#this issue…did not age gracefully

[theodore-sallis]

“No Choice of Colors!” Fear (Vol. 1/1970), #12.

Writer: Steve Gerber; Penciler: Jim Starlin; Inker: Rich Buckler; Letterer: John Costanza

[un-lawliet]

I recently found your blog and <3

I’ve been having some health issues lately and have been struggling so I decided to leave a request! Obviously don’t feel pressured to write! If the prompt doesn’t stick feel free to ignore!

High school Satoru X female reader who had a crush on him in for ages but she’s so shy and Gojos so popular so they don’t really interact. BUT she decides to bake him sweets and leave them on his desk and somehow he finds out it was her and asks her on a date.

CHEESY I KNOW >~< I feel like we don’t have enough fics of reader being head over heels in love with Gojo and it’s a must!

ANYWAY- again this is a ramble feel free to ignore MWAH

hi anon !!! id absolutely LOVE to write this ITS NO PRESSURE AT ALL :) thank you so so so much for the request- i hope you’re ok ! and i’m always here incase u need to talk <3

“Pretty.”

— in which Gojo has a secret admirer.

“Did you hear? Satoru Gojo has a secret admirer.”

“Oh Yea? Who?”

“Dunno, ‘pparently he’s going mad tryna find ‘em though.”

…

Your face was definitely burning, hands sweating and jaw clenched as you listen to the chatter of your classmates. Their voices morphing into the background of your busy mind, blending seamlessly into the slight disarray of (as you would describe it) your dire situation.

Blinking, you raise your hand to scratch the base of your neck, trying to pull yourself together less you reveal your crimes of admiration out-loud to classroom full of people who barely knew of your name.

You could see him, from where you sat, hunched over in your seat at the back of the classroom, your eyes squinted ever so slightly as the unforgiving sun spread her light through the window, gracefully imposing on your face falling directly into your peering eyes.

Leaning against the smudged glass of the vending machine, he had his head tilted back, laughing boisterously at a joke from his friend (the one who was always trying to hide the smoke from her lit cigarette)

In one hand you could see a can of soda you knew was far too sweet for anyone but himself, and in the other, you saw the small tin, decorated with the white and yellow details of pretty flowers and bee’s. Lid concealing the sweets in which you had baked just a day prior, sweets that you had hoped would act as a silent confession of your- oh you’re blushing again.

Your feelings for Satoru Gojo were undeniable, however unspoken. And you doubt you would ever get to a point where you would voice them out-loud to anyone let alone Gojo himself.

But you are unfortunately, still human, and humans have a tendency to want to be acknowledged, and after years of harbouring unheard feelings for someone, the bitter grasp of your own human desire overpowered your confident resolve of silence.

And so, you left a tiny box of chocolates with a tiny pretty note tucked in the back, with a silently cheeky “Enjoy” written in pink pen.

Glancing over to the vending machine once more, you watched as Satoru Gojo waved a hand in-front of his face, pouting as he tried pathetically to dodge the smoke blown at him by his friend, who grinned cheekily in response, flicking the now finished bunt towards the ground and stepping on it, moving her foot side to side to kill the remains of the flame.

You smile.

You had met Gojo two years ago, but had known of him far longer.

In the words of yourself (and probably everyone else who knew him) he was the epitome of perfection. Good in class, the best in any sport he took up and God he was beautiful.

Everyone knew him, the exact opposite to you.

You who quietly stumbles around her own feet, and apologises for even the slightest thing, despite it mostly never being your fault.

You were incomprehensibly shy, and so incredibly frustrated with your own reticence.

And yet two years ago, Satoru Gojo had asked you for a pen, you for a pen.

He had leaned back in his chair, during your math class, turned his head and nudged you instead of everyone else around him.

A pretty grin on his face as he sheepishly explained that he forgot to bring his own, and you had stammered and nodded handing him a pen as you gently said “You can keep it for the rest of the day, I don’t mind.”

“Huh? You serious?” He had replied, his head cocking slightly eyes crinkling under his sun glasses.

“Yea? I mean uh- yes!” Looking away from his gaze shyly. “It’s just a pen you know? I have plenty.”

He laughed, and you couldn’t help but look right back at him, your heart basically stopping as he winked, right at you.

“Thanks pretty.”

And your sure you had died, right then and there. Watching the back of his head as he turned back around, uncapping your pen as he moved.

Since then, Gojo had always smiled at you when he saw you walking past, and always without fail, you would sheepishly smile back, the familiar feeling of butterflies tickling the confines of your stomach every damn time.

The shrill sound of the bell rang throughout the classroom, and you stand up, taking your books with you with a sigh.

The clatters of chairs and bags zipping filtered through your thoughts and pulled you out of your self induced daydreaming stupor, calling you to join the rest of your classmates in exiting the confines of your classroom.

You glance back out the window once more before you move towards the door, and instantly your eyebrows lifted and you almost loose grasp of your balance as Gojo Satoru stares right back at you.

Simultaneously he smiles, lifting a hand as if greeting you and you scramble away from the window, head down, entirely embarrassed.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

Could you be anymore useless in your “acting cool” facade.

Ever since you had placed your sweets on Satoru Gojo’s desk you had been a nervous wreck, terrified that at any second your feelings would be exposed and the entire school would point and laugh at your sweaty, flushed face.

Sniffing, you rub your eyes with the heel of your hands, trailing behind your peers through the halls, on their way home.

The lockers were always so crowded at the end of the day and you hated it.

You had no group to hide you from the conversations involving Gojo and his “secret admirer” have to hear every single in and pretend not to care.

“It’s creepy don’t you think? I mean why not just tell him you like him?”

“Maybe they’re nervous?”

“Of course they are? It’s Satoru Gojo for Christ’s sake, man’s beautiful.”

You close your locker, clutching the books and papers you need for your later homework, your bag left abandoned on the floor beside you.

Turning to reach for your bag, you feel another student collide into you. Your books crash to the ground, and you stare mortified as pages fly out, scattering everywhere.

The student doesn’t stop, just calls out that he’s sorry and that he’s late for a bus, you sigh.

You have to drop out, you think, there’s no recovering from this.

You bend down, apologising quietly to those around you who just glanced at you and continued on their way, and start to gather all your papers and books, heat burning your face.

“You ok?” You heard him just before you saw him, his teasing voice making your hands shake.

Satoru Gojo stood, a smile on his face as he leaned down to get closer to you, your eyes widen and you lean back on your knees.

“Um, yea-Yes everything’s good here..just dropped my stuff..” You trail off and end your broken speech with a fake, ugly laugh, internally you die as he nods and bends down to help.

“No, no you really don’t have to do that, I can manage!” You exclaim, hands moving rapidly in-front of you and he just laughs.

“I don’t mind helping ya, ‘kay?” He’s picking up random papers, no longer looking at you, his eyes glossing over your hand writing- a cheeky grin that you do not see flickers across his face.

You’re in a trance, watching as Gojo helps you, jumping when he glances at you and catches you staring, you busy yourself with stacking your books back into your bag, “Ok well, If you’re sure.”

“M’sure.” He’s handing you a stack of papers, ‘I’m very sure.”

The locker area door closes, signalling the absence of everyone else, you gulp.

“Suprised nobody helped you.” Gojo muses, standing up and raising a hand for you to hold.

You blush as you grasp it, it’s warm, you hope your palms aren’t sweating.

“It’s home time, people wanna get home.” You smile, rising to your feet using his hand has leverage.

Gojo let’s his hold linger before he lets go, you don’t notice, too focused on readjusting your top, fiddling with the fabric.

His sunglasses fall down his nose a little revealing the crystallised blue of his eyes, you swear the light causes them to glow as it catches his pupil.

You smile, eyes corrugating with what you hope looks like appreciation.

“Thanks Gojo.” And he smiles right back at you.

“Hey you know..” Gojo says, turning to ruffle in his bag, your eyes follow his movements, you watch as he pulls out a familiar box.

“Someone left these in my desk this morning, they’re really good..You wanna try?”

Your heart stops in your chest.

Your sure you’re bloods turning blue in your arteries.

Act casual, casual Y/N.

“O-oh that’s nice of them.” You mumble, your voice breaking slightly.

He offers you the box again, shaking it slightly to entice you with your own chocolates.

“Um are you sure? I don’t wanna take something that was made for you..” You look away from his sweet face to stare at the floor, then the ceiling and then back to the floor, there’s a crack right below your shoe.

Someone should really fix that.

“Oh come on! They taste great.” He grins, taking a chocolate and popping it into his mouth, letting out a dramatic “Mmm” as he chews.

“I’m sure they are..” You scratch your arm and then move your hand to the box, reaching in.

Your chocolates do taste nice, but you knew that already. Your taste testers from yesterday remaining as memory to your taste buds.

“Well?” His voice is teasing again, and you smile at him.

“They’re delicious.”

“Mhm.. and you know what else?”

He’s leaning closer to you, you try to stop yourself from leaning away, pushing aside your inane awkwardness, willing yourself to stay where you stand.

“They left a note too, wrote it in a pretty pink pen.”

“Oh?..How, how very uh- nice? of them.” You’re scrambling for sentence structure, staring at his stupidly handsome face.

He takes a page from your arms, and turns it towards himself, then lifts your note from out of his pocket.

Your eyes widen in realisation, and you step back, head turning to the door.

“Oh well, I have to go haha..” You trail off, shoving your stuff in your bag and beginning to walk to the door.

“You made me chocolates?” He asks, and you freeze, your eyes falling back onto him, and the soft face he regards you with.

He had turned the note and your paper around, your handwriting obviously present on both, you chastise yourself for such a huge oversight.

How can you deny it now? Oh God He has you cornered.

Embarrassment bubbles in the back of your throat and you desperately try to explain.

“I’m sorry.” You blurt, hands reaching out in-front of you as if begging him to hear you out.

“Huh-”

You don’t let him finish.

“I didnt mean to come off creepy, it’s just I- Well I- I think you’re really sweet, and you- You smile at me..sometimes, I just wanted you to let you know? And I’m sorry for how-”

“Hey, hey, hey.” He says, his face falling, “You don’t need to apologise for nothing, I’m not mad.”

He walks towards you, “I’m just glad they came from you, that’s all.”

Hope? Is that what you’re feeling right now?

You dare to look at him, only to see him already looking at you.

“I-”

“I ‘smile at you sometimes’?” He nudges, “You made me chocolates cause I smile?”

“..It’s a very nice smile.” You reply, head dropping.

He’s laughing, it’s a sound that makes your heart flicker, and warms your chest, scarce of mocking you feel yourself breathe normally again.

Gojo tilts his head to look at you, his face glowing with joy, as he asks, “I was planning on going to the cafe just down the street..Wanna come?”

You pause.

“What.”

Standing up straight, he hands you the note and your papers, you hold them and stare.

“A date, I’m asking you on a date Y/N.”

Is this real?

Is this happening?

“Are you serious?” Your voice comes out shocked and slightly higher than normal, you don’t understand.

“They’re very nice sweets.” He repeats with a grin “And they come from a very nice girl no? Why wouldn’t I be serious?”

“I- I just-”

Gojo, pulls the strap of your bag off your shoulder and slings it over his own, walking towards the door.

“C’mon let’s go pretty.” And he’s looking back at you, waiting “Else you won’t have a bag for tomorrow.”

You jump and follow, eyes still wide and mouth slightly parted.

And Gojo pulls you towards him the second you get close enough to touch, grasping your hand and tugging you with him, a soft smile on his face as he does so.

All is well.

masterlist <3

feel free the leave a request <3

a/n : all is not well, i’m sick as all balls right now- thank you my dear for the request..i know it’s taken me about 58 years to write this but i hope you enjoy it <33 i loved writing it and sorry for the wait. i love you !!!

[testrella]

you're my religion priest! s. geto x f!reader pt.1→pt.2

synopsis: y/n moved into a small and tight knit town to take care of her elderly grandmother. what happens when she attends a sermon with her grandmother, and finds herself lusting over someone she cannot have.

fandom: jujutsu kaisen ⌗ priest suguru geto x female reader⌗ modern au content warnings: mild cursing, smut, head (giving), religious themes(?), slight degrading at the end, angst(?) public sex, NSFW.

author's note: over 11k words, u guys have fun

“..in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy spirit. amen.”

father geto finishes off the sermon with the routine prayer. he takes the opportunity being on stage to scan the loyal audience. it was the regular, older people he preaches to. the same people who boast about him being so devoted to God at such a young age. how that when they were his age, they were off sinning. he thinks about the constant praises about being a young devoted follower, but it immediately stops when he sees her. 

a young lady, who seemed to be around the same age as him, sitting in the very back with an elderly woman. even though she was dressed as modestly as possible, the black floor length dress immersed your body in all the right places.

when did he allow his immoral thoughts come to mind

 “oh father! you must meet mrs. johnson’s granddaughter- maybe you can convince her to turn to God.” an elder of the church whispered to the priest. she gently pulled him to the side, off of the stage. 

