#Although part of the fun of this game is that I actually own a real physical handheld Pokedex so if they want to check they just Can lol

[jellieland]

A week or two after the games, Grian will usually check in with the victor.

It's a habit that's probably more for his own benefit than anyone else's. But it is, he thinks, a good habit nonetheless.

After all, as fun as it all is, things can get a bit... intense, towards the end, and it's good for his peace of mind to make sure the last one standing is ok with how things shook out.

Nothing much has ever really come of it before; they're all pretty resilient. He doubts this time’ll be different. Except- well.

Something about it all itches at the back of his mind, and he hasn’t been able to work out why. There was the actual ending, of course, but also Grian may have been whispering in Martyn's ear about how boring that final showdown was turning out to be, and how narratively satisfying it would be if he just betrayed the other two and got it over with, so.

If nothing else, it feels like he's got no reason to break with tradition.

There's just one more concern.

Martyn seems to have made it almost impossible to contact him.

It's not... unheard of, for players to keep to themselves most of the time, especially when it comes to those they don’t share a server with. It seems a little uncharacteristic of Martyn, but the last time Grian saw him outside the games was before they even started, so maybe he does things differently these days.

There are certainly a great many reasons why that could be the case, most of which are perfectly sensible.

But Grian's never been able to resist picking at a puzzle put in front of him, whether the puzzle likes it or not, so he is going to talk to Martyn. And he can just see what happens, and worry about any consequences if and when they appear.

Luckily, he already has a way to do just that.

He doesn't usually need to do this - although it is very funny to startle Scar or Mumbo with it sometimes when they're concentrating. Honestly it's usually less effective than communicators, with how much effort it takes.

But he does have a way. The same way he used to whisper in Martyn's ear very recently, in fact.

He reaches out, away from his home, away from his body, and it feels a little like simultaneously overextending himself, and putting his foot down on a step he thought was flat ground.

That is... not how this usually feels.

It's odd. Rather unnerving.

But it works.

He finds Martyn. Watches the vague shape of him solidify into something more real.

He’s still wearing his red life outfit, for some reason. His eyes are closed. Around his head, the coral curls like a blood-red crown.

“What do you think you're playing at?” Asks Grian.

Martyn blinks his eyes open slowly, looking less confused than Grian would expect for someone hearing a disembodied voice out of nowhere. “Oh good.” He says dryly. “You again.”

He squawks indignantly. “Hey, what's that supposed to mean?”

There is silence for a few seconds.

“...Hey.” Martyn says, and as flippant as he suddenly sounds, he looks as thrown off balance as Grian feels. “Not sure who this is, but I think you might have the wrong number!”

“I think that's unlikely.” He deadpans. “Where are you? I haven't been able to get hold of you.”

“Uh-” There's a short pause as he looks around at wherever he is right now. “Falling into endless nothingness, looks like. Same old, same old, am I right?”

Grian rolls his eyes. “Yeah, ok. Well, I suppose you don't have to tell me.” A part of him makes a note of Martyn’s wording, though. Just in case.

“...Hm. Well, not gonna lie, I do appreciate the change of pace, but I would love to know what exactly you want from me. You know, just on the off chance that you feel like giving me any clues.”

It's at this point that Grian remembers: one of the main reasons this method of communication is good for messing with people is that it makes him sound, um. A little different. And while he can see Martyn, it’s not as if Martyn can see him.

...Best to just pretend that hadn't slipped his mind.

“You do realize this is Grian, right?” He asks, as though it ought to be obvious.

“Riiight, yeah, sure.” Says Martyn. “And I'm also Grian, did you know that?”

“Oh for- what, do you want me to tell you some secret only the two of us would know, or something?”

“Nah.” Says Martyn. “That wouldn't work.”

“Elaborate.” Says Grian, through gritted teeth.

“You know what? I don't think I will!” Replies Martyn brightly.

Grian takes a deep breath in through his nose. “I'm beginning to wonder why I bother.” He grinds out.

Martyn snorts. “Tell me about it.”

There's a short silence.

“But- ok.” He continues. “Just suppose for the sake of argument that you are Grian.”

“...Yes?” Asks Grian warily.

“I have a question for you.”

“...Yeeees?” Asks Grian, even more warily.

The silence stretches for several long moments.

“What's up?” Asks Martyn.

“Yeah ok, this isn’t worth it, I'm leaving now.”

“Wait! No, I'm serious!” Under the amusement, there's a note of something that sounds almost like nervousness in his voice. It's uncharacteristic. Unnerving.

“What are you talking about?” Asks Grian, trying very hard to keep his voice at least mostly free of annoyance.

“Oh, you know! What's going on, what's the deal, what'd you want to talk to me for?” There's a slight hesitation. “You need help or something?”

“I- ok. That's actually sort of relevant. It's really nothing too complicated, Martyn.” He says, grumpily. “All I wanted to do was make sure you're good with what happened at the end of the last game.”

Martyn blinks, and goes very still.

There is a long silence - long enough that Grian starts to feel concerned.

And then Martyn laughs.

It's not a nice laugh.

“Good, huh. You want to know if I’m good with it. That sure is an interesting choice of words.”

“...How so?” He asks, guardedly.

“Grian. Grian, I’m not sure if you remember this, but I won. I won this one, Grian.” Every word he says, however restrained, sounds like it’s had to claw its way out of him. He glares at nothing. “And guess what? It's just like the others. I don’t really care enough for any of it to matter to me, anymore, and that's fine by me.”

Now that's... a lot to unpack. “You- I'm sorry?”

“Well that makes one of us then, doesn't it?” His voice is coated with scorn.

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you actually think I’m going to explain myself to you?” He asks, looking half-amused. “You, of all people?”

“Well unfortunately, Martyn, I can’t exactly put Ren on the line, so I’m afraid I’m all you’re going to get.” He snaps, and instantly regrets it when he sees the look in Martyn’s eyes.

There is a short silence.

Grian shifts uncomfortably. He’s not going to apologize, obviously. But. Well. “That... ok, maybe that was a bit much.” He says.

“...Little bit, yeah.”

There is another silence.

After a while, Martyn speaks.

“I would’ve betrayed him too, you know.” He says coolly.

“What, Ren?”

“Yeah. At the drop of a hat. Soon as it was convenient.”

“I mean sure, I suppose?” Says Grian, caught off guard. “You didn’t, though. Did you? When you had the chance.”

“Eh.” He shrugs, as though that’s an irrelevant detail. “It would’ve been more dramatic later. You know how it is.”

...There's no real way he can justify saying no to that, is there? “Yeah.” He says. “I guess I do.”

He tries to picture the King, betrayed. The Hand, triumphant.

“I dunno, though.” He says, thoughtful. “I don’t think you ever could’ve done it, to be honest. Not in the first one. Whatever it was you were planning, it was just never how that story was going to go.”

“That’s not true.” He says it just slightly too fast. “I know that’s not true.”

Grian scoffs. “You know thinking about something isn’t the same as doing it, right?”

“What, no, really?” He rolls his eyes. “You don’t say!”

“What I’m saying,” He lets his voice turn biting, “Is that you’re being stupid.”

Martyn lets out a startled laugh. It’s surprisingly genuine. “Wow. You’re really bad at this, dude.”

Grian bristles. “Well why am I the one who has to do it then? Why don’t you talk to someone else, if you hate talking to me so much?”

“I mean…” He makes an unconvinced noise. “Obvious problems aside, when do you even expect me to do that? We usually have other things to worry about.”

“I don’t know, maybe at literally any point between the games?” He sighs exasperatedly. “There’s no way you’re that busy.”

“Between the games?” Martyn asks incredulously, and Grian suddenly feels as though something dangerous is hovering over their heads, just about to drop. “What do you mean, between the games?”

“I mean between the games! Like- now! What do you think this is, right now, if it’s not between the games?” He snaps.

“This right now?” He looks nonplussed. “I think we’re usually asleep for most of this bit. Or possibly we forget about it. As you can probably imagine, it’s hard to know for sure.”

“Now I know that’s not true.” He says firmly, ignoring the unease trying to creep up on him. “I know I do stuff between games, and I know I don’t just forget about it. That makes no sense.”

“I mean, I don't necessarily mean everything between the games, more just this specifically.” He gestures around at nothing. “That gets more complicated, though. But you- hm.” He looks curious. “That’s interesting. Where even are you, then, at the moment?”

“I’m at home! Which is where I thought everyone else was too!”

Martyn seems to consider this for a few moments, and then he frowns, and then his expression goes blank. “…Oh.” He says. “Yeah. No, that… makes sense, actually. Yeah. You’re probably right.”

“Wha- what do you mean? Right about what?”

“Everyone probably went home. Or, at least, they thought they did. And hey, what’s the difference, when you get right down to it?”

“...Ok, I’m going to ignore the second part for now, I already got past that little existential crisis after Ren and Doc’s whole… thing… in season eight- if you think everyone went home, why are you- what was it you said- ‘falling into endless nothingness’?”

There’s another pause.

“...You’re really gonna make me say it, huh? That seems cruel, even for you.”

“Wait, no, what do you-”

“Where else do you think I would go?” It sounds less like an admission and more like an accusation. “What ‘home’ do you think I have left, Grian?”

“Look.” Snaps Grian, feeling vaguely tricked. “It’s not my fault that you-”

“Yeah, it never is, is it?” He glares into the darkness. “It’s always a tragic inevitability with you, never a choice you’re making. That way you get to stab people in the back and pretend to be sad about it. Best of both worlds, huh?”

Grian splutters for a few seconds. “Why are you being so rude to me??”

“Because you’re you and I’m me.” He smirks. “Don’t know what you expected, honestly.”

“Oh yeah? Who’s hiding behind inevitability now?” Grian retorts, perhaps a trifle vindictively.

“I never said I wasn’t a hypocrite, sometimes. Also, I never said I felt bad about it.” He replies levelly, and all at once, they’re talking about something else.

“You didn’t need to say it.” Snaps Grian. “You might be good at lying but you’re not perfect. I could see in your face that it hurt.”

He narrows his eyes. “It felt good, actually.”

“Wow, good for you.” He says, almost amused suddenly. “You didn’t say I was wrong, though.”

His expression twists into something unreadable. “I know you, Grian. Like recognizes like.” He says, voice low and dangerous. “You’re a liar.”

Grian shrugs, despite the fact that Martyn will not see it. “And you’re a coward. Your point?”

“I don’t need to justify myself to someone who refuses to admit that he could have chosen to be better, if he’d ever wanted to.” He spits out.

“Hey, at least I don’t try and convince myself I’m a monster just because I want to survive.”

That one strikes something tender; he can tell. “Right, yeah, and you’re just a blameless angel and everyone you cut down had it coming, I’m sure.”

“I didn’t say that. But since you bring it up… how many people did you give up your time for, again?” He grins. “Is it less than one? Because I think it is. I think I’ve got you beat there, Martyn.”

“And where did it get you?” He snarls.

“Home, in the end.”

Martyn flinches back as though he’s been struck.

“Did you forget about that part?” Asks Grian.

There’s a long pause.

Martyn fidgets with the end of the banner he wears around his waist, pulling at where the white threads are coming undone. He stares out into the darkness. “Yeah.” He says. “I guess I did.”

The satisfaction of winning the argument feels less potent, suddenly.

“You’re right.” Says Grian, after a while. “I’m really bad at this.”

Martyn laughs quietly. “To be fair, I’m not exactly helping.”

“You’re really not.”

He sighs. “You know pulling the knife out just makes the wound start bleeding again, don’t you? That’s all we’re doing here. That’s all we’re going to do to each other. We’re too alike to do anything else, unless we just don’t do anything. And hey, we’re not great at that either.”

“Hmm.” Says Grian begrudgingly. “I’d say something about inevitability again, but I honestly don’t think you’re wrong.”

“We both just enjoy pushing buttons too much to be particularly good at not pushing them, I guess.” Martyn sounds half-amused, half-resigned.

Grian makes an irritated noise. “Yes, alright, I don’t need another reminder of the whole button debacle.”

There is more silence.

After a while, Grian speaks again. “There’s something I was wondering about, actually.”

“Oh yeah?” Martyn raises an eyebrow.

“What’s the reason?” He asks.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific with that one, mate.”

“‘This is a death match for a reason.’” He says matter-of-factly. “That’s what you said. So- what is it? What’s the reason?”

Martyn blinks, then lets out a short, harsh laugh. “You think I know that?”

“No, not really. That’s why I wondered what you meant when you said it.”

“It- look. I don’t know if you’re expecting philosophy from me, or something. It’s a death game. People die, and it doesn’t have to mean anything. It doesn’t have to be special, it doesn’t have to be honourable, it doesn’t have to be fair. That’s what I meant.” He frowns. “You know that.”

“I do.” He admits.

“Then why ask?” Martyn looks around as though this time, somehow, he might be able to find Grian’s face in the dark.

He doesn’t.

“I just-” Grian sighs. “What do you want?” He asks. “What do you actually want, Martyn?”

The question sits heavy in the darkness between them.

“What do you want me to say?” Martyn asks. He sounds more tired than Grian’s ever heard him.

“I want you to tell the truth.” Grian says. He needs to know. He needs to know.

“Now, Grian.” Says Martyn, voice gently chiding. “Have you met me? You know I can’t do that.”

“Pretend it’s a lie, then.”

Martyn’s grip on the banner he wears tightens, slightly. There is a long, long silence.

“Or how about,” Says Grian, eventually, “You say something, and I won’t know whether it’s a lie or not.”

There is another pause.

Martyn frowns at the red of the fabric in his hands, as though it might offer him something.

As far as Grian can tell, it does not.

He’s just beginning to give up hope of ever getting an answer when Martyn speaks, so softly he almost doesn’t hear it.

“I want it to be warm again.” He says.

It’s quiet.

For a moment – just a moment, no more – Grian remembers bloody, aching fists. He remembers burning heat.

“Well.” He says. “That makes one of us, then. Doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Says Martyn, voice low. “I guess it does.”

There’s another short second of silence before Martyn speaks again, sounding cheerful. “So, suppose I’ll see you in the next one, huh? If that ever happens.” He grins. “Wanna take bets on how hard Scott’ll have to try not to win it? I’m gonna go with very.”

Grian snorts. “I’m not taking that bet. That man is infuriatingly good at surviving.”

“You’re not wrong! You are not wrong.” He gestures into the void. “And don’t even get me started on Timmy’s whole thing, I think we both know how that one’s gonna go. Unless you want to bet against him being gone first next time round?”

“You’re not Scar.” Says Grian. “There’s no way you talk anyone into taking that bet in a million years. Except maybe Timmy.”

“Fair, fair.”

There’s a short pause.

Grian hesitates for a moment before he speaks – almost, but not quite, reluctant. “Why do you keep looking back?” He asks. “There’s nothing left for us there. You know that, right?”

“I mean, let me know when you find a better place to look.” He tilts his head to the side slightly, curious, and frowns. “Do you really never want to go back?”

“No.” Says Grian. “Never.”

Martyn opens his mouth, and then, uncharacteristically, closes it again. “Yeah.” He says. “Me neither.”

Grian is tempted, momentarily, to tell Martyn to take the banner off and let it go. Let the darkness take it. Prove it.

But just like Martyn, he lets it drop.

Mutually assured destruction is a potent thing.

Now all he has to do is the hard part. The part he’s dreading most of all.

The main concern is phrasing it correctly. Making it sound just how he wants it to sound.

After some thought, he thinks he’s found the words he's looking for.

He could always be wrong, though. He’s usually more one for incredible violence than smooth talking.

“Martyn?” He asks cautiously, casually. “Do you want me to help you?”

The expression that crosses Martyn’s face is unreadable.

He processes the question for a few moments, before he answers.

“Nah. I’m good.” He says, voice guarded. “Don’t worry about it.”

And that’s the rub, isn’t it.

Because now Grian has to decide whether he’s going to let Martyn lie to him or not.

Whether he’s going to pass the test that’s been set before him, or not.

...

Grian’s not a monster.

He’s just realistic.

There's nothing he could do, anyway.

“Well.” He says levelly. “Just let me know if that changes.”

(Martyn would do the same to him. It’s not a justification, or an excuse. But he knows it to be true.)

Martyn stares out into the darkness. His eyes are almost, but not quite, resentful. “Sure thing, man. Why wouldn’t I.”

It’s not said like a question, so Grian doesn’t answer it. “Well, you know I can’t stay here forever.”

“I do know that.”

“Any messages you want me to pass on to any of the hermits? I know you haven’t seen Mumbo in a while.” It’s not really a compromise, or a peace offering. Hopefully, however, it’s close enough to one or the other of those to act in their stead.

Martyn closes his eyes. Breathes in. Breathes out. Opens his eyes again. “If you were Grian, then maybe.” His gaze is cold. “But I think this hypothetical has gone on long enough.”

...It’s a lot easier for both of them, if Martyn believes that.

He’s positive Martyn knows that.

Just this once, perhaps he can manage to not look a gift horse in the mouth.

“For what it’s worth,” He says, looking away, “I moved on from the Bad Boys when it got too expensive to keep them alive.”

“It’s not worth a lot.” Says Martyn flatly. “And it would be worth even less coming from Grian.”

Grian sighs. “Alright. Fine. I’ll see you around, Martyn.”

“I know.” Says Martyn. He closes his eyes.

After a few moments, Grian does too.

When he opens them, he’s home.

…

Oh, that doesn’t feel good.

It really doesn't.

He could dwell on this. It wouldn’t be hard. He could drown himself in guilt over what he’s done, or not done, or will not do.

But- well.

Grian never really saw the point in letting someone else drag you down with them.

