck and choking grunts into the skins there when his hips begin to snap and balls begin to ring an echo onto the four walls.

“Fuck jagi. Thank you. God, thank you.” He prays to your pussy as his abs clench in the knowledge that he’s teetering on the edge. Every run against you has him keening. 

“Hold me.” He nestles his cheek to your hair until your breaths are synced, “don’t cum yet. Please, god-hm,” you choke, “don’t cum.”

“Oh god, oh god,” he’ll get you there, but he’s sweating out the urge to spill into you. He wants to see you done, hear you moan, have you every kind of euphoric. So he licks his thumb quick and has it in between you and on your clit quicker. A pressure and nothing more because he knows what hurts you. 

He’s hissing at the strain, but you’re left in hopeless moans. 

“Cumming, baby, cu- fuck.” There’s nothing stopping the assault of your walls on him as everything tightens and then releases. You quiver into him. 

“Oh, you got so tight. Fuckfuck, oh god.” Jeongguk gives into it, too, when his body shudders and he pulls you tight, “ah,” spilling everything and it’s so hot but he’s heady enough that none of it matters. 

You bask in that feeling for however long, lulling his shakes with a trail of nails through his hair down to his back, and nuzzle where your cheeks meet. 

His back rises and falls and rises and falls and it’s all things soothing. 

So you whisper lowly, “Guk.”

He shifts fractionally and huffs at the exertion of it all, body pliable and soft in and around you.

“Baby, we can’t fall asleep here.”

You know he’ll ask for a few more minutes, the true post orgasm baby that he is. 

“Just a few more minutes.” 

You laugh in the way of your predictable boy and snuggle him further now that he’s cocooned, the tingles in your toes eases and he might lay heavy on you but it’s comforting that his body moves to the puff of your chest. It’s like watching the clouds in the sky morph from one figure to another. Like the soft ticking of a metronome. Like counting sheep. And it’s easy to let ‘just a few more minutes’ trickle on and on. 

What Jeongguk wants, Jeongguk gets. 

[grimescum]

OH I DIDNT SEE UR EDIT HI

u also get more frenzy content!!! this is gunna be her toyhouse bio, under the cut coz its long

personality:

- gets her energy from all the sugar she eats

- her opinions and mood can change on a dime. can and will go from loving you to wanting you dead and back again for even the smallest of reasons

- very irritable but forgives quickly

- kind of a bitch? shes very friendly and outgoing, but at the same time she's judgemental and impulsive as hell. if she thinks you're ugly, she's not afraid to blurt it out.

- serious pick-me behavior. supports her fellow girls until they take attention away from her. can get straight up murderous about it

- finds everything funny, loves to giggle

- not good at consoling people. probably would yell at someone who's crying to shut up

likes/dislikes/etc:

- her favorite animals are bunnies!! and cats, but mostly bunnies. had a pet bunny when she was younger, though she "accidentally" killed it by shoving it in a box under her bed. only felt bad because she thought it was cute

- likes to draw. not that good at it. her art looks like when children start trying to draw anime

- loves horror movies, specifically slashers!! she's not afraid of them, she just likes to lust over the killers. the kills make her giggle.

- claires is her favorite store to shop at

- loves sweets and refuses to eat much else

extras:

- unemployed and not looking. HATES the idea of having to be responsible for herself

- her favorite plushie is of a bunny, she named it "alibi" and talks to it as if its a real person

- cycles through crushes like the weather

- spends most of her time on the internet, browsing gore websites or talking to people

- has makeup, sucks at applying it. she watches millions of makeup tutorials and gets mad the second

backstory:

- frenzy grew up a jealous and bitter child. she constantly compared herself to others, especially girls who were considered pretty and popular.

- in the hopes to attract attention, she did what she could to conform to what she thought "pretty" was. grew her hair out, wore pink, starved herself... unfortunately, this only caused her to be mocked and bullied for being effeminate as a boy.

- parents were emotionally distant and unsupportive. if she did someting good, it'd be met with indifference or dissapointment

- violently lashed out at a girl she was particularly jealous of. the girl managed to claw her eye out while fighting back, but frenzy was able to

[unfinished lol]

u cn always ask me questions aboutmy ocs

[wkemeup]

By Any Other Name (8)

series summary: When Special Agent Bucky Barnes is tasked with infiltrating the notorious gang Hydra and gathering evidence against its leader, Brock Rumlow, Bucky finds himself drawn to the woman who doesn’t seem to belong in this world of violence, the wife of the head of Hydra… you. pairing: bucky x reader chapter word count: 9.1k (I know, I know. I couldn’t help it) warnings: subtle implications of previous sexual assault, brock rumlow remains the #1 asshole, fancy galas and dancin’ on baloncies, bucky struggles to hold himself back  🌹series masterlist 🌹

When you returned home from the boutique downtown, James was trailing close behind you with the dress wrapped tight in a garment bag draped over his forearm. A deep chuckle echoed in his chest after you’d told him you texted Clara before he pulled into the driveway to start the kettle for you.

You had a few hours before you’d need to start on your hair and fumble your way through a decent makeup tutorial, and you’d hoped you could spend it with James curled up in the library, letting yourself lean against his shoulder as you’d turn a page and see whether he pulled away. You wanted to fill your senses with sweet apple caramel tea and the faded leather on James’ jacket and maybe the brush of his hand as he settled in beside you.

Smile bright on your face as you pushed open the door, you’d felt relief for the first time in weeks since Peter was dragged under Hydra’s claws. The warm gust of air pushed through the frame as you stumbled into the living room, turning back to James to tease him about how long he had to finish Goblet of Fire, when you noticed his smile fall away instantly. Replaced with a stone-cold expression, hardened features, he was focused on something beyond your shoulder.

Brock.

“You get what you need?” your husband asked from his seat in the living room, nursing a half-empty glass of scotch. The bottle was close by. There was malice in his tone, a threat, and you felt pride in it.

“Yup,” you said, popping the ‘p’ on your lips as you shrugged off your jacket. James took it from you without a word and placed it on the coat rack.

Brock stood and crossed the room. He gestured for the garment bag from James and zipped it open, peaking at the dress inside. He didn’t say anything but you could tell by the sliver of disappointment on his face that he was hoping for something more revealing, with a deeper cut and tighter fabric, but he didn’t have the control over you he used to.

“I hope you have appropriate attire for tonight, Karpov,” he said to James, eyes flickering down to the dark wash jeans, t-shirt, and black bomber he usually wore.

“Of course, sir,” James responded shortly, and there was a slight flicker of resentment, something like a challenge in his voice that caught you off guard. Brock didn’t seem to notice but you wondered if his change in attitude towards your husband had anything to do with his relationship to you – whatever that was.

“Best to give my wife ample time to get ready for tonight,” Brock added, as if you weren’t standing right next to him. “You know how long women can take to get ready.”

James wasn’t laughing, but your husband was. He was looking at you, checking for signs of distress as Brock tried to usher him out of the living room. He paused in the frame, like he was waiting for your approval before he departed and you gave him a slight nod. It was the last thing you wanted but you needed him to know you were okay to be alone.

Brock was an ass but you never felt threatened by him. You were safe despite your hatred of the man and you smiled softly for James. He gritted his teeth, still hesitant, but Brock nudged him further out the door until he had no excuse left to stay.

The door closed and, then, he was gone.

Without another word, you turned on your heels and started to make your way upstairs when you felt Brock’s hand snake around your wrist. You yanked it harshly from his grasp and he had the nerve to look surprised.

“Why so cold, baby?”

“Don’t act like we can play pretend anymore, Brock. You’re not foolish enough for that.”

He stepped back, licking at his lips as his eyes trailed along your body. He was displeased with your torn jeans and band shirt, favoring you to dress like the wealthy wives he’d seen in the papers and in press conferences next to their husbands; tight, short dresses, heels, and a full face of makeup, even on days they didn’t leave the house.

You started to turn your back to him as he reached out to your shoulder, but you slipped out of his grasp once again.

Brock grunted, arms folded over his chest. “You’re still angry about the kid.”

It wasn’t a question. The fact that he even dared to bring up Peter said enough about his limited ability to see anything past his own interests, his own cruel and selfless agenda. 