“as you must have heard by now, edith’s grandbaby is out of control. rumor has it that she’s been caught using multiple different contraband, and premarital sex! can you believe edith would allow this to go on for so long?!”

geto mentally sighs, gossiping was always an issue at church. especially since it was located in a very small town, there wasn't much to talk about. when you were new to town, the locals went wild. fabricating very detail of your life, and spouting that nonsense through their teeth.

“with respect dear mary, the scripture speaks strongly against gossip. i’ll talk to the young lady, but please watch yourself. for there is no greater sin than sin.”

she nods while looking down, unable to meet geto’s gaze. too embarrassed to voice her concern furthermore, she mutters “yes father, please forgive me.”

“i am not the one you should be asking for forgiveness, ask the man above. now if you’ll excuse me, i’ll introduce myself to the newest member of our church.” he smiles gracefully before making his way towards mrs. johnson and her ‘scandalous’ granddaughter. 

he takes small steps towards you, puffing his chest out as he walks with a sense of pride. sure you were a pretty girl, but he was only interested to guide you through your religious journey. 

“father geto, i introduce you to my granddaughter. this is y/n. she’s only 20, and she recently moved into town to take care of me. isn’t she the kindest?”

he loses his train of thought. he's unable to bring himself to utter a single word. you were much more gorgeous up-close. if he were to describe your beauty, he’d be too overwhelmed, and wouldn’t know where to start. maybe he’d start with the way your nose fits your face perfectly. or, how your smile molded perfectly with your faint smile lines. 

geto snaps out of his trance, and quickly introduces himself. 

“i’m father geto. welcome to this church, i hope your stay has been great so far.” he purred. 

you squint your eyes at him. almost as if you already knew the rumors going around. nonetheless, you shake his hand. 

“like my grandma said, i’m y/n. i do hope we cross paths alone in the future.”

he blushes from the way you shaked his hand, but also put your other hand on his. solidifying the handshake more than it needed too. not only that, the last comment you made. crossing paths.. alone?

“my confessional booth is always open before my sermon, and at 9 PM on sundays. if that’s what you mean of course.” 

you puff your chest out and let out a dramatic sigh. taking in your arms, and letting them rest to your side, you open your mouth to speak. he stares at your lips, refusing to make eye contact.

“the sermon did end, i guess i’ll have to see you later tonight.” you assured him before walking over to your grandmother who made conversation with someone else. he watched you walk away, allowing himself to sneak a peek from behind. 

later that day, geto was having lunch. he finds himself unable to focus on his best friend's story, the words going in one ear and out the other. all the plays in his mind is you, and what you could possibly up to.

“satoru, i think i was seduced today after my sermon.” he spilled out, no longer able to contain his thoughts. 

“gross! how old was she? 50? 69? HA, get it? 69?” 

geto rolls his eyes at the blue eyed ‘man’ who acted immaturely any chance he got. maybe he really should have kept his thoughts to himself. it was better than trying to converse it with an actual man-child.

“goodness satoru, no. she was a few years younger than me. 4 years to be exact. she’s one of the elder’s granddaughter, and the way she spoke to me made me feel like i was sinning. i didn’t even do anything!”

“well..”

his eyebrow quirks as satoru began his sentence. 

“did she have big tits?” 

geto’s face quickly turned from curiosity to disgust. he abruptly stood up from the table, placing both hands on it for support, and got all up in satoru’s face.

“how could you ever speak so unashamedly about a lady like that?! let alone speak like that in front of a priest!”

“well forgive me father, i didn’t mean to offend you and your girlfriend,” satoru said sarcastically while putting his hands up defensively. “i’ve said worse, and you’ve never had a problem with it until now. she must’ve had big tits for you to go all preacher mode on me.“  

as much as geto didn’t want to admit it, satoru was right. there were many time's geto allowed the white haired man to say the most diabolical stuff known to man. even listening when satoru would describe women’s bodies in detail and occasionally his one night stands. why was this any different?

“excuse me, is that you father?” 

there is was.

the seductive voice he met only hours ago. both boys slowly turn their heads to the h/c girl standing right in front of them. their eyes met with the beauty talked about earlier. only now you were wearing a shorter version of the dress you wore earlier. 

“m-miss. y/n? i’m afraid you’ve caught me at a bad time. what brings you here?” 

you only acknowledge one of the two men in front of her, and of course it was geto. your eyes met his, and never shifted away. it was almost like a dance of temptation, daring him to do further than just eye contact. the dark aura coming from you was overwhelming him, or maybe it was just your strong perfume. 

“i apologize for the disruption, father geto. my grandma asked me to run some errands. i guess i’ll have to speak with you later tonight.“ 

before geto could get a word in, you once again walk off. just like before, he once again glances down there. 

forgive me Lord, for i have sinned. 

“dude what the fuck was that..” the white haired man questioned. he also noticed the thick tension that was stirred by non other than you.

“i d-don’t know. i cannot see her tonight. i’m scared she might tempt me into.. into doing something that’s against the scripture.”

he now finds himself in the confessional booth, anxiously waiting for your arrival. it was currently 9:47 PM, you were late. it did not help his anxiety at all. he’d give you until 10:15 for you to arrive. anything later would have to just be scheduled on another sunday. 

he lets out a deep breath before he hears the clattering of heels. geto takes a peak out of his curtain only to be met with a sultry gaze. he quickly closes off his curtain, and subconsciously wipes his sweaty palms on his lap. this was like any other confessional, there was nothing to be conspicuous. 

“father geto? are you there?“ you ask in a voice just above a whisper. 

geto swallows whatever was in his mouth before speaking.

 “of course i am.“ 

“ahem, forgive me father. i have sinned since i first moved into this town. actually, i sinned today after the sermon.“ 

he stays silent. he’s tempted to ask what you’ve done, and if it possibly had something to do with him. but you answer his unspoken questions before he can think about it for too long.

“before moving into this lovely town, my grandmother sent me a picture of her priest. goodness, i didn’t know what to do with myself.“ 

he was determined to stay stoic, and not to speak unless it was to say a prayer. but her hushed voice and the strong tension made it difficult. the air seemed to thicken every time she finished a sentence. geto couldn’t escape your magnetic pull of lust.

“a-and if i may ask, what did you do to deal with your problem?”

“i couldn’t resist myself. after i saw the photo of him, i began to have lewd thoughts. every night leading up to my departure, i’d touch myself thinking about him. then..”

she lets out a small moan, but geto would describe it as a small whine. now he was breathing heavily as his boxers started to tighten up. there was no way he could get hard in the church. it was sinful. but he was here to help you, and allowed you to continue.

“i met him today. after the sermon i started using objects to make myself feel satisfied. but it was nothing compared to his large hands shaking my hand. i can only imagine him using his hands going inside of me instead of holding a bible. even now, i cannot resist his voice..” you confessed as heavy breathing came from your end. 

“..come over to my side dear. let me help you.” he whispered.

you waste no time he notes from the sounds coming from the other side. your heels clacked once or twice before you pulled the curtain from his side. 

he studies your face very carefully. there was a light red tint spreading across your cheeks, and your ears were bright red. his eyes then wander down to your very revealing shirt that showed a lot of cleavage. the shirt was accompanied by a matching skirt, a very, VERY, short skirt.

you walk into the tight fitting booth. before he can get his hands on you, you kneel down in between his legs. your pretty little head lays on his left thigh.

“forgive me father. how can i ever make you forgive me for my sins?” you lift your head and your hands start to wander on the edge of his pants. “tell me father, there must be a way..”

geto feels a bead of sweat going down his forehead. there were many times that grandparents introduced their grandchildren to him, in hopes they get married. or, when satoru would convince him to agree to a blind date. his answer of rejection was always the same. 

‘i am devoted to the man above, i musn’t be distracted.’ 

where was his reasoning of rejection when he watches you pull both his pants and undergarments off? 

you grab his dick and painfully slowly lick the tip of it. leaving any pre-cum on his tip, now in your mouth. a slight moan leaves his mouth. this was a pleasure that he’s never experienced before. devoting all 24 years of his life to God has never brought this much fulfilment. 

where was his reasoning of rejection when you put his whole dick in your mouth without any hesitation?

your sudden move of deep throating him caught him off guard. he’s now holding your head in a gentle manner, as gentle as he can be. geto is lost at words, he can only moan uncontrollably while playing with your hair. the only thing he can fixate his eyes on was your beautiful hair getting tangled into his fingers. 

where was his reasoning when you made him finish in under five minutes even though it felt like an eternity for him?

you continue to suck him off, hollowing your cheeks for a better suction. your hands wander down to his balls, giving it a small massage. you're not sure what you did right, but it worked. geto was now praising your name instead of the lord’s. he feels an unfamiliar knot unwinding itself. 

“y/n.. please i feel..” he lets out a breathy moan instead of finishing his sentence. his eyes shut close to full enjoy the euphoric feeling. why did he want to reject your advances in the first place? he can't seem to remember. 

“father..” you cooed while taking off his shirt. of course, the hot pastor with a big dick was also very nicely built.

“oh geto, why do you hide this from me?”

your hands wander his chest then it starts to follow his happy trail. your movement was haltered when he reached out for your chest.

“the same could be said for yourself. show yourself to me, please. i beg.”

his eyes looked like a puppy who had been kicked. there was no sane woman in the world who would say no to his violet eyes. your hand then reaches out for his, and then place his hand on the hem of your shirt.

“take it off for me, father geto.”

being enchanted with your hypnotic gaze, it drew him like a moth to a flame. he lifted your shirt, taking your bra off as well, and stared with admiration. you had an art of seduction that was compared to no other. he watches you sit on his lap as you lift your skirt. 

this is sin. he was sinning. 

but he didn’t stop you as you sat slowly onto his dick, moaning in joy. he watches you go up and down painfully slow.

“c-can you go a little faster..?“ he moaned into your ear. being too embarrassed by his request, he buries himself on the side of your neck. taking in your scent, leaving small pecks on the spots you sprayed perfume. 

“you’re t-too big geto~” you whined into his ear before you attached your lips onto his. 

he was an inexperienced kisser. an inexperienced everything actually. it was easy for you to take the lead by biting onto his bottom lip. he opened his mouth to let out a small whine of pain and you took the opportunity to slip your tongue in. 

you feel yourself juices slide down your thigh onto geto’s lap as you continue to bounce on his dick. large hands start groping your ass, giving you a smack on one of your cheeks. you yelp in response. it was unexpected from a priest.

“father, use me. be as rough as you want with me.” your hands start undoing his bun, turning his hair into a disheveled mess. 

“i-i shouldn't be so mmm- rough on you.” 

you felt honored by his insistence on being so gentle. his grip on your waist tells you a different story. it was obvious he wanted to go faster than the pace you set.

“please geto, for me at least.”

oh, how could he ever deny your requests? 

his grip on your waist tightens as he lifts you up and rams into you. all pent up sexual frustrations he’s ever had in the past 24 years are being taken out on you. throughout the heavens and earth, you were his only sole purpose in life. the way you took him in so good without any complaints was proof enough. 

marks form on his shoulder and back from the scratches you were leaving. it was the only way you could hold yourself up. if not, you’d fall right into his arms while he’d continue to show no mercy on your pussy. 

geto was starting to feel what he felt earlier when you were in between his legs. his eyes gaze at yours, and gets a site he’d never unsee. small tears started forming, threatening to leave your eyes. your mouth agape as one hand held onto his shoulder, the other groping yourself.

“father geto, i-i’m ahh, i’m so close~”

on sync, the both of you came at the very same time.

geto found it more ironic than disgust when he saw the scene unfold. priest of six years, never had a temptation once in those six years. his lap was now covered in cum from not only his but the new girl in town. the new girl who easily seduced him

“forgive us lord, for the father and i have sinned.” you purred right into his ear, almost biting it. 

he massages your waist before finally putting you on your two feet. you're barely able to stand up without the support of the wall.

"y/n, we can never do this again. never speak to me unless it's about my sermon."

now it was his turn to leave before you could get a word in. he pulls his pants up and swiftly puts his shirt back on.

"you were sent by the devil, and i've failed my lord. stay far away from me you whore."

[treasure-mimic]

Psychopomp and What Things Mean When They Don't Mean Anything

So if you haven't noticed or you don't follow me, I recently became interested in a small, one-man dev team indie game by name of Psychopomp. As a brief synopsis and pitch, Psychopomp is a game about a woman who seemingly suffers from paranoid delusions, through the lens of this narrator she tells us that there's a labyrinth of catacombs hidden underneath every public building and sets out to explore them to uncover the world's secrets, armed with nothing but a store bought hammer.

The game's intro puts it in words better than I could and more influential than any pitch is just seeing the protagonist's design.