#once he's sure that the thing he's decided to pretend was not grian is gone #martyn goes back to falling #and wishes he still felt enough grief to be able to cry. #limited life smp #life series #grian #martyn inthelittlewood #my writing #i finally managed to finish this. it took me. a while. #they're narrative foils to the point of absurdity is the thing #they're incredibly similar and also completely different #it's fascinating

[koolades-world]

Can you do Obey Me headcanons of a Christian MC? MC isn't a toxic one though, they're actually super nice and supportive of everyone and such. They're also generally really trusting and try and see the best in people. They're more or less just extremely concerned and slightly uncomfortable with the entire being kidnapped and brought to hell thing(and also being forced to attend school again)

They also got really excited when they learned angels were gonna be attending RAD too, so there's that lol

Like when they saw Simeon and Luke for the first time they mentally went "THIS IS A MOMENT IN HISTORY!!!! TAKE A PICTURE!!!"

haha hi!!

when I first saw this I was really looking forward to doing it! been thinking about it a lot

one of my best friends is actually a christian who plays obey me, and she was the one to introduce me to the game. I think she would find this funny, so I'll def be thinking of her while I write this haha (if you're reading this, which you very much might be, heyyyy happy late bday girl)

Christian Mc

Lucifer

once you realize who he is, you're freaked out, both in a good and bad way

like, this is the lucifer! you ask to take a picture lol (and he's not amused)

you're a little sad and relieved when he pawns you off to mammon, since you're awed by his presence but also terrified since you knew the part he played in the bible by heart

once you get to know him, the both of you chuckle about human depictions of him and you finally get that picture! be sure to make him sign it and then frame it

Mammon

learns quickly just how many copies of the bible you own once he spends enough time in your room including but not limited to the version on your phone, the mini version in your RAD bag, and the one you keep on your side table

once you get to the stage of basically living together, he learns that you read the bible and say a prayer nightly

at first, he was nervous having to be the one to guide you but he learnt you were probably more scared of him, and you were actually just so sweet

he jokingly picks up all of the jesus merch he finds so now you have an entire shelf

Levi

the most normal out of the brothers besides the fact that he spends all his time in his room, but that kind of reminds you of a brother you only see like once a day

it's almost scary and a little jarring walking into his room, but after that, you guys get along so well

he admits that he thought the exchange program was weird, and it was all history after that

unlikely besties: a devout christan human and their gamer social outcast demon

Satan

highkey fuming about the fact that humans don't know that he and lucifer are different (he for sure smashed up an entire room of the house)

after he calms down from this though, although it takes a while for the two of you to get to know each other, he takes joy in making fun of the slanderous things said about lucifer

you both like to read but the only thing you reread and read nightly is the bible so

luckily he doesn't care about that since it wasn't his dad anyways (don't remind him that it's technically his grandpa's book)

Asmo

the first time you showed him biblical version of him, he was disgusted and refused to speak to you for the next two and half days

after that he feels a little bad since he knows you didn't mean it like that and since you basically tip toe around him

after that he comes on a little strong, but after a while you get along pretty well despite being so different

he’ll reminisce while you listen carefully and hold onto every work he says since he was a real angel and that’s so cool

Beel

while you were initially terrified of him, you quickly learnt how much like he actually was

at the core, you were both just a kind person (or demon) who wanted to help others and uplift them

always there for you to lend a listening ear and to help out out if others are giving you problems

the first in the devildom to make you feel truest welcome and let you know that you could call it home

Belphie

at first he thinks it’s a joke and kinda pokes fun at it

once he realizes you’re being serious, he feels a little bad but also still thinks is very funny how you hide your face behind a bible when you’re scare

has had holy water thrown at him, and has found a bible under his pillow before (gosh who could’ve done that…)

used to jump out at your from around corners in his demon form and it sent your running every time so you can prepared with a rosary blessed by the pope to shove in his face if he dare to try again

#obey me #obey me! #obey me x reader #obey me satan #obey me mammon #obey me asmo #obey me beel #obey me levi #obey me lucifer #obey me belphie #omswd #obey me shall we date #obey me! shall we date

[edoro]

a few things i have noticed:

during the conversation he has with you after the whole deal with Araj Oblodra, Astarion says something along the lines of feeling sick at the idea of "getting on my back for breadcrumbs", and i feel like that's not the only time he uses the specific phrase of "getting on my back," although i could just be mixing up a slightly different dialogue tree from the same conversation

during that same conversation, he says that out of the thousands of people he's slept with, "most of them didn't even grant me temporary bliss"

we hear about/see two former conquests during the game, and both of them are men - one is poor Sebastian, and then the other is the unnamed 'darling boy' who he couldn't bear to bring back to Cazador

putting all of these things together, i believe that the text we're given heavily supports the idea that he primarily (not exclusively, but primarily) went after male victims, that he bottomed for them, and that he rarely orgasmed

and i would like to add my own idea, that the reason for this isn't necessarily that he prefers men but that, given that he was surviving on a starvation diet of rat blood and insects, he just flat out did not have enough blood to get or stay hard enough to penetrate someone

there are still plenty of fun things to do with a pussy that don't require an erection, of course, and i'm sure Astarion is well-practiced at all of them, but practically speaking it's probably a lot quicker, easier, and less likely to lead to potential awkwardness (or, worst of all, someone leaving) to tempt a man into fucking him than risk a woman being upset he can't finish the job - i imagine he dealt with plenty of pressure about what Real Sex was and what people expected from him in those moments

bottoming comes with a built-in excuse for not getting hard - sometimes you just don't! - that men who are used to fucking other men will probably not make too much of a fuss about

i have also noticed that during the two sex scenes with him i've gotten so far where you actually see part of the lead-up (haven't finished the game so i don't know if we only get those three total or if there's another one), he makes a point of playfully picking the player up or pushing the player down so that he's either holding and controlling their body OR he's on top of them

it's part of the flirtation but it's also a pretty clear pattern - he wants to be physically on top and in control!

so, all that being said, i think that Astarion deserves to get to pin Halsin down and stick his dick in a hot, living body for the first time in 200 years and go absolutely feral fucking him until Halsin's the one who comes out of it looking like he was mauled by a bear

#bg3 #halstarion #astarion's terrible horrible no good very shitty life #i just think he deserves to heal via ruining some bear hole

[vvatchword]

In Defense of BioShock Infinite

Although I had preordered BioShock Infinite with all its bells and whistles, I did not actually play it until January 2023. And lordy, I had me another Experience with a capital E. How the hell a bunch of urban Yanks could capture my experience as a queer democratic-socialist atheist struggling with her roots as a rural evangelical-cum-fascist is kinda magical, honestly. As to the game itself, it didn’t hurt how good it looked—the kickass skyhook gun battles—that novel setting—the complex characters—that delicious historical setting—that bloodthirsty critique of America—and to top it all off, they had pulled yet another Cassandra. Hell, speaking of which—not only was the game fun, it was fucking smart. It was intelligent, memorable, and meaningful in a way I hadn’t experienced in video games for years.

Now, back in 2013, when I had realized that I would be spoiled for Infinite, I left the BioShock fandom. After completing the game, I headed to Tumblr to re-engage, wagging my whole body like an excitable golden retriever, only to discover that BioShock Infinite was remarkably absent, and when mentioned, brutally derided. 

“I hate BioShock Infinite and all my friends do, too,” someone said in the tags under a post. 

I was utterly befuddled and deeply sad. I wanted to talk about BioShock Infinite! I wanted to dig into it, uncover unexpected ideas, learn new things, talk shit, make new friends—the full fandom experience. And instead I kept stumbling into hateful diatribes and super-charged disgust.

Obviously, I first looked at myself and my own judgment. Had I missed some obvious problem or misread some theme or dialogue? This wouldn’t be the first time I’d snapped down on a hook. But the more I thought about it, the angrier I got.

There are two parts of BioShock Infinite that are unquestionably terrible: the fridging of Daisy Fitzroy and the false equivalence of violence between haves and have-nots (lol what are the have-nots supposed to do, ask nicely?). Additionally, one could look at the use of real Native American tragedies as tasteless. Personally, I do not—in the same way that I don’t find it tasteless that real war victims were used as inspiration for Splicer deformities. This is what really happened; this is commentary on events that really happened to real people. 

At this point, I’m sure I don’t have to explain why two of these themes are Unequivocally Bad. 

Anyway, I thought that perhaps these were the reasons BSI had been condemned to Super Hell.

I was wrong.

How Criitcsim Werk

This wasn’t the fandom I’d made friends in over 2010. Hell, this wasn’t the fandom of 2013. This was a fandom made up of Babies. They were making their first coltish stumblings into media criticism and with it, dredging up the same brain-dead bullshit from Tumblr circa 2008.

Suddenly I was brought face to face with people who seemed to think that if a character couldn’t be likable or good that the story itself couldn’t be likable or good; that one bad element means the story is unsalvageable (lol u pussies); the implication that one is bad for liking it; the destructive juvenile insistence that media accurately measures its fans’ moral qualities en masse like an astrological sign. This goes far beyond simple like or dislike and plunges head-first into Puritanism: praying loudly on street-corners instead of quietly in a dark corner where God might hear you.

At one point I had a kid go off about how they wouldn’t take time to understand Booker DeWitt’s perspective because he had (fictionally) taken part in a genocide. (That same person said the Native American element had been employed for shock value, a thought that sometimes keeps me up at night, because it is legitimately one of the dumbest criticisms the game has ever received.) At another point I saw someone acting personally offended that (fictional person) Dr. Suchong’s (fictional) data was being stolen (in a fiction) by a (fictional) racist who would (fictionally) take credit for (fictional person) Suchong’s (fictional) inventions “while calling him slurs”. Sure, a better question would have been, “Why would the creative team opt to do this” rather than assume intentional racism from a Jewish creative director with an in-office multi-ethnic team in the year of our lord 2013, but why not handwave the choice with prurient moral dismay so your audience won’t beat you to death with bats? 

It was as though fans were treating these completely fictional characters as real people whose personal gods had opted to torment them, and that their tormentors merited the kind of censure that psychopaths should receive. As I hope all of you understand, this is fucking madness.

More than once I saw people posting about hating the studio or the creative director in ways that seemed intense, unreasoning, and excessive—notably an “I Hate [Irrational Games creative director] Ken Levine” stamp (rofl the more things change amirite). People get so performatively moralistic about it that I started wondering if I missed something big along the way. Was there some secret Voxophone I missed swearing fealty to baby Hitler or some shit?

Double Standards

At the same time, I was utterly confused. BioShocks 1 and 2 both featured some absolutely ghastly bullshit based on real-life horrors and a thick mix of complicated human beings—many of them victims who have become monsters. The fact they are grounded in historical tragedies is a huge part of their appeal. Hell, I don’t think those games would have had half their meaning without World Wars I and II and the threat of a third.

A gay man who feels so cursed by his orientation that he is incapable of intimacy and systematically destroys his ex-lovers—including the man he loves the most. A Korean who survived Japanese occupation and a Jewish Holocaust survivor repeat the violence and traumas exacted upon them and their people, subjecting a new generation to agonies unthinkable. Chasing the shadows of Bolsheviks, a Russian citizen becomes the brutal tyrant that he loathed. A rich lawyer with an easygoing drawl designs a concentration camp and systematically harvests hundreds, if not thousands of political prisoners, selling them out to medical testing for a quick buck.

But a Native man who destroys his own people and class to ensure his own survival and social acceptability is too far? This character is where people drew the line, so much so that the entire game is disavowed? Hell, if you’re just talking about Booker (rather than Comstock), he doesn’t have anywhere near the largest bodycount. If we were to judge on the metric of human misery alone, Booker wouldn’t even hit the top ten. 

Keep in mind that the most-discussed BioShock game on Tumblr is BioShock 2, and that one of the biggest fandom favorites is Augustus Sinclair—the easy-talkin’ Georgia lawyer who sells your character into horrors past all human comprehension, as he sold hundreds before and after you. Sinclair is a motherfucker so vile that BioShock 2 gives you no choice but to murder him. But Sinclair is also pleasant; good-looking to some; spends the whole game making sweet love to your ear; is one of the only true positive experiences you experience in a horror story. Unlike DeWitt, a man who is brutal and awful from step one, Sinclair is smooth and sweet. Unlike DeWitt, Sinclair’s victims are faceless, completely fictional, and carry no political or social baggage.

People fuckin’ ship this guy with Subject Delta, his explicit victim. He’s usually described as a squishy cinnamon roll. In most fanfiction, he often gets to escape to the surface and fuck Delta while helping raise Eleanor as Dad 2. It is rare that I find fanfiction that acknowledges his monsterhood in all its glory. In fact, I can only think of two.

Literacy Comes in Levels

My problem with the over-the-top hatred of BioShock Infinite is along the same lines as my confusion at Twilight and Harry Potter hate: there is so much worse out there (how much do the haters actually engage with media if they think this is that bad—yes, even considering the shitty creators themselves!), the hatred far outweighs the sin committed (in BioShock’s case, the truly bad bits are not central enough to derail the larger narrative), people don’t seem to hate it so much as they want to be seen hating it, fans want to enforce an unspoken rule hating it (bitches this is poison. Stop this), and there’s something about the hate that stinks of poor reading comprehension.

A great metric for general literacy is the newspaper. In journalism, you’re writing for the lowest-common denominator, which for years here in the USA has been about a fifth-grade reading level (about 10-11 years old, for my non-American readers). The AP posted an article a couple years back about how the general reading comprehension of Americans needs to be dropped to a third-grade one (8-9 years), and baby, I’m here to say it’s true. 

Most of the problem is that the American education system is shitty as fuck. The rest of it is from an extremely American disdain of intellectualism and the arts. People are not taught how to interpret art or literature—a difficult and subtle skill which involves accepting such truths as “multiple contradictory readings can exist and yet be simultaneously correct”, “the author can be a complete tool and still be right about things”, “the author can be a great person and still write horrifyingly incorrect bullshit”, and “worthwhile works can be ridiculously long and it really is your fault for not having an attention span”. 

Media criticism must be learned through trial, error, asking questions, confidently swaggering into a public space to announce your brilliant insight only to have your ass handed to you (usually by your older self ten years later), being willing to admit you swaggered confidently into a public space to state bullshit and then amending your bullshit only to produce more bullshit, and otherwise making a complete and utter cock of yourself. We are taught to fear and flee pain and failure, despite the fact this is how we learn and improve. Because we judge our value by whether or not we are “smart,” we are afraid of displaying that we don’t know something or might be mistaken–better not to try at all than to reveal ourselves to be fools. And yet the best way to learn is to crash up against someone else and be proven wrong!

American parents are terrified of hurting their children to the point that they spare them cognitive dissonance of any kind, disavowing difficult art—without any appreciation for the fact that art is how we provide safe spaces to explore key human experiences, better preparing us to face those difficult subjects when there are real-world consequences (sex, gender and social expression, grief, violence, predation, illness, interacting with people of different ideologies, whatever new issue is pissing off some smooth-brained old motherfucker somewhere). 

If parents and teachers aren’t teaching us how to interpret art, we’re probably never going to develop the skill at all, or crash unsubtly into it in a piecemeal fashion (hello it me). Another unfortunate side effect is that these readers tend to be blitheringly superficial: they are literally intellectually incapable of reading deeper than the uppermost layer of a text. The curtains are always blue.

And let’s not forget the role moral performatism plays in media criticism, which although faaar from new, has reached hilarious levels in the age of social media. What’s important isn’t understanding something, it’s finding something to symbolically burn at the stake so everyone knows God loves us: please keep loving me, please don’t hurt me, please don’t throw me on the fire—for performatism is not for outsiders. We long for human connection so fucking much that it’s more important to destroy what might point out our fallibilities than it is to let ourselves stand in the furnace and burn out the dross.

What do you think the point of BioShock Infinite was?

Emotional Machines

Let’s face it. Human beings give a lot more credence to how something makes them feel than they do its complex invisible reality. We are not logical creatures; we are emotional ones. Our logic is too new a biological mechanism to override something as powerfully stupid as our primal lizard brains.

Knowing this, let’s take BioShock’s most popular characters. The first two are Subject Delta and Jack Wynand, the protagonists of BioShocks 2 and 1, respectively; and why not? They’re the characters we play. In the first two BioShocks, whether or not you kill Little Sisters determines the ending you receive. In other words, Delta and Jack can only be as “wicked” as the players are. 

How do people want to see themselves? As good. What do people want to see around themselves? Good. (What is “good”? Uh, well,,,,,,) What do they want? Simple moral questions with simple moral answers. And in the first two BioShocks, what is moral is obvious: don’t kill little girls. It’s actually kind of insulting once you say it out loud.

In-fandom, Jack and Subject Delta are almost never painted as murderers or monsters, but as victims and heroes; I saw someone musing about putting Subject Delta on a “gentle giants” poll and I nearly choked on my own tongue. I only saw that musing because someone put Subject Delta and Jack in a “Best Fathers” poll. Nobody in-fandom really considers the “evil” or “complicated” endings as canon choices, despite those versions being fully understandable alternate readings, with a story that doesn’t make sense without them. (I don’t believe Burial at Sea is necessarily canon; in fact, I would bet good money that it is a huge middle finger lol, mostly because a number of brain-dead motherfuckers won’t take unhappiness for an answer.)

Most fandom art and writing is gentle, sweet, good: the symbolic healing of the damaged, the salvation of innocents, the turning of new leaves. These things are not just saccharine sweet—they tend to be unrealistically sweet. Now, far be it from me to demand these works cease. There’s a reason they exist. People write them because they need hope and happiness; I have enjoyed them greatly myself and intend to enjoy them in the future. But if y’all get to have your dessert, I demand the right to have my dinner.

The Colours Out of Earth

Let there be media where the opposite can also be true: where everything is unbelievably complicated and unforgivably fucked-up. Let there be characters who slide slurs into their speech without thinking. Let there be characters who destroy themselves in a thousand different ways, not all of them obvious, some of them horrifying. Let there be well-meaning people struggling with all their mights to do what is right only to destroy everyone around them and then completely miss the fact it’s all their faults. Let there be wickedness painted as goodness, superficial appearances accepted over essential and inherent values, denial of change and transformation, failure to accept that what is old must die and what is new must live, human stupidity and short-sightedness and cruelty in all their flavors. Let’s smash it all together and see how it plays out. 

Oh, badly? No shit! But “badly” isn’t the point. How does it play out?

Let there be a world of gradients—a place I can float from color to color, hue to hue, value to value, while attempting to figure out where, why, how, and by whom they transform—to taste concepts in a hundred different ways, test their textures by a hundred different mediums, insert them into a hundred different contexts. I need to understand why I feel the way I do; I need to understand morality in all its hideous, fragmentary glory. For I have been sold to a ideology of blacks and whites, and let me tell you: it prepares you for nothing, and it will always destroy what is most precious about human life.

I can no longer believe in a world where what is lost always returns, because that world does not exist. I have a reflexive need to come to terms with Finality: what I have lost, what I have destroyed, what will never return, what will never be better. I have a reflexive need to understand Transformation: what I am now, what is as of the present, what has risen shambling from the ashes, what turns to gaze upon me in the darkness. I need to understand what is wretched about me as much as I need to heal myself. How can I heal if I can’t understand how I have hurt and been hurt? 

I need to shine a light in the dark. Not to remodel it, not to destroy it—because I also can’t believe in a world where the wicked is destroyed forever—but to behold it, to learn from it, to view my own impact upon it, to accept how it has become a part of me, to learn how to do my best (because that’s all one can do). I must learn to love people more than causes, I must learn to love people rather than the act of winning, I must learn to love people rather than battle. I need to stand in that endless black with the lamp off and my eyes closed, letting the agony roll over me, burning with a fire that throws no light, rolling back and forth from an intense self-loathing to a fury at a society that destroys what is most valuable because it didn’t make them feel the way they wanted.