When you didn’t respond, Brock straightened his back, fake smile falling from his lips and turning into a hardened frown. “I hope you’re still aware of--”

“What?” you scoffed. “The fact that you’re keeping me complicit in your crimes and this hell of a marriage to hold onto some perceived notion of power? Or that you’ve dragged the only family I have left into constant danger just to blackmail me into staying with you, as if the threat of jail time and extortion wasn’t enough? I do not need reminding, Brock!”

You watched as he clenched at his jaw, the muscle flickering beneath the surface and you grinned. It wasn’t often Brock was speechless, riddled silent in anger alone, and you thrived on it. Maybe you would have been too afraid to confront him like this before, but something had changed, something had renewed your spark and your drive for freedom from this monster, and if you really let yourself think about it, you knew it had to do with startling blue eyes.

“If you’re worried about tonight, rest assure that I will play my part in front of the cameras,” you said, voice low and detached. “I’ll be the loving, submissive wife for the sake of the press and your immeasurably small ego, but inside these walls, I owe you nothing.”

Brock parted his lips to speak but you were already halfway up the stairs, back turned to him and for once, he didn’t dare to follow.

You stormed your way into your room with heat and fire and gravel in your veins and yanked out an entire drawer worth of clothes. You carried it down the hall and into the guest room, the one with the painting filled with sunset colors you'd purchased from the bubbly college student named Wanda down at the artisan coffee shop and dumped the contents onto the bed.

Two, three, six drawers, and half of a closet later and all of your clothing was sprawled out onto the comforter. You didn’t stop there. No— you went back for your books in the nightstand, your toiletries from the bathroom, the jewelry sitting on the dresser and your shoes lining the floor of the walk-in closet.

It was barren when you were finished.

You collapsed down on the guest bed amongst the piles of clothes and let out a heavy sigh of relief, wondering why the hell you’d waited until now to do that. The surge of confidence was new, the absence of the fear you once carried for your husband, too, because what else could he possibly do to you? He’d already trapped you within this home and this marriage. He’d pulled Peter into his world. There was nothing left he could take.

You thought then of blue eyes, but pushed the thought away quickly. He didn’t know anything about James. That, you were certain. If he did, he wouldn’t be lying in wait. Brock was a jealous man. He would have retaliated by now.

After you managed to find your curler and makeup bag amongst the mess of clothes and shoes upon the bed, you made your way to the bathroom. You’d managed to get ready for these events dozens of times before with no issue, though you’d come to despise the false lashes, intricate hair styles, and heavy makeup you’d mask yourself in.

Those were things Brock wanted.

He wanted you to be the envy of the room, the embodiment of every fashion trend and style, just so he could claim you as his own. So, he put you in skin tight dresses to accentuate your curves, the most expensive of jewelry along your neck and your hands, and heels higher than you could run in.

You looked down at the curler in your hand, studying it for a moment, before you started to smile.

***

An hour later, as you slipped the dress over your head and spent an embarrassingly long time twisting around yourself to pull up the zipper on your own, you caught sight of yourself in the mirror. For the first time in years, you looked like... well, you.

Subtle, soft waves down by your shoulders with a few pieces pulled away from your face and tied back in a simple silver clip you’d worn hundreds of times. Neutral colors in your makeup, strengthening the natural beauty your mother had always reminded you of. Diamond posts in your ears and a thin chained pendent around your neck, gifts from your father after he’d missed another one of your recitals in your school days; jewelry Brock could never touch.

You stepped into the shoes you’d worn every year to the graduations at Columbia. Nude in color and with a wide enough heel that you weren’t wobbling on your ankles, they were still a little worn but they were comfortable, familiar, and you found yourself smiling at your reflection.

A single chime from your phone rang out and you turned to the bed, eyes narrowed. It took a moment, digging through the massive pile before you found your phone hidden under your fall sweaters and summer shoes, but you swiped open the message.

A hand set over your mouth, smiling so wide it almost hurt and you tried to chew on your bottom lip to keep yourself from free falling too much, but what else could you be expected to do when James sent you a message like this.

An imagine first. A picture of him sitting on what looked to be a couch that would have fit in amongst the graduate students you mentored years ago, half of his face covered by the top edge of a book, though you could tell he was smiling from the wrinkles up by his eyes. He was nearing the end, maybe only a few pages left of the same book he’d been working on for a few weeks now; Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.

Classics weren’t limited to ones written by authors before you were born, you know.

Under the picture, a simple text, and it still made your heart soar.

I warned you not to underestimate me, doll.

Heart pounding, cheeks aching, you clutched the phone tight to your chest before sinking back onto the piles of clothes.

You were such a goner for this man.

***

No.

Nope.

Jesus H Christ.

If you thought you were done for before, you should have waited until James walked in the front door in a suit.

Hair pulled back away from his face in a low hanging bun, a few flyaway pieces falling back to frame the strong line of his jaw. Black jacket draped over his arm, white button up shirt folded along the sleeves to his elbows from the heat of your living room, and pale blue tie slightly slacked at the neck doing the most to draw your attention to his eyes.

But it was the way he was looking at you that did you in.

As you stepped down the stairs, his words seemed to die on his tongue, his full attention watching you with every step; the softest, smallest of smiles pushing at the corners of his lips like he was surprised, relieved, maybe even proud. You imagined Brock would notice the change in your makeup and hair from your usual, that he might scoff at your lack of ‘effort,’ but it wasn’t his opinion you cared for.

As you neared the bottom step, James darted forward, shaking himself from his daze and offered you his hand.

It was like you were a kid again. Heart thunderous in your chest, uncontrollable smile, stomach fluttering under the pressure of a thousand butterflies coursing through you, all ignited by his touch. For a second, you were alone with him in this room and you wondered what would happen if you gave into every instinct, everything you’d been craving, and let yourself chase after someone for once instead of being chained to a wall.

But the second passed and Brock emerged into the living room; the fantasy world you’d built for yourself in that moment shattered with the stomp of his feet and the slam of the door against the wall. James dropped your hand immediately, stepping away before Brock could see, and as caught up in himself as he usually was, he didn’t seem to notice.

“There you are, baby,” Brock called, waving towards the door impatiently. He was staring at his phone, hadn't even bothered to look up at you yet, but when he did, there was an ounce of disappointment to see you in the lavender dress. His frown made you smile.

“Follow in the car behind us,” he said sharply to James as he quickly turned out of the living room and began making his way to the car.

You rolled your eyes, huffing out a sigh and you mimicked his voice to James, earning you a hushed laugh in response. He offered you his arm and helped escort you down the front steps and to your car where Brock was already waiting inside.

“See you there,” you said softly before you slipped into the seat, as close to the door as possible to put some space between you and Brock.

James nodded, carefully closing the door behind you, though he lingered for a second on the other side of the window; hand pressed to the glass like it was some kind of extension of himself, keeping him tied to you for just a moment longer.

You studied the lines on his palms, the slight callouses and the nicks in the skin. You almost reached out to touch the window where his hand was placed, like you might be able to touch him if you tried hard enough, but then Brock cleared his throat.

“Let’s get a move on, shall we?”

When you turned back to the window, James was gone.

***

The blinding flash of the cameras as you emerged from the Bugatti was never something you were able to get used to in all your years with Brock. The light of it stung in your eyes, leaving behind blurs of stars in your vision, almost like a haze, as reporters and paparazzi called your name from all directions.

Brock rushed around the car, holding out his arm for you to take as you slipped your legs from the car, careful of the long slit in your dress. It was the only time he resembled a decent man; when he was under the watchful eye of the press.

The gala was host to New York’s wealthiest, set to raise hundreds of thousands, if not millions of dollars, for the city’s budget. Everyone who was anyone would be in attendance and that included men of a less than moral standard. They put on their smiles and paraded under the disguise of business fronts for their criminal schemes and everyone pretended like they were none the wiser. It didn’t matter where the money was coming from, it seemed, as long as it cleared in the bank.  

“Brock! Mr. Rumlow! How was your meeting with the commissioner?”

“Over here, sugar! Show us that dress!”

“Brock! A word on the jump in stock at the Lernaean?”

“Give us a smile, honey!”