As one commentator states, she looks like a skateboard mascot from the mid-2000s. Like she should be on those posters with a snarky quip just fucked up enough to catch those pearl clutching puritans off guard. I love the style and I love the tone and I love the premise.

This might be the best time to note that if you're interested in playing this game, you should stop reading here, as this discussion will contain spoilers. It's a short game, took me about 3 hours on my first playthrough, and it's pretty cheap, even has a free demo in the form of the base version with Psychopomp Gold serving as the expanded, completed experience.

Anyways.

I've always found conspiracy theories fascinating but in the modern age it can be hard to immerse yourself in these reality-detached belief systems without acknowledging, you know, the racist dogwhistling and tangible physical harm it's causing to society at the present moment. Psychopomp is able to pretty gracefully sidestep this issue by setting its anarchic anti-government sentiments against its protagonist's paranoid delusions rather than adherence to a faith or belief system.

Indeed, the game seems to take systemic beliefs as its central enemy. The entities that are necessary to kill to progress through its levels are defined by the systems they interact in, historical figures of elevated status, keystone positions in industrial manufacturing, even abstract systems like urbanism and DNA composition are posed as societal and oppressive. I'm not saying that there's no way to interpret the game in bad faith and make it directed at marginalized social, political, or ethnic groups, but I also struggle to imagine the person who takes the game literally on its face value?

Which I guess leads me to the main topic I wanted to discuss. The game very obviously has an unreliable narrator (for the record, the protagonist remains nameless for the bulk of the game, I will be referring to her as Venus as it's the closest she has to a name that's explicitly stated within the text itself) with the flavor of one whose intake of reality may be different from what's actually occurring. The game uses a combination of conspiratorial rambling and dream logic to stage its unreal tone; for example, one level delves into the "biology" of buildings, stating that they use graffiti to communicate and that black mold is a pheromone used to evacuate its inhabitants to allow for mating. Loading screens come with "Gameplay Tips" and "Real World Tips", both of which are often dense and inscrutable; for example you might get a pair like "Not all enemies are friends" and "Viruses do not exist. Illness is simply your body punishing you for what you've done wrong."

Surrealism and unreality as stylistic choices can be a bit of a tightrope walk to get right. On the one hand, if you make it explicit that a story takes place in a state that did not happen even within the story's universe, a dream or a hallucination, it can rob the narrative of its stakes, regardless of how well executed the internal metaphors are. Psychopomp very explicitly does not do this, regardless of what it is that Venus is experiencing, the game makes it clear through scientific logs and communications (as well as a brief epilogue set outside of her perspective) that something abnormal is happening, the question is just where in between normality and Venus's experiences does the truth of the game's narrative actually lie.

The other side of the tight rope is literal interpretation, presenting a setting that's absurd to our sensibilities but tangibly explainable, where meaning is supplanted by lore and the cosmology begins to solidify into a set of Calvinball rules that don't make sense, but are still adhered to, and this is the side Psychopomp threatens to lose me on. There is a credible argument to be made that there is no difference, that what Venus is experiencing is her reality without warping and distortion, it's a more credible argument than saying she completely fabricated all of it, and it's an argument I was starting to wonder wasn't the intended interpretation. Until I got the game's second, secret ending.

Psychopomp has one collectible that doesn't serve a direct gameplay purpose, but each catacomb has a key hidden away, often behind false mimic walls that bleed and scream when you hit them with your hammer, and which unlock new rooms in the only permanent location "Home". Initially a gray, cubical, concrete room with a single mattress and a small table with a radio on it, collecting keys allows you to further explore outside(?)/within(?) the home with a unique camera perspective and limited interaction. In the first layer there's a blob man who cries out in torment, demanding to know why you specifically made the world like this, giving some credence to the deification of Venus implied by the game's ending. In the last layer, Venus traverses underneath and past her own brain to unlock a repressed memory.

I take this as confirmation that there's some level of abstraction at play here. Under scrutiny it feels as though there must be some level of abstraction at play here because when taken as a whole, the conspiracies start becoming outright contradictory, even if you try to take the cosmology at play as fact, which are the closest thing to objective facts that we have.

See, Venus's perspective takes place an alternate Earth, one that both seemingly was broken off from the planet and now orbits it like a new moon but also has always existed. One of the locations is a natural history museum which explains the history of sentience on this counter-earth, humans rose, went extinct, were supplanted by a species called the thrait, then humans returned in a mutated form and retook the surface and forced the thrait back underground (though the museum also refers to the thrait as extinct despite being the most common friendly NPC you will encounter). Another location seems to imply that the humans of this world, or maybe only some of them, are artificial clay creatures, reinforced by the arbiters of the DNA factory too being clay alleles. The Human Seedbed even has the game's most effective jumpscare in it, where Venus cannot leave the area without being confronted with a jittering clay facsimile of herself.

But with that in mind, what the hell is Venus then? By no account is she one of these artificial clay people but then how did she get here? The game's introduction implies that she used to be a normal person, or at least closer to, with lived experiences inclusive of complete ignorance to this underworld, the game's endings imply that she's an immortal god-being who has been intentionally working towards her own reawakening, and that is actually one of the least ambiguous plot points within the narrative. None of the pieces of this world lock together to form a cohesive vision of a setting that operates on even the barest of internal rules, and yet the game in the same step refuses to be a character study or subconscious examination, I mean the epilogue is a damn sequel hook that involves assembling the damn Avengers to combat the ramifications of the events of the game.

So, I come to realize, I'm the problem. I might, in fact, be thinking about this too hard.

One of the locations in the game is called "Daddy's Bad Place". It is a single, tiny room of a house or apartment, frozen in a moment of tearing itself apart, that only contains a dusty old TV set with a small, pointless ornament sitting on top. In any other surrealist game, this isolated circle of clarity, a compact orb of recognizable terrain, would be a moment to deliver one single jolt of reality into the metaphor of the protagonist's journey through their own subconscious.

In Psychopomp the TV turns on and delivers a distorted warning about a giant insect which is deadly, deceitful, and above all, not real.

In Daddy's Bad Place I come to realize something. The lore is fake, the characterization is fake, the dichotomy of truth and delusion is fake, the insect is not real. Let's think about what I'm doing here for a moment, right? I'm trying to discern the truth from within a work of fiction. None of its true, none of it happened, what difference does it actually make?

The thing about conspiracy theories is that they don't make logical sense. It's a known phenomenon that conspiracy theorists love to debate, but cannot be reasoned out of their beliefs by facts or logic. There is never a counter, but always a failsafe argument that can be retreated to for safety. What conspiracy theories do make is emotional sense, they make narrative sense. The line that initially sold me on Psychopomp was one of the aforementioned loading screen tips, "All the food you've ever eaten is rotten. You have never tasted fresh food."

Patently false statement, does not hold under scrutiny, but I, as someone who lives in America and lives in a city center and has to get all my food through corporations, can look at a statement like that and say yeah. Checks out. I believe you. We would know if children were being smelted into egg slicers underneath public schools, but it resonates with our emotions about the systems of education we enforce upon children, so it could be true. We would know if buildings were a living, reproducing organism, but it resonates with the feelings of being born into a world where urbanism exists, has existed as permanent fixtures of the world, and is continuously encroaching upon the face of the world, so it could be true.

Anyone who understands the fundamentals of incentives and human psychology does not need to believe that there is a coordinated group of ontologically evil individuals driving the world to ruin for ruin's sake, but that narrative still feels true, it becomes validating in the ways that it plays off of the emotions of believers until it becomes a foundational pillar of belief that cannot be destroyed by logical contradiction.

Psychopomp, in the same way, presents information about its internal systems that cannot be true logically but form self-justification anyways through emotional resonance. It doesn't matter if the lore works because its stated, it isn't wrong, so it must be a truth. This is the way that Psychopomp emulates the unreality of the conspiracy theory in a way that can avoid the disturbing implications of the real world practice. I've made comparison to surrealism by dream logic and surrealism by internal self-reflection, but this is a different mode entirely and the game simply refuses to operate by those tropes at its core. Conspiracy is itself contradiction, not the soft contradiction of two halves of a dream that don't lock together, but the hard contradiction of attempting to apply emotion and narrative to a waking world that rejects either premise. Psychopomp, then, is surrealism by way of conspiracy.

[lets-try-some-writing]

Death is very good being Normal (at least he thinks so)

The Thirteenth Prime is death, that is his function, his purpose. However in response to increasingly high counts of meaningless loss of life, he has taken on physical form to try and address the issue. Too bad he keeps getting wrapped up in side quests and friendship along the way.

Previous part here.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙

Orion Pax was an odd one alright. Ratchet knew that the moment he saw Orion the first time at the archives.

The way he walked was almost as if gravity had no sway over him. His body language was near non-existent and Ratchet couldn't sense an EM field from him at all. The Archivist seemed to blend right into the background if one weren't paying attention and Orion didn't even seem bothered. If anything Pax appeared to be more shocked when he was noticed rather than when he wasn't. Not only that, but there was just something... of about him. His limbs were too long, his plating too jagged and placed in areas it really shouldn't have been able to develop. His optics were too wide, too bright, and lifeless despite their glow.

He was off, but Ratchet found himself intrigued all the same.

He vividly remembered the day he finally worked up the confidence to approach the mech. He requested aid finding a text he could have easily hunted down himself just to see how the Archivist would respond. Ratchet was left even more interested in Orion when all the Archivist did was nod and gracefully guide Ratchet through the archives without even the slightest hint of emotion beyond momentary confusion and shock at being spoken to. It was almost hypnotic following Orion Pax with how every living thing seemed to bow to him.

He left the archives with his medical text in a bit of a daze and with more questions than answers. That day he resolved to figure out who Orion was and what about him made him so mysterious.

He came back to the archives time and time again, at first under the guise of needing new texts for his studies. Orion always seemed so very shocked when Ratchet approached but he never once rejected him. He talked with Orion, often receiving basic answers or ones that were so cryptic they hardly made sense. However eventually he came back just to be with the Archivist he had started to see as a friend. Orion was an excellent conversationalist and wise far beyond what Ratchet assumed was his age,. What started as a simple study of a unique character ended with Ratchet genuinely invested in teaching Orion how to be normal as he quickly discovered his friend was anything but.

Ratchet gave up asking how and why when it came to Orion around a stellar cycle into their friendship and instead merely sighed and accepted the oddity that was Pax.

Often Orion forgot to vent, a thing Ratchet had learned had zero affect on Orion since the mech was always cold as ice, only ever being even the slightest bit warm around the chassis. In such instances he would tap Orion on the shoulder and that would be enough to get him to open his vents and begin running his fans just to appear normal. When it happened in public mecha always began to panic upon seeing Orion with his armor clamped down tight around himself. The concern was so common that Ratchet even began timing how long it would take after Orion forgot for some poor bot to begin worrying that Orion was going to overheat.

The Archivist also tended to forget to show expression, make a show of having a field, and present some sort of body language. The lack of it left everyone Orion interacted with aside from those who knew him feeling like they were talking to a ghost. So Ratchet often straight up told Orion how he was supposed to act when required. Shoulders back, shift pedes every three seconds or so with slight variation, vent twice a Klik, reset the optics periodically, smile when spoken to, and so on. The list was near endless but he coached Orion all the same.

The only times he purposefully let Orion be was when the less savory sort came and bothered them. In those instances he was perfectly content to let Orion scare the scrap out of the poor bot on the receiving end by pure nature of his seeming lifelessness.

There were plenty of other things about Orion that Ratchet couldn't and certainly felt no need to explain. Sometimes Orion would disappear for cycles at a time without a word or a trace, almost like he had never existed at all. The first time it happened Ratchet nearly drove himself into a frenzy trying to find him until Orion reappeared as if nothing happened. After that he panicked a handful more times, but every instance of Orion dropping off the earth always ended with him returning in perfect condition. As such when it happened Ratchet stopped worrying and instead made sure to take care of Orion's plant while he was off doing whatever.

Ratchet also quickly got over Orion knowing things he really shouldn't and giving answers so wildly out there that it was ridiculous. How did Orion know personal details about what the late Lord of Vos preferred in his fuel? No clue. How did Orion know about the death of Sentinel Prime long before it was announced? Ratchet didn't even bother to try and figure it out. How was Orion aware that he had broken a cup in the medical bay earlier that morning when he had been alone and cleaned it up right after? He didn't want to know.

Ratchet: Where are you from Orion? It's rather obvious you are not native to Iacon.

Orion: I come from the place between the stars where time is meaningless and the whispers of things inconceivable to the mortal optic ring out all around.

Ratchet: Right... that is one way to describe the wilds.

Ratchet: So do you have any relatives?

Orion: Father watches over me in my duties, his gaze ever present but not loving. He is far greater than I, his vision so much more expansive that I cannot even comprehend it. My brothers do their duties with little regard for my own purpose. We are set apart, kin in our maker but not the same.