The Unforgivable

I believe that there are only two differences between Booker DeWitt and his equally cursed cohorts.

In the Hall of Whores: The Unmarked Slate

First, unlike the previous two games, where you enter the world as a tabula rasa and might roleplay as what you perceive as a good person, you are explicitly put into the shoes of a monster, and nothing you do can save you.

With other shitty BioShock characters, you are passively watching other people, and you are able to hold yourself apart. Sure, everyone else is crazy as fuck from using biological Kryptonite, but you’re too smart to end up a crazy fucking asshole like them! Sure, you are now technically a mass murderer, but those fuckers deserved it, damn it! 

“Look at this crazy bastard!” you say, rolling your eyes at the Steinmans and Cohens and Ryans and Fontaines. “It sure is a great thing I’m not a crazy bastard!”

You are able to escape acknowledging that you, too, in certain circumstances, might be the crazy bastard. You are being challenged to stand in the body of a person who has committed unforgivable sins. Imagine if you yourself committed those sins. Imagine what sins you have already committed. Imagine what brutalities you cannot take back. Imagine what horrors you have wreaked just by breathing.

“Ahhhh!” said players, probably. “What do you mean I’m not allowed to be good?”

Because that’s what the game was designed to do. Because “good” is a fucking cop-out and if it’s how you live with yourself wait until you find out you’ve been doing horrifying bullshit all your life without question. You can be evil by association through no fault of your own.

Original Sin

Second, the plight of Native Americans is a sin that non-Natives will always carry, and the socially conscious are aware of this even if they don’t know how to put it into words. The state of affairs being what it is, it is unlikely that First Peoples will ever be treated humanely, much less have their land returned. They must struggle for scraps of what is rightfully theirs while we lounge on their corpses. We cannot help but benefit from their destruction; we are made unwitting partners with our forebears; we steal the fruits of their lands and make mockeries of their faiths and identities. We have destroyed part of what made this world fascinating and unique and most of it can never be returned. Even if everything were to be made right tomorrow, their genocide is a sin that we will carry until we die, because the only reason we could be here at all is because they were killed. 

The obvious solution stands before us, but the powers that be are so much greater than we that we are effectively powerless, and achieving anything less than total restoration smacks of anticlimax. 

This is unbearable.

How can one think of oneself as a good person if one sees the good that must be done, but cannot achieve it? If one’s actions are meaningless? Goodness without action is pretension.

We are all Booker DeWitt. We have all set fire to the tipi. We swept the ashes away, we ignored the sizes of the bones, we built a CVS on their graves, and then we made statues and holidays commemorating Native Americans like the world’s cheapest “Thinking of You” card. We have de-fanged them, transformed them into cardboard cutouts, and set them up as cute little side characters in our sweeping American dream.

Booker is not a man. Booker is America and Americans—and America and Americans are monstrous: one part hypocrisy, two parts incessant violence, three parts constant peacocking, and four parts dumb as a stump.

The Monsters We Make

Outside of the message about “choice,” an enormous part of BioShock’s thematic ensemble is the creation of monsters. How are monsters created? Who or what is responsible for creating them? What do the monsters think made them the ways they are? Can a monster be saved? How? Is it enough to acknowledge you did wrong and want to be a better person?

Maybe most people are aware on some instinctive level of what facing one’s own monsterhood means. No one wants it. It’s not fun. It hurts. It’s embarrassing. It’s destructive. It’s admitting you don’t have it all together and might never, ever—that despite your best actions, you can have it horribly wrong at any point. In an age where we demand moral perfection, it demands vulnerability: you must admit that sometimes you’re the racist, the transphobe, the sexist, the nationalist, the classist, the homophobe, the violent, the wrong, the dumbfuck. 

Human beings are not built to be moral; human beings are built to survive. We so rapidly learn how to deal with our contexts at such young ages that we don’t have the time or capabilities to question why those contexts are the ways they are or why it is demanded we perform the ways we do.

In a very real way, BioShock Infinite demands vulnerability of us. It demands you look in the mirror and see what is monstrous in you—how you have been created—manufactured—a tool, a machine, a trained animal. It asks you to recognize that you can be a monster simply by association. And if we can’t look into the mirror and truly acknowledge that monsterhood, we run very real risks of becoming or enabling those monsters in one way or another.

Worst of all: perhaps monsterhood isn’t optional. Perhaps the monster was inside of us from the very beginning. It’s not a matter of if you become a monster, but when, under what circumstances, by whose hand. What is more, believing the “right” moral stances will not save you. Monsterhood can afflict anyone, in any ideology, any political stance, in any social movement, in any faith. The only element that can save you is to truly love other people, and even then, you can fail, for there can be states where there is no winner and ways to misread how best to treat another person.

Environment and Society: Context Will Not Be Denied

BioShock 1’s original ending is Jack-as-monster, regardless of how many children he saves, regardless of your feelings as player. He passes through the gauntlet of Rapture, but he has supped of its poison. And he wasn’t poisoned when he entered Rapture the second time—he was poisoned the minute he was conceived. He was born of it. He had no hope of ever escaping it—he never could have—he’d never had a choice to begin with.

No matter what choices you make in BioShock Infinite, Elizabeth will always kill you. Why? Because she has seen every world—every context—every limitation—every boon. And there is no way to stop what has been; there is no way to undo what has been done. The minute you have committed to a decision, you have split the universe; there is no telling what kind of person it will make you. In fact, there’s no telling which of your decisions will matter at all. Only Elizabeth can see because she is the unlimited future: your offspring stands before you, judge and jury, and you will have no choice but to accept her verdict, for despite your name, you are incapable of controlling how you are interpreted. 

Elizabeth sits across from you in the boat and stares without blinking. She sees a million million similar Bookers. Some are a little bit taller, some a little bit shorter, some a little heavier or lighter. Some more-resemble one grandparent or another. They have different colored ties. This one blinks when rain hits him in the eyeball. That one took a brutal beating back on the airship and one eye is swollen shut. That one can’t stop shaking; this one is unable to speak at all; one hasn’t yet lost hope, although even he doesn’t realize it.

They all lowered the torch to the tipi.

The baptism determined Comstock; what determined Booker?

Why Booker Is

In BioShock 1, characters are often stand-ins for larger concepts. Thus Ryan stands in as Ayn Rand’s Objectivist Ubermensch; Bill McDonagh as Andrew Ryan’s conscience; Diane McClintock as the citizenry of Rapture; Captain Sullivan as law and order; Frank Fontaine as the truest expression of Objectivism in its distilled form.

Who is Booker? Most importantly: why is he?

Booker is a fictional character with a brutal background based on historical events, alternative and true. Booker might be Lakota; Booker might have undergone forced Anglicization; Booker might have been ripped from his parents; Booker is a product of violence, perhaps literally. Booker is American exceptionalism distilled. Booker is the past in constant judgment of itself, unable to live with itself and unable to die. Booker destroys what is best in him and around him in exchange for belonging. Booker has sold the future to absolve his sins. Booker has sold his daughter because he is a fictional character in a work of fiction who needs to be propelled.

Booker is a shell, a sluice, an environment. Booker is the broken shape you are meant to fill, horrified. His internal shape should torture you as it has tortured him: the messy slaggy soul of a shitty tin soldier.

Does Booker take the baptism and become Comstock? If so, it might be his second one. His last name literally means “the white.” His first name can mean “author.” It is most likely his second name: an attempt to rewrite himself. And when he was unable to rewrite himself the first time, when the cognitive dissonance boiled at the edges of his skull, he found there was only one way to cleanse himself the second: to remake the world entirely. To force transformation on everyone else. To take vengeance on a world that could never love him, never want him—to create a world that has no choice but to love him. If he can’t change the world’s mind, he’ll change the world.

Note what he opts to do: to take the fight to the environment–to the unyielding universe.

Context Is Everything

It is no mistake that BioShock Infinite occurs in 1912: the sinking of the Titanic is often credited with ending an unfettered optimism, a period when the Western world believed technology had brought the human race into a golden age. With World War I—which would follow a mere two years later—came modern warfare and all the horrors thereof, not the least of which was the realization that humans had created a kind of war that could destroy the entire world. World War I also seeded the rise of the United States: much of the wealth of warring Europe—itself fat on the blood of subjugated peoples and stolen lands—would rattle into America’s coffers.

It is also no mistake that BioShock 1 directly follows World War II. With WWII came a heightened terror—that this war is not the last war, that there will never be an end to war, that war will go on expanding and expanding until it has consumed us all. World War III would not be denied: prettily packaged in the ideals of its children, it simply followed the utopians down to their underwater tombs. According to BioShock 1’s original ending, World War III is not a matter of if—it’s a matter of when.

But even more important than the history in the BioShock games are their settings. Mute leviathans, Rapture and Columbia determine all of your behaviors: from where you can exist in space to all of your desires and goals to how you choose to present yourself to how you opt to behave. Isolated in extremism—whether that extremism is the crushing depths of the ocean or the unbearable lightness of the air—most of their power is that they simply cannot be escaped. You can’t outrun them. They are everywhere. They are everything.

Like Lovecraft before it, BioShock acknowledges the greatest horror of all: you cannot escape your context. Your context does not only involve your immediate surroundings. It is also historical; contains zeitgeists from various cultures and subcultures; is filled with pressures both personal and impersonal, human and nonhuman. Many of these forces can hurt you. Many more can destroy you. What you do to survive depends very much on where, when, and with whom you must live.

Human beings are not built to be moral.

The Death of the Future

In the film Operation, Burma!, a soldier asks Errol Flynn: “Who were you before the war?”

“An architect,” says Flynn.

Who were you? Because that “you” doesn’t matter now. That “you” is irrelevant. So you’re an architect. What the war does to you; what these deaths mean to you; your past, your education, your loves and desires and forward motivation, the you that could have been outside war, the you that slogs alone into the brutal future—all completely irrelevant. Your forebears don’t care so long as you can bleed. 

Children are the manufactured tools of their creators—helpless before the enormous strength of their elders and the zeitgeists that enclose them, poisoned by their parents’ insecurities and flaws, utilized like weapons regardless of the cost—often with great love.

Consider something more than the traumatized culture: consider the society filled with traumatized children; consider the traumatized society. Consider channeling children through that trauma over and over and over again, if you can. Poisoned—poisoned—poisoned—all of us poisoned. Poisoned by those who loved us most. Poisoned by the people we trusted. Poisoned by the people who meant to make a better world.

I believe it is notable that creative director Ken Levine is Jewish; I have read from multiple accounts that the European Jewish diaspora was uniquely traumatized from the Holocaust and passed that trauma down upon their own families. I sometimes wonder if he saw that firsthand.

The fathers eat sour grapes; their children’s teeth are set on edge.

Choice: Player Expectations and Entitlement

For players who experienced BioShocks 1 and 2 with their multiple endings (Good, Bad, and “ok bye then I guess” respectively), it must have been jarring to suddenly reckon with being a monster. How often I see players grousing that nothing they do will change their wicked pasts! These players completely miss that the only meaningful choice had already been made, that it had nothing to do with the player at all, and even if they had been there, DeWitt was still unforgivable. The only way to go on was to bow out and allow the future to redefine herself.

Nobody was ready for that shit. 

Like it or not, BioShock 1 had set a precedent. Not everyone’s going to read up on creator intentions. If any keyword came blaring through the noise, it would have been “choice.” Most players only recognize choice by the ability to make it, not the absence of it, and most of them weren’t equipped to recognize that its lack was the point. The meaningless choices were commentary, and they were as much about the player as they were about DeWitt himself. Not every choice will be meaningful, will it? And there will be choices you make that will be momentous, but they will seem very small when you make them.

Because most players had experienced what they thought was a basic moralistic tale in the first two games, and would see Infinite not as reflection upon America’s destructive personality, its obsession with a meaningless Good/Bad duocracy, and the infinite, cyclical nature of violence, they saw Booker’s death as corrupted artsy claptrap.

“I did the good schuut,” they say. “I want the good schuut end. Where happy end??? Where treat :(”

Bitch the future is here. 

Time to die.

It’s Not Me, It’s You

Generally I despise essays that end with, “But the real fault lay with the clueless motherfuckers who played the game!” Often, if enough people complain, there’s something to it; the message has been obscured somehow. Details or explanations weren’t clear or intuitive enough, some mechanism isn’t working somewhere, some character needs to talk more or less, some setting needs to be transformed. O artist: stop whining and get cracking. If everywhere you go smells like shit, it’s time to look under your shoe. 

But sometimes it’s true that a piece of media is on a level folks aren’t equipped for. Think of every literature and art class you’ve ever had, if you’ve been fortunate enough to have one. There’s always someone scoffing in a back row, like here are all these jokers making more of something than they should. Similarly, some of you have been arguing with me this entire time, saying: “I just wanted a video game. I just wanted to shoot something and feel better and instead I get this bullshit ending that makes no sense.”

First of all, smart bullshit (and even fucked-up attempts at smart bullshit! Hi BioShock 2) gets to exist on this Earth along with Gmod and Roblox or Schuut Big Tits 84 (there are 84 tits and you must shoot them all. They explode into smaller tits) or whatever-the-fuck-else you think is a worthwhile gaming experience. Second of all, miserable bullshit also gets to exist, and what did you fucking expect if you played through either BioShocks 1 or 2? When you hear a football player quavering out in the darkness for his mom to pick him up, how’d that make you feel? What did you think was going to happen to Jack after pounding back the entire Plasmid library, the cancer cocktail that explicitly destroys the fuck out of its users? Third of all, if you missed the smart bullshit going on in BioShock 1 and didn’t think BioShock Infinite might be larger in scope in more ways than one, that’s on you. Fourthly, if you were simply satisfied with saving like, 15 kids from a violently-perishing city of thousands and call it good, I mean… is that really where your thoughts end? Are you really that fucking small?

It’s Not You, It’s Me

You ever meet those motherfuckers who talk shit about Shakespeare or modern art? And you’re just left there staring with dead eyes at this poseur who mistakes playing devil’s advocate for intelligence, cheek resting on your fist, thinking about the fanfic you’re writing, wondering who it’s for, remembering that all your smut-writing friends get ten times the viewers, and considering throwing yourself in front of a bus.

Yeah, there’s a personal element to this: the fact that BioShock Infinite is the kind of art I like and long for and want to make myself, the fact that the game was successful and yet the studio was closed, the way its DLC was so rushed that the story plopped out like half-baked mystery meat—realizing that the same forced rush was at 2K’s behest for BioShock 2, as well, and wondering how good art can ever be made in this unforgiving capitalist hellscape. The game was weirdly niche and I’m not 100% sure I’ll ever experience anything quite like it again. And with the whiners in this fandom, the loud ones controlling the narrative, some fresh brain-dead exec in some brain-dead publisher might be like: “We must keep it safer and simpler for these fuckin babby adult!”

Nah bitch nah. Naaaah. Cry some more while I enjoy me my fucking dinner. I’ll eat it while making loud smacking noises and keeping unbroken eye contact. Come here. Let’s look at each other. It’ll be like Lady and the Tramp but we want to punch each other. What truer form of love can there be here in the modern world?

I keep having to remind myself that this response isn’t new. I keep having to remind myself of my place. I keep having to remind myself why I write, why I read, why I like to experience art to begin with. It’s not for the reasons other people do it. Oh, I want the same emotional release as everyone else, I want the same rollicking plots, I adore the same tropes. I seek out everything and anything for a good time; I’ll read Moby Dick today and a smutty 5,000-word abortion with the world’s most suspect grammar tomorrow. I don’t give a shit if it’s low- or high-brow; there are all kinds of ways to have fun and there are all kinds of ways to engage with art, and lord knows I’ve done my share of smooth-brain criticism. The problem is that I’ve always wandered off by myself, sunk into an all-consuming reverie, on tracks that no one else ever seems to be on, and then looked up to talk excitedly about something only to realize I’m alone. And whose fault is that?

By the same token, maybe I haven’t talked enough. Maybe I spend too much time with my mouth shut. Maybe I haven’t stood up enough for things that are worth our time, worth talking up, worth setting on pedestals.

I tell you, BioShock Infinite will stand the test of time. It’s too good for this. It’s too good for you, warts and all. Some of you will grow to understand that; some of you won’t; many of you will shrug and go on with your lives (and this is fine; it is only a video game). But I’ve truly not seen anything like it. I can’t believe a mainstream video game was allowed to be so fucking brutal about the American juggernaut, and what’s more, that it sold like hotcakes. Plus, I can’t think of any works in recent memory that have struck me so close to my own heart. No creative work has made me start beating a monster’s face into a washbasin for ten hours only to lift her by the scalp and see my own eyes looking back.

Look into those eyes. See your own stupid impulses pouring out. Your own stupid excuses, your violences, your sins—your claws, your teeth, your costumes, your hilarious attempts at interpretive dance. The beast doth protest too much.

O, monster—behold thyself—and tremble.

#bioshock #bioshock 2 #bioshock infinite #bioshock infinite burial at sea #booker dewitt #subject delta #jack wynand #augustus sinclair #essays #video games #spoilers #vvatchword #vvbsreceipts

[greyssketches]

are Jax and Pomni nicer in this au like do they make it more bearable?

Sort of.

Jax had bet Caine that he could do a much better job, and Pomni kind of agreed. So Caine gave them admin access.

They were both suddenly overwhelmed with new scripts, codes, restrictions, information, and understanding.

After what appeared to be an intense mental breakdown, they both immediately took away Caine's power and started doing their own things with the adventures.

Some of them were very clearly just dates for the two like: "Set up a romantic restaurant", "Find the perfect gift", "Distract Pomni", "Distract Jax".

Others were actually fun, they did a few RPG type adventures, escape rooms, escape buildings, "just a room of kittens", murder mysteries, games, "get Pomni to leave the room of kittens", design your own rollercoaster, "get Ragatha to leave the room of kittens", "get out of the room of kittens", "let the kittens loose in the circus, I don't care-", shuffle board and more.

All the adventures were optional. Though if the performers wanted no part, Jax and Pomni would just do it themselves and call it "date night". While pretending they have no control over the adventure when they clearly do.

Both Jax and Pomni love to torment Caine. Although he doesn't seem to understand why they won't give him his powers back. Or why Pomni laughs maniacally while chasing him with a gun that shoots knives. Or why Jax would randomly throw him across the room. Caine couldn't feel pain, so he didn't get it. He has been "demoted" as Jax likes to put it.

Pomni is excited by her new abilities. She was in control. She could make things better! If she couldn't leave, then she'd make a paradise. A world that was better than the real world. She's very giggly and a little bit of an air head. She's obviously been driven mad by her new abilities and knowledge.