You forced a curve onto our lips, though it seemed to ache in your cheeks, teeth gritting beneath the surface as Brock pulled you aside to answer the question of a pretty reporter holding out a microphone and wearing a long, red dress. He took his time answering her question, his gaze noticeably traveling down to the plunging neckline at her cleavage, though she didn’t appear to mind. She leaned into it, curved at her shoulders to make the exposure more pronounced. She knew what tactics to use to get his attention and get her quote. You’d admire her if you weren’t so angry with Brock for keeping you amongst the chaos of the photographers longer than necessary.

Though, even when you made it inside, there was no relief.

Instead, swarms of Brock’s business associates, local politicians, and sons of generations’ worth of inheritances crowded you as you stepped foot inside the extravagant ballroom.

Brock introduced you to Ulysses Klaue, a man with a nasty scar over his face and rotten teeth, claiming his money came from his family’s restaurant downtown and not the trading of weapons down at the docks.

Then, Grant Ward, the newly elected councilman already in your husband’s pocket with a boyishly handsome face and cold, dark eyes. The one you’d seen in your kitchen earlier that day as Brock coerced you into attending this event.

Finally, on your left, Obadiah Stane, who found his riches profiting off of a grieving, orphaned kid of billionaires.

You’d met all these men before.

Several times.

Brock, nor none of these men, ever seemed to remember. You supposed they only took in the pretty dress and the flow of curves, but never your face, and certainly not your name. Men like this didn’t much care for the character of the women in their lives.

You found yourself glancing around the room, in search of something, though it took you a minute to realize you were seeking out James. He didn’t seem to be anywhere in the main room and you hadn’t seen him pull the car up behind you and Brock at the front entrance. Your heart sunk a little, wondering how long you’d be left alone with your husband without reprieve.

He had promised he’d be here, hadn’t he? It was the only reason you hadn’t completely broken down twice as you’d done up your makeup. It was part of your usual routine anyway. The idea of acting as a trophy, a visually pleasing object at Brock Rumlow’s side for him to show off to his friends, wasn’t just humiliating, it was degrading. These events were nightmares to you until James.

He had to be here somewhere, you reasoned. He wouldn’t have lied to you. He wouldn’t have left you on your own. He was better than that, you were sure of it.

It only took four minutes of mild conversation and blatant objectifying comments of a young woman by the bar before Brock turned to you with a hushed whisper and said, “why don’t you go sit with the other wives? I have some business to take care of.”

It always came to that eventually. This sort of comment where he’d dismiss you when he no longer required your presence, when your purpose expired and he held no use for the pretty, silent woman at his side.

You glanced over to the gathering of wives at the center of the ballroom and scoffed at the prospect of being around those women. They were as ruthless and cruel as their husbands, Lady Macbeths standing amongst expensive couches in fear of wrinkling their dresses and gossiping amongst themselves, comparing riches and their husbands’ latest business ventures.

Still, there was relief in not having to wear this mask any longer; of acting like the doting, loving wife, hanging off his arm for his friends to admire and stare at. You nodded without another word and quickly made your way to the bar.

Brock didn’t even seem to notice you’d left.

There had been a time that you’d been incredibly self-conscious on your own in a venue like this, dressed in garments worth twice your last paycheck and nursing a glass of red wine alone. You’d come to crave the solitude. It meant you weren’t listening to Brock’s endless self-praise or dealing with catty wives or forcing out a smile. It gave you a chance to just breathe.

Though, of course, it never lasted long.

You swirled the wine glass in your hand, watching as the burgundy red liquid chased the widest curve of the cup. Mesmerizing and dizzy with the alcohol in your system, you brought it to your lips and took back a heavy sip. It ran like warmth down your body, a comforting blanket.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing on your own?” a voice suddenly purred from behind you, low and deep and unfamiliar, as a hand snaked its way from the low of your back around your hips.

You gasped, jumping out of the man’s hold and nearly spilling the wine down the front of your dress if the bartender hadn’t pulled it from you hand in time with a short grimace and placed it on the counter.

Your cheeks were flushed, the man staring down at you with little regard for his wondering eyes.

“Try hitting on someone else, creep,” you sneered.

“Come on, sugar,” he purred, ignoring the way you tried to step out of the space he invaded and moved closer to you, “I know you’re looking for some company.”

As his hand started to reach out to you again, suddenly it was stopped midair by a tight grip on the wrist. Wide eyes darted to the assailant before he was shoved away from you. A thick wall stepped between you, like a shield, and a wave of calm swept through your chest, easing your racing heart.

“She said no, asshole. Back the hell up,” James growled, his hands curling into fists.

You set a hand on his shoulder blades, a reminder that you were just fine and despite this man’s wondering hands and eyes, he didn’t require the brunt of James’ job description as punishment. The quiver in his stance would suffice.

“Fuckin’ prude. Not worth it anyway,” the man grunted before stalking away in search of his next target. He didn’t spare you a final look.

It took a minute before James turned around, but as he did, the hardness of his features softened immediately upon seeing you.

“You alright?”

You nodded. “’Course. Comes with the territory of these things.”

James clenched his jaw, clearly chewing on the inside of his lip. It bothered him that you’d become so used to the unwanted touches and the blatant staring of crude men. He wanted to say more, that much you could tell, but he sighed instead.

“It’s not so bad now that you’re here,” you said teasingly and his cheeks heated a slight shade of pink. How a man like James Karpov could manage to blush was still a mystery to you.

“That so?” he smiled, letting go of the tension as he finally turned away from staring daggers into the man he’d nearly assaulted.

James leaned back against the bar and picked up your wine, placing it into your hand. He looked over you as you took another sip, smile filling his face, pushing up by his cheeks and wrinkling by his eyes.

“I was right, you know,” he shrugged casually, glancing back out into the sea of guests. You raised an eyebrow, not sure what he was referring to, but as a stunning blonde woman walked by in a dress two sizes too small and the cleavage of her chest near spilling out the top, James didn’t even spare her a glance. “You’re the most beautiful woman in the room.”

Face burning hot, you tried to hide behind the wine glass, hardly able to even look at him, but he didn’t let up.

“Gave all these women a chance too, just like you asked,” he tsked. “Still don’t hold a candle to you in that dress.”

You chewed on your lip, tasting the lipstick you’d put on just an hour earlier you were sure was completely faded away by now. Your stomach was alight with fireworks and your heart was thumping so hard, you wondered if he could hear it over the string quartette playing just a few feet away.

“Almost thought you were gonna bail on me,” you said, changing the subject quickly because he was making it incredibly hard not to jump into his arms, and ravage him right on the bar, even amongst all these people and your husband laughing away with his associates not too far away. You squeezed your thighs together and cleared your throat awkwardly. “You get lost?”

He chuckled, unfazed by your lack of response. You supposed the slight tremor in your voice was enough for him.

“I’m not allowed the privilege of the front entrance,” he said. “Parked around back and checked out the security first.”

You nodded, taking another sip, hoping it might give you confidence. “I don’t remember Rollins ever taking precautions like that. You take your job very seriously, don’t you?”

He pursed his lips, a slight shake of his head. A beat, and then, “only when you’re in the room.”

He said it so simply, as casually as one might order a second drink or exchange pleasantries with a cashier at the store, like it was second nature. You found yourself staring at him, wide eyed and certain he could see every ounce of your heart spilling out from your chest, but he only winked at you with that charming smile of his before turning out to watch the guests.

He was trying to kill you; stop your heart, steal your breath, something, because he kept saying things that made you feel impossibly weak, words that made your stomach twist in ways you hadn’t even experienced in the years Brock was pretending to love you and he’d purposely sculpted himself into everything you ever wanted in a man.

James was still somehow so much more.

***

You stood there with James for nearly an hour, laughing at the high-end attendees as they attempted to one up one another with stories of their latest vacations or libraries baring their name on college campuses. You made fun of a couple bickering with the waitstaff and the twenty-something son of a billionaire donning sunglasses indoors, wobbling on his feet and carrying around a half empty bottle of tequila while his father ignored him.