Ratchet: *nervous as hell* Tough family life huh? Understandable. What is this purpose you speak of?

Orion: I am merely a keeper, one who walks the void between realities to safeguard the children of Primus. I care little for who they are or what they have done, only that they are brought back safely and learn. They can struggle as hard as they wish, but all will come to me eventually...

Ratchet: *having a small crisis* An odd way to describe archiving data, but I suppose all do come for learning eventually.

Orion: As you say.

Sometimes he needed a strong drink after interacting with Orion, but he wouldn't dare ignore the entertainment he gained from his friend when he wasn't being driven to alcoholism with wisdom that Orion really shouldn't have and the odd instances where he saw some sort of energy being in place of his friend after long work shifts. After meeting Megatronus, Orion's odd instances became far more obvious since the Gladiator had quickly taken to telling Orion that it was indeed normal to do all the things the Archivist did that were certainly not. It drove Ratchet up the wall the first few times, but it quickly became funny for him as well to watch the reactions of others in response to Orion's actions.

Megatronus was weirded out by Orion on many levels, but he too gained an appreciation for him after listening to the wisdom Orion had to give. Not to mention Orion somehow had contacts everywhere and could forge words like a master even if they ended up being more terrifying than convincing.

Megatronus: How does the speech fare little Archivist? Might I hear a snippet of what you have composed?

Orion: The void awaits us all, our lives ultimately destined to end. Why endure suffering for eternity when it can be changed for those who are to come? Would we condemn the little children to this torture? Stand up. Fight for your freedom and embrace the end. For what harm is there is facing death with honor.

Megatronus: *slightly shaken* A good start, but perhaps tone down on the melodramatics.

To make up for the near constant trauma that came from being around Orion, Megatronus made great sport out of watching the chaos that came from his companion. While Orion was not very expressive, it was pretty clear he thought he was doing a great job at being normal. Megatronus never saw fit to correct him simply because the Archivist managed to scare Soundwave of all mecha by turning up in his berthroom in the middle of the night while somehow managing to get past all the security systems and Soundwave's heightened senses, only to then lean down and whisper to the spymaster.

"Megatronus summons you to formulate plans upon which this world may be rebuilt"

Simply put, Megatronus sent Orion to tell Soundwave to come to a meeting, and by the time the spymaster shot up, Orion was gone without a trace, not even a mark left on the security footage either. Soundwave quickly similarly ceased asking questions about the matter of Orion Pax and joined Ratchet and Megatronus in watching the fallout.

Orion seemed to think he was doing a fantastic job as he assisted in the efforts to begin a revolution in the pits. Megatronus could tell just by looking at him that the Archivist didn't even seem aware of how creepy he was. It was terrifying to have Orion turn up at any and all hours to hand over information. It didn't matter where Megatronus, Soundwave, Ratchet, or anyone else was. If Orion had information he wanted to relay, he would get to wherever they were and hand over the data even if his last known location was on the other side of the planet. Megatronus opted to ignore the fact that when Orion reappeared after disappearances his frame was a little more "normal" looking. He also never commented when Orion stared at him with unfeeling optics as if watching an interesting animal.

And much like Ratchet, he just did his best to forget the times Orion shifted in times of danger to become something... other. It was always different, but whatever it was Orion became when he felt threatened... it was a terrifying mess of energy and optics, claws and denta, fangs and wings. Best to ignore it and move on, as was generally the best decision when it came to anything that had to do with Orion Pax.

Even still Megatronus and Ratchet said nothing, letting Orion do as he felt and only directing him when in public if at all. He was strange and most likely a spark eater or another abomination in disguise. But he was a good mech and cared deeply once one got to know him. So for that Ratchet and Megatronus dealt with his oddities by either ignoring them or drinking them away so they could instead enjoy his companionship.

Orion for his part didn't know he was doing a poor job blending in and was just pleased that his chosen champion was making such good progress.

[rawmeknockout]

Your possessive Dadatron got into my brain with the cyberformed liason. While poor obsessed Rodimus is not being left alone with the Liason he's also one of the handful of bots outside of the medics that consistently remember the Liason was a wholeaft adult human and treat them as such, along with Rung, Swerve, Perceptor and Whirl.

This also leads to Megs and Mags being shocked when the Liason just matter-of-factly tells Rodimus, "I'm not opposed to the idea of a potential date in the future, but right now I don't have enough coordination in this body to try Meteor surfing. Worse the medics said Interfacing is out untill I have some concious control of my transformation sequence preferably after I've scanned an altmode."

Just two old Mechs clutching their pearls stunned In Horror while Rodimus is blithly is going on with the conversation.

"Wait you haven't scanned an alt yet?! I thought you'd checked all the potentials on the Lost Light?"Rodimus looked shocked.

"I did but nothing clicked or activated the sequence." The Liason shrugged helplessly. "It's not like this frame had one preloaded."

"Huh you should have told me. Next time we get off on a planet you should come with me and Drift and Ratchet. See if any of the wildlife triggers-"

"I forbid it! Ultra Magnus choked out. The other three mechs turned to look at him.

"Ultra Magnus," Megatron sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Please don't discourag Rodimus when he makes sensible seguestions."

"I, no." The Duely Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accords gathered his wits. "No Rodimus' seguestion regarding his alt mode acquisition was not the issue. The conversation with regarding Interfacing however-" The Liason cut him off voice flat with uncharacteristic frustration.

"I do not have the spoons to say this gracefully or diplomatically right now so I'm going to be blunt. I am an adult human, note the term adult, in the frame of cybertronian newbuild. I'm currently experiencing frame dysphoria and body dismorphia. And you can add gender disphoria because i have a gender and if this frame I'm in lined up with it I would be a femme!"

"I'm aware of what interfacing is. In the before times," the Liason gestured curtly at their frame, "I had quite a few lively slightly tipsy afterwork discussions at Swerve's compairing and contrasting human and cybertronian sexulity, sensuality, and romanticism. Which Rodimus took part in. Spark play, Plug and Play and feild play arent options for humans but Valve Plug is" Ultra Magnus' engine choked in shock. Megatron took a reflexive back in extreme discomfort.

"I dont think I need to hear about that!" Megatron cut her off hastily. It was a mark of his discomfort and Ultra Magnus's distraction they both missed Rodimus pulling a packet of Cesium Crisps out of his subspace.

"No Mechs, these are exactly some of the sorts of conversations that need to happen with anybot who steps up to Parent me if this is permanent. Be my Mentor," she added to clarify the twin looks of confusion. "I am a middle-aged parent of grown children with an ex-husband who remains a dear friend now that he's out of the closet. I know the two of you are both trying to parent me. God and Primus both forefend my body dies of old age before Brainstorm and Perceptod can fix me because the number of Mecha on this ship who are psychologically capable dealing with the complexities of mentoring a newbuild that is simultaneously a sentient organic who is of analagous to their devlopmental age are profoundly limited."

"How about Rang," Rodimus seguested just a bit too cheerfully around a mouthful of snacks.

"Rung, unfortunately, as my therapist has a professional conflict of interest. And since you guys have, between all your factions, a grand total of two therapists left alive it's not like switching providers-"

"Oh! Liason! There you are!" First Aid called out, cheerfully oblivious conversation he was saving Megatron and Ultra Magnus from. "Ratchet just commed me, he's looking for you. He's freed up his schedule to chaparone err moniter Brainstorm and Perceptor while they run some tests on you. Well mostly Brainstorm needs the monitering. If you could come down to the lab?"

"Oh best not keep them waiting then," Rodimus put in quickly husteling First Aid and the Liason off down the hall. "I'll walk with you, Mags and Megs have to go on shift on the Bridge."

Well this ended up longer than I expected. The characters that live in my brain just started talking and went for it.

How do you reckon Protective UM and Possessive Megatron are taking this conversation? Or this type given that Liason suddenly went from generic insert to proto-OC with a backstory while I was typing. I cant be the only one on here who's had a character grab the plot ball and run away with it for a bit.

Megatron is fine with them having a life before even tho it’s not preferred but they’re a MECH now and he knows better (this is a lie) than anyone what type of mentoring you need he’s completely ignoring this conversation bc that was your life as a human, this is your life now

Magnus is conflicted but ultimately he still keeps other mechs away. you may have some knowledge of Cybertronian sexuality, but it’s not just the interfacing that’s the problem. All the mechs on the lost light are fucked up and aren’t just looking for vanilla sex.

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

Based off one of your podcast episodes where you think Dumbledore killed Flamel, do you think Dumbledore would kill any wizard who found out different methods to being immortal?

Anon's referring to an @rankheresy episode by me and @therealvinelle (specifically this one)

TL;DL: @therealvinelle and I concluded that Dumbledore had killed Flamel before the events of Philosopher's Stone.

The thing is, that wasn't why we theorized Dumbledore killed him.

Dumbledore and Mortality

First, a bit about Dumbledore and death.

Dumbledore has some major hangups on death. To be fair, we all do, but Albus especially seems to in part because he seems to have obsessed over it in his youth as well as at his canonical age.

We know he chased after immortality as a young man and this concept of Master of Death. We know that upon gaining the cloak from the Potters, as well as the ring, he did get weird about it. Mostly, though, it's how he talks about death.

Dumbledore's often reiterating that death is a natural occurrance, which yes it is, but he romanticizes it. Death is the next great adventure, death is like going to sleep after a long hard day's work, it's a rest, a new path, and something we should look forward to when our time comes. And true, he's saying this to a child and of course sugar-coating things, and he's trying to explain why Tom's obsession with death and his horcruxes are unnatural, but it's still very strange things to say.

And the feeling I get, at least, is that Dumbledore is trying to convince himself that he's okay with death. Especially in book six where his mortality is catching up with him, he has much to prepare, and yet he's not quite prepared for when the end catches up to him despite himself.

This is a guy who thinks about death a lot and why he's no doubt convinced himself that Flamel, who he views as a good man, was totally okay with him and his wife dying after he's been not dying for several centuries because Dumbledore swears a Dark Lord who's been dead for ten years is after the stone.

But Dumbledore doesn't seem to view Flamel with contempt in Philosopher's Stone, or even all that misguided, just someone who after a long life had realized it was finally time and accepted it gracefully because the stone was very nearly stolen thanks to Dumbledore's bizarre obstacle course he set up in the basement of his school.

(This is where @therealvinelle and I come in, because we call foul on Flamel rolling over to die that easily when there have surely been thieves in the past, or letting Dumbledore do any of Philosopher's Stone without any intervention whatsoever and then supposedly quietly dying while Harry's passed out and agreeing to smash the stone after all that work to protect it.)

What Dumbledore is Not

Dumbledore clearly views Tom as bad in not accepting mortality, in murdering others to ensure his own immortality (rightly so, that's a very bad thing to do, as is splitting your soul apart even if it didn't require murder) but, and as weird as it is for me to defend Dumbledore, he's not itching at the bit to destroy Tom for that alone. That's just a facet to him of why Tom has gone too far and is unsalvageable and must be destroyed. It's a character flaw to Dumbledore, but one of many and not the main issue for all he brings it up quite often.

Dumbledore never gives off vibes of getting rid of or killing anyone who ever looks into immortality. Flamel, if @therealvinelle and I are correct, was left alone for many years when Dumbledore was personally acquainted with him and his wife until 1991. If there's other people who have similar immortality granting things, then we at least don't hear about them canonically.

Depending who they are, Dumbledore might view them as misguided, fearful, or else hold them in contempt but he's not a serial killer who's planning to hunt down people and murder them for doing things he doesn't like.

But the short answer is no, I don't think Dumbledore would do that.

[quinnkdev]

My Failed Translations for other French RPG Maker Games: "Duplo", "Exercice de Style", "Dark Soul.Ace"

So, while looking through my games folder on my computer, I stumbled across three RPG Maker 2003 titles I'd like to briefly talk about.

A few years ago - nearly a decade by this point, most likely - I was such an enormous fan of Mortis Ghost's work that I was effectively scraping the bottom of the barrel. Comics and non-game works, but also: Short jam-games, and group-efforts, and shitposts...

Which brings me to my numerous failed translation efforts of those kinds of games. More under the cut.

Dark Soul.Ace

I'll head Dark Soul.Ace, the shitpost of the bunch, off at the pass:

I played it, and didn't think it was particularly interesting or funny.

I looked through the code, and, at the time, was confused, and mixed with the fact I didn't find it entertaining, a translation never got off the ground. I had no passion for it.

Below is the "trailer" for this shitpost game. Be advised that it's VERY late 00s-era humour, and really hasn't aged gracefully.

It gets more interesting from here, though:

Duplo

As far as I remember, this was a jam game Mortis Ghost made together with Exaheva, another comics artist he was collaborating with at the time. Exaheva is still around these days, and she seems a good sort!