Jax appears to just laze about. rarely opening his eyes, sleeping mid-air at random intervals. Behind the scenes however, Jax is searching the code constantly, which is why he appears asleep. He makes sure there are little to no issues in the adventures while checking backlogs, abandoned files and scripts for an exit. He's trying to find out why they can't easily "log out" of the digital world.

#my art #tadc jax #the amazing digital circus #tadc pomni #funnybunny #pomni x jax #tadc au #tadc caine #tadc power couple

[onceuponaoneshotfanfic]

And I Know It's Sad, But This Is What I Think About

I'll Write Your Name Chapter 4

Roy Kent x Latina!Popstar!Reader

6.2k words

Warnings: Language, brief mentions of alcohol, spoilers for The Great Gatsby

Happy Valentine's Day everyone! Thank you as always to @agentstarkid for being the best and reading all my silly love stories💕

After my third Richmond game, April and I found ourselves once again having dinner with the Greyhounds at Ola’s. This time, Roy Kent and I sat with some of the players, who I was pleased to watch flirt with April; my beautiful assistant and best friend deserved the attention of hot, rich athletes, I decided.

While flirting with professional soccer players seemed to come easy to April, it felt like Roy and I were still figuring out how to flirt with each other. We sat close enough that our shoulders were touching, I flashed him plenty of coy smiles, and he made a point to whisper in my ear every now and then- although it was usually something like “Can I fucking leave now?” But still, if we were going to convince people that this was real, we’d probably have to step things up soon.

I remembered something Keeley had texted me the day before- we needed another date, and soon.

“What’re you doing tomorrow?” I murmured, loud enough for only Kent to hear.

He grunted and shifted in his seat. “Why?” After I simply narrowed my eyes at him, he sighed. “Keeley texted you too, hmm?” He sighed, shoveling another bite into his mouth. “What were you thinking?”

I thought for a moment, trying to avoid something simple like dinner, where we’d have to talk to each other and act like two people who were interested in each other. “Want to go on a picnic? We could bring a couple of books. Wouldn’t have to say a word to each other.”

Roy blinked, clearly processing what I’d just said; I could practically hear gears whirring before he finally spoke. “Sounds fucking perfect.”

Satisfied that I’d done my part, I turned my attention back to my delicious meal; if I got nothing else out of this fake relationship, at least I’d be well-fed for the next few months.

“Hey there!” Keeley Jones plopped down on my other side, smiling broadly at me.

Suddenly very aware of the eyes of the team on me, the way they’d been the night I “met” Keeley the first time I visited Ola’s, I returned her smile with one of my own, going so far as to playfully bump her shoulder with mine.

“Thank you again for inviting us to sit with you and Rebecca,” I gushed, and I really meant it; if I was going to be hanging out at Nelson Road, it was nice to do so in a comfortable suite with champagne in my hand. “It was actually really fun.”

Keeley’s smile widened; it was warm and friendly and genuine, making it obvious why everyone seemed to adore her. “I’m so glad you enjoyed yourself! We’ll have to get you a Kent kit now, eh? I’ve got an old one you could have if you like.”

I swore Roy stiffened next to me. “That’s alright,” I assured her. “I think April was going to order one for me to wear to their next game.” I turned to Roy with a shrug. “Gotta look the part, right?”

Roy mumbled something about getting another beer and stood, pausing only to briefly touch my shoulder; I ignored how warm his touch was. Once he was gone, I turned my attention back to Keeley, whose eyes were following Roy with something that looked a lot like pity.

“How’re you two getting on?” she asked in a low voice, scooching closer.

The only response that felt right was a shrug. “It’s fine,” I murmured. “Definitely working on getting used to each other. Going from complete strangers to dating is… a unique way of getting to know someone.” She seemed to be waiting for me to continue, so I added, “We’re going on a picnic tomorrow. I told him we could bring a couple books, that way we don’t have to just stare at each other the whole time.”

The corner of Keeley’s mouth tugged upwards knowingly. “Now that is a perfect idea,” she said, eyes shifting back to Roy as he approached, beer in hand. “Absolutely perfect.”

~

“How’s here?”

Roy grunted in response and dropped the picnic basket to the ground. Ten minutes felt like far too long to look for the “perfect” picnic spot, but Keeley had been kind of specific; it needed to be a public enough spot that they would be seen, but secluded enough that it didn’t look like they were trying to be seen.

He was beginning to wish they’d just gone to the pub again; at least then he could have a pint.

Instead, he helped spread out the blanket they’d brought with them and opened up the picnic basket, the one Keeley had dropped off at his house early that morning and that his date- when the fuck would he have to start saying girlfriend?- had loaded with lunch and snacks. He couldn’t help but wonder what kind of food she’d packed. Probably something trendy and vegan-y. Was she a vegan? Roy didn’t fucking know. But she was young and trendy and pretty and-

“Here.” She shoved something wrapped in white paper into his hands. “Should we eat first?”

Roy gingerly unwrapped the bundle, immediately recognizing its contents. “Is this a fucking kebab?”

She shrugged, already chomping on a bite of her own kebab. “Yeah. That a problem?”

Ignoring the annoyance in her voice, Roy took a bite; fuck, he’d know that flavor anywhere. “Where’d you get this?”

“That kebab place you like.” Her tone was casual, as if it didn’t matter. “I asked Keeley what you like, she sent me the address.” After eating another bite, she shrugged. “The owner asked me to bring in a headshot next time, said he’d give me free kebabs for life.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Roy’s grip tightened on his kebab; he ate there at least once a week and still was never given so much as a discount. But she goes in once and gets kebabs for life? Fucking hell. Well, at least he’d get to take advantage for the next few months. Maybe he would benefit from this charade after all.

Still munching on her kebab, she reached into the bag she’d brought and pulled out a book, settling herself into a comfortable position before opening it. Roy took the hint and grabbed his own book out of the picnic basket, a murder mystery his sister had given him for his birthday. He glanced up over the top of his book to get a glimpse of what she was reading.

“The Great Gatsby?” he asked, raising his thick eyebrows.

She nodded, her gaze still on her book. “It’s my favorite,” she said simply. After a moment, her eyes flickered up to meet Roy’s. “I try to read it every year.”

Not sure why he was still talking, Roy sat up a little straighter. “Every year? I mean, yeah, it’s a fucking good book, but why would you read it every fucking year?”

“It’s… familiar.” She set the book down, now fully looking at Roy. “Everyone is desperate to be at Gatsby’s parties, to be surrounded by his wealth and glamor, to drink his booze and enjoy his hospitality.” She frowned, eyes flittering back to the book. “But then only a handful of people attend his funeral. Once the party is over, no one cares about him anymore.” She looked back at Roy. “That’s going to be me, isn’t it?”

Roy was speechless. Something about the softness in her eyes was so familiar, almost like looking in a mirror. That’s going to be me, isn’t it? How many times had Roy mumbled something just as cynical and broken? How many people- reporters, women, friends, even family- had stopped calling once he slowed down? How many more once he stepped off the field for the last time? In her eyes Roy could see the same dejection and fear of loneliness that had nestled itself inside Roy’s chest these last few years. It was something hard to explain, something one could only understand if they’d felt it deep in their souls. And it seemed to be something they both shared.

But instead of admitting to understanding how she felt and allowing her to glimpse behind his scowls and hard expressions, Roy simply shifted on the blanket and bit off his lunch. “Fucking hell. Are you always some fucking tortured poet, sunshine?”

Her face faltered for only a fraction of a second, but it was long enough for Roy to want to kick himself for ruining the moment. She quickly recovered, picking her book back up and burying herself back into Jay Gatsby’s empty affluence. “Read your fucking book, Kent,” she mumbled, flipping a page absently. “There’s a photographer in those bushes.”

Sure enough, when Roy glanced around out of the corner of his eye, he could just make out the familiar sight of a camera lens.

~

“So, how’s it going with Roy Kent?”

Lanie looked perky as we sat in her office. My guard was immediately up; a perky publicist was never a good sign, I’d learned. It usually meant they had something rotten to tell you.

Anticipating whatever it was, I slouched into my seat, ready to narrow my eyes or scowl at a moment’s notice. “It’s fine,” I mumbled. “Keeley Jones said our picnic date got a lot of positive attention, and she said the Greyhounds’ viewership has skyrocketed since I started attending matches. So, it looks like we’re doing our jobs pretty well. Is my press looking good?”

Lanie nodded, eyes on her phone. “Good, good,” she said absently, as if she wasn’t really listening.

“Lanie?” I called.

She looked back up at me. “Well, with the Roy Kent stuff, you’ve got plenty of attention, and it looks like people are excited to see you in a new relationship, especially with someone who looks like him.” She ignored the way I wrinkled my nose. “But, uh, this morning I got wind of something that might take a little attention away from you and Roy.” She handed me her phone with a grimace.

The photo was kind of blurry, but I knew the two figures immediately. Everett- my most recent ex- nuzzling close to Cameron, the woman who had once called herself my best friend until she found out that a boyfriend of hers hit on me. Even though I had clearly rebuffed him and told Cam right away, she very publicly ended our friendship and even more publicly accused me of trying to steal her man. And now, irony of ironies, there she was, attached to my ex-boyfriend like the leech Lanie had always warned me she was.

“Lovely,” I finally snorted, gingerly handing the phone back to Lanie. “Do we think it’s real or just for attention? I know Cam’s new show starts filming soon.”

Lanie rolled her eyes. “Please, they’re not clever enough to pull off something calculated. If anything, he’s trying to make you jealous and she’s trying to get revenge on you. Idiots.” She sighed and dropped her phone onto the coffee table. “But, of course, your name’s being dragged into it. The phrase ‘love triangle’ has been trending on Twitter all morning.”

“Gross.”

“Agreed.” Lanie rolled her neck, something she often did when she was stressed. “I’ve been on the phone with Keeley this morning, and we both agree it’s time to step things up with you and Roy. Go public, make things official. Attend an event together that’s not a Richmond dinner.”

How much further could I slouch before I ended up lying down on the couch? “What event did you guys have in mind?”

“Your annual fabulous karaoke party!”

Keeley Jones strutted into the office with Roy right behind her. She greeted Lanie and I each with friendly hugs and kisses on cheeks; Roy, on the other hand, opted for short nods to each of us. Lanie stood and motioned for Roy to take her seat beside me; we shuffled awkwardly to ensure our knees wouldn’t bump.

Once we were all settled, I turned to Keeley, who now stood next to Lanie. “My karaoke party?” I echoed, feeling my stomach churn.

The “party” was the main fundraiser I threw every year for my nonprofit back home; it was near and dear to my heart, incredibly personal, and my favorite night of the year.

And now I’d have to share it with Roy Kent.

Sensing my unease, Lanie smiled at me, one of her reassuring smiles, the kind she always had for me after a bad bit of press. “It’ll be great publicity,” she pointed out. “You’ll probably raise even more than you did last year. Can you imagine how many people will register for the livestream? Especially if he sings,” she added, pointing at Roy.

“Sing?” the manager practically spat. “I have to sing at this party?”

With a sigh that even I knew was overdramatic, I turned to look at him, taking in his scowl and furrowed brow. “It’s a karaoke party,” I explained slowly, remembering how condescending he’d been the very first time we’d spoken in front of the elevator at Keeley’s office. “People pay a pretty penny for a ticket, there’s a paid livestream of all the singing, and I always release a new song, with all the proceeds going to my nonprofit. It’s… kind of a big deal.”

When Roy frowned, I could practically see the gears turning in his head as he processed this new information. After a moment of silence, he opened his mouth. “You should invite some of the guys. They’d definitely fucking sing.”

Keeley bounced happily at Roy’s suggestion. “That would be perfect! And it would really show the two of you becoming part of each other’s worlds too.” She quickly tapped at her phone, somehow lighting up even brighter. “And it’s a bye week for them!” She shot me a wink. “Looks like the universe is really lining things up for us, hmm?”

All I could do was smile weakly, my mind spinning from learning about my ex-boyfriend and ex-friend becoming an item and finding out that I’d have to spend my favorite night of the year with a man who had barely glanced at me since that night we played darts together. I made up my mind to ask Lanie if my reputation really needed this much help or if she, as usual, was overreacting. Just as soon as Roy and Keeley left, I decided. Surely, with the numbers my upcoming tour sales was doing, along with the amount of people already signed up for the fundraiser’s livestream, and with all this social media attention, could dating a former soccer star turned grumpy coach really help that much?

“Oi, sunshine, your place or mine?”

Sunshine. Roy’s gruff use of the name he’d mumbled during our picnic had me snapping back to attention, out of my planned objections to my publicist. I stared at Roy blankly, trying to imagine what in the hell I’d missed that had him prompting what I thought he might be prompting- especially in front of his ex-girlfriend.

“She was zoning out,” Lanie quickly explained as she threw an M&M at me, her usual way of bringing me back to attention. “We want you two to have a sleepover,” she said loudly, as if she was repeating herself- which she probably was. “Something simple and domestic. Something you can post on your socials so continue this little soft launch. Something to help make things believable.”  

Roy nodded. “Keeley says just being seen in public isn’t enough to make it seem real. We’ve got to really sell this shit.” He scowled at me. “So, your place or mine?”

Okay, so that made a lot more sense than what I’d feared he was asking me. “My place,” I said, clearing my throat. “You can come over to my place.”

~

Roy let out a low growl as he pulled up to the front gate of the address on his phone. He quickly punched in the gate code she’d sent him, relieved he didn’t have to call her to let him in, and drove up the short driveway.

Her house wasn’t what he’d imagined; with the money he- and the rest of the world- knew she was worth, Roy’d figured she lived in a fucking castle or some modern monstrosity. Instead, he walked in the moonlight to the door of a sweet two-story house, blinking as he read the doormat that declared “There’s no place like home”. He heaved his duffel bag over his shoulder and sharply knocked on the door, sucking his breath between his teeth. Another step in this weird, weird fucking situation he found himself in.

When the door opened, Roy instinctively took a step back, forcing himself to look her in the eye. She nodded curtly to him, gesturing for him to enter the house. “Kent,” was her simple greeting.

He returned the curt reception with a grunt of his own and followed her inside and into her sitting room, marveling at how the house did not match his expectations. He’d figured it would be something like Keeley’s place, all bright and pink and stylish with fluffy pillows everywhere. But everything was simple and cozy, and there were a lot more photos than he expected. Her family, he assumed, as his eyes lingered on a photo of her with a couple of pre-teen kids. In one corner was a piano, one he figured she used a lot, and one wall was completely covered with a bookshelf, which housed a large and clearly well-used library. It reminded Roy a bit of his own place if he was being honest. Simple, homey, and probably a refuge from a life lived in the public eye.

Before he could ask about the framed drawing that was clearly done by a child around Pheobe’s age, something brushed against Roy’s leg. “What the fuck?” he bellowed, looking down to see a cat staring back up at him.

“That’s Sydney,” his host explained, picking up the animal. “Syd, say hi to Roy.” She kissed the top of the cat’s head. “Apparently we need to get used to him,” she stage-whispered into the cat’s fur.

Roy snorted as he focused his gaze on the cat. He could almost appreciate the sarcasm in her voice- almost. Instead, he gestured to his duffel bag. “Where can I set this down? Are you sticking me in the backyard, or do I have to sleep in my car?”

With something resembling a smirk on her lips, she set the cat down and once again beckoned for Roy to follow her. “I’ve got a guest room,” she assured him as she led him down the hall. She let Roy enter the room alone, choosing to linger in the hallway and watch him drop his bag to the floor. She cleared her throat as the cat- Sydney- caught up with them. “I ordered a pizza,” she mumbled, shifting her weight. “We could, I don’t fucking know, watch a movie or something until, well...”

Right. Fucking sleepover. “Yeah, sounds fine,” Roy muttered, staring at the cat. He’d probably spend most of his night looking at the animal, he realized. “I’m just gonna… throw on some fucking sweats. If that’s alright.”

She nodded, her cool demeanor reappearing. “Do your thing,” she said airily. “Let me know if you need anything.” After giving Roy a firm, businesslike nod, she was gone.

With a shake of his head, Roy quickly threw on some sweats and a t-shirt, trying not to put too much thought into what the evening ahead held. Was this really necessary? Did the other fake couples Keeley knew- which she assured him was quite a few- have to go to such lengths? Knowing Keeley, she was probably just trying to push Roy’s buttons, see how far she could take this shit before Roy snapped.

But again, he was trying to prove to her that he was willing to go above and beyond for her. Anything for Keeley, he reminded himself as he trudged back into the sitting room.

He plopped himself down on the couch, where Sydney the Cat was already perched and watching Roy with narrowed cat eyes. Jamie had once compared Roy to a cat during a team dinner, he remembered. Not very social, easy to annoy, but incredibly loyal and affectionate once they decided to let someone in. Keeley had found the comparison hilarious and proceeded to call Roy “Fluffy” for the rest of the night. He chuckled to himself at the memory; he should send Keeley a picture of Sydney and let her know he remembered the joke. He always remembered Keeley’s jokes.

As he reached for his mobile, a voice came from the direction of what he assumed was the kitchen. “You eat pepperoni, right? I forgot to ask.”

The most glamorous popstar in the world strolled back into the sitting room holding a cardboard box in her hands with two bottles of beer balanced on top. Instead of her usual dresses or fashionable outfits Roy and the rest of the world was used to seeing her in, she wore a particularly tiny pair of sleep shorts and a Greyhounds sweatshirt- the one Roy had seen her wear to their matches lately.

Roy wasn’t blind. He knew she was a stunning woman, whether she was on an album cover or, apparently, in her pyjamas. And if he’d bothered to give the matter even two seconds of thought, he would’ve noted that he rather liked her figure, especially when she looked so comfortable and domestic. But Roy couldn’t think about that. Not when he heard Keeley’s name come out of her mouth.

“Keeley said to make sure we both post on our socials,” she was saying, either missing or ignoring the way Roy’s eyes lingered for a moment too long on her bare legs. “Why I couldn’t just send you something to post is beyond me.” She set the pizza down on the coffee table and plopped onto the couch, a respectable distance from Roy’s spot. “Like, is you coming over really, truly necessary?”

Roy snorted and made himself busy with a beer. “I was thinking the same thing,” he admitted. “But Keeley’s always got a method to her fucking madness. You learn to just fucking go with it.” Deciding he needed to look at something that wasn’t the way she was stretching out comfortably on her couch, Roy stood abruptly and meandered over to her bookshelf. “You read a lot?” he said, scanning her collection more closely now.

“When I can,” came her breezy answer. “I’d love to say I’ve read everything on that shelf, but that’s mostly a collection of books I want to read.”

“Maybe we can do more reading dates.” Roy didn’t know what the fuck made him say that; it just slipped out as he stared at a particularly worn copy of The Bell Jar. When he glanced over his shoulder, he was surprised to see a smile on her face.