After a few times turning you down, James finally agreed to the drink you’d ordered him nearly twenty minutes prior and started to sip on the bourbon like it was honey. You could smell it on his breath but it didn’t repulse you in the way it did when Brock smelled of it. It was sweeter, lighter, and he wasn’t drowning in it. It made his cheeks a little flushed and his smile a litter bright, his muscles a little looser, and you wondered if you could adore him more than you already did.

His laugh was like the kind of melody that got stuck in your head after a single listen; a captivating kind of key change and a series of lyrics that punctured you straight through the chest. He was charming and kind and impossibly sweet and if left unchecked, you were certain you’d free fall for him straight into an abyss.

Though, you’d already made that jump months ago, hadn’t you?

“Think you might be up for Indian this time?” you asked as the conversation began to drift to your upcoming Sunday afternoons. He’d promised to meet you down by the bridge a few hours earlier so he could join you and Peter for lunch before Peter snuck off to find his ‘not-girlfriend’ Michele at the climate change rally downtown.

“I told you, Y/n, I’m up for anything. Whatever you want to do,” James smiled, taking another sip of his bourbon.

“You say that every time! I know for a fact the peppers at that Thai place we tried last week almost killed you,” you teased, thinking back to how quickly his eyes watered and he started coughing at the first taste, though he insisted he was fine even as he’d asked a water refill twice in the span of ten minutes. Peter was in near hysterics. You struggled to hold back your laughter. “You’re allowed to disagree with me, James.”

“Me? Never.”

You swatted at his arm until he started to laugh and you realized your cheeks were hurting from how wide you were smiling. Some of the guests glanced over in your direction, eyeing you under narrowed stared before they scoffed and turned away. You didn’t mind at all. It barely even fazed you.

But as with every good thing in your life, Brock found a way to insert himself right into it, leaving you with no relief. He was waving in your direction, a slight sway in his stance as his drink sloshed up over the side. You realized then he wasn’t looking at you at all, but at James.

“I think you’re being summoned,” you said disappointedly with a slight roll of your eyes. You nudged James’ shoulder and pointed in Brock’s direction as he nearly stumbled onto a friend of his.

James pressed his lips, pretending like he didn’t notice. “No, I don’t think so.”

He could hardly keep a straight face. It brought a smile back to your own. 

“You better go before you get us both in trouble,” you warned, pushing him along. You were laughing before you realized it. 

“You’ll be alright?” His smile was softer now, more serious, concerned. It fluttered straight to your chest and warmth burned around your heart.

“I can manage without you, you know,” you teased. He raised an eyebrow, about to challenge you with that grin of his, but you pointed to the back gardens. It was quiet out there, away from wondering eyes and you could use a break from the heat of the ballroom and the wine. “I’m going to get some air. I’ll be fine, James. Go.”

He gave you a short nod, quickly gulping back the rest of his bourbon, leaving you to laugh as he wiped his lips and turned to head towards Brock.

You watched him as he left, a cautious look over his shoulder the further away he got, like he was checking on you, making sure you were as fine as you insisted, and only turned back when you gave him a smile of encouragement. Brock had never done anything like that in your years together, even when he was playing his part so convincingly. But to James, it was an instinct.

Brock slid back into his chair, a little uneasy and you were certain he was drunk. It was a frequent occurrence at these events anyway. He'd waste himself in expensive alcohol until he could barely stumble home if he wasn’t practically draped over your shoulder and he’d let his hands wander in the car on the way home and as you’d put him to bed. No matter how many times you swatted his hands away, he’d slide his fingers up the thigh of your dress, or kiss at your collarbone as you took off your makeup, until you'd eventually give in just to get him to go to sleep.

It had been months since you’d last let him touch you. You couldn’t stand the idea of his mouth on you, his hands trailing over your skin and taking what he desired. It was like venom, poison, and you couldn’t just roll over and close your eyes anymore. You’d found a courage to say no and you realized, as you watched Brock grab onto James’ collar and yank him down close to say something quiet in his ear, it had something to do with the kind blue eyes that still managed to watch you intently from across the room.

Brock shoved a glass into James’ hand and pressed him to sit amongst his inebriated friends. There wasn’t much about Hydra and Brock’s criminal life you knew details about, but you knew enough to wonder the sorts of things he was asking of James, the kind of conversations those men must have amongst each other.

James was reluctant, gaze flashing back in your direction, but you had already moved away from the bar. You watched as he narrowed his focus, glancing around for you until he spotted you walking towards the back doors. There was a slight exhale in his shoulders, though his expression remained stoic, almost longing, before he sat down next to your husband.

The double doors leading to the gardens were lined with reflective panels, the walls too, and it reminded you of the hall of mirrors in Versailles. Brock had taken you there on your honeymoon, back in the days when he was pretending to love you before your father’s money became available to him. He’d done such a convincing job back then and you wondered most days how you could be so foolish as to fall for his act.

With a heavy sigh, you watched your own reflection as you approached the doors. The lavender dress really was stunning; the softness of the color standing out amongst the sea of dark reds, deep blues, and forest greens. You never suspected James was lying about how well it suited you, but it felt nice to see yourself in something you liked, too, something you felt comfortable in and allowed you to resemble even part of how you saw yourself. You weren’t interested in transforming into Brock’s ideal woman with the hair extensions, false lashes, and skin tight dresses.

You just wanted to be you, if only for once.

The air was cool as you stepped out into the gardens. It raised goosebumps on your arms and you ran your hands along the exposed skin. Still, against the flush in your cheeks from the busy, crowded ballroom and the alcohol in your blood, it was a relief.

It was really quite beautiful outside as you leaned against the balcony and looked out into the sea of flowers and bushes. Vibrant colors surrounded by infinite shades of green, all sitting under a star covered navy sky. It was like something out of your novels; a scene you’d never appreciated before until you found someone you wanted to share it with.

Starting to wonder if you’d find him again that evening, you picked up the hem of your dress, turning to head back inside when you were met with a wall of muscle; a slight chuckle in his chest and a hand extended out to you.

“Dance with me.”

James smiled softly at you, simply waiting, and you could only stare at his hand. The melodic tones of the string quartette filtered out into the balcony, playing a waltz you recognized from your time at Columbia. Your office had been by the music department and you’d slipped into the orchestra’s practice hours to grade assignments in the back row most nights.

Your eyes slowly trailed up to his face to find he was as sincere as he sounded.

“Dance with me,” he asked again. There was no impatience in his voice, if anything, there was amusement, enjoyment.

“What—What did Brock want?” you asked, changing the subject abruptly because he couldn’t possibly be serious, but he didn’t drop his hand and he didn’t step away.

“Nothing important,” James shrugged. “He’s too far gone to be talking business anyway and ended up trying to rope me into ogling with his buddies at a woman on the arm of military weapons manufacture with an ego the size of the empire state building.”

“And?”

James narrowed his eyes. “And what?”

“What was the consensus?”

You didn’t even know why you were asking, but you couldn’t seem to tear your eyes away from his hand. He let it fall then, but only to step closer to you. There was a softness in his features, a kindness that shouldn’t be there for a man of his profession, and yet, when he touched you it felt like he was handling something precious, something like paper thin delicacy with the calloused hands riddled with scars.

“She was pretty,” James admitted with an exhale, “but she’s not you.”

He stepped back again, extended his arm, that boyish grin on his face returning and you swore he was going to be the end of you.

“Now, dance with me.”

“James,” you sighed, eyes flickering inside to where Brock was laughing with his partners inside, a whiskey glass in hand as the amber liquid slipped up and over the edge with every jarred movement. “I don’t know if we can—this is— he’s right there.”

“Just one dance, doll,” James said sweetly, curling his fingers at you. “It would be a shame to wear a dress like that and not get a dance out of it. Come on, Y/n. It’s harmless.”

It most certainly wasn’t and he full well knew that.

“He can’t see us, you know,” James reminded you quietly, sensing your hesitation as he watched your gaze trailing back inside where your husband sat, a lingering hurt in his voice you didn’t expect. “Those are two-way mirrors. All they can see from the inside is a reflection of themselves. I think it’s rather fitting, don’t you?”

Right. You’d noticed that when you came outside.

“Dance with me, Y/n,” he asked again, persistent but never demanding. His hand was still there waiting for you to hold.