Duplo was a strange little beast. Clocking in at only around 15 minutes of playtime, it's a game wherein the protagonist (whose name escapes me atm) lives in a sucky town in a sucky world where people are jerks to him - and then finds a hat that, when put on, transfers him to a version of that same world where people are actually nice to him and respect him!

My translation of this one actually got a decent bit further than the one of the other games I named. My main issue were the colloquialisms it used, which I could much more easily push through now.

If I had more spare time, I'd actually finish it - but while this game is only slightly edgy by today's standards, I still feel like there's not really a demand for "Duplo" to be brought to the English language.

Exercice de Style

This one hurts to admit as my great, big failure. For many reasons!

Those of you who have read some of my Patreon posts about An Outcry's story will know that I have a fondness for the French Oulipo, a kind of writer's association (founded in the 1960s) whose main philosophy is the use of intricate restrictions in order to focus the potency of a written work.

Well, one writer under that umbrella was Raymond Queneau! And he wrote a short book called "Style Exercises", in which he told the same, simple story of a man having an argument on a bus in several different writing and narration styles.

And in ~2009, the Oniromancie forums, as instructed by Exaheva, did the same with RPG Maker 2003.

The "vanilla" story is really simple: You're a plucky RPG hero living in a house with your mum and your sister, when, ALAS! A slime attacks a girl outside! You kill it, and the day is saved.

And along this game's 15 variations, this story would be turned on its head, and retold in several interesting fashions. There's one told from the perspective of a slime's family; One where everyone is a featureless cube; one where the entire thing is an action-RPG on the overworld rather than turn-based one; a dystopian sci-fi one; one made BY Mortis Ghost and one made in the STYLE of OFF - hell, even one that's just a visual novel!

"That's so interesting!", I hear you say. "I want to play that!" Well...

The reason I didn't finish my translation of this one is unfortunately, multifold.

A lot of the text in these 15 game-variations is hard-coded - or rather, hard-printed onto assets. Translating that means translating and editing a staggering amount of image assets without interfering with their size or dimensions, which is a nightmarish edge to walk on.

Some of these have really not aged gracefully - specifically the VN-variation I felt was really ill-conceived and had a incestual ending (????????)

A few of these game variations are VERY buggy. Specifcally the one Mortis Ghost had a strong hand in - the "abstract horror" one - has a glitch where the walls cease to function, and generally-speaking, the game deals very badly with finishing one of the variations and returning to the scene-selection screen. I don't... want to scour through code that I didn't make to fix all of that. Straight-up.

Now, do I suggest you check this game out? Sure, if you can find it. I'm purposefully not providing a download link here because I'm unsure where Mortis or the other contributors stand with this often silly and sometimes ugly thing, but I do think it's absolutely worth being checked out for people who love weird and obscure RPG Maker 2003 titles.

imo, it's worth it alone for the surreal horror piece that Mortis created with the story. It's a little silly, and you can tell it's not taking itself 100% seriously, but somehow it manages to be genuinely disquieting at the same time.

[soracities]

Ur so eloquent and i love ur posts about the societal pressures associated w makeup!!!! 💗💗💗 u put everything I feel & think about into coherent words and I so appreciate that! Also I would like to hear ur thoughts on plastic surgery bcuz I am also annoyed. If I see that smug smiley little dickhead plastic surgeon tiktoker on my FYP one more time saying “ohhh my patients r beautiful. Anyway here are all the procedures I’m gonna do to alter their ethnic nor unique features and make them look totally different” I’m gonna scream. The patronising pseudo-kindness is almost worse than when he goes completely mask-off about exploiting insecurity - like the vid he made laughing w the caption “when a 20yr old says she’s doesn’t need Botox bcuz she’s gonna age gracefully.” I’ve spent a lot of time cultivating a healthy self-esteem & generally not defining myself by my appearance - yet even I felt a flicker of my old insecurity seeing that post. I block every post referencing plastic surgery and I STILL get them. It’s incessant & so insidious - esp for poc. My 13yr old cousin (who watches lots of tiktok) told me she’s saving up for a nose job and a BBL when she turns 18 and my heart fkn broke. No 13yr old shld even KNOW the term BBL.

I feel so much for your younger sister, anon, because whatever else I may have gone through with my own insecurities at 13 (and they were profound and absolutely did a number on me), I genuinely cannot begin to imagine what it's like to cope with all of that in the age of TikTok and IG and the added pressure of beauty influencers magnifying everything.

Honestly, my thoughts on cosmetic surgery are very complicated--I don't think it's something that's ever going to go away, and to be honest I'm not even sure if it's about that. I know people who've had cosmetic procedures done and I know it was something deeply important for them and I know how much happier and at ease they felt afterwards--I'm not going to judge or begrudge anyone that happiness because the reality is, as much as it would be amazing if we all loved and celebrated ourselves and each other, everyone's individual constellation of insecurities and worries is completely different and not everyone will be able to address them in the same way.

To live in a world where we are not defined and punished for our physical differences would be an incredible thing, but we don't live in that kind of world--and so learning to be at peace with yourself in the midst of the world we do have, learning to accept your body or any individual aspects of your appearance is incredibly difficult--and these difficulties are influenced even more by gender, or race, or the culture in which you live etc., or even just the people around you. Do I wish my friends could see what I see? Of course. But I also don't know what they see, or how deeply that runs, or the impact that has on them. Because I also know that, when it comes to myself, I don't see what they see, either. I've said before that I find prominent noses absolutely beautiful--but I know that I cannot impose this on someone who has had to live their life under constant comments about their nose (or any other feature), to the point where they feel that is all they are to people. I don't condemn people for the choices they make in this, but I do condemn the structures and societal expectations that force some people into certain choices in the first place by normalising this idea that there is a "correct" way to look (and I'm not immune to it either--I have a lot of profound insecurities that are incredibly difficult to get past).

It's very similar to how I view makeup in some respects because whatever choices people make when it comes to cosmetic procedures should feel like choices to them. But not all cosmetic procedures are made equally and my real issue with cosmetic surgery (and in my mind I distinguish it from plastic surgery because they are not the same to me), more than anything else, is when it becomes a tool for upholding and celebrating particular beauty standards that are deeply gendered, politicized and racialised while claiming it is "just" a matter of aesthetics, which is deeply, deeply insidious to me. "Aesthetics" have never been neutral. Even the language we use in talking about it isn't neautral: "fix", "adjust", "improve" etc. Improve according to whom? Why do they decide this? At the end of the day, no matter what you say about the golden ratio there is nothing wholly objective about beauty because human beings are not static Ideals; you cannot distill beauty into a mathematic formula like a conch shell because beauty is not something separate from the thing it occupies. These ideals work for Plato, but we are living, breathing, moving, exsiting in the here and now. A static image of a beautiful woman in a Vogue covershoot is just that: an image. And all the rules that govern that image fall apart the moment the model moves again, the moment she becomes a person again.

And besides, nothing can be "just" aesthetics in a world with the warped beauty standards that we have. There's nothing neutral about nose jobs in a society marred with as much anti-black racism and antisemitism as ours. There's nothing neutral about BBLs in a society that fetishizes black women's (and other woc) bodies as ours. There's nothing neutral about buccal fat removal in a society so plagued by thinness as not just a physical but also a moral ideal. I read a horrifying article on GQ a few months back about men undergoing cosmetic surgery to widen their jawlines so they appear more "manly"--and a surgeon in the article casually said one of these patients also "needed a rhinoplasty" which made me see red: nobody needs their face smashed open for the sake of an arbitrary standard whose very purpose (Beauty) requires the existence, and therefore manipulation and condemnation, of its opposite in order to appear valid. These beauty standards only have value so long as their opposites have no value--but these "opposites" are not disembodied traits: they are real human features that belong to real breathing human beings who have to live surrounded with this rhetoric for their entire lives. There's nothing neutral to me about looking at a human face and dissecting all of its features, ascribing values to some, and disparaging others, as though they exist as separate building blocks you can rearrange at will. In some instances, it skirts too close phrenology for me, and I'm not saying that lightly.

These are some of my thoughts but as I said, my views on this are very complicated and I have to be careful how I talk about some of it because there are some things that genuinely make me deeply angry. Again, I don't believe the solution is to get rid of cosmetic surgery, because I don't think that will ever really work and I think it misses the point--most people will always have something about themselves they'll want to change or just wish was different and for some people more than others they will want to make that change: and I would much rather people have access to legal, qualified, accountable medical professionals when they do. But in cases like your sister, in cases like that GQ article, in cases like that TikTok surgeon (I have no words, anon, truly...), or really just TikTok in general, in cases like ethnic rhinoplasty and eyelid surgery, the fact that the number of people getting Botox has grown since the increase in video calls and Zoom meetings....in all honesty at this point I am just tired and infuriated by our refusal to have an actual conversation about the society these procedures exist in and are normalised within and I'm especially tired when influencers and celebrities make a point of not being upfront about their own procedures. I don't care what people get done or why (as long as its a freely made choice for no one else's sake but yours), but I do care when we make it as acessible as these procedures are now, when they are tacitly (and in some cases outright) encouraged, and yet talking about them or admitting to having had that work done is somehow gauche and I am incredibly tired of it!

[vivianbernadetteaurora]

The 1950s

1950s were a big turnover like many other decades before and after and continue to be so. Such as one is over the top., gracious big bold, logos, intensity, blunt, colourful, and brassy almost, when you think of this most of us of our generation would think of the 2000s and the 210s and the shift of the two this 10 period cycle, well actually it’s a 20 year cycle if you really think about it coming in and out of fashion maybe 15 at the most, so you’ve got the 1940s where the war is still going up until 45 where is the, black-and-white even in the movie signals this?, we were invented somehow that had the money to, people like Marilyn Monroe, Elizabeth Taylor, Paul Newman and Robert Redford.

Hollywood and these times does this to these women? It mainly does it to the women it torment them torches them it will give them somebody who is their double., they understudy but tell them how amazing that other person is and that they wouldn’t reject these kind of office so why are you when they are deep into their career and they have given us everything of themselves? They are about down to bound to be a tad bit angry and the funny, narcissism does this to us? It thinks oh it won’t be me. I’ll never feel that way about somebody before me such as Marilyn Monroe probably never thinking she would feel like Joanne Crawford did about her who were up and coming., as a woman, you must be dignified but not too dignified to the point of you coming across arrogant, you must be flirty but never a slut, you must have virgin like quality but don’t be too virginal, age gracefully but don’t be ugly, why don’t you lose a few pounds but don’t get too skinny.

All these things are absolute recipe for disaster, and monsters the real monsters of the people behind these acts of making people feel this way the talent agents the executives, the managers the people who these companies the nepotism, allot it .

The difference in these decades like the 80s and the 90s grunge versus hair metal heroine versus cocaine, two different kinds of things in all of these things I’ve listed above so what are we due for next to me?, the 210s were rather over the top but also subtle so when it comes to our next decade that’s coming up with making it subtle bit again, so these women are men the men had it in the way the homosexual ones anyway they weren’t allowed to be open with their sex, point where they would make these men marry women while they had a life on the side which couldn’t be publicised which couldn’t be shown, I even said to my boyfriend if we break up, I want to marry a gay man, the way gay men treat women, and I hate to make sweeping statements and I seem to a lot. I seem to write like that energies sometimes.

But I love the beauty of sees a woman and her straight man never could. , this decade of the 50s bought us the Marilyn Monroe of her absolute peak, her beautiful presence versatile and face, even though she was even one he got bullied by Louis Mayer, the company, to the point I think he even called her his little chinless wonder, bullying tactics, it worked in the 2000s with Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton, where do they stay? These women go back, they’ve made up a bit now because they’re both mothers, I dread to imagine what kind of mother might be with her addiction issues sorry I’m an addict myself and it worries mate maybe it was a blessing, disguise have children?, like not to be able to have children it’s horrible. Your life ends up becoming an addiction disaster if you’re not stable enough.m and men who don’t treat you right, children are a blessing and if you have them count yourself lucky every day, do I think abortions bad, I don’t if you’re not in the right place to have a child then you shouldn’t.

This is comparing all the decades having very similar ways and if you look at it, you’ll see,. one thing I didn’t like was Jane Mansfield think the woman had much class, especially when it came to Monroe she played into the image of being exactly like her, to me it’s a shame they didn’t play into her being probably mixed cause I think she is. and by no means do I mean blackface but make them more darker? Dark hair? Lipstick et cetera, but they had to do a copy of, king size Monroe call her, and she was she lived, Monroe hated it and if you can see some of these pictures she copied it, was is Mansfield love being Monroe as Monro didn’t.

[listerbirdloml]

Double Vison in Rose Blush

Summary: Jimmy is confused. His opinions on mullets have changed, and he has a new favourite Brooklyn Nine Nine episode.