She shrugged and sipped her own beer. “Sure, Kent. Sounds good.”

Ignoring whatever feeling was forming in his chest, Roy returned to the shelf, recognizing some names and finding himself curious about others. Finally, he spotted a stack of games on the bottom shelf. He noted that there were about four versions of the same game. “You like Scrabble?” he blurted out, desperate to put distance between himself and his picnic suggestion.

“Love it,” she laughed. “When my parents came to the States from Mexico, they were each pretty young and worked really hard to learn English. They wanted to make sure all of their kids were fluent in English, so in our house we were always reading and playing games like Scrabble.” Her smile became a smirk. “My youngest brother refuses to play with me anymore because I kind of win a lot.”

The competitive streak that made Roy a football legend started to bubble up in his chest. “That so?” He picked up one of the boxes and brought it over to the coffee table. “Let’s see, then.”

~

“You can’t put that word!” I cackled, throwing my head back when I saw the word Roy was putting on the board.

Roy smirked and put the ‘C’ down with finality. “I absolutely fucking can. And I did so…” He shrugged. “Gimme my points, sunshine.”

After updating Roy’s score, I snapped a photo of the board. “That’s going on Instagram,” I warned him with a smirk. I quickly shared the picture and put my phone down, trusting that Lanie would text me later about the post blowing up.

We finished one game, then another, and started a third. We didn’t talk much, but it didn’t feel as awkward as those first few dinners with the Greyhounds. Sydney laid close to Roy, clearly already used to him, and I couldn’t deny the warm feeling in my chest when I saw him absently stroke her fur between turns. Maybe we’ll be friends, I thought fondly as I put down the tiles for my latest turn. Real, actual friends.

“Calamitous?” Roy read, wrinkling his nose. “What the fuck is calamitous? Is that even a word?”

I smirked and sipped my beer. “It absolutely is!” I stood and strolled over to my bookshelf, returning with the Scrabble dictionary my sister had given me a couple years ago. “Look it up.”

After shooting me a suspicious look, Roy flipped through the book; his scowl told me he had indeed found calamitous.

“It’s a good word,” I said as I sat back down. “One of my favorites. I’ve just been waiting for the right time to put it in a song.”

His gaze turned thoughtful as he stared at his letter tiles. “You written anything lately?” Before I could answer, he opened his mouth again. “You said something about a song for your fundraiser thing. It’s a new one, right?”

I nodded, squirming a bit as I thought about the song, one I’d been pouring a lot of myself into. “Yeah. I always release a new song after the party.” My eyes fell so Sydney, curled up close to Roy. “Want to hear a bit?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

His almost silly answer was enough to get me to my feet and retrieving my guitar from the extra room I often worked in. When I came back, Roy sat up straight, his gaze trained on my guitar as I settled on the couch.

“It’s called ‘Nothing New’,” I explained as I began to strum my guitar. “Here’s the chorus.”

Lord, what will become of me

Once I've lost my novelty?

I've had too much to drink tonight

And I know it's sad, but this is what I think about

And I wake up in the middle of the night

It's like I can feel time moving

How can a person know everything at 18 but nothing at 22?

And will you still want me when I'm nothing new?

When I finally looked at Roy, his mouth was agape, and he was blinking rapidly.

“Fucking hell,” he whispered. “That’s good. That’s really fucking good.” He shook his head. “Reminds me of that shit you said the other day, about Gatsby and funerals and all that.” He sighed, a heavy, sad sound, and his voice was almost impossible to hear. “Fucking reminds me of me.”

I didn’t know what to say to that; I vaguely knew the story of Roy’s injury, the one that ended his career, and Dani had said something about it taking a while for Roy to find his way back to Richmond after his retirement. But I didn’t think Roy was the kind of person who liked to talk about anything, let alone what was probably the worst time in his life. So instead, I watched him stare stonily at my silent guitar, not saying a word when he stood abruptly, something I was quickly getting used to seeing.

“I should fucking sleep,” he mumbled, taking care to grab a couple of empty bottles. “Gotta be out of here early for training. Thanks for the pizza. And the beer.” He nodded to my guitar. “And the song.” After nudging Sydney gently with his foot, Roy turned on his heel and disappeared into the kitchen; I didn’t move from my spot until I heard the guest room door shut with finality.

~

~

Roy sighed as he sat down in front of the assembled reporters, all waiting to pounce on him after a hard-earned Greyhound victory. As always, Keeley stood in the back of the room, an encouraging smile on her face, the kind of smile that always gave Roy the strength to tackle what was probably his least favorite part of the job.

He answered several questions about the match- probably one of their best of the season, if he was being honest with himself- before the topic he was dreading finally reared its head.

“Coach Kent,” some wanker from a publication Roy couldn’t be bothered to remember called out, “care to say anything about the rumors concerning your latest fling?”

Instinctively, Roy bared his teeth and squared his shoulders before leaning forward, ready to growl out, “No.” However, a raised eyebrow from Keeley had him taking a deep breath; she’d trained him for this, he reminded himself. He knew what he was supposed to say. “We’re just… spending time together,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. “It’s been… nice, getting to know each other.” When he looked at Keeley, she was giving him a big thumbs up; it was enough to have him continue. “She’s different than I expected,” he added, nodding more to himself than anyone else.

“How’d you two meet?”

He coughed into his hand; he knew how to answer this, too. “She’s good friends with Dani Rojas,” he explained, wondering if it sounded as rehearsed as it felt. “So, she came to a match and then came out with the team afterwards. We danced a little, and then she gave me her phone number.” Again, Keeley smiled encouragingly. “It’s been kind of fucking cool, having her at our matches. She’s really embraced the Richmond way.” That last bit was something Keeley had come up with; normally, Roy would think it sounded incredibly lame and positively cheesy. But, since Keeley was the mastermind, he didn’t complain one bit.

Another reporter spoke up. “Will you be at her upcoming fundraiser? The karaoke party is legendary.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there,” Roy answered with what he hoped was a good-natured smirk. “Get enough drinks in me, I might even fucking sing.” For a brief moment, the chuckles that filled the room reminded Roy of how this room sounded when Ted was there; he hadn’t realized he actually missed that sound.

“Have you heard her new song?” The voice was hopeful, as if Roy was about to give everyone a big scoop, let the sports reporters have something the gossip columnists would kill for.

For the first time since the press conference began, Roy’s smile was real. “I’ve heard a little,” he admitted. “And I won’t tell you a fucking thing, except that it’s fucking brilliant.”

Roy maneuvered around a few more questions- Would she be attending more Richmond matches?  (“Hopefully.”) Would Roy be going to any of the shows during her upcoming tour. (“We’ll see.”) Who won their Scrabble tournament? (“No fucking comment.”)- before he was finally set free. He and Keeley reconvened in his office, making sure no one else was around before assessing how Roy’s first official acknowledgement of the “relationship” had gone.

“You did a great job,” Keeley assured him from her perch on the edge of his desk, a spot she’d taken countless times. “Might be the most charming I’ve ever seen you at a presser, Roy. Looks like she’s really rubbing off on you.” Her wink had Roy’s insides squirming. “Did you really hear the song already?”

“Yeah,” Roy mumbled, slouching in his seat. “She played some for me the other night, during our sleepover.” He surprised even himself by not rolling his eyes at the word sleepover. “It’s fucking sad,” he continued, completely unprompted. “But really beautiful. Nothing like the fluffy stuff you hear on the radio.”

Keeley gently tossed a stray paperclip at Roy. “Oi, I like her fluffy stuff! And so does Phoebe, I might add.” Her smile widened. “Your niece wants to know when you’re introducing her to your girlfriend, by the way. It’s all she talked about at our last Pheebs and Keels Day.”

Roy shook his head. “Oh no,” he scoffed, folding his arms. “Not fucking happening. Last thing I need is for her to get attached. Look what happened with-”

Fuck.

The smile disappeared from Keeley’s face. “Right,” she said quietly, looking down at her hands. “Yeah, might not be the best idea, eh?” After a moment, she perked up again, reigniting the energy in the room. “Have you two kissed yet?”

“What the fuck Keeley?” Roy hissed, looking around the obviously empty office; she’d sure recovered quickly from the awkward moment he’d caused.

She shrugged, clearly unfazed. “You’re officially together and are starting to go out in public as a couple. It’ll look funny if you don’t start being affectionate soon. I figured maybe you two’d gotten it out of the way already, so your first kiss isn’t in front of the cameras."

Shit. Roy hadn’t even started to think about how they’d act now that things were “official”. Had she?

“Don’t fucking worry about it,” Roy mumbled, wondering why he was blushing so furiously. “I’m a forty-year-old man, Keeley. I know how to kiss a woman.”

“Yeah, but she’s not just any woman,” Keeley pointed out as she stood. “Just something to think about.” She paused, studying Roy’s face carefully. “You really did do a good job in there, Roy. I almost believed you for a second, smiling and blushing as you gushed about that gorgeous girl.” Her smile returned, completely full of mischief. “Anything you want to share?”

Roy narrowed his eyes at his ex and threw the paper clip she’d tossed at him earlier. “Fuck off, Keeley,” was all he managed before the giggling blonde strutted out of the office. He looked down at his phone to check where the guys would be going after the match; after all, he was expected to be there with-

“Hey there!”

Roy looked up at the sound of Keeley’s cheery voice. His “girlfriend” came into view, smiling tightly at Keeley as they squeezed by each other through the doorway. The popstar saluted as she entered the office.

“Hey, Kent,” she hummed, pausing by the door and leaning against the frame. “I was thinking, want to ride to the restaurant together?”

He heard what she said. He knew he had. But the only thing he could focus on was her mouth, the same mouth that had left lipstick marks on his cheek and had formed a smile when she won two Scrabble games in a row. The same mouth he’d have to kiss soon. He’d kissed plenty of women; hell, he’d more than kissed plenty of women. And those were kisses he’d actually meant.

So why the fuck did his palms feel sweaty at the thought of fake-kissing this woman?

“Kent? Kent?”

Oh fucking hell, she’d caught him staring.

Roy cleared his throat and stood up, pocketing his mobile. “Alright, yeah. Let’s go.”

She narrowed her eyes at him as they walked out of the office. “You alright?”

“Yeah. I’m fucking fine.” Roy’s hand balled into a fist at his side as he fought the urge to clear his throat again.

“Okay then.” They walked silently down the hall, looking nothing at all like a couple in love. Finally, she bumped him with her shoulder. “Saw your press conference,” she said, her voice light and teasing.

Roy nodded, wondering if his face looked as warm as it felt. “What’d you think?”

When he glanced at her, she was staring straight ahead- and smiling. “You told them you liked the song.” Her voice could only be described as pleased.

“Well, yeah,” Roy mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s the truth. It’s… it’s really fucking good. I can’t wait to hear the rest.”

She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. Finally, she looked at him, her face serious now. “Hey, there’s some reporters hanging around outside. D’you think we should hold hands or something?”

Roy’s eyes flickered down to her outstretched hand before returning to her face; she gazed at him with raised eyebrows, waiting for his answer.

“Probably a good idea,” he murmured. With that, he took her hand in his, giving it a small squeeze as they walked out of the Dog Track.

He kept her hand in his as they walked through the parking lot; while his eyes stayed trained on his giant black car, she smiled sweetly at the couple of reporters who called their names and even offered a small wave in their direction. Roy held her door open and helped her climb inside, closing the door once she was settled. Once he was in the driver’s seat, he resisted the urge to grab her hand; old habit from dating Keeley, he told himself.

Still, he couldn’t help but wonder why his hand felt so cold without her fingers intertwined with his.

Taglist: @infinetlyforgotten@ladygrey03@book-of-roses@thatonedogwithablog@misshall14@wibblywobblyvampywolfystuff@akornsworld@itswhateveripromise@purecinnamonextract@oceanncurrent@dearvoidgoodnight@hopefulromances@respondingtoshowerthoughts-blog@hotleaf-juice@emmy2811@captainorbust-blog@preciousbabypeter@shion-ah@royalestrellas@eugene-emt-roe@littleesilvia@teenwolf01@sisinever@yagotgames@queen-of-the-downtown-scene @emmaallisonann @mrdsturd @confessionsofatotaldramaslut

#roy kent i'll write your name #roy kent iwyn #he's here he's there he's every fucking where #roy kent #roy kent x reader #roy kent fanfic #roy kent fic #roy kent fanfiction #roy kent imagine #ted lasso fanfiction

[slugtranslation-hypmic]

Hi Slug!! I'm curious about some of the religious imagery in hypmic! Kuko is obvious and I think Doppo has talked about not believing in gods before but what's up with Jakurai? Is he meant to actually be Christian or is it just an aesthetic thing?

This ended up being so long Tumblr wouldn't let me put it all in one post. Hoo boy. Under a cut for length.

Usual disclaimer that I don't live in Japan, so I'm not talking about IRL Japan so much as Japanese media. Media isn't perfectly synonymous with real life and, of course, it's foolish to draw conclusions from the general (media and culture) and apply them to the specific (individual persons). With that being said, media is indicative of real life values and cultural concerns--for example, the American high school experience is a lot less interesting than in movies, but these movies reflect a romanticization of teenagehood so widespread in the US and areas with heavy US cultural influence that filmmakers take it for granted in their audiences--so I can talk about what assumptions inform the portrayal of religion in Hypmic.

As in a lot of Japanese media, religion is present but not explicitly mentioned outside of Kuukou. It's what I would call culturally religious as opposed to actively religious. Similar to how many works in the Anglosphere are steeped with Christian ideas and phrases even if the authors/works themselves aren't Christian (the Christian concept of sin, using "God" or variations as an interjection, etc.), many works written in Japanese are influenced by Shinto and Buddhist ideas. Some people in Japan are active worshipers of Shinto, Buddhism, or both, but many more have a somewhat relaxed approach. It's not uncommon for people to have a belief in a higher power, but the nature of this higher power isn't terribly well-defined. Many people will attend religious ceremonies for holidays or funerals but rarely pray to a higher power outside of moments of great stress. That is, being culturally religious. Traditions are fun and comforting, especially if they involve dressing up in fancy clothes, eating yummy food, and seeing friends and family. Even if you're not especially devout, it doesn't hurt to pray for a bit of luck before a big test, that your child will grow up healthy and strong, or that your recently departed ancestor will be at peace. For those in predominately Christian areas, you probably see plenty of this in your community--people who maybe go to church occasionally for companionship or holiday celebrations but aren't active worshipers. Or, perhaps, people who pray like, "Hey, if anyone's listening, can you lend me a hand?" Maybe you're even one of these people yourself. We can generally assume that most of the cast falls into this camp. Doppo and Hifumi go to a festival with a religious element--charms and rituals to bring good luck by appealing to Shinto deities--but I doubt either of them have a firm belief that these particular deities exist. They may think that there's some higher power...or not. But what's the harm in a good luck charm, right? And more importantly, it's fun to play games, eat, drink, and horse around with friends! But wait, does that mean these two are only Shinto or...Shinto-ish? Probably not. There's an expression that most Japanese people are "born Shinto, but die Buddhist." Shinto rituals tend to focus on matters of the living (although Shintoism has its own distinct funerary rites, sometimes combined with Buddhist rites), while non-devout Buddhists usually participate in Buddhist ceremonies only when loved ones die. We see Juushi and Hitoya with loved ones buried in Buddhist cemeteries, but it's safe to assume both observe Shinto holidays and customs in some fashion. We also see in the very beginning of TDD that Nemu and Samatoki have what appears to be a butsudan--a Buddhist altar--in their home dedicated to their deceased parents. "But wait," some might say, "I thought spirit worship isn't a part of Buddhism." That's true for some forms of Buddhism, but not all! Buddhism is enormously varied, and some of the (many, many!) forms of Buddhism practiced in Japan accept aspects of Shintoism. There's plenty of mixing, just as we see within individuals themselves. Again, the Hypmic characters may not fully believe that spirits exist. (Well, outside of Ramuda...) But it's a comforting thought that one's deceased family members are around in some form and can be a positive influence on one's life.

#not a translation #asks #hypmic asks

[mjlovescm]

can we get a clingy rodrick fem reader fic? maybe the reader is trying to get homework done or something? idk you’re a better writer than i💀

Stage five clinger, Rodrick Heffley

A/N: Thank you so much for requesting this sorry it took so long. I feel like Rodrick would definitely be clingy, and I'm sure you are an amazing writer. <3

It may be hard to believe, and maybe he only acted this way when he was with you, but Rodrick Heffley was a top tier, stage five clinger. And to be completely honest, it should have been a bit obvious. This was the same boy who spent a very, very long time trying to get his crush to acknowledge him for more than just five seconds. So of course being his girlfriend, this only intensified. By a lot and in many ways. 

But the top three were: 1. Wash day  Before the full extent of Rodrick's clinginess, wash day was a lonely, tiring and highly frustration day. But with your own personal helper, things were definitely a lot easier. Having him run to the store real quick if you forgot something, playing video for you on his phone while your hands were greasy, and even helping you make even parts. 

“You know I can help you with more than just parting.” Rodrick yells over the shower. 

“You should be lucky I'm letting you in here to begin with.” 

You yell back, referring to the fact that he was sitting in the bathroom while you were in the literal shower. 

“Whatever.” He mumbles under his breath.

2. Homework  In the same way that his clinginess could be helpful, it was often not. Although you agreed with him on his point of homework being useless and annoying, you still had to get it done. And the best way to do that while being in the same vicinity as Rodrick was to ignore him. But with his sneaky nature, Rodrick would also find a way to have you in his arm doing something actually fun rather than stupid homework.

“Could you just be serious for like five minutes.”

You told Rodrick and was met with an utterly appalled face. One which you ignore and go back to trying to do your homework.

“I am being serious, I read it somewhere.”

“By “read it somewhere.” do you mean saw it on YouTube.”

“No.” He's quick to respond. “I saw it on Instagram.” Rodrick smiles because technically you were wrong. “Look it up, it's the most effective way to get things done. Study for thirty minutes, then relax for thirty.”

Still ignoring him, all you did was roll your eyes and try to focus on the work in front of you. Plus, the method was to study for twenty-five and have a five-minute break. A great method, sure, but clearly not what Rodrick was suggesting.

…

Leaving the bathroom, you walked back into Rodrick's room to find your homework textbook and pencils gone. And across the room was an overly casual Rodrick whose TV just happened to be playing your favorite movie. Without a word, you walked over to him, faces contradictory to each other. In fact, the smile that played on Rodrick's lips was burning a frown onto yours. Deciding not to play his game and, more importantly, not give in, you simply turned around to look for your things that had magically gone missing.

Before you realized what was happening, you were already sitting. The same hands he used to get you there now wrapped around your hips, keeping you in place. 