You stared at it, the open palm and the patience in his stance. There was no doubt that you wanted to, that you would have thrown yourself into his arms at his first invitation, but there was danger in that. With Brock so close, the risk of him finding out, of exposing whatever it was between you and James, it didn’t just terrify you, it was a constant source of dread.

Brock was an angry, jealous man, and he’d tear James apart if he knew even half of how you felt for him.

But the temptation was strong. James gave you the kind of choices Brock never did. He was kind and patient and understanding. He was everything you had once thought Brock was and still, somehow, so much more than that. He was sincere and genuine and you could never quite reconcile how he’d ended up working for a vile organization like Hydra. He was too good a man for that. You were certain of it.

You glanced up at his eyes to find him simply watching you, curious; shades of ocean blue and the light pink of his lips curving as your resolve began to crumble. It always would when he asked you to.

“One dance,” you warned, tentatively slipping your hand into his and he seemed to melt at the relief of it alone. His hand was cold, like ice to the heat of your palms.

He echoed your words, though once your hand was locked in his, his other sitting gently on your lower back as he guided you to sway along to the tempo of the music, you both knew one dance would never be enough.

You’d been in his arms once before, the night he’d come rushing over after Brock had dragged Peter into his underworld, already in the car before you could even get the words out to ask him to come. He’d held you as you cried and soothed a hand along your back until your eyes dried, but this was different. This was intentional. This was something you’d only allowed yourself to dream about in the furthest corners of your mind, never once believing it was anywhere within reach.

Yet, here he was.

You could smell the soapy fragrance of his shampoo, the oak of his cologne. You could feel the warmth of his breath so close to you that it brushed against your cheeks with every exhale. You felt the grip of his hand, the slight readjustments of the one on your back, like he might be as nervous as you were despite his charming demeanor.

“Don’t know the last time I danced like this,” you whispered, the words spilling from you before you could stop them. It seemed to surprise James for a moment before the realization clicked; the understanding that your husband was not a man of love and tender moments such as these. You wondered if it had been since your wedding day. You couldn’t remember.

“Well, I can’t tell at all,” James said, smiling softly at you. “You’re a natural.”

“Only because you’re leading every step,” you teased and when he started to laugh again, you swore there wasn’t a more beautiful sound in the universe.

“Have to have a good partner for that.”

You pulled your lower lip between your teeth, trying to stifle the smile pulling hard against your cheeks.

The two of you danced for at least three songs like that, swaying back and forth, a twirl under his arm when he decided to mix things up to pull a laugh from you, and a brief moment where he attempted to teach you to waltz properly, but you’d stepped on his toes enough times he brought you back to the simple swaying, teasing that you were going to put him out of commission with moves like that, though he promised to teach you next time.

You liked the sound of that. Next time.

After the melodies playing inside began to soften, turning to long, drawn out notes amongst the deep sounds of the cello and the fragrant notes of the violin and violas, James lifted your hand to his neck, releasing his hold on your hand and slid it to meet his other at the base of your spine. You relaxed into him, resting your cheek to his shoulder, closing your eyes because you’d never felt as safe with any man as you did with James.

You could hear his heart thumping beneath the jacket of his suit and for a moment, you were reminded that you weren’t alone in your fears. You weren’t the only one who knew how dangerous this was, how much you were risking, how terrifying it was to care for someone the way you did for him. Fingers danced in the hairs at the nape of his neck, brushing at the baby hairs there and flattening your hands against his back, feeling as much of him as you could.

His nose pressed into your shoulder, arms snaking tight around your back, and you wondered if he’d been dreaming about this as much as you have. He held onto you like it was the last time, the only time, like he might not ever be given a chance again, and you realized you’d never known that kind of longing before. It nearly tore right through you.

“Your heart’s beating really fast,” you said quietly, not even sure he could hear you as your hand slipped around the base of his neck to settle against the rush of his heart. Under your palm, you could feel every pulse, and it was loud, frequent, and it seemed to channel right into your veins.

“Yeah,” he sighed, “it is.”

“Why is that?”

It was a dangerous question but you asked it anyway.

“I think you know,” he replied tenderly, his fingers tracing patterns in the small of your back as he leaned forward to press his nose to your shoulder. You shivered as he inhaled, his lips grazing your skin before he pulled back and swept a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You... you make me do things I shouldn’t. You make me want things I shouldn’t.”

There was more than what he was saying, words he was holding back, confessions on the tip of his tongue but he bit them away. You couldn’t imagine anything more forbidden that to fall for your husband’s right-hand man, his enforcer, and for him to care for you in return. Brock was not a man many have dared to cross and when they have, well, they’ve ended up like Rollins – asphyxiated alone in a prison cell.

And still—there was something else. Something else holding him back but you couldn’t place what it was. There was guilt in his eyes, shame, he didn’t have when he spoke about your husband. James knew that your relationship to Brock was a sham, nothing more than a publicity stunt and you held no affection for him. It wasn’t a matter of adultery or breaking hearts. There was more going on than what he told you, but you didn’t press him. Not now.

“Sometimes I wish I could just run from all this,” you whispered slowly, clinging tight to the lapel of his jacket. You didn’t dare meet his eye but you felt as he stilled, as the sway of his steps gently pulled to a stop. “I think about getting on a plane and going somewhere far from where Brock or—or Hydra could find me. But then I think about Peter and Aunt May and—and you.”

His breathed hitched. You felt his heart race again and his grip on you tightening, though he didn’t say anything.

You took in a shaken breath, trying to find courage as you rested your cheek to his shoulder.

“I’m not naïve. I know what you do for Hydra, but there's something in me that can't accept it. It just doesn’t make any sense and I keep racking my brain trying to figure out how you ended up in this world being as kind and compassionate and sweet as you are and I just... I can’t. I can’t figure it out because you’re nothing like Brock. You’re nothing like any of his men or Jack Rollins and I... I don’t understand. I hate everything about Hydra, what they do, what they stand for... but you... you don’t belong with them, James. You can’t.”

Heart in your throat, hands clenched so tight into his jacket your knuckles started to ache, the words left you before you could stop them. You held your breath, wincing at what you’d said because they had just tumbled out one after the other without much room for hesitance.

James swallowed thickly and you started to register his hand trailing along your spine, gentle reassurance, as he slowly brought it up to around your neck, then to rest on your cheek. As tenderly as you’d ever been touched, he guided you off of his shoulder to meet his eye.

There is was again; that guilt you swore had little to do with your husband but it was eating him alive.

“When this is over, I’ll take you away from all of this,” he whispered and your breath hitched.

You blinked a few times, not quite understanding. “Over? I don’t--”

“You’ll never have to see him again if you don’t want to. I promise,” James continued, determined, and he cupped the sides of your face. His thumbs traces along your cheekbones, almost desperately and his eyes flickered down your lips but he snapped his gaze away almost instant, like he was reminding himself the dangerousness of that thought. He cleared his throat. “I just need more time, sweetheart. Just a little more time.”

“Time?” you sighed, shaking your head slightly. “James, you’re not making sense. Time for what?”

Neither of you realized the quartette had stopped playing minutes earlier; the chirp of the crickets and the bristle of wind the only melodies left in its place. You reached up to his hand, holding it against you, wondering if this had anything to do with the shame clouded into the blue of his eyes. He didn’t answer your question, but you could tell from the clench his jaw how much he wanted to.

He parted his lips, like he just might tell you, but his eyes flickered to the floor and the words died before they touched his tongue. You sighed, turning your head slightly to kiss the palm of his hand as he held it by your cheek. It surprised him, ocean blue flashing up in an instant and you smiled softly at him.

Heart thunderous in your chest, you pulled yourself closer to him, enough that you were flush against his chest. His hand wove into the hairs at the base of your neck, stroking gently into the nape, and you felt the heat of his breath brush against your nose.

So close. Impossibly close. Closer than you’d ever been and it wasn’t enough.

You leaned in, inching away the space between you, enough to feel the sharp intake of breath as his lips parted. Aching, yearning. 

Your lips only grazed his for a second, a glimpse of the love and care and affection you’d been missing for years, before it was stolen away.

The doors to the balcony swung open, slamming against the stone walls and you jumped out of James’ hold, a gasp in your lungs. He took several paces down the terrace, brushing at his lips, his hair, eyes glued to the floor, as Brock sauntered into the garden.