Characters: Jimmy Kaga-Ricci, Alister 'Lister' Bird, Rowan Omondi, Angel Rahimi (very briefly), A random man I made up

Warnings: strong language (surprise surprise), slight self deprecation, VERY brief mentions to past alcoholism, someone who knows NOTHING about dance trying to write about dance

Ship: Bicci

Word Count: 3.3k

just me being silly and goofy once again

Since turning fourteen, and then fifteen, then sixteen and seventeen, eighteen, and now nineteen, Jimmy Kaga-Ricci has learned a few things.

Number one. One day, Granddad was going to die. And he had to accept that.

Number two. Being famous is not as fun as he thought it would be.

Number three. Skinny jeans maybe are a bit millennial now.

And number four. Lister Bird was hot.

 

Lister Bird, who fell into the filthy Rochester river when they were fifteen. Lister Bird, who once licked a lamppost on Oxford Street because Rowan dared him. Lister Bird who watched the note book at sixteen and wept for hours. Lister Bird, who refuses to wear trousers unless absolutely crucial, and Lister Bird, who sometimes bites his toenails (The worst crime out of all of these, Jimmy thought.)

He was hot. worldly renowned for it, in fact.

It was entirely unfair. No one could be that effortlessly attractive. If given a YouTube video and twenty minutes, Lister could learn any skill known to man. Be it guitar, dance, or even knitting for a week (Jimmy still had the scarf he’d been gifted), Lister was brilliant. But he was also real. He wasn’t perfect all the time, and he didn’t even try to pretend that he was. He was a recovering alcoholic with repressed mummy issues. He just so happened to have the face of Adonis and the body to match it.

It just didn’t seem to make sense to Jimmy, but after coming across his Calvin Kelvin photoshoot the other week, and this week watching the video Lister was featured in from Centurion Dance Complex (the studio in London he often attended. The fans took months to recover from those videos, and now, it would seem, Jimmy did too), it did. It made perfect sense to him.

In the video, Lister was wearing a crop top with a stupid slogan about riding cowboys that he had kept repeating as of recent, and some joggers. Nothing that significant. His hair wasn’t particularly note-worthy; it was just slightly messier than normal due to the exertion. There was a group of people involved in this dance, but Lister and another guy around their age seemed to be the main pair. The song sounded like a Eurovision judges wet dream, and Lister and the other dancer performed it just as well as Jimmy expected from the multi-talented drummer and the professional.

There was only one thing that bothered Jimmy.

It was hot. Really hot.

The song itself was suggestive, and the lyrics were definitely not ones Jimmy would show to his Grandad. But the dance was worse in a way. The other guy (Finn? Flynn? Jimmy couldn’t quite remember), was shorter than Lister, reaching his shoulder in a way similar to Jimmy. His hair was a dark brown, and his skin tone a light olive. The way that he and Lister managed to move together made Jimmy wonder if perhaps they’d been together at some point.

But then, memories of his conversation with Lister from Week-From-Hell-We-Can-No-Longer-In-Good-Conscience-Discuss put a stop to that thought process. It was true; Rowan and Jimmy had truly misjudged their best friend. That wasn’t even to mention the heavy undertones of biphobia in their assumptions. They knew Lister Bird was bisexual, and they knew he enjoyed partying. And therefore, they had begun to assume that was all he was. Some slutty bisexual who slept with anyone who caught their eye. Jimmy had truly been a terrible friend.

Something in his gut felt fuzzy as he watched Lister so gracefully follow the rhythm of the song and coordinate with those around him. Finn (or Flynn) maintained eye contact with the drummer as they both backed up, some of the backup dancers performing their own choreography. Once they were done, Lister was front and centre once again. While Jimmy couldn’t exactly comprehend what the blonde was doing as he danced, he knew he liked it. A lot. If there were accidents or missteps, Jimmy wasn’t informed enough about the art of dance to register them.

At one point, with a hand on Flynn's (Finns?) chest, Lister stood behind him, guiding their hips to sway to the music as their chests rose and fell. Flynn/Finn wraps an arm around Listers neck, and the blonde uses it to twirl them into the next part of the dance, a hand on the small of his back that splays the entire width. Staring at them like that though, standing still for the microsecond they were, Jimmy couldn’t help but imagine it was him there. Dancing in a downright dirty way with Lister, hands never leaving one another for longer than a few moments. The other dancer did look a little bit like him, stature-wise. But Jimmy had to admit that he was definitely more attractive than himself. He was all bright skin and happy eyes, while Jimmy was eye bags and moody frowns.

In the final part of the song, Lister has the other dancer lifted in the air with arms around his thighs, the camera operator coming in closer and managing to capture the slight bulge of Lister's arms from the exertion, the slight sweat clinging to his skin, and the way his chest moved up and down in his heavy breaths. His face was serious, but as the music cuts out and the audio of the music fades into the raw studio audio, he breaks into a grin as claps erupt around him. The video ends with Lister setting the guy down carefully and accepting a bottle of water.

Oh god. If the photo shoot was bad, this was terrible. Downright evil behaviour from the drummer.

"Jim?"

With a startled shout, Jimmy slammed down his laptop, pulling his headphones down and looking up.

"I was watching porn!"

Oh. god.

There was silence from Lister, who had unknowingly interrupted an awakening caused by himself. He seemed unable to piece the right words together, licking his lips a few times. Okay, well, uh, the foods here." With that, Lister headed out of the living room and back to the hallway, likely going to his room.

"That was..." It was Rowan this time, who stood in the adjoining kitchen, face mere moments away from cracking. "Well, you definitely seem innocent now." Bastard. He was enjoying this.

Jimmy groaned, sliding further into the couch and covering his face. Rowan laughed at this, his phone in his hand as he texted someone. Likely bliss to tell her of his mortifying attempt at being caught watching Lister dance.

Lister was back now, phone in hand and a quarter zip covering his upper body. He happily dug around in the bag of food until he found his order of chicken chow mien and joined Jimmy on the couch, holding another container.

"Sweet and sour, for a sour guy." Lister grinned, setting down the takeaway container on the table in front of Jimmy and turning on Netflix. Brooklyn Nine Nine, obviously. Jimmy's face was still crimson as he picked up the food, and the cutlery Lister offered him. Sitting this close to Lister before wouldn’t have bothered him before. Maybe if he was biting his toe nails. But now, sitting next to the drummer made Jimmy want to throw up. Their legs were so close; Listers pale but thick thigh was only centimetres away from Jimmys tanned and slimmer ones, and every time the blonde laughed at the TV or Rowans commentary, Jimmy felt the heat grow closer and closer.

Okay. He was definitely fucked.

"For the love of God, cut it."

"No, it’s in style."

"Is it really, Alister? Really?"

"Don’t patronise me, Rowathon." No matter how fit Jimmy had come to understand Lister was, he was still annoying.

"Im not. Im just saying, Mullets haven’t been in style since, like, my dad had one."

"You don’t get it. Im bisexual."

"What the fuck? What the fuck does that even mean?"

"JimJam, for the love of God, help me out here."

Sighing as he was forcefully pulled into this argument between his two band members, he put his phone in his pocket. "It's like his uniform, Rowan."

"Thank you!" Lister sighed appreciatively, looking at Jimmy in the mirror. They were all in the main bathroom of the flat, Jimmy sitting on a small stool they kept in there for ‘boy time’ which Lister had dubbed Jimmy's T injections. Meanwhile, Lister stood over Rowan, applying bleach to his hair. How they got cecily to agree to that Jimmy had no idea. They were planning on dying it pink, as Rowan wanted to match his older sister's new braids. But somehow they had began to argue about the mullet Lister had begun to grow. Rowan hated it, repeatedly calling it the lowest point white boys have ever reached. Lister loved it. He constantly cited drummers like Roger Taylor from Queen because he was, quote, "trying to harness their energy through hair."

"What the fuck does that mean?" Rowan sounded about at his limit.

"It means that he has a mullet, he has patchwork tattoos, he likes flares, and he dresses like a cowboy. It’s a thing."

"At least one of you hoes get me." Lister winked at Jimmy, and the nineteen-year-old couldn’t help the feelings of butterflies not only fluttering in his stomach but also attempting to break free. If this was how their fans felt about them, then honestly, Jimmy felt like he understood their mania. Well, a little, at least.

"God, I hate gay people." Jimmy and Lister laughed at that, with Lister poking his tongue out at Rowan through the mirror.

“Okay, fine, do your own hair." Lister put down the applicator and held his hands up.

"Oh, fuck off. Finish it."

"That doesn’t sound like a please or thank you, Ro-Ro." The glare that Rowan levelled Lister with through the mirror was enough for him to pick the brush back up.

As he worked away again, Jimmy disconnected from their conversation. He opened his phone again and opened his messages with Angel. He hadn’t told the others that he still spoke to her, in fear of how Rowan would react. He wasn’t exactly her biggest fan.

JimJam

Okay so here’s a hypothetical question

Angel

oh goodie

my favourite

 

JimJam

Ikr

So if a white boy is growing a mullet and it doesn’t immediately repulse you

What does that mean??

 

Angel

it means your heart has been colonised

 

JimJam

Hilarious for that one

No but like is that the true sign of love??

I’m looking at this like dammm and not boo tomato tomato

 

Angel

tomato tomato?? stop hanging around lister istg

also yeah youre like in love with lister we get it old news

did it seriously take a mullet for you to realise this??

 

JimJam

Blocked.

 

"Who you texting, Jimothy?" It was lister, and he was once again looking at him in the mirror.

"Your mum." Jimmy replied, watching as Listers face fell into mock hurt.

"Rude."

"I bet he has a boyfriend." Rowan teased, holding the towel around his shoulders tighter.

Lister looked up at that, and Jimmy was sure he could see Lister swallow, mouth no longer a relaxed smile, and now a more tense straight line. Before, Jimmy would ignore things like this. After the bathroom incident, he would’ve seen it for the obvious signs Lister at some point liked him. Now, he thought it was hot. Really fucking hot.

"Just Grandad. He was telling me we were the answer to his crossword earlier." Jimmy lied smoothly, now scrolling through his secret Twitter. It had zero links to him or the band, and he’d even blocked all mentions of himself or Rowan on it. Lister, however, well he followed several different accounts about Lister.

@/lister-bird-as-cats

@/listerbirdhourly

@/listerbirdupdates

@/birdedits

 

Was it weird? Absolutely. Was it the very thing he critiqued their own fans for? Yes. Was he ashamed, guilty, even? of course. Did he want to stop?

 

No.

The lights in the living room were set to the lowest setting, the large-screened TV creating more lights than anything else. Lister was sitting on the couch, mindlessly nibbling the tip of his thumb as he watched the Brooklyn 99 episode play in front of him. Every so often, he would pick up his phone next to him and answer a text, like a tweet, taking a picture of the screen and posting it to his story. Just mindlessly enjoying his spare time.

Jimmy only knew this because he’d been standing in the doorway for the last twenty minutes, hemming and hawing at the idea of making his presence known. In one option, he could announce himself. Join Lister on the couch. Perhaps they could share the blanket Lister had wrapped around his shoulders. Jimmy could squeeze in close to the drummer, lie his head on his chest, and listen to the heart he loved the most in the world create beautiful patterns that sounded like hymns. They could hold each other close, skin melting together in a way that wasn’t proper for two people who only called one another friends.

 

But in some way, he felt he didn’t deserve it. It might not have been his fault that he wasn’t aware of his feelings for Lister until recently, but he didn’t feel any less guilty over it. The blonde had spent so many years harbouring this secret from the rest of the world, only to have it drunkenly spilled in a bathroom with a kiss to an unreciprocated friend. He didn’t want to even imagine the shame Lister must have felt after that. The need to open another bottle and attempt to erase it from memory to be able to sanely move on with day-to-day life. Jimmy felt it was insensitive to then go, 'haha, oops! Turns out I actually do like you!’

"JimJam."

It would seem Lister had made the decision for him. The drummer had turned his body around, his arm leaning on the back of the couch, so that he could get a better view of the singer wordlessly occupying the doorway. His hair was a mess, and if Jimmy focused on it, he could see the darkness of a five o’clock shadow ghosting the drummer's cheeks and chin. Jimmy couldn’t help but think this was Lister at his most beautiful. Unguarded and at rest.

"You sitting down or what?"

Nowadays, saying no to Lister is incredibly difficult for Jimmy.

Shuffling farther into the room, hands wringing one another, Jimmy sat down on the far end of the couch, lister staring at him with what seemed to be fond confusion over the wide gap. Jimmy tried not to turn his head to lister fully in fear of the foolish things his impulse control might let slip. If he looked at golden hair and sapphire eyes while feeling as weak as he did in that very moment, he very well may have pounced on the unsuspecting drummer.

They sat in silence for an episode, watching as another loaded on the screen.

HalloVeen. Listers favourite.