“You don't think this is a bit much?” You asked him genuinely. 

“I think.” He starts, and you can already tell where he's going, “That you need a break.” 

Rodrick peaks his head over your shoulder for a moment, that cocky smile still on his lips. Before it disappears into the crook of your neck. 

“Come on.” He whispers against your skin. “Well, only watch like five minutes.” 

Reluctant and knowing that it was a lie, you still agreed. Quickly getting comfortable and settling into your favorite seat, Rodrick's lap. 

3. Accidental sleepovers This one you could admit was partially your fault. I mean, if you really didn't want to stay you could just leave, but sometimes Rodrick was just too hard to resist. 

“We have school tomorrow.” You groan, sleepiness already creeping into your voice. 

“Yea, that's why you should stay.” He told his voice sleepier than yours. “Plus, I already drive you every morning.”

He was right, the van had been your go-to method of transport for a while now. 

“Yea but-” You tried to think of an excuse but nothing came to your half asleep mind. “I think I'd like to sleep in my own bed.” 

You told Rodrick, which triggered him to move him body more onto your chest, his way of trapping you. He shushes you before bringing his lips to your skin. Pressing gentle, slow kisses to your neck and jaw. 

“Tomorrow we can sleep wherever you want.” He whispered. 

“Fine.” You say, as snuggling into him. “But just because you're warm.” 

Masterlist

#rodrick x reader #black fem reader #mjlovescm #diary of a wimpy kid #rodrick heffley

[damagedintellect]

Dazai Osamu x reader

💌 Reading into the palms of isekai bullshit: Chapter 4 💌  

Summary: You were no stranger to isekai bullshit. It’s not like you had a problem with it. The genre took over the anime scene for years now but you try to stay away from thinking about how you would handle the situation. The last time you thought about inserting yourself into your favorite show you wrote a 100k word xReader fic for your favorite characters and you didn’t want to spend all your time consumed by the brainrot again. Never again, you promised yourself that was the last time you’d let the devil on your shoulder win. You clicked on chapter 1 to start the adventure over again but when you opened your eyes and saw Dazai O-FUCKING-samu getting choked by Kunikida you honestly hoped it was a dream.  

Notes: Another isekai so I can play around with BSD like dolls.  

💌 Word count: 1,970 💌 <= Previous Chapter | Next Chapter =>

The next few days will be boring for you since Dazai was taken by the port mafia. Being a non combatant also kind of sucked because it meant that you were basically useless on the front lines. You mostly spent your time doing office work and or following Ranpo around like a lost puppy getting him snacks whenever he wanted. Honestly with how bored you felt it seemed like he was rubbing off on you. Although you still didn’t forgive him after that last stunt. The sugar fiend was so pleased with himself when he saw you that morning. Although you should have expected as much.

 Atsushi was concerned over Dazai’s disappearance but you spilled the beans that he was taken on purpose to try and figure out what was up with the bounty on his head. That actually made him feel worse but before he could ask you too many questions Ranpo pulled you away leaving Atsushi alone to run errands with Yosano. You sighed seeing how satisfied Ranpo was as if he was a major hero stopping a great calamity.

 “Still doesn’t make up for giving Dazai the drawing but I’ll accept the apology.”

It wasn’t long until Kyouka was taken in and you were once again pushed to the side. Now you think you understand how Ranpo feels about knowing the ending of books. Again you stayed out of the fun only dropping your two cents when absolutely necessary. Atsushi asked if you wanted to tag along but you begrudgingly turned them down. Meaning you’d miss out on getting crepes later. You’d have to go out on your own time to get some. Which gave you an idea but it was still a day too early or was it? You remember Dazai pretended to be held longer but when did he actually sneak back? As the day came to an end you took your leave making sure no one else was around. You relaxed against his door in the standard cool guy position and started knocking.

“.... . -.-- , / .-- .- -. -. .- / --. . - / -.-. .-. . .--. . …”

“Hey, wanna get crepes”

He’d understand the morse code right? You had to look up a chart to figure it out. A brief moment passed with no answer. Oh well, you would still go to get a crepe. You were about to leave when you finally heard a very soft knocking from the otherside.

“.-- .... -.--”

“Why”

You had to pause, looking up what he said before you smirked to yourself. “If you do, I won't tell anyone you came back already.~” You said it in a sing-song way like it wasn’t a soft threat. There was a short beat before the door quickly opened and he pulled you inside. You yelped as you stumbled backwards but he put his hand over your mouth pulling you closer so he could close the door before anyone else saw. “Now what’s the real reason?” He seemed slightly irritated that you disturbed his peace. 

Ever since you came into the picture it feels like you can see through him and he's not used to someone else being able to do that since Chuuya. He's still wracking his brain trying to figure out how you do it because it still doesn't add up. Especially since Chuuya minded his own business for the most part and you've practically made it your goal to win this game that Dazai swears you both are not playing. You saw his palm twice, how can you know him like the back of your hand? He’s done his research and that’s not how palm reading works at all! You shouldn’t be able to get names from his palm or very specific details the way you’ve been. When he talked to Ranpo before Kyushu he was so sure that you weren’t reading palms at all but still it couldn’t be an ability so it had to be a secret third thing that he still hasn’t found out about. Disappointed would be an understatement for how deranged he felt when Ranpo came back and you saw through his trap. There was only one other person who has managed to counter his predictions in this way and he’s sure you are not a demon like he and Fyodor are. So what gives?

“Well Atsushi took the new girl for crepes and it sounded good. I can’t ask Ranpo out of spite. Yosano would rather get a drink. Kunikida doesn’t eat sugar past a certain hour and actually I didn’t even think about asking Kenji now that you mention it.” You played dumb making up random excuses as neither of you moved to change the position you were in. You were still being held slightly into his chest and leaned back far enough to need Dazai’s hold on you to stay balanced “Besides I figured you’d wanna get the taste out of your mouth after being reunited with your ex. I assume all you’ve had was cheap booze and canned crab?” He only frowned as you glanced over to his lazy set up. It looked like he was genuinely weighing out his options before his sinister smirk rested on his lips. He needed to gain the upperhand somehow. "Admit that you missed me and I'll go."

"What?" You were dumbstruck. You were the one with leverage. It was you who was supposed to be making demands not following orders. "You heard me just tell me that you missed me." He sneered, "I'm just trying to help you be more honest-"

"I missed you." Your cheeks were warmed by the confession but you held firm with no hesitation. Your voice was soft yet strong as if it was intended for his ears only. Like it was supposed to be your little secret.

Dazai was in a state of bewilderment, astonished that you actually said it back to him. He really didn't expect you to, and he didn't think it would be so genuine. He marveled at you for a while, for once he was at a loss for words. Your eyes held an unwavering conviction over the sentiment that he would rather not think about. Originally he was trying to garner more control over the position you placed him in but now it appears he's the one who played himself. He lowered his gaze letting his bangs shield his vision as he shifted you upright. Your unwavering stare made him tense. He wasn't used to this feeling of being uncomfortable. You really were his belladonna.

"Okay." 

Dazai sounded far away from himself. You desperately wondered what was running through his head. He started unbuttoning his vest as he opened his closet to pull out some more casual attire. He ran his hand through his hair pseudo slicking it back throwing on a pair of glasses. By the end Dazai looked like a different person as you went to get your reward. When you got there he ordered for you but you paid knowing that you were the one who invited, or well, forced him to come it should be your treat. Of course it was no surprise to you that Dazai had ordered you both the “Romeo and Juliet” which was chocolate ice cream, with freshly cut strawberries, two pieces of pocky, whipped cream and drizzled with chocolate sauce. You wonder if Dazai got it because of the flavor or because of the name because he couldn’t pass up the double suicide reference. Even if he didn’t order for you it’s the one you would have chosen because the one you wanted to try was already sold out and it was the next bestseller.

It was golden hour, painting the sky in beautiful yellows, oranges and hints of reds and purples. There seemed to be less people out and about right now which was good for Dazai. It also meant that you and him got to share this moment completely unbothered. Watching the sun set over the city and eating something sweet would be the perfect end to the peace. You had maybe a day or two before the guild showed up on your doorstep and you weren’t looking forward to the week of chaos when Q gets released into the world. Dazai had been unusually quiet but you didn’t mind just the fact that he came with you was enough. As you ate the last bite you noticed some of the ice cream dripped on the back of your hand. You were about to wipe it away with a napkin when Dazai finally spoke, grabbing for your hand.

“If I profane with my unworthiest hand

This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:

My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand

To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”

He licked it up, placing a gentle kiss to where it used to be giving you a playful look. Little does Dazai know you actually played Juliet in highschool so without missing a beat you shifted your hands as you spoke.

“Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,

Which mannerly devotion shows in this;

For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,

And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.”

He didn’t seem that surprised as you continued the scene if anything he hummed with enthusiasm. “Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?” Dazai smirked, leaning into your personal space. You wonder how far he’ll go “Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.”

“O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do;

They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.”

Dazai interlace your fingers giving you eyes that pierced your soul. Were you guys playing chicken right now? Was this nerd chicken? If this was you didn’t want to lose but no matter what you did, it would be his win since you already took the bait. Savvy as always, he has tied you to a stake you cannot fly. 

“Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.” You had to come up with something otherwise you won’t hear the end of it.

“Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take.” Dazai brought his free hand up to your cheek. You watched as his eyes closed as he started closing the distance. You quickly placed the kiss on his cheek instead of his lips. You whispered against his ear before pulling away “I already told you, saints do not move, and I am not that easy.” Implying that you weren’t a saint you grinned smugly.

He exhaled out of his nose “No you are not.” He matched your smile and stood up. Dazai was about to let go of your hand but you tighten your grip “Who said you could let go?” You would yield this round but that didn’t mean you were going to throw in the towel. You wanted to make it clear that you were enjoying the game. “Then after you my little belladonna~”

“With pleasure my little snake.” It didn’t have the same ring as mackerel but you tried.

You held hands all the way back to the dorm. The coast was clear but who knows for how long. You let go of his hand when you were outside of his room. “I won’t tell, scouts honor.” you held out your pinky to him. Everyone knows that pinky promises hold the most gravity in the court of law. After he shook on it he softly but swiftly made his escape.

You hummed to yourself “Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say goodnight till it be-” you stopped, he wouldn't hear you so what’s the point “A few days from now.” You sighed, retiring to your room as well.

What you didn’t know was that Dazai did hear it from the other side of the door and he was smiling to himself.

#the BSD isekai au that no one asked for #dazai osamu x reader #dazai x reader #bsd x reader #bsd imagines

[a-dragons-journal]

Singlet+

I've been meaning to write this one for a while, so let's see how this goes.

~1k words; essay on the experience of one person who sits right on the funny little edge between "normal roleplay experience" and "actual plurality".

So, let's start with this: I am not plural. But. I do seem to live in a weird space juuuuust on the edge of plurality (and no, I do not mean that I'm a median or blurry system - I mean on the edge of that).

For one thing, I'm a daemian - that is, I practice daemonism; that is, I have personified and given faux autonomy (fauxtonomy, if you will) to my "internal narrator" of sorts and he now lives in my brain with me as a thoughtform, a brain companion, in the shape of an animal. Strictly speaking, that does qualify us for plurality, but we personally don't view our daemonism through that framework and consider ourselves a singlet (as hilarious as the plural grammar makes that sentence, I know). Many daemons don't consider themselves plural; this isn't particularly unusual - in muir case, Locke is a part of me before he is anything else, and while yes there are forms of plurality that look like that, for us personally it makes more sense to view him as "part of me, therefore, still one person".

For another, I had... basically plural experiences when I was younger. I don't want to talk about the details publicly, but suffice to say that for many years I had what I would now call headmates, and I suspect that if I had been exposed to plural spaces during that time period, they may well have stuck around permanently, instead of "fading out" and eventually disappearing as is what actually happened. To this day I don't know how "real" or "imaginary" they were, and I doubt I ever will - they were certainly real to me at the time, but I have also always been very good at suspension of disbelief. Trying to analyze it in any great level of detail is made basically impossible by my piss-poor episodic memory rendering the memories of that time so fuzzy that I can't rely on them for details.

For another, my experiences with OCs are often... soulbond-adjacent? Recently in particular I've had a lot of funny experiences with an OC of mine, a character in a Vampire: The Masquerade campaign I'm a part of (Viridian Caldwell, for my own future self's reference), which led me to do some research on soulbonding because of how fictive-adjacent the experience of her is.

And yet. The answer is a definite no. I get very strong impressions and echoes from her; she "gives" me facts about her and her life that simply Are and that I feel as strongly about being true and unchangeable as I do about my own noemata; she's almost a separate person living in my brain sometimes; I somehow come up with near-prophetic knowledge about her world (as confirmed by my Storyteller, who happens to be part of a system alongside a number of fictives from the world in question, including several who know Viridian personally) with zero explanation on a semi-regular basis.

And yet. The answer is no. Because while I seem to have all the effects a soulbond proper would produce on my end - she is not aware of me, not really. She is not conscious of my world and my life. When I really quiet my own brain and reach out to call out and see if someone's there, there's only silence. It's as though I have a one-way soulbond somehow - which, of course, puts me in the fun gray space between "soulbond" and "normal roleplay/writing experience".

And she's not a unique instance of this. This just happens to me with OCs, although it's been a bit more dramatic with her because of the presence of fictives from her world to converse with (and, realistically, because of the real-time roleplay aspect that a TTRPG has that a video game or the writing of a fanfiction doesn't).

It's as though my brain has the capacity for plurality, but it just... doesn't manifest fully.

And, truth be told, I kind of prefer it this way. I like being a singlet; I would kind of hate having to share headspace with other people. Especially since, if my childhood pseudo-plurality experiences are anything to go by, we would not have good separation of thoughts and memories and true privacy would be very difficult if not impossible. Plus, because of that, I would... probably never get over the doubt of Is It Real Or Not, and I don't need that stress in my life. (For this reason, while I'm 99.9% sure that if I intentionally tried to bring her over as a fictive, it would work, I will not be testing the theory just out of curiosity.)

I wonder if I didn't train myself out of the ability to be Plural Proper, to be honest. Not intentionally, but - I may have mentioned that my power of suspension of disbelief is very strong, and as a child this came with me being extremely easy to manipulate because it was very easy for me to fall into believing things that I wanted to believe. (Again, I don't really want to talk about the details, but suffice to say I had a pretty bad case of Protagonist Syndrome, as it were, for a while.) I had to learn to combat that natural tendency of my brain for my own protection (especially as someone active in witchcraft spaces) - and I wonder if it didn't come with the side effect of immunizing me to developing true plurality (at least without actively trying) by shutting down any attempt by my brain to form a true headmate in the process.

I don't know. I might never. All I know is that while I am, after careful consideration, definitely a singlet, I do seem to live right on the edge of plurality, and it comes with some weird experiences. (And I would like an explanation for why I keep spitting out nigh-prophetic knowledge of this campaign's world; if I find out Viridian is a fictotype of mine or something I'm going to flip my fucking lid.) I've started half-jokingly calling myself "singlet+", half as a joke on cis+ (ie, someone who's questioned their gender and come to the conclusion that they are indeed cis but has a better understanding of their experience of cisness for it) and half as an "unless" "unlesss...?" acknowledgement of the weird border area some of my experiences sit in. It's... not really a serious label, but also isn't entirely a joke.

So... yeah. Singlet+, I guess. Another victim of the "if you only have two words for fear in your language, one for mild test jitters and one for life-threatening terror, you're going to have a lot of trouble describing a lot of normal human experiences" problem of how our language around plurality often works.

#plurality #i guess? #singlet plus #rani talks #not usually a disclaimer i need but this post and blog are endo-safe thank you #journaling #community writings #this is as per usual fully unedited so like. be nice pls lmao

[mixelation]

wait okay notes to self on the Political Situation in reborn au ->

for plasticity/reborn au (and i sort of just like this headcanon in general), oto as a village is 100% an orochimaru project, BUT there are native ninja families to the country (which is where the Oto team we see in the chunin exams come from). none of those families took "sides" in the third ninja war but they still had to deal with a lot of spillover fighting on their land-- ninja cutting off routes through the country, burning down villages at strategic locations, shit like that. a lot of scuffles with oto clans trying to push foreign ninja out of their territory because that's THEIR LAND and then it not going super well because they'e individual families vs whole villages that can just send more ninja if they think occupying that land is a good idea

so towards the end of the war orochimaru swoops in with a bunch desperately needed supplies and is like: aren't you TIRED of being tiny and weak? you know what would really help you-- and he unites the clans in his own village. he's been REAL good at buttering up clan leaderships and also investing in improved training and playing at being respectful of old traditions so everyone's on board with him being leader.

once he has his village, orochimaru immediately starts pushing out older ninja-- they go missing or weird shit happens to discredit them, etc. he also starts bringing in interesting wayward youth (and the occasional disenfranchised adult) from across the continent, which is why oto morphs from something that looks like a cohesive "new" village with themed sound-based attacks in part 1 to a series of hideouts filled with teenagers with weird powers in part 2.

so tori is around for the unification and it actually benefits her a lot because she's able to leverage it to get actual ninja training. it's a delicate game of getting enough attention from orochimaru to get what she wants but not SO much attention that he decides to poke at her, but she has the significant advantage of being mentally an adult. she's not actually a doe-eyed eight year old orphan who's desperate or love-- she's a fully actualized adult who doesn't need his approval or attention the way he tries to twist all his followers.

anyway, the fun of reborn au is that this is late-game plasticity tori who's fully come into herself as "not a ninja, still a monster" so i want her to have a lot more agency than she does at the start of plasticity. so she plays the ninja training game but at some point she's like: well, i should just nip this whole oto thing in the bud. and so she flees but in a way that really cuts the whole thing off at the knees and makes it dissolve early [DETAILS DEPENDING]. early reborn au tori isn't used to thinking like a ninja so she avoid combat-oriented solutions, but she's very effective at causing chaos in new and unexpected ways

(orochimaru is deeply annoyed but after he mellows out i think he'd be like: you know what. respect)

ANYWAY, I generally use the narutopedia map for geography (although sometimes i ALSO use made-up small countries not on there so don't treat it like a bible), so. grass borders sound to the west (and rain borders grass to the west). in plasticity, i said that grass did better in the war than rain because they were able to ally with larger nations early on. so. ~5 year post-war, grass isn't totally wrecked but their neighbor sound definitely IS and grass's take-away is that they're also basically at the mercy of bigger nations, and so they're interested in making themselves stronger, and fast. and their neighbor just? imploded? and now there's all these new science experiments running around and up for grabs? grass is like: YOINK OURS NOW

(konoha is like: hey what the fuck is happening? which is why kakashi's team was sneaking round)

unfortunately for grass they've gotten kind of cocky in their invasion of their neighbor and have underestimated the weird ass shit show going on in rain. i need to rotate the timeline of the ame trio/third war stuff some to know what nagato-konan were up to (i think i'm going to make them very focused on just rain so major events in other countries are still mostly the same, bc otherwise it's a nightmare to plan), but basically i think the winning nagato-konan strategy is that they would just unilateral make themselves leaders of the ninja village AND the country. so the outcome is yahiko has been put in charge of the country to distract him so nagato-konan can do unhinged ninja stuff. also yahiko might be the one non-reincarnated person who knows bc i think that would be Funny

(everyone: you just? TOLD someone? immediately?? nagato-konan: um, yes?)

anyway, long story short, grass has been kidnapping wayward ninja for Experiments and fucked up by grabbing a handful of ame citizens. so shortly after the tori-kakashi-deidara escape, konan show up and is like: hi. :) what the fuck. :)

i haven't decided how extreme ame's movement against kusa would be yet, but i DID decide karin & her mom end up in rain as a result. is this fix-it fic enough for u

#reborn au

[mspandorasart]

Thoughts about Undertale Yellow

Greetings, I just returned from binging through Undertale Yellow, True Pacifist Route specifically, and am seeking a place to let out some thoughts (and steam). It's the first time I'm doing this type of "review" on my blog, but since my thoughts on it are quite strong, I thought, "hey, why the heck not"? Spoilers for the game and its ending ahead, fellas. Buckle up.