His whiskey still in hand, the amber liquid barely kept within the glass as most of it ended up on the floor. With every step, he was stumbling, laughing to himself under glazed eyes, until he spotted you.

“There you are, baby!” Brock slurred, fumbling his way to you and you winced at the reek of alcohol on his breath. A few drops of the whiskey stained onto your dress.

You glanced over at James as he watched you from a careful distance. He was tense, hands clenched at his sides as Brock threw an arm around your shoulders, nose nuzzling at your neck and you tried to squirm out of his grasp as you felt the wet of his lips touch your skin.

“Ready to head home, sir?” James gritted from the corner.

Brock popped his head up, a drunken grin beaming on his face. “Didn’t even see you there, Karpov! You been hanging around my wife, huh? Trying to get some side action?”

James didn’t respond, his face as stone, but your heart was pounding.

“Well good luck!” Brock laughed, grabbing at your ass sharply and you swatted him away, ready to near smack him until he tugged you up under his arm again. His grip was strong for a man with alcohol in his veins. “Haven’t gotten a lay out of this one in ages. She’s a real tease.”

Your face was on fire as Brock dragged you back inside. There wasn’t anything you could do, not in front of all these people the way you could at home. He’d never allow it, even in this state, and it left you feeling weak and pathetic and shame coursed through you like poison.

James was only a few steps behind you and you could feel the anger seething off of him. There was a moment as Brock led you through the front entrance of the ballroom outside to the valet, when he told James to meet him back at the house, that you realized you were to be left alone with your husband again and the defiance in James’ stance made you question whether he’d ever follow Brock’s orders again.

It took him a second to respond and in Brock’s drunken state he almost didn’t notice, but James said, “I can escort Mrs. Rumlow home if you’d like to attend your meeting downtown.”

Brock paused, pursed his lips as he glanced over James, then to you. His eyes trailed lower, down to your cleavage and you looked away, far down the street where neither of the men could see the rush of embarrassment on your face.

“I think I’m good for tonight,” he smirked, tugging you tighter to his side and you counted down the seconds until you crossed the barrier into your home and you could crawl out of his hold without repercussions, lock yourself behind the door of your new room and wait until morning.

“I don’t mind, sir,” James pressed, studying the way you couldn’t quite meet his eye anymore.

Brock raised a brow. He wasn’t used to be questioned and he appeared for a moment, that he might retaliate, until he broke out into a smile as if he’d been in on the joke.

“Go the fuck home, Karpov!” Brock laughed, waving his hand. “I’ve giving you a night of freedom. Grab a woman and get laid, will you? God knows you need it.”

Brock gestured to you rather dramatically as the car pulled up. He leaned forward, nearly losing his balance in the sudden movement, and opened the back door.

“Let’s go,” he ordered, waiting for you to slide inside.

You swallowed, eyes catching on James and you could tell from the clench of his fists, the twitch of the muscle behind his jaw line, that he would have started a war in that moment if you asked him to.

You’d be fine, you told yourself. You always were. Brock would run his hands up your thighs in the car and he’d stumble his way to the bar cart as soon as he made it into the living room and he’d forget about you. He was too drunk to try anything tonight, but it didn’t seem to lessen the look of absolute rage on James face.

You resided to text James as soon as you could, the moment you got home. You'd make a laugh of it, tell him how Brock face planted on the stairs and how he could barely get his own coat off. You'd tell him you were used to it and you were making tea and catching up on your latest novel, even if you were huddled under layers of sheets, clinging to your phone, crying behind locked doors.

You’d tell him whatever he needed to hear because the look on his face broke your heart; too see how much he wanted to defy all orders and take you into his arms and away from the man who made you retreat so far into yourself you barely recognized your reflection.

But James was no fool. He knew the consequences of disobeying your husband. He wouldn’t survive them.

“Goodnight, James,” you said, voice as even as you could manage it. It was your promise to him that you were alright, that you'd be okay if he left, even if none of it was true.

You pushed out a polite smile, one your husband would not question, and without another look – simply because you knew you’d never be able to walk away from him if you turned back now – you sunk into the back seat of the car, crawled to the outside window and made yourself as small as you could.

“Goodnight, Mrs. Rumlow,” you heard James say in response, soft and aching, before Brock slid in behind you and closed the door.

The air smelled of whiskey. It burned.

[regrettablewritings]

Preferences: Guilty Pleasures

Characters: Okoye, Lucifer Morningstar, Dewey Finn, Peter B. Parker, Ahkmenrah

Okoye

Okoye is straightforward and stony upon first impressions. And, admittedly, even afterward. The only real difference is that, if one gets to know her better, they might find shock in the fact that in spite of her appearance, she Dora leader actually likes sweets. However, it’s not sweet things in general that Okoye feels guilty for enjoying: It’s Starbucks.

Starbucks is the antithesis of everything Okoye is associated with: Supremely un-Wakandan, a chain establishment, and overall just not worth the absurd cost. Not to mention superbly unhealthy when compared to the rest of a fighter’s typical diet. But yet you can bet that every time she needs to go out of the country or off-continent, there’s an invasive shout for joy at the possibility that she might be able to get her hands on a Frappucino (followed by an internal scolding).

She can’t even explain exactly why she likes it; there are plenty of good, even healthier sweet things back in Wakanda -- heck, back anywhere else!

But it’s a bit like when someone craves the cheap taste of school pizza over a legit pie cooked in a stone hearth: She just loves the sugary sweetness, the application of whipped cream to an already tooth-rottingly saccharine icy drink, the addition of chocolate. But Bast, she also hates it. But ever since T’Challa practically shoved a grande cup of caramel frappucino into her hands, she hasn’t felt entirely the same.

Against her better judgement, she’s more or less unintentionally tried 45% of the menu drink-wise. She doesn’t particularly care much for the food part of the establishment, though if she should ever find herself in one during the fall, she might indulge in a chunky slice of pumpkin bread under the conviction that it’s healthy enough for being gourd-related. Never mind that it’s just a cinnamon mixture with more sugar than actual pumpkin-derived anything.

Really, of all those mentioned on this list, Okoye is the one who probably feels the most disappointed in herself whenever she indulges in her guilty pleasure: It’s a betrayal to her patriotism, to her dignity, and to her attempts to eat healthy. But damn, if this type of betrayal doesn’t taste so addicting . . .

Lucifer Morningstar

The thing about Lucifer is that it’s actually a bit hard for him to feel any regrets over liking anything; he’s the Devil, after all, so his whole thing is about embracing the things that make you feel good. And even besides that, he’s mostly managed to skate by in his time on Earth by categorizing things as Stuff He Likes, Stuff He Tolerates, Stuff He Doesn’t Bother With, and Stuff Humans Seem to Enjoy But He Doesn’t Quite Get. It’s a tad restricted of a system but you can’t argue with results.

However, just because something is difficult doesn’t mean that it’s impossible. The Devil can, in fact, recognize absurdity in liking certain things. Hence why, to a point, he’s fallen prey to his own bizarre pleasures: The Devil has guilty pleasures, and it’s in stupid YouTube videos, Vine, and TikTok.

After he finally drank the Kool-Aid and got himself a smart phone, it was only a matter of time before Lucifer fell down the rabbit hole that is YouTube prank videos and strange uploads about nonsense and animal humor. It was also only a matter of time before he found himself stumbling into Vine compilations. The Celestial is terrifically mystified by the creative power of humans, managing to tell entire stories and peak comedy in only a span of seven seconds. But he’s also quite loathe to have realized it’s been long defunct by the time he’s discovered it.

He’s even more loathe to find himself making references in his daily life: He has actually quietly blurted out, “I sure hope it does” in response to seeing a Road Work Ahead sign, causing Chloe some confusion (and Lucifer lots of embarrassment). He has referred to a culprit as “Jared, Age 19″. Since discovering Vine, there has been at least one night wherein he and a bed mate were sitting there with barbecue sauce on his tiddies, but that was by sheer coincidence.