The drummer sat up in his chair slightly, resting his elbow on the armrest and his head on his fists. He sighs through his nose, and Jimmy can’t help but stare at his lips. They’re slightly cracked, the drummer not drinking enough water. The episode plays on, with Lister huffing laughs from his nose at his favourite parts.

"I need a Jake and Amy kind of love." The drummer says mindlessly. He pulls a face for a moment before turning to Jimmy. "Uhh, I mean, you know… someday... with someone... who definitely isn’t you." It was obvious the drummer was scared about the possibility of Jimmy thinking he was coming onto him. Worried that there would be more rejection and more uncomfortableness. Nethertheless it still hurt.

Jimmy glances at him, at the worry of his thumb scratching his hands and the way he pulls the blanket tighter around himself.

No one speaks for a moment or so. And then,

"Lister, I-"

"Look Jim-"

Jake's hand is handcuffed to a filing cabinet. There’s quiet for another moment, and when Jimmy finds himself breaking it, he is most surprised.

“you go."

Lister laughed a little bit, glancing around nervously and coughing into his elbow in a manner more likely attributed to nerves than anything in his throat. He turns to face Jimmy properly.

"I uh, I promise I don’t like you anymore."

Huh?

Jimmy shook his head, trying to conjure up the right words. Words that aren’t screaming. Screams of his missed chance. Of the admiration he took for granted and used as a personal ego boost. He took too long to come to terms with his feelings. his undecided heart taking longer than he had been given time for, and now he was too late. He’d missed his opening and his chance of happiness at Listers side. Lister was speaking again.

"Yeah, yeah I promise. It doesn’t have to be uncomfortable between us anymore. We can just go back to being friends."

"Lister."

"I mean, I can’t promise that feelings are, like, absolutely gone. I'm only human, and i’ve liked- I liked you since we were like thirteen, and that's a long time for feelings to-"

Jimmy didn’t even really register the fact that his body was moving. But now that he could feel the hair in his hands and lips on his own, he realised that his muscles likely had something to do with that. His eyes are tightly shut, terrified that this would become a dream should he open them.

There’s a handmaid circling the precinct on TV. Jimmy is kissing Lister, and Lister is kissing back.

The drummer is the first to pull back, looking at Jimmy in a way that makes the singer's breath stutter in time with his heart. His eyes are wide, and his pupils are slightly blown. Blue eyes are jumping between dark brown eyes and light brown lips, seemingly unsure of which he wanted to pay attention to at the moment.

"I don’t want you to be over me." Jimmy finally manages to say, closing his eyes again and resting his forehead against Listers. The drummer's large hands are still resting on Jimmy's bicep, where they have landed in his shock at being kissed. Jimmy's own were still settled amongst long, mousey waves.

Lister doesn’t seem to be able to form words, but he leans back in and kisses the singer for another time. Everything is different from their first time, and yet it’s entirely the same. They’re at home instead of a bathroom for a concert they don’t want to play. They’re in their comfortable pyjamas rather than performative stage clothes. Jimmy isn’t worried about makeup smudging on his or Listers chin. Jimmy isn’t hanging on by a thread, and Lister isn’t drunk.

This time, when the two separate, Jimmy moves his hand to instead cradle the soft skin of Lister's cheek.


Lister won’t speak just yet; maybe shock. Maybe distress. Maybe disgust. Or perhaps anger. justified anger towards Jimmy for unknowingly leading him on for five years, then brushing off the confession of love he received, and then changing his mind and deciding he too had feelings.

Jake and Amy are standing in an evidence room, and Lister and Jimmy are sitting on a couch.

"I know it’s selfish. I’m sorry. I really am, Lis. I know it took me some time, but I’m here now." Lister still looks like he can’t believe his luck, and they both extend him the curtosey of pretending not to see tears wetting his lash line. "I like you, Lister."

Lister lets out a chuckle that sounds like it was stuck in his throat. “Well, that's good. I was absolutely lying about being over you."

Jake is down on one knee, and Lister is kissing Jimmy.

[royalsofwindshire]

⚜️ON THIS DAY : 30Th Anniversary Of The Passing Of Queen Mary , The Queen Mother She Passed Away At 1:20pm Early Afternoon At Earlington Palace At Age 83 Surrounded By Her Sons His Late Majesty King George II And The Late Duke Of Gloucester Henry , Her Two Daughter In Laws Including Queen Isabelle Now The Queen Mother ). And Alice Duchess Of Gloucester Now The Dowager Duchess Of Gloucester ). Her Four Grandchildren Including The Prince Of Wales Now King William III ) . Her Majesty The Queen Mother Unexpectedly Failed ill And Been Diagnosed With Alzheimer’s Disease After The Christening Of Her Great-Grandson His Royal Highness Prince Edward Now The Prince Wales ). His Majesty The King Issued A Statement On Anniversary Passing Of His Dear Grandmother Who He Had A Close Bond With The Message Follows : In The Marking Of The Thirty Anniversary Of My Loving Grandmama She Was Hard Working , Brave And Charmed People Everywhere She Went When She Served Windshire And The Commonwealths And Did Her Duty Gracefully She Meant Alot To All Of Us . Even Tho She Showed A Little Affection She Always Made Sure That Her Family Was Happy….. ⚜️| Her Royal Highness Mary , Princess Of Wales Later Queen Consort Of Windshire And The Commonwealths Portrait Taken At Summer House | .

[sourskywalker]

Mrs Darth Vader - Part 5; Etiquette and dress fittings

Relationship: Darth Vader x Fem!Reader

Series Summary: Newly appointed Emperor Vader, has been hassled about getting married and producing an heir. Whilst having a meeting with Admiral Piett he meets his second in command's daughter, Y/n.

Series Warnings: Age difference, forced marriage, eating disorders, postpartum depression, suicide attempt, toxic relationship, smut, angst, pregnancy, darth vader is not only a massive creep but also an asshole, referenced suicide

Chapter Warning: Reader is starting to have issues with her weight

Chapter Summary: Y/n finds it difficult to adapt to palace life

Word Count: 1k

The morning started off like any other; Wake up at seven in the morning, bathe, dress, breakfast. By then it’s only eight. Afterwards, you had about an hour of alone time where you could lounge around, a fairytale book in hand. However, today was just slightly different in that instead of the free hour, you were called to the tailor's room on the lower west floor.

The second you stepped foot inside the room, you were dragged towards a platform, the tailor already undoing the laces of your dress and shucking it off without a word “Please stand on the platform..I need to take your measurements”

Nothing more was said, though occasionally the tailor would mumble something about how your physique would not match the dress. It piqued your interest, but you knew better than to pry. Your gaze focused towards the long mirror before you, there was nothing wrong with your body…

Right?

“And you are done” The tailor said, snapping you from your thoughts

“-Are you sure you don’t need me for anything else?” You ask, slowly climbing off the platform that had been placed in the centre of the room and quickly moving to put your dress back on and tie the back lacing up

“Oh, no thank you, Miss Piett, I just needed your measurements” The tailor responds, giving you a quick smile before walking to the other side of the room to jot a few things down in their notebook

“Are you sure?” You press “My etiquette lessons don’t start for another half hour and I have a few ideas on the dress? I was thinking-”

“Please, Miss Piett!” They loudly exclaims, the pencil that was once gripped in their hand now slammed against the table “Everything has already been handled, all I needed was your measurements” You took a slight step back, your calf hitting the edge of the platform “Your presence is no longer required” They gesture towards the door with their pencil and you nod, treading quietly towards the door in fear that even the slightest creak might set them off