First off, let me begin by stating that, for the most part, I had a blast playing through it. The music is amazing, the boss themes real bangers, the environmental ones great as well. My favorite track was the OST that played in the Dunes: a really catchy western vibe with Flowey's theme in it as well, an earworm that filled me with Determination while running through the sandy fields. Then we have a beautiful pixel art style, gorgeous sceneries, great gameplay with challenging and fun boss fights (side note: although I couldn't fully appreciate Ceroba's fight since it had a couple pretty much unavoidable attacks. Or is it just skill issue on my part? Anyway, that part annoyed me more than it should have. Moving on, lmao.)

Furthermore, the game also has charming characters! They are the ones that kept me going and really ignited my interest. Not gonna lie, it took me until the town in the Dunes to become really invested in the game. Martlet is charming and cute, sure, but North Star and his gang, no, that guy specifically sold it for me. Charismatic, funny, very expressive sprites (well, all facial sprites are quite colorful, but it took me until North Star to appreciate/notice just how many there are for each character) and an interesting internal conflict with wanting to entertain others so they forget about the pain of being stuck underground, but at the same time being so absorbed in his persona that he temporarily acts like a douche towards his pals and forgets who he truly is. He also features my favorite joke in the game when he proudly proposes to the salesman that "he wants to buy a gun for the child". Freaking hilarious, love him, huehehue.

Story-wise, I was pleasantly surprised and taken aback by the dark twists of Ceroba and her husband Chujin. And I appreciated how the flashbacks got intigrated within her final boss fight. I don't know about you, but my biggest motivation to play RPGs are not just the gameplay, it's mainly the characters and the story. If the gameplay is amazing but the characters/plot boring, then I lose interest quickly. To me, the real rewards of a tough battle are story progression and seeing just what the characters will do next. Therefore, I greatly enjoyed the breaks between Ceroba's phases in which we saw parts of her backstory. They even made me cry!

...Although, to be honest, I don't exactly understand why we had that insight into her mind in the first place. Why did we survive so many hits to the point of 0.00001 HP? Where's that coming from all of a sudden? Why did time stop at some point like Za Warudo? Maybe that random plot armor (that happened the first time and never again) is explained in another route, but anyway, moving on-

This review-style blog entry only exists because of the True Pacifist ending. I'll be blunt, I hate it. Why?

So it ends with Clover sacrificing their soul for the monsters so they can eventually break free. Which is fine on its own. Clover is for the most part a blank slate of a character, only driven by their desire to seek the lost humans, that's basically it. Maybe it would have made a bit more sense for Clover to see an actual physical proof of their demise before they give up on them completely, but eh. I'm also wondering whether they are really okay with potentially another, possibly innocent human falling down sometime in the future only to get killed by the monsters. But oh well.

(You know, now that I think about it, I actually am a bit salty about Clover's decision to sacrifice themselves, lmao. Would've been kinda cool if it was up to the player, have another ending split.)

Anyways, the issue I'm having is how our cast of supporting characters, Martlet, North Star aka Starlo and Ceroba react to Clover's decision. They are shocked first, but... agree surprisingly quickly?? What?? Excuse me, the entire hassle we went through to get to this point was to stop Ceroba from taking Clover's soul. Now with Clover volunteering to sacrifice themselves, the gang is cool with it??

Of course they don't agree immediately, but are easily swayed within a few arguments back and forth. Man, what friends you are, guys. The reason I'm having this pet peeve in the first place is because we as the human, who has known these guys for just a day, did a lot for them, alright? They all tried to kill us at one point, but we took the beating, the hard battles, forgave them and were there for them during their internal conflicts. We were a pretty decent friend, if I may say so.

Especially with Ceroba! We did a lot to change her mind and path of self-destruction! Yet our so-called friends don't put in the same amount of effort when it comes to convincing us otherwise- or heck, use force if you must- get Clover away from there, lmao. Wouldn't it have been an interesting act of redemption on Ceroba's part, by the way, if she tried to stop us? Being touched by our mercy and refusal to give up on her, she does the same for us?

I suppose the reason I am so baffled by all this is because of Clover being a blank slate, the player character really felt like me, like I was going through the journey and not like I was controlling another character. It felt like my decision to spare them all, to talk to them and wanting to get to know them better. So the group of characters I have really grown to like giving up on me within about a minute of back-and-forth just felt... wow. Thanks, guys.

If I compare it to Undertale's True Pacifist in which every important supporting character gathers up after the confrontation with Asgore, all agreeing with the decision of me, the player, staying in the Underground with them, then oh boy, it really stings. Just would've been a cool, wholesome sign of friendship if Martlet, Starlo and Ceroba decided that "nah, even for the surface, we won't give up on Clover". By the way, in this game, we don't even really get to see why the monsters want to return to the surface so badly. They keep saying they want to, but what are the reasons exactly? More freedom, I suppose. Yet by expanding the Underground with the Dunes, the Mines, the Factory, and some of Snowdin, the Ruins and New Home, their habitat seemed so much larger than in the OG game- What I wanna say is, their desperation should've been shown way more instead of told, so the player can understand the monsters' aspiration better.

The thing is, it's a shockingly easy issue to fix if you really want "the canon ending" with Clover ending up dead and their soul taken: have Clover still have their moment of doubt and realization, remembering what the monsters told them throughout their journey. Then they go to Asgore with their gang, hoping to convince him. It doesn't work out, so Asgore starts a fight. During the battle, Clover realizes it's useless to fight back, it's better to have their soul taken for the monsters, so they allow Asgore to kill them. Their friends are not powerful enough to stop him. There ya have it.

Siiiiigh. Is it just me, being annoyed by that ending? As a whole, the finale felt a little... rushed? Was New Home always meant to be so empty? Is it to build up atmosphere? Yet there were two silly NPCs in the first screen of New Home, making me assume that maybe, there was another plan originally? (If it has been stated in a devlog or any other comment by the creators, then I apologize, I haven't read those fully.)

Anyways, if I didn't care about the game, this rant wouldn't even exist in the first place. I was really invested in the game until the ending just left me... kinda sad, not gonna lie. It will take me a while to process it all.

If you got this far, then thanks for reading. Am I the only one feeling this miffed about the ending? I might go back and edit this post if I find out there are things to be corrected. Buuuut as of now, happy holidays!

#undertale #undertale yellow #undertale yellow spoilers #undertale fangame

[cinnamonest]

When I first heard Cyno's title from leaks, as a good little simp, I went to investigate if a Mahamatra is something real.

Turns out, it is not only real, with being basically a morality police, but there's a type of Mahamatras whose duty is keeping tabs on women or something like that!

Imagine Cyno being also tasked as the keeper of the few women from Sumeru. He would, probably not intentionally, but terrify his darling by telling her how lucky she is to end up under his care. He treats the girls fairly, but once they are out of his watch to be distributed? He has seen the stuff men do to them. So stop complaining and be grateful for what he gives you! He actually treats you with decency.

(Fun fact! I had this entire thing already written and then windows auto-updated at some point while I was in urgent care bc I came home to it restarting and didn't save a temp recovery file in the appdata files :))))))

So I read a short entry about it, it seems like the exact responsibilities varied from subculture and households and communities, some of them over the general populace/common prostitutes but some of them were like a supervisor/babysitter + bodyguard combo to wealthier concubines and the like which is very :))))) and it also kinda reminds me of all the historical Chinese dramas where they have eunuchs that would guard emperor's wives and the like? And how a lot of cultures/eras within certain cultures had like "common prostitutes" and then like more elite brothels specifically for the wealthy/nobility/royalty that were often cared for, and some men would be appointed to watch over prostitutes and harems and the like

Sooooo I got to thinking of like a "more accurate to the time period the game is roughly based on" AU running with a similar idea (although of course I'm still wayyyyy deviating from historical accuracy entirely bc that makes things more fun)

//prostitute/concubine sort of darling, vaguely sexist stuff in a historical sort of way and heavily gendered, mentions of eunuchs because y'know historical AU stuff

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

Cyno being appointed to watch over and enforce rules on elite courtesans... Usually, these positions are only available to eunuchs, but some exceptions can be made for individuals who have been deemed worthy of the utmost trust, usually after proving themselves over the course of time. Thankfully, that's the classification he falls into... the notion of eunuchs makes him shudder to think about.

His dependableness, stoicism and clear self-control have earned him the trust of those in positions of authorities, and thus, he was assigned to this role. His observation skills and ability to keep tabs on more than one thing at once also helped. There's a few other such guards that take care of the lot of you as a whole, and that's part of his job as well, but he's the one personally assigned to you whenever you wish to go off on your own from the others, or into the public sphere.

He's not supposed to deny you that option, either, unless explicitly told not to by a superior, or if you want to go somewhere that is unallowed, in which case he is obligated to prohibit you from going. Otherwise, if you want to go somewhere, his job is to accompany you and tend to your whims, silently and stoically unless responding to something you say or speaking to a stranger on your behalf. Which he is expected to do, as you aren't allowed to speak to strangers, instead having him act as an intermediary.

When you go to markets (given a certain allowance of spending money to keep you happy and content), you point to the things you want or tell him what to get, and he does, speaking to merchants on your behalf. If someone approaches you for whatever reason - which is rare, seeing as most people know very well not to do so, especially with his intimidating presence beside you - he will, as he's trained and expected to do, physically step in between you and the other person, acting as a human shield in case someone were to approach you with the intent to attack, as well as a physical reminder of your status, communicating very clearly that the other individual should not be so arrogant as to assume he has any right to speak to you directly. And, of course, so you yourself don't get any ideas about talking to someone outside of the range of individuals you are allowed to speak to. If said individual is just pestering you to try and sell you something or harass you, he'll chase them off, otherwise he'll lean over so you can murmur your replies into his ear, allowing him to repeat it back to the other person.

As with that matter, with plenty of other scenarios, he's not just there to protect you. It's an unspoken condition, but understood nonetheless. He's there to keep an eye on your own behaviors. Your nature means that you can't be trusted to control your impulses or make good decisions, and if you weren't being closely watched, you may very well go off and sleep with someone else at the first opportunity you get. That's why you have him there, to ensure that that doesn't happen, to keep you in line, so to speak. Accompany you everywhere you go, sit in on your conversations with any and all visitors you have. To always know exactly where you are and what you're doing. For the few hours of night, there are guards at the end of the hall that watch the rooms where people are sleeping, but that's the only time he isn't by your side. Well, even then, he's assigned a room directly next to yours, even, to be able to spring up out of bed should you call for him, or if he's needed in any way, if you get sick in the night, and so on. So technically, he never really does leave your side.

Well, except for when one of the elites comes to "visit" you. Happens a few times a day, with the occasional break. Only certain individuals are allowed to do so. That's an important factor in your relationship. You live in a large complex, and only specific nobles and the highest-ranked individuals are allowed to enter your bed.

He's not one of them.

It's yet another class-standing issue. Sure, he may work for elites, he may dedicate his every waking moment to you and the others like you, but it would be considered defiling if he were to actually do anything to you. It's grounds for imprisonment... or worse. Only nobles have that privilege.

In truth, he resents said nobles. They're snobbish, selfish people that see you as an object, rather than a person. Usually cruel and critical towards you, never have anything nice or positive to say, always too busy to spend any time with you except to come to bed at night. It makes him grind his teeth, cover his ears so he doesn't have to hear. Likewise, you're supposed to act as though he couldn't possibly know, even though you both know full well he can hear anything that goes on in your room.

It makes him feel a very negative emotion. Anger? Bitterness? He tells himself it's because he knows they don't value you like you deserve. You've always been such a kind woman... he's seen you show concern and compassion for others, it's endearing. And in truth, while you're still of the weaker, inferior half of humanity, that kindness in and of itself is a very respectable thing... but those men would never appreciate that.

Yes, that's the real source of the anger, he knows that full well, and very quickly loses the ability to convince himself otherwise, after the first few weeks. It's because it feels unfair. They don't appreciate you, don't care for you, don't watch over you, they do nothing for you. He does all of that. He knows you far better. Yet they get to reap what logically should be his rewards.

But he stops that train of thought. "What should be his"? No, that way of thinking is dishonorable and selfish, defies the natural hierarchy of society. People of certain standing have privileges that lower members do not... even though he can't logically answer as to why. They just do. That is what is taught to the masses of the populace - the nobles and royalty deserve their palaces and wealth and feasts while the common man struggles to survive. A birthright bestowed by some higher power or the like. And as long as they have the ability to enforce that way of thinking, he has to accept it too.

And to even think of you in any way other than the purest of thoughts and a detached sense of guardianship, to have anything impure go through his mind, is sinful, filthy, almost a transgression when the thoughts intrude. It's his responsibility to push them away... even if that proves difficult.

No wonder they usually get eunuchs for this position. While the prospect is horrible, and he certainly doesn't envy them for obvious reasons, they do have the one advantage of not having to deal with the same extent of mental torment and temptation that he has to subject himself to. He starts to think he really didn't initially appreciate the trust placed in him enough, not realizing at the time of being appointed just how much willpower it would require.

And you don't make things any easier. To some extent, you're allowed to treat him like he's invisible, not even there. A lot of girls with such guardians do exactly that, pretty much never speaking to said appointed guardian unless needed, essentially going about their lives and acting like they don't even exist unless commanding them to fetch something or take care of some task.

You're rather talkative, though, at least with him. It is a bit surprising at first, albeit endearing. He's used to being seen as a tool, a sort of entity that exists to serve, and has been treated as such in past assignments in moral enforcement and dealing with violators of the society's rules, to the people he always reported to. He had some individual supervising roles before, but of all those jobs he's had in the past, you're the first one that's really... talked to him, for anything more than basic commands.

There's a good reason for that, too. You're not supposed to grow close to him in any capacity. It's not... proper, not right, it's frowned upon. There's no real given rule against it, but it's just one of those things that people don't do, that is understood without ever having to be addressed that you shouldn't. You're in a completely different world, your social role is too far apart from his for him to realistically be directly addressed by you so much.

And, of course, it's risky. People might get the wrong idea. Maybe it's just because you're quite literally trained in seduction and charm, but you always look at him with these half-lidded eyes, a sultry voice, a teasing way of speaking to him. It's basically just second nature to you, it's how you've always been taught to interact with every man you meet, to put on a flirtatiousness and sensuality with every word and every move and every expression.

It drives him up the wall, increasing with each day. The standards and norms of your role don't exactly dress you particularly modestly either, quite the opposite, which doesn't help. And you specifically are always on thin ice, always testing the boundaries, always pushing the limits of how much flirtatiousness can be excused. Perhaps that's why someone like him was assigned to you.

Well, he knows what he has to do. This is part of his job: correcting your behaviors when needed. There's a fine line of what he's allowed to tell you to do, an odd dynamic where you can tell him to do tasks for you, and yet, he also has the right - the obligation -  to command you, when it comes to certain matters of behavior, and he's expected to judge each situation appropriately, to not go too far in reprimanding you, to always criticize when he should while avoiding overstepping a line. It's a learned skill, requiring a thorough knowledge of rules both documented and silently understood.

Whenever you sit on the floor next to him as you and all your sisters-in-profession converse each evening, when you lean over onto him and reach your hand over to his thigh, he grabs your wrist, and gently, simultaneously avoiding both unnecessary harshness while also ensuring he doesn't grip you for a single moment too long, pushes you back. It's probably best you get on to bed, you are weary.

When you skip around all excited as you do whenever there's music in the courtyards, come over to him and reach up to wrap your arms around his neck, he grabs your hands and softly pushes them back to your chest. Please, be appropriate.

He makes sure you wear more modest clothing when you leave the main grounds, rather than those incredibly lewd outfits the nobles have you roaming around estate grounds in. Tells you to stop making eye contact and look downward and bow your head when stranger men approach, like you're supposed to. Always reinforcing standards and rules. You teasingly call him such a stick in the mud.

Better that, though, than subject to the wrath of higher-ups if he didn't perform his job.

When you shift to inappropriate topics, when you try and talk to strangers (he gets the sense you do it deliberately just to see him worry), when you stoop and bend and shift your legs in ways he knows is to catch attention. It's his responsibility to speak to you in a firm voice, tell you to behave yourself. You always roll your eyes, say something to the effect of affirming acknowledgement, but you never actually fix your behavior. It irritates him. Don't you know how serious what you do is? What if it wasn't him? What if it was anyone else? He asks you that, trying to get you to see reason, but even then, you shrug it off, clearly not understanding the gravity of the matter. It worries him. What if one day you get assigned to someone else, with far less self-control? What then? You're foolish and naive. It's a constant concern on his mind.

You don't mean it seriously, but you enjoy the reactions you get out of him in particular. You don't realize how significant it is, you think of it like just any other matter of poking fun at something. You think it's funny. You find it cute.

And far more dangerously, you think it's harmless.

Far from it, in reality. If people got the wrong idea, it could get him in trouble. Proof isn't needed for these sorts of things. If someone were to accuse him of something, it wouldn't matter if there was no evidence, or even if you were willing to testify or vouch in his favor. Your testimony can't be used in a court of law anyway. Even then, if the person accusing him was high enough in rank, there wouldn't even be a court of law, they would just command whatever their will may be. Not to mention, you would also get in massive trouble. The fact that you don't understand that, or at least don't take it seriously, is incredibly concerning.