But eventually the Vine compilation well dried up, and the inevitable transfer over to TikTok happened. And Luci honestly doesn’t know what to make of TikTok. He would describe it as Vine’s Molly-addicted cousin based on its obsession with dancing, but the dances are so stationary that even that doesn’t seem quite right. The videos on the platform are also much more . . . bizarre. And some of them admittedly trigger a fight-or-flight response in him, to which he always chooses the third option of freezing if only so he can keep watching the train wreck unfold before his eyes.

The trouble with TikTok, he’ll admit to himself, is that it’s not as easy to find iconic content the same way he could with Vine. However, this isn’t to say that he hasn’t found anything worth watching over and over and over again . . .

(Let’s just say the “Wolf Pack Compilation” lives in his head rent-free, and he’s both too amused by it and too overwhelmed by its vibe to try and evict it.)

Dewey Finn

Dewey is . . . a special case. Given that he associates messy living and indulging in one’s pleasure a part of the rocker lifestyle, he’s generally quick to embrace whatever makes him happy. He’s very upfront about his interests and is arguably almost incapable of feeling shame. But it’s in there: Deep down. No, not in himself -- in his Spotify. Specifically, a Spotify account made on an email he never uses because it was made specifically to create this separate, uber secret playlist.

One marked “Actual Musical Bops.”

Dewey hates musicals: They’re cheesy, uninspired, gaudy, ridiculous, totally aimed at chicks with weird fantasies that he could never aspire to, and the music is just overall unimpressive. And yet, somehow, against his music elitist nature, a handful have managed to slip through the cracks. At the very least, a handful of numbers have clawed their way past his defenses and into his ear, where they now live rent-free.

In spite of his best efforts, the problems are that he’s a New Yorker, so it’s inevitable that he hears a song or two; and also that, as an instructor (to wealthy New York tweens whose families can afford frequent tripes to the Great White Way, no less), he’s definitely going to wind up hearing about some shows and their stand-out numbers: Against his will, he knows the lyrics to “My Shot”; he has cried in the secrecy of his apartment to “When I Grow Up”; in the never-necessary reason he needs to remember how many minutes there are in a year, he sings it inside his head; hell, he’s even found himself trying to figure out the electric guitar riff from “The Phantom of the Opera” during his down time.

What’s all the more embarrassing is that, given how he presents himself as a music elitist, there’s just no way he can come back from this if anyone were to know. He has to catch himself when he finds himself humming “Johanna” in the teacher’s lounge. He scowls at himself when he can’t sleep and gives in and starts playing “No One is Alone.” He wants to kick his thick ass every time he realizes he’s excited to have stumbled across a “slime tutorial” on YouTube, this one with better quality than the last. The reason he actually put a password on his phone wasn’t out of privacy like a sensible person would, but out of a need to make sure that no one ever found out that he had downloaded the entire Beetlejuice soundtrack, including jankily-recorded songs that never made it to the official cast recording for whatever reason!

And should anyone ever find out about any of this, Dewey has a plan: “Oh, I’m doing research. I’m studying these songs so I can give the kids a lesson on what not to do as actually competent musicians.”

But the lesson would never actually come. Mainly because he keeps prolonging his “research” . . .

He’s also developed a bit of a soft spot for My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic due to some students gushing about it, but he would rather sooner die than ever be associated with the term “brony.”

Peter B. Parker

Peter is at a point where he’s too tired to really care about the idea of guilty pleasures. The way he sees it, there are bigger priorities at stake than worrying about someone finding out about your love of some hokey activity or food or form of entertainment.

Besides, he’s a New Yorker: There’s way weirder stuff for people to just not pay any real attention to. Hence why he thinks nothing of his bizarre eating habits. And no, this isn’t referring to his disastrous appetite: This is about his tendency to eat food with his hands. Foods that, well, he really should probably utilize eating utensils for.

To be fair, this habit has always existed in him in some form or another, especially since, as Spider-Man, he often needs to eat food on the go. But during the time he spent living the life of a depressed bachelor, it came out in full force. On the rare occasion he wasn’t eating a food that deserved to be eaten by hand, he often found himself loathing the idea of doing the dishes afterward. There would be days he’d feel only slightly less depressed; enough to make a box of Kraft Mac n Cheese in the pot, but not enough to avoid cutting out the middle man.

He’s thankful the craptastic apartment wasn’t also see-through because if it were, he’s positive his neighbors would’ve thought they were bearing witness to a man’s breakdown as he wept into a pot of macaroni and cheese, his hand full of the stuff, while wearing a Spider-Man costume. (And, to be fair, they actually would be.)

In addition to this, there were also those nights where he would be prepared to actually tuck in to a plate of spaghetti, only for some crime going on elsewhere in the city to drag him away. By the time he’d return, the plate would’ve been cold and his energy too depleted to want to even dream about cleaning more than he already had to.

The great news is that he’s thankfully done a 180, now able and willing (if begrudgingly) to clean up after himself. But bad news is that this feral man will still eat a fully-loaded baked potato like an apple. In a park. In front of women and children. He’s just too tired to care anymore. He’s aware of the guilt in this as a concept, but he’s also aware that he needs to take whatever happiness he can get out of whatever he does. And if that means eating everything by hand, then so be it!

Ahkmenrah

Funnily enough, Ahkmenrah doesn’t seem to experience much of any shame for enjoying the things most might feel the need to hide: He’s constantly curious and has missed out on a lot over the centuries, so why should he feel bad for wanting to indulge in them? Celebrity gossip is just a more fun version of the palace gossip he’d grown up hearing as a boy; reality TV is like watching a play, but with much more fights, less deaths, and more faulty romances; and sloppy meatball subs are like a feast for a man of his time!

Besides, he’s a king: Kings shouldn’t have to feel embarrassment over what the common folk might think.

And yet . . . It took some time, but eventually Ahkmenrah did experience it: Guilt in his pleasures.

He couldn’t even recall where it had all started. Maybe he was searching for more content to swallow after the most recent season of his new favorite show had ended? Whatever the case, he wound up biting off more than he could chew when he stumbled upon . . . fanfiction.

The adorable yet sad thing is that he didn’t even think anything of it at first. It wasn’t until he brought up a ship he’d invested his last few nights awake exploring on the computer: Nobody knew what the crap he was talking about, so of course he felt the need to explain it. But the more he talked, the more perplexed his friends looked. And the more he could feel his cheeks and ears burn.

Oh, he thought. Is this . . . embarrassment? Is that what this feels like? Oh, this is just foul.

Thankfully, nobody pressured him to keep talking about it, but the poor king sure as heck didn’t feel much of a desire to talk any further about it. But he needed to talk to somebody about his newly acquired “feels” as those online were calling them.

Joining fanfiction-oriented sites was the next obvious step, of course, but he’s experienced mixed feelings about it: On one hand, it’s nice to talk with people who share similar views and excitement about a fictional couple. But on the other, the digital wars that have broken out both disturb him and bring out the worst in him.

Like, of course there are bigger things to deal with than whether or not So-So is better off with Him-Ham, but if you truly think that Blah-Blah and Himhaw are a healthy relationship, then you can go do a service and bury yourself in the desert sands to provide substance to the hungry beetles with your flesh --

Suffice to say, a lot of the guilt in this pleasure seems to come from the fact that Ahk can get a little too emotionally invested if the work is really good. He tries to limit his interactions to commenting and praising certain works, and encouraging content creators. However, he’s also contemplated contributing his own pieces of fiction to the fandom . . .

[internalsealpanic]

Hug Tutorials

summary: Constantine is stuck baby sitting. Not exactly his area of expertise. So how is he supposed handle a feral 8 year old? Help comes from an unexpected source.

A/n: I am pretty new to the Hellblazer fandom so forgive the characterization. I own nothing except Ruta (in all his bratty glory) and the plot. Maya belongs to the wonderful @birdy-bat-writes who is a wonderful human being. This thing is kind of part of a crack au me and Riya have been brain storming.  I will probably edit or rewrite this later.  Yes, I need a better title. 

warnings: awkward hugs, implied child neglect, and a lot of swearing

word count:  1,709 (This is actually really short.)

Ruta knows it hadn't started out like this.

He remembers when his mother used to try and help him read. She tried her best but the shapes on the page just made no sense to him. Not the way it did for Raffie or Mimi. 

He tries memorizing the words she said to him and parroting them back to her. It works! For awhile...  