With an extra half hour of freedom you decided to use it wisely in reading a few books your tutor had told you to read, albeit reluctantly. Though that's all you did these days, really, just read books in either your room or the garden

~~~~

“-No! Miss Piett, that is not how we pick up our forks” You flinched at the harsh tone, the fork clattering against the table. You’d been sitting at the dining table for nearly thirty minutes, the tutor Vader had hired let out a frustrated sigh, their hand slapping over their forehead before rubbing harshly down their face “You hold it like this. Is that so hard to understand?” His fingers gripped at your hands tightly, manoeuvring them so that they were in the right position before pushing his hands back to his side You held the fork in the proper position, hands sweating as you reenacted stabbing something with the utensil “Perfect, Miss Piett” The tutor says softly, almost like it was a breath of relief for them “Now, show me how to pick up your teacup” You placed the fork back down on the mat and grasped onto the handle of the teacup, slowly raising it towards yourself only to halt suddenly when you heard the tutor let out a sigh of annoyance “No, we hold our teacups gracefully…” You let out a quiet sigh, your hand pressed against your forehead

“Good morning, miss!” Alicgil exclaimed, her hands gripping onto the curtains and pushing them open with a dramatic flourish “The Emperor had this dress made and hoped that you would wear it?” She picks up the buttercup coloured dress which had small pink flowers embroidered into the fabric”

“It’s beautiful…” You breathed, shivering as your feet hit the hardwood floor and quickly made your way towards Alicgil “Perhaps he designed outfits as a hobby…?”

“Maybe” Alicgil shrugged, her fingers making quick work at securing the corset around your waist “You look beautiful, miss”

“Thank you Alicgil”

Perhaps getting married to Vader wouldn’t be so bad, you thought to yourself as you made your way towards the dining room, fingers absentmindedly playing with the embroidered flowers. It truly was a beautiful dress. You couldn’t help the soft smile spreading across your face as you thought of the other dresses that Vader would have designed for you in the future.

You were so immersed in the future that it took you a few minutes to realise that the maids who were bustling around the palace were taking quick glimpses of you, whispering to their friend and then chuckling. Your brows furrowed as you kept walking.

Was it your hair? Did your makeup look streaky? Did the dress not look good on you??

Your mind was running with thoughts a mile a minute as you tried coming up with an answer as to what the maids were laughing about. You continued to walk, ignoring the tightening in your chest.

Perhaps they weren’t laughing at you. You thought. Perhaps it was just an inside joke and they just so happened to have glanced at you.

But then…Even with the self assurance, you knew deep down that their jokes and laughter were aimed at you.

“Ah! There you are, Miss Piett” The tutor says, “Once you have finished breakfast, please meet me at the ballroom, our lesson for today is on balance.” They disappear before you could even form a response, you let out a quiet sigh as you finally walk into the dining room and plop yourself down on one of the many empty chairs

One of the butlers came forward, holding a plate of hard boiled porg eggs with some bantha butter, toast and a glass of freshly squeezed horn melon juice. You gripped a spoon tightly in your hand, eyes peering down at the meal before you that the chefs of the palace would’ve worked hard over. Slowly, you pushed your chair back, standing straight as you quickly made your way out of the dining room and towards the ballroom.

Perhaps missing one meal wouldn’t be too bad…You thought to yourself as you pushed the ballroom doors open.

END OF CHAPTER

[bearlytolerant]

Fandom: Starfield

Rating: T

Pairing: Sam Coe x f!Spacefarer

Word Count: 1241

somewhere close to me

Sunset washes the balcony in warm orange hues where Sam leans against the railing, sipping from his glass of Chandra Melbec. Wine isn’t his regular go-to. But this one isn’t half bad. The waiter’s description—if he’s remembering correctly—was a full bodied red wine with notes of chocolate and fresh earth.

Apparently he likes the taste of bittersweet dirt.

The sight of Shepard’s hand lingering on a very tall and very bald man, he does not like so much. Not that he blames the man for doing so. Shepard is a sight to behold and it isn’t fair.

“Hey, you look just like Sam Coe.” Everything in him wants to ignore the comment. But he plasters on a charming smile and turns to address the gala attendee. Just a kid, maybe pushing twenty, probably not unlike him at that age. Most likely being dragged around and forced to attend fancy events, riding the coattails of his wealthy parents. Sam softens.

“You know, I get that a lot.”

“Huh, weird. You’re not him though, right?”

“What if I told you I am?”

“Nah, you look too old to be him.”

Doing his best not to laugh he tells the kid, “well, we don’t all age gracefully.”

The kid stares at him a little dumbfounded but then his eyes light up and his mouth kinda hangs in an O as he processes the information.

“You are him! Can I get a selfie?”

Sam obliges, setting his glass of wine on a nearby table. Smiling big, the kid pulls out his phone and snaps a shot of them side by side. “My grandma’s going to love this! Thanks man!”

He wanders off and Sam sighs. Honestly, he never considered he might be popular amongst the elderly. Learn something new everyday.

Sam grabs his wine again. Takes a sip. Swirls the glass and watches the kid move on to the next conversation. Then his eyes drift back to Shepard where the tall man’s hand is settled just above the swell of her ass. His fingers barely graze the exposed skin on her back and he practically chokes on his next sip of wine.

It’s none of his business but his feet are already carrying him over there.

Shepard is all smiles, more than she usually is. “Oh, Sam, this is Dalton Fiennes, Ryujin’s Chief of Security. This is—“

“Akila’s very own Sam Coe,” the stoic man says while sticking his hand out.

Sam switches the wine to his other hand. There’s a little surprise that this man—Dalton—would be familiar with the Coes. Maybe his fan base consists of more than just grannys. Or, more likely, it’s his job to know anyone and everyone worth knowing. His job to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong. He extends his hand to Dalton. Of course, the guy’s got a firm grip. It’s crushing but at least Dalton’s large and surprisingly soft hand isn’t on Shepard’s back anymore.

“So how did you two meet?” Sam asks, trying not to be too obvious as he flexes his fingers.

Shep says, “you know when you and I first met and I had just started working at Ryujin to make ends meet?”

Sam nods.

“There was a bit of a security issue which required us to work closely together. I was able to become well acquainted with Dalton through that.”

The emphasis isn’t lost on him nor is that smile that’s thrown at Dalton.

“Have to applaud her. Without her assistance, Ryujin would have had an insurmountable mess to clean up. She’s truly a unique and remarkable woman.”

“I wholly agree,” Sam says.

“Keep the praise coming, it’s nice to have the ego stroked every now and then,” Shepard says with a small laugh.

“I would gladly give you well deserved praise all night.”

Sam nearly chokes again, the wine burning as it goes down. They don’t notice. He watches as the two of them exchange a meaningful glance and then she looks away, taking a sip from her own glass of wine. Sam wants to tease her and he would if they were alone. Or maybe with their friends. Certainly not as the third wheel to whatever dynamic he’d found himself in.

The half beat of silence is interrupted when Dalton says,”excuse me. It appears I am being summoned.” He’s looking past them, listening to someone speak on his earpiece. Then he gives Shepard a charming smile and brushes his fingers down her arm, briefly squeezing her hand before letting it go. “It was lovely seeing you here tonight, Zero.”

Her name is a number and Dalton makes it so intimate and personal. Sam practically has goosebumps on his arms and he’s not even the intended audience.

“Hopefully, I will have the pleasure of crossing your path again.”

“Likewise. Have a wonderful evening Dalton,” she says.

Sam’s heart is in his throat. He downs the other half of his wine in an instant and follows Shepard back to the balcony.

“Was it just me or was there some heat between you two?”

It’s not some and there’s no question. But how else is he supposed to ask if she’s taken and that’s his competition?

Shepard’s cheeks are a lovely pink and he doesn’t remember ever seeing them like that before. She’s not really the blushing type. Usually she’s the one causing the blushing.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

Sam leans over the balcony railing, though his attention is fully on Shep. “So you two—uh—“

“Do you really want to go there?”

“We don’t have to. But I would like to remind you of a certain someone who was really pushy on the subject of Jacob Coe.”

“Fair point.” She sighs. “It’s a yes—after I stopped working there. I—he, well.” She clears her throat, lost for a moment in what he can only assume is a memory. The blush blooms brighter, and she chuckles a little.

There’s a moment of regret as he hangs onto her every word. Not sure if he can handle the details that she might lay on him but to satisfy his curiosity, he needs to know.

“The simplest answer is we were—something but weren’t cut out for that something long term. Mostly myself to blame for that.”

He silently thanks whatever gods might be out there for sparing him.

She breathes deep and meets his gaze. “I realized that it wasn’t fair to be with him when I’m madly in love with someone else.”

“Oh.” Sam deflates.

Who the hell is she in love with? Someone from Constellation? Another random person that he has yet to meet? Even though a tiny voice in his head hopes that someone is him, he doubts it could be. But he doesn’t ask and she doesn’t tell. Everything about her is unreadable. Still, he thinks of the kiss on his cheek earlier. Makes him wonder. But he’s seen her kiss Walter on the cheek too. Something like that isn’t enough to go on when making bold and grandiose declarations of his—feelings. Not to mention—oh no—the revelation dawns on him. Did she see him as another father figure?

Though time suspends for him, everyone around them is shuffling to their seats. The gala performances are to begin. There’s more food to eat, wine to drink.

“Come on, let’s go find Walter and Issa.”

Sam follows, setting his muddied mind aside, hoping for something stronger than a glass of wine.

[autogynocrat]

So what’d it take to accept yourself as being trans and stop giving a shit about the potential repercussions that might’ve come out of that?

LONG POST INCOMING! PLEASE BARE WITH ME! IT IS VERY RAMBLY! BUT I HAVE A TL:DR AT THE END IF YOU DONT HAVE THE PATIENCE TO READ IT ALL!

i had been grappling with the existential dread for years that "one of these days you will be too old to be a femboy, people won't think it's cute for a 35 year old man to dress feminine, they'll think its creepy. you're getting older and aging like a man more every year and soon you will be just like the sissies boomers in poorly fitting dresses that make you so uncomfortable.

you're going to have to give up and become a regular man soon" in 2019 i thought i had accepted my fate, and hoped i could at least age gracefully. i had previously suffered from recurring boughts of discomfort and disconnect with my body, particularly the shape of my jaw, shoulders, and the beard(the beard was the worst thing, it would leave me paralyzed for weeks during the summer every year, ever since around age 20 i have wanted laser hair removal). but it was the though of having to give up and live the rest of my life as a man that was the straw that broke the camels back for me.

but only one year later thinking about it started giving me a really bad identity crisis, i started crying and panicking whenever i thought about how i would have to live as a man for the rest of my life, it was genuinely horrifying, and i felt like "twinkdeath" was creeping up on me, and i found that if I actually wanted hormones it was extremely easy for me to obtain them with just a little bit of my discretionary spending.

i had been talking with some of my trans friends about my issues with gender, that i didnt really feel comfortable as a man, even though at the time i felt like i could never be a woman, some suggested i could be nonbinary. i remember before i finally bit the bullet i talked to a friend who was a transwoman about my gender issues, and after finding that what i was going through felt very similar to what she went through before transitioning, i decided "well, theres nothing wrong with me at least trying hormones, if i dont feel better i'll just stop, its better than being forced to live as a man for the rest of my life"

during the early months of my transition, maybe even the first year and a half, i still kinda identified as a "hrt femboy" or a "nonbinary bigender boygirl" bc i did not feel like i was a real woman or anything, i was just taking estrogen because it alleviated the bad feelings and made me feel happier with my body. i wasnt sure about having boobs yet but i considered it an acceptable tradeoff because everything else made me feel good about my body. i did however, look into SERMs(a type of hormone regulator that can supposedly block estrogenic activity in the breasts) and even briefly used some.

HOWEVER, july of my first year on hrt i got my fateful job at mcdonalds. this period i actually unironically feel like shaped my gender identity to some degree. during the pandemic we all had to wear masks so nobody saw my clocky man chin or anything like that, they just saw my effeminate estrogenized little tits and my beautiful eyes. i got she'd a lot, called pretty, told i was a sweet girl by customers who liked me, and even customers who didn't like me still acted like i was a girl, as they called me a stupid bitch, and said shit like "she got my order wrong" "she was rushing me" stuff like that. being perceived as a woman felt good...i started to identify more with that

a couple times i doubted i was really trans, had some kind of imposter syndrome, that A)i was a fake trans because i denied it for so long, or B) that i didn't DESERVE to be trans because i used to be kind transphobic at times. i tried to stop hrt. every time it didn't take long before i became super dysphoric and decided go to back on it. after a few attempts i kinda realized i belonged on hrt. and when my tits became smaller from attempting to stop i actually felt sad about it, thats how i realized, hey i actually like having boobs, its not a trade off, its one of the benefits

and then bridget came out in guilty gear strive. VERY CONTROVERSIAL thing because suddenly the femboy everyone liked was trans. but. the thing is. i found that very relatable. bc i was also the femboy everyone liked as a femboy, but was kinda trans now, and people who thought i was "based" before, were disgusted at me now. idk. i had a "shes just like me fr" moment and decided i didnt want to keep hiding behind being nonbinary or "hrt femboy" anymore, i wanted to be a girl too. so i just came out and was like yeah i'm she/her pls and my followers who still liked me were like "yeah everyone already saw this coming lol u arent surprising anybody"

anyways yeah the tl;dr is that i basically realized at 25 i could not bear to live with being a man for the rest of my life and i would rather transition than have to be a man, i would rather risk being hated, would rather risk infertility, rather than have to be a man,and it led me to talk to other trans people privately and realize oh hey its not normal for having stubble to send me into a massive depressive episode and thats actually gender dysphoria.

[summerwritesfics]

🩷My Heart Is Gonna Tell Me When It’s Time To Play

Pairing: Shang Tsung/Kuai Liang Length: 736 Words Rating: Teen Warnings: Canon Divergence, MK11!Kuai Liang, MK1!Shang Tsung, Flirting, Bi-Han is not happy about the flirting, Shang Tsung wants a milf and has his first ever encounter with a power bottom, Prisoner (technically but Kuai’s not that bothered by it all lol)

Mortal Kombat Oneshots Masterlist

Notes: Everything in MK1 could have been avoided if MK11 Kuai Liang had been brought into the timeline and he’d been allowed to slap Bi-Han upside the head for being an idiot. Anyway, Shang Tsung tries to chat Kuai Liang up and is surprised when Kuai Liang pulls an uno reverse card. Title is from Give It Up by Fefe Dobson.

Kuai Liang wasn’t entirely sure how this had happened. One minute, he was in the Netherrealm, storming Krokina’s keep. Next thing he knew he’d somehow been catapulted into a completely different timeline. Liu Kang’s timeline, one exceedingly different from his own.

And Kuai wasn’t entirely sure it was for the better.

He crossed his arms over his chest, staring at the three men in front of him. Quan Chi, Shang Tsung, and Bi-Han. It was weird, like looking at a time capsule from his youth. Bi-Han looked exactly the way he had when he died. It was painful.

“So,” Quan Chi started, drawing the sound out a little like he was trying to figure out a way to break the awkward atmosphere that suffocated the room. “You are Kuai Liang?”

“That is correct,” Kuai grumbled, although he supposed he couldn’t blame them for finding the idea hard to believe. He’d met this timelines Kuai Liang, or rather, Scorpion. It made him wonder just what he’d done for Liu Kang to hate him so much he felt the need to change Kuai so significantly, especially compared to everyone else.

“Well, may I be the one to say that you have aged like a fine wine,” Shang Tsung chimed up and Kuai almost choked on his spit. “Our Kuai Liang can only hope he grows older as gracefully as you have.”

Kuai couldn’t help tilt his head in disbelief. He knew this was Shang Tsung’s general trickery, he knew how to weaponize flattery to get what he wanted. Still, Kuai had never quite been referred to as a fine wine before. Quan Chi looked perplexed by the compliment, meanwhile Bi-Han was glaring at the sorcerer as if he was about to murder him.

So it seemed despite the split between the brothers, Bi-Han did still have some love for Kuai Liang, even this alternate form of him.

“Out of curiosity, how often does that work out for you?” Kuai questioned, biting his lip. Mostly to try and not laugh at how relieved Bi-Han looked that Kuai wasn’t going to respond to Tsung’s flirting.

“You’d be surprised,” Shang Tsung said with a fake sickly sweet smile. “Although not on either version of you, apparently.”

“Yes, well, being older and all it does take a little more than sweet words to win me over, Sorcerer,” Kuai replied, smirking a little as he added “buy me dinner first, then we can talk romance, alright handsome?”

There was a strange satisfaction he felt when Shang Tsung’s face went red as soon as the word handsome came from Kuai’s lips. Ah, he can dish it out but not take it, huh?

Kuai chuckled before moving on with, “but regardless of that, I won’t cooperate with whatever it is you three are hoping to get out of me here.” He held his head high, daring them to try him. “I may have my issues with what Liu Kang has done to this timeline, but I don’t collude with those I believe don’t have Earthrealm’s best intentions in mind.”

He watched Bi-Han’s eyes narrow, clearly frustrated that even this version of Kuai Liang wasn’t willing to work with him. Honestly, Kuai kind of wanted to just slap the back of Bi-Han’s head and tell him what an idiot he was. This sort of prideful bullshit was what got him killed.

“We will see about that, Kuai Liang,” Bi-Han hissed, before gesturing to his co-conspirators to follow him. They did so, and Kuai had no doubt they were going to discuss ways to make Kuai go along with them, either willingly or by force.

Shang Tsung looked over his shoulder to give Kuai a contemplative look before he left. It was likely he was trying to think of some way to win Kuai Liang over. Maybe it was a bit petty, but Kuai couldn’t resist teasing him just a little bit more. He brought his hand up to his mouth, before dramatically blowing Shang Tsung a kiss, winking while he did so. Shang Tsung jumped, turning midair and hurriedly heading for the door, slamming it behind him.

Finally alone, Kuai burst out laughing, putting his head into his hands. He needed to figure a way out of this cell, but he supposed even if he couldn’t, at least he now knew he could cause chaos amongst these three simply by being a bit of a flirt.