He ends up having to draw a line. One night at random, completely unprovoked, so much so it catches him off-guard. You have always teased and poked fun at him with that grin on your face, tried to get him flustered and embarrassed. Overstepping the boundaries of appropriateness, which he always chastises you for as is warranted. You always obey for the moment, but return to the same thing within a matter of minutes.

The kind of teasing that bothers him the most, though, is when you pry about his own life, deeply personal things. There was that time you first managed to pry out of him that he wasn't a eunuch - oh, no, now I'm scared. Heheh... just kidding. There was the time you asked him if he had any children, or a lover back home. He had to reinforce the negative answer several times (crossing his arms and getting all stiff and looking away, which you seemed to find very amusing) before you believed him and left the matter alone.

And then, one night, walking back to your room with him by your side in the otherwise empty hall, you return to that topic he hates so much. You're so tense all the time. It's not good to be so stressed, you know.

Your footsteps stop. You turn to him with that smirk on your face, grab one of his hands and clasp both of your own around it, pulling it closer to you. You speak in that playful, sultry tone.

I can help you. No one has to know.

It actually takes him a second to reply, stunned into wide-eyed stillness and silence, an expression of shock you've never seen on his usually stoic face. His whole body goes stiff and rigid. Then, after that moment passes, he jerks his hand back out of your grasp with force, stumbles a few steps back. He looks back at you with a serious, intimidating expression, one that makes the grin on your face fall, makes you shrink back.

Never say such things to me.

Even in all the times you've been reprimanded, he's never used that firm and rebuking of a tone. It makes you take a step back. You hang your head, speaking quietly, all traces of the flirtatious tone from moments before vanished.

...I'm sorry.

You can hear the frustration as he lets out a heavy exhale. Brings his hand up to his face, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. Mutters something about how you're too careless for your own good.

Go on to bed. I will forget this. You ought to as well.

You clearly feel hurt and guilty, and in truth, he really does feel bad about it, almost starts to apologize for being so firm to you, as you nod and turn to your door, hurriedly shuffling inside. But consciously, he knows you needed that firmness. Better to learn that now, than learn it by making a much more grave mistake. So he lets you go inside without another word exchanged.

And more importantly, it's best you go inside so you don't see the state he's in. He's on the verge of losing composure, managing to hold himself together right up until the moment your door shuts, before stumbling back to the wall, leaning against it as he slowly sinks down to the ground. Holds his hand out in front of his face to see it trembling. Presses two fingers to his neck to feel the rapid pounding of his heart. It takes a while, sitting there staring blankly to your door on the other side, before he can bring himself to stand up again. Even then, he has to hesitate a moment. Going in there would be so easy. All he would have to do is open the door. Put one foot in front of the other. It would be so simple.

And there's a voice in the back of his head that says you would be right. No one would know. He could probably get away with it.

It takes every ounce of willpower in his entire being (and, as a great motivator, thinking of the consequences if he were caught) to instead turn and go back to his own bed. Staring up at the ceiling all night.

Yes, it really was incredible that they would trust him so much.

Not that he can bring himself to leave you, no. He's terrified of what could happen to you if he left, he clearly sees how you disregard all of his warnings as to how dangerous the way you behave would be to anyone else. And he also can't leave because... he cares for you too much. His whole life revolves around you. To remove you from it would be like tearing his heart of out his chest.

But at the same time, surely he can't stay. It feels like an hourglass reaching the last few grains of sand, like a clock slowly ticking down. Something is bound to happen. Because of you... or maybe, if something in him finally breaks, because of himself. Or maybe because of you both. It's evitable. Like an animal in a trap, and he doesn't know how to get out. The only thing to do is wait for the inevitable day something happens, perhaps because of you... but now he's starting to think his downfall will be his own doing.

#.cn

[macsimagines]

I enjoyed the last headcanons a lot! Can I ask for some with Yandere Bonten!Mikey and Manila!Izana with a detective darling? Someone who decided to use them and get close once they shown interest in them for the sake of trying to bring their gang down?

(Thanks so much for the kind words! I hope you like this one too it was fun to write! please send in more asks anytime!)

ASK BOX IS OPEN

Bonten!Mikey

-Maaaaaaan this darling had better be the bravest darling in the world to try this tactic.

-What attracted Mikey to you first? Was of course your beauty. In the beginning the undercover job was just to retrieve some information as a cocktail waitress, but that quickly escalated when Mikey, the primary target, had taken a keen interest in you.

-Of course S/O tried to keep things sweet and simple, only humored him for the sake of the investigation, but you playing hard to get only furthered his interest

-Usually women threw themselves at him, and what was purely professionalism on your part he though of as you being a pure hearted person.

-Soon you were being pressured by your superiors, an despite your better judgment relented to Mikey's courting.

-At first you were caught off guard by how genuine he seemed. It was a complete 180 compared to what the case files had said about him and you returned his kindness as much as you could.

-Mikey was quickly falling in love until a little birdie (Kisaki Tetta my problematic fave) told him the truth about you.

-When he finds out he's sure he's going to kill you. He'll make you pay for playing with his heart, and make sure that you disappear without a trace.

-Until you actually beat him to the punch and confessed yourself. Another detective working on your case, Naoto Tachibani, had his own little birdie and warned you that your cover was blown.

-Instead of listening and going into hiding, you decided to give the Mikey you had been getting to know a chance to do the right thing, and told him the truth. You begged him to turn himself in, to be the man you knew he was and not the monster the world was making him out to be.

-And that's when Mikey decided you were it. The one good thing he was going to covet all for himself. He was prepared to ruin you forever and feed you to the wolves, but you weren't even begging for your life, you were begging for his. He couldn't kill you like he did so many others.

-Although, after he's done punishing you for your betrayal and training you to be his picture perfect bride, you're gonna wish he'd just decided to murder you...

Manila!Izana

-First of all, he was on to you the second he saw you. Say what you will about Izana, but he wasn't a fool when it came to the law. You were probably a newbie detective looking to prove yourself and he was ecstatic to get to break you in.

-He humors you, pretends to fall for your tricks, and just when you start to get a little comfortable he jumps on you.

-What he hadn't been expecting was for you to put up a good fight. He was shocked more so that you actually fought tooth and nail rather than your skill set.

-You got away and Izana wasn't really worried about it at first, he was sure he could track you down and have some real fun with you when he got you back, but then to his utter shock you actually came looking for him.

-That's when the obsession really starts. You confront him with no fear and pursue him relentlessly. You want him like no one in his life ever had before.

-You're obsessed with this case, but Izana is obsessed with you. He commits heinous crimes for his organization for your sake, constantly teases at leads and breakthroughs for your attention.

-Little do you know that each and every time you confront him was orchestrated by him. And this little flirting song and dance you have is making Izana feel so alive.

-But he's getting tired of this cat and mouse game. He thinks he's over courting you and decides to give you what you both want.

-He lets you think you've got upper hand one night, lets you put him in cuffs, listens to you read him his rights. Its his gift to you. The he reveals he was never really in any danger and the one in trouble was you all along.

-Soon you're the one in cuffs and he's finally capturing you. This whole time you'd been chasing after him when you should've been running for the hills...

-Now a new game starts and Izana can't wait to see how hard you struggle to leave him, not that you'll ever get the chance...

#tokyo rev headcanons #tokyo revengers #yandere izana #yandere mikey sano #yandere manjiro sano #yandere tokyo revengers #yandere #yandere izana kurokawa #yandere izana x reader #yandere mikey

[zerothejackal]

This post contains textual TMOSTH spoilers! so if you haven't played for whatever reason... don't look!

This is still a crazy theory that mostly feels like a headcanon or whatever the fuck matpat does and calls "theories." But, hey, it still deserves to be updated!

After all, y'all seemed to like the crazy theory in its raw poorly-written state! :D

the final argument is still... not the best, and feels even MORE headcanony than everything else... but i think it's neat!

here's my hypothesis again, for those joining in late, and because that's how theorizing works:

Barry the quokka, our avatar, is a chaos user.

Now, I know what you're thinking...

"There's no proof of that bestie, bro's onto nothing 💀🔥🔥!"

well, normally I'd say:

"It's just my own silly headcanon without any support ^_^ just for fun!"

EXCEPT, there may be some evidence, in the behavior of the THINK minigames.

So what if these minigames are more real that what we're led to believe, I mean Barry is clearly not carrying his DreamGear with them, as no character ever brings it up.

my theory here is that Barry has a weakened/dormant ESP ability. Let's go through my evidence, shall we?

(and some extra stuff i noticed after writing the original post, and that other users brought up)

Evidence No.1 — The nature of the interrogation sections.

Every Interrogation section unfolds as follows:

We have Barry collect the clues (although Tails gives his own insight, Barry is always the one to notice them.)

Tails mentions that he and Barry have formed a case/hypothesis, or Tails goes directly to make an accusation or argument.

(Barry themselves progressively wonders why they are added onto the accusation with Tails)

We have to select the exact correct clue/object from Barry's inventory to support Tails' argument.

We then go through the THINK minigame so that Barry can order their thoughts.

Tails explains his argument with Barry's proof flawlessly, although Barry often lags behind during this part.

"But this isn't proof of anything--"

SILENCE! TO THE DUNGEON WITH THIS FOOL!

I believe that these "game features" can be explained in-universe through some sort of telepathy.

"But, what is it there to explain? All of that seems normal to me?"

then, my good friend, you may need to re-read!

(especially the italicized and bolded bits)

Barry is always the one to find clues and stuff—but we will go over this later. So, remember it.

And even though Barry is not often fully aware of what Tails is thinking, he always adds them to the accusation, it's always "we," and never "I."

(correct me if I'm wrong here but I don't think Tails ever excludes us once we have gathered enough clues)

And while yes, Tails is really friendly and Barry is basically playing to be the detective's assistant, maybe its because Tails notices something we don't

The game doesn't actually show Barry telling their thoughts to Tails, yet both Tails and them manage to form a flawless argument from some object or trash that was lying around.

SURE, MANY TIMES THEY HAVE DIALOGUE DURING THE INTERROGATION, RIGHT AFTER A MINIGAME, BUT NOT ALWAYS

He comments on them first to give the player insight on what we should be looking for, but Barry never really tells Tails directly what they're thinking on.

And their dialogues often evolves from a small argument being immediately supported by Tails with a stronger argument.

And look, Tails is a smart kid, we know this. But intelligence is tied to specifics. One cannot be intelligent on basically everything.

But even if, for the sake of the argument, Tails were to be smart at everything... he's still a kid. He's going to be prone to making mistakes, many times before him being a kid has overcome his high intelligence.

terrible example but, look at Forces.

But somehow Tails always has something to say during an interrogation, and almost always includes Barry even if the quokka is not adding much to the conversation.

Now, going back to "all of this can be explained with telepathy": What if Barry has been giving information to Tails with this unknown power.

And Tails, being always surrounded by chaos users, doesn't point it out because, well, he's simply used to odd shenanigans when it comes to chaos powers.

Though the part of "Barry always finds the clues" feels less of telepathy and more of something else, but the theory isn't over!

After all, my hypothesis was that Barry had an ESP ability power, but I never specified which one. So let's continue.

Evidence No.2 — Barry is somehow aware of what they should be looking for, always.

Barry is the one to always inherently notice something relevant, even if Tails is the one to point out its importance, this is shown through the game outlining with green certain objects.

While Barry probably doesn't see this outline that helps the player, they probably do notice the objects over other things—but hey, maybe they do see it, but they... think it's normal.

something like that is probably something they've never questioned before.

They are the one to also find which specific clues or people can aid to Tails' argument, this is especially noticeable on the final interrogation, where Barry has their time to shine.

this specific section, originally, was part of evidence No.1, but I think it deserved to be pointed out individually.

something, something, some sort of clairvoyance or greater awareness acting here.

But that is not all, Barry is also somehow aware of "Chaos Control," and while it could be argued that they SHOULD be aware of it, because this technique has been used to save the world several times.

What they shouldn't be fully aware of, probably, is what the technique is specifically called, for all the public knew, chaos control was just another power of Shadow and Sonic.

But given that in-universe this surprises everyone, let's assume that Barry shouldn't know of it in general. And yet they still know of it.

And talking about supernatural awareness...

That time in which Barry pointed out Espio talked on italics? Sure, its treated as a joke but... what if it wasn't entirely one?

Evidence No.3 — Barry's physical actions during THINK minigames.

there's at least one (and two debatable one) occasions on which Barry performs a seemingly physical action during a THINK minigame.

First, when barry has to distract Knuckles so that Tails can fix the machine.

Knuckles seems to be going in for the kill, and prevent Tails and Barry from seeing the score of the arcade machine, Tails tells Barry to distract Knuckles while he fixes the machine.

But then we get a THINK minigame, instead of ... anything else, which is odd, Barry should be actively preventing knuckles from advancing, not thinking.

This implies barry was doing something while thinking, and while they could've tried to hold knuckles or something, we know by previous dialogue that Barry both is weak physically and that Knux wouldn't hesistate to hurt them!

The second time, which is highly debatable, is when Sonic is breaking the doors to advance.

Sonic mentions how he's gonna need a few hits to break through the doors, but instead of just seeing a small cinematic (like the one we're shown after the minigame)

We go through another THINK minigame, and after it, Sonic breaks the door with a single spin dash, it's odd that we see this.

Not much from a gameplay perspective, sure, but still overall strange in several levels, But personally, I choose to believe Barry is somehow unconsciously giving power to Sonic!

whether it is an ESP ability or just poeer of friendship is up to debate though...

The third time is during the boss fight against the Mirage Express itself.

Not only we do not get to really see how sonic and his friends are fighting the train, but what we do see... doesn't add up, especially so with the THINK minigame we have to play.

We see the flicky which should probably be inside the train, yet we see Amy hitting the train from the outside, and the minigame itself puts us in Sonic's place outside the train?

But like the previous point, what if this was explained thanks to Barry and what they could be doing. The last fight is a THINK minigame because Barry was helping.

Do you think after being inspired by Sonic himself, Barry would just stay there cowering?

Especially seeing, seemingly, everyone fighting along? Such a strong bond between the different friends of Sonic, from Vector to Tails.

He, without probably realizing, could've helped with some power, giving Sonic the information needed to hit the train.

Or perhaps even using some psychokinesis to attack too, we really don't see what's happening, and technically we only see Amy somehow delivering a hit to a train actively moving.

So anything goes, I suppose

this point is the weakest of the whole theory, but I think it still holds some weight, especially since no one seems to point anything up.

But I like to think that Barry did something, and based on previous time's they've done odd stuff... well, I just connected two dots.

Conclusion: Barry is a psychic chaos user, and they probably don't know.

#[jackal howling of irrationality] #[jackal barks of incoherence] #barry the quokka #sonic the hedgehog #tails the fox #tmosth #tmosth spoilers #the murder of sonic the hedgehog #sonic theory

[shuttershocky]

Top 3 characters from any MOBA you've played gameplay-wise

Ooh this is ridiculously hard... Ive played so many over the years that I liked...

1.) Shoichi (Eternal Return) — The only video game character archetype I like more than a gunslinger is a swift dagger wielding assassin, and Shoichi took that to the utmost extreme.

Blindingly fast, incredibly squishy, and extremely prone to dying off of a single mistake, Shoichi's whole deal was that he could reset a short range, instant dash by dashing over a dagger that he drops, while his Stab, knife throw, and spinning ult all dropped daggers around him (like a modified Katalina, from League of Legends).

He's so squishy that if he misses one of his skills and runs out of dash resets, he's quickly killed, meaning his gameplan was always to ambush a target with a full combo of all his skills as fast as possible, hopefully killing them before they even properly realized they were being attacked.

This feast or famine playstyle made him a big balance problem for ER, and he tended to either instantly kill a target, or miss one skill / run out of damage on a tankier target and then just die pathetically, but that's what made playing him so fun.

He's the closest a video game has truly got to really capturing Tohno Shiki as depicted in Tsukihime, far more so than Melty Blood's. I've uploaded a few Shoichi clips here on this blog, i'm not as fast as the pros are but I'm still real proud of them (especially the 1v2s or 1v3s ive won)

2) Rubick (Dota 2) — As the original MOBA upon which all others descended from, Defense of the Ancients contains a lot of Heroes with designs that became nothing less than genre-defining, such as Pudge's meat hook being replicated throughout many, many games, from League's Blitzcrank to Overwatch's Roadhog to Super Monday Night Combat's Veteran

Rubick however, is a character based around having an incredibly generic skillset, but with the most unique ultimate in Dota. He's got an instant stun that does no damage but can move enemies around, an honest nuke that bounces, and a passive that boosts his cast range, little in the way of an identity. But, Rubick's ultimate, Spell Steal, lets him copy the last spell an enemy hero used (including their ultimates) and temporarily use it in battle.

This makes Rubick's gameplay completely change every single time, as his possible moveset is determined by the enemy's lineup instead of him. His generic but crudely effective regular skills are meant to combo with as many different stolen spells as possible, creating a real chameleon of a mage that can use even your own ultimates against you.

Due to his simple basic skills, playing Rubick is very easy, but due to his ultimate, playing Rubick well requires mastery of basically every other spell in the game, and Dota is notorious for being the sort of game where it's quite easy to grief your own teammates with a bad spellcast.

I have played this character for a ridiculous number of hours since he first got ported from Dota 1 to 2 back in 2012, and I'm still only able to grasp him at a surface level. I love the pursuit of mastery far more than actually getting good, which is why I've been hot garbage at Dota for over 12 years now and I've never tired of it. Rubick is that feeling in a single hero.

3) Captain Spark (Super Monday Night Combat) — Although it pains me not to put a representative of my love Gigantic in here, Captain Spark remains unmatched. A Rocketeer + Shark Boy and Lava Girl parody, Captain Spark took the very common trope of the teleporting assassin in 2D MOBAs, and took it into 3D space.

With the ability to blink through walls and floors, Spark played with the 3D space in a way nobody else in Super Monday Night Combat could touch. He could come from anywhere, at any time. There was nowhere you could run where he couldn't follow, and catching a guy that could simply blink to another part of the map made chasing him almost impossible. It's the closest anyone's really gotten to replicating the idea of fighting a comic book speedster, where you have to catch them by surprise, or lure them into a fight they can't easily escape from and overpowering them with bulk.

One of my favorite moments playing as Captain Spark is when another player caught me offguard and pushed me off the map to my certain death. I simply looked up as I was falling, teleported through the floor, and ended up right behind the guy as they turned around assuming I was already dead. I shot them with Spark's secondary ray pistol just to get their attention, and when they turned around, I grabbed them and tossed them off the cliff they just chucked me from (because hey, one of Spark's skills is to grab and flip an enemy behind him, perfect for such situations).

I miss SMNC. Video games sure haven't made a weird Shark Boy wearing Rocketeer cosplay kind of character again.