He also remembers the walks to the park and how they'd listen to him about transparent people. 

They probably think he's too young to notice the change. 

His mom's slowly cut back on their nightly reading sessions opting for game night with his siblings. They were playing monopoly and that required a little too much reading for him to play. 

They haven't read together in months. Maybe he's the only one keeping track. 

He still tells them about the transparent people and now he tells them about the shadowy people but now they simply nod out of time with what he says. They used to be better at pretending and nodding in time with what he said. 

His dad got mad at him once when he started crying about the shadow people when they were at the market. He shook him, just a little, just enough to make him feel woozy, looking red with embarrassment. Ruta felt bad about it. He felt really horrible about  embarrassing his dad that he decided never to mention them again even when they got too close. 

The good news is he now had Count Von Bon Bon who listened and read aloud to him. He wasn't allowed inside the house because he was such a big bird but when they went outside he kept the shadow things away.  

He doesn’t need anyone else. He’ll be ok. 

-------------

If you asked John Constantine how on Earth he found himself in the mess, he'd likely give you a dumbfounded look, shrug, and mumble something about being too sober. 

But in all honesty, how does one find themselves watching their 8-year-old charge about to throw hands with not one but two Green Lanterns who should know better? 

Ruta stood , small and imperious, with his little arm crossed and his head thrown back after a great laugh. "I'd like to see ya do it, dumb carrot headed shit!" 

Guy, looking as red as, well, Sinestro, looks like he's about to deck the kid.  "Oh, I'm gonna,"  

John with all the good sense he's got fumbles over to the tiny terror.  "Sorry 'bout that lil' Ruta 'ere's just a bit nippy from 'avin' to wake up early. Yanno 'ow kids are,” He grabs the kid by his sweater who makes a little squawking noise not too different from his devastatingly posh familiar who would have been really helpful right now.  The kid wriggles a little, trying to claw John's hand away from the sweater.  He pauses and John thinks that maybe, just maybe, the kid had gotten some sense knocked into him.

Unfortunately for him, John Constantine is one unlucky bastard.

With the smarmiest grin plastered on his little face, Ruta slips out of the, admittedly, ill-fitting sweater. The kid basically sprinted back toward the lanterns who, by the way, still looked pissed as all hell. 

"Oh for the love of-" John is honestly going to pop a blood vessel.  He grabs the kid's arm since the kid despite his speed hadn't made it far. 

Ruta did not have the expected reaction.  He froze. Breath seizing. Body going rigid. John thought about letting go but thought better of it. 

"Ruta-" 

Ruta begins to thrash violently and make petulant noises. John rolls eyes even as the kid snarls a few colorful words. "Yer gonna hafta do bettern’ that lad if-"

CHOMP

"Sonuva! Zee, a little help would be appreciated, love,"

"Sorry John, I’ve got no clue about how Maya usually gets him to settle down,"

Well, that helped.

Justice League members gather in bewilderment as they watch Constantine let out a string of curses as he tries to pry Ruta off his arm. The kid's teeth were actually digging into his flesh.  John is pretty sure he would rather be fighting off all the demon's he's encountered over the years than be here, right now, getting his flesh torn.  

Bats and Supes enter the room. Now, John normally didn't give a rat's ass what those two thought but there was a special kind of embarrassment that comes with a tantruming child.  He now had a little more sympathy for people with kids in grocery stores. 

The next few seconds are hard to process. 

Bats discussing something about Earth's defenses with Supes wordlessly walks over to John, pats Ruta on the head,  the kid- miraculously- relinquishes his death grip on John's arm, and in a disturbingly fluid motion Bats scoops him up into his arms, settles Ruta on to his hip, walks back to his conversation as if nothing happened. 

The kid makes a brief distressed noise and a weak attempt at fighting before huffing and wrapping his wreathy little arms around Bats’ neck as Bats rubs circles on his  back. 

God, the kid looked so small all of a sudden. Had Ruta been that tiny this whole time? 

He looked a little relieved aside from his face which was red and screwed up like all his effort  was being devoted to trying not to cry. His breath is still uneven but it was settling down. He’s limp against Bats. For once, he looked like he wasn't about to turn tail and run or to tell someon to fuck off or  bite someone's face off.

Fuck, when was the last time the kid looked so relaxed?

The newer league members watch with a mix of awe and confusion while the older ones shake their head and murmur something about not seeing that in a while. 

It takes a few minutes, the entire conversation actually, for Batman to realize that all his kids are too big for him to comfortably carry like this even with his size. He panics thinking he accidentally kidnapped a young child.  It takes him a moment longer to realize who it is. 

"How the fuck did you manage that?" John finally stiffles out, awe clear in his voice.

Batman glares at John for cursing in front of the kid.

 "Wot? He’s said worse,"

"That’s cus you’re a fucking cunt," Ruta mumbles his cheek still smooshed into Bats' shoulder. Bats looks as stone faced as ever but from the frown tugging at his lips he seemed mortified but he made a grunt that sounded more nostalgic than reprimanding. Batman adjusts his hold on the kid looking like he was honestly debating on whether to keep carrying the kid around and keep working or give him back to the clearly inexperienced Constantine. He decides it was probably best to give him back to Constantine but a part of him just really wanted to keep holding the little one trembling in his arms. When was the last time he held someone this small. It kind of reminded him of when Jason was small right down to the fowl mouth. 

Ruta clearly also doesn't want to let go. Bats is sturdy and surprisingly warm.  He looked like he would cry if he let go. The kid’s knuckles were white from gripping Bats’ cowl for Christ’s sake. Sadly, Igris, his annoyingly posh familiar, shows up from who the fuck knows where. 

 "Little prince, this is no way to behave," He admonishes in an eerie vernacular that was only barely understandable due to exposure. Ruta's face grows hot from embarrassment and with a nod he extricates himself from the caped crusader's arms. 

The kid definitely looks like he's about to cry but he mutters a glum ‘Yes, Count Von Bon Bon’.  

 "Where the bloody hell have you been?" John asked. God, he needed a smoke. 

"I've been watching over Maya as the little prince had asked," John gives him a questioning look. "I got bored" The bird adds, shrugging in an oddly human manner.  

Ruta extricates himself looking sheepish but mostly tired. Kid has probably been stressed and on adrenaline for a while. The sudden feeling of safety just made him crash.  

John hesitantly wraps his arms around the kid. The kid freezes but hugs back hesitantly. John tries to lift the kid but the kid stiffens. John honestly had no idea how to hold this kid. He maneuvered his hands clumsily around the kid. Ruta made no objections but he was clearly uncomfortable. 

 "No. You have to support both of his back and legs. Sometimes you have to lean back a bit to get them to so he leave into you- yeah just like that,"  Bats instructs, sounding oddly gentle. His usual gravel absent. It kind of scared  John, to be honest, so he did his best to follow along.  

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

At some point, Maya shows up after her ‘date’ with Damian- not much of a date when there are a bunch of people watching you- and finds Bruce coaching John on how to hold a tired elementary schooler who was drooling on John's favorite beige coat. She tried her best to stifle a laugh. Thankfully, she didn't have to try too hard. 

 "EXCUSE ME????? B, since when were you a child whisperer?" Dick exclaims as dramatically as humanly possible. Damian and Tim radiated second hand embarrassment while Jason just plays it like he doesn't know his older brother. Maya guessed that if Bruce wasn't used Dick he would be cringing too. 

 "Nightwing, I've had more than 5 children. I believe I know how to handle children,"  

"Uhuh- sure, B.  Whatever you say,"

Bruce makes a neutral grunting noise. 

"Please tell me you're not adopting that one,"

"Of course no-"

"Yeah sure, B,"

"He's- He's Constantines,"

"Tt, father, you are a terrible influence,"

It is a spectacle to watch Bruce's kids team up on him. 

Maya shakes her head and laughs before heading over to John. 

“Well, bring me a biscuit and call me Christy Bats’ was right” He mutters rocking the feral child.  Ruta’s little arms wrap around him a little tighter. 

“‘Course he is, Christy. He’s Batman,” Maya drawls smiling innocently.

"Please never leave him with me again,"

"Dunno, Christy. Looks like you're doing fine,"

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