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things2mustdo · 4 years

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The video game industry and culture changed substantially when women started to get involved. Whenever a successful male industry is created, a biological urge to change it comes from those with two X chromosomes. Here are e three ways that women have ruined gaming culture:

1. Inclusiveness

The videogame culture of the 70’s – 00’s was about making fun games to sell to consumers. This could mean controlling Bill and Lance from “Contra” to Duke in “Duke Nukem.” You bought video games that appealed to you and didn’t support the ones you didn’t like. Women don’t understand this basic formula. They would rather screech about a game not including a strong female role model than actually make a video game with a strong female role model.

A female Youtuber named Anita Sarkeesian used this premise to rally for more feminist narratives. A normal alpha would use Kickstarter to make a high budget game that appeals to them. Anita instead spent time begging on Kickstarter and used it to raise over $150,000 dollars to make snarky videos on an iMac. Females always want to be inclusive without putting in the work themselves. One example is this fat lady named Heidi.

This is an example of a woman who wants to write a poly-amorous love triangle in video games instead of working on a new physics engine. It’s also not surprising that she’s a fat single mother with a useless degree. If we had this chick developing games instead of Shigeru Miyamato, Mario would be a transgender Eskimo amputee and he would beat up racist men instead of saving the princess. It would also mean that video game companies would go out of business. Since the type of feminists the “social justice” games would be marketed to rarely support businesses that aren’t clothing, decadent food and media publications. In the big scheme of things, video-game companies need talented men to produce content that would be used to subsidize feminist outreach programs made by the same companies. Every time you see a conference or panel at a convention hosted by a video-game company about getting more women into the industry, you know that these wouldn’t even be possible without Joe Nerd spending 16 hours a day, 7 days a week unknowingly subsidizing it. Women want to be involved in things but don’t want to do the actual work to do so.

2. Video Game Journalism

Women and beta males have made video game journalism an entry point for dilettantes with humanity majors. Most major publications like Kotaku, Gawker, IGN, and Gamespot rather complain about how “sexist” GTA is than write actual meaningful game content. Video game publications have turned into tabloids with female writers at the helm. Most people can’t name a female game journalist because they coast on their male colleagues who do the actual work.

You’ll never have a Louis Theroux in the video game industry because women who work in the industry would bitch about inquisitive questions. They would rather write about some dumb ass model dressed up as a video-game character than something substantive.

3. Gamer Girls

The last part of this trifecta of regression is the culture of gaming brought in by women. The beta males of video gaming culture are the thirstiest betas in existence. When a former porn star can make more money by streaming video games for donations instead taking a fat dick, you know there has to be betas behind that.

You go to any Youtube channel about gaming and it will have a useless pretty chick talking about her experiences with Pokemon as a child. These women are not actual gamers but women riding a fad. They’re called “Gamer Gurls” for the reason to mock the gurl phrase that feminists like to use. These semi-attractive chicks have learned that they can get the princess treatment by pretending to be a video game enthusiast. Also another type of chick started to pop up. These women though don’t have the facade of being attractive. Instead they use videogames to up their social status. The land whales realized that if they could fake their enthusiasm for games, some video game beta would find them attractive as well. The betas fight over these chicks and since they’re all manginas of the highest degree. This is one of the reasons that betaness and even omeganess are the norms in video game culture.

Because of these reasons, video games have declined since their great rise in the 70’s-00’s. Girl gamers and their beta male hangers-on rather buy Call of Duty than support quality products. Don’t let women in to your sub-culture unless you want it permanently disfigured. Too bad they already did it to my favorite sub-culture.

https://www.returnofkings.com/12615/5-things-i-learned-from-call-of-duty

5 THINGS I LEARNED FROM CALL OF DUTY

WESTERN CANCER

I played a lot of video games growing up; not as much as those weird neck-bearded kids who play WoW, but enough to learn just how much time one can waste playing them. After I got home from school I’d grab a snack and sit my ass on the couch and start playing until dinner. I’d go to friends houses on weekends and play games and when a new game came out I’d play it tirelessly until I beat it. Fifteen hours a week isn’t all that much when you’re a teenager; school is easy and you have no reason to be doing anything else, but the older I get the more I realize how much of a time-sink it was. However, there are a few important lessons I learned from playing all those hours.

1. There are complainers…

Most guys who play CoD either talk shit about how they fucked your mother or they just keep silent. The rest are those who bitch and moan about every little detail. They’re the guys who complain you’re ‘hacking,’ playing unfairly, or using a loadout that gives you an advantage. They’re the sore losers and you encounter them in the real world all the time. In the real world those same guys whine about following the rules because they are scared of stepping out of line, they are the people who believe everyone needs to be brought to the same level lest one be left out. The best way I’ve found to deal with them is just ignore them. Ignore those who complain about perceived problems the same way you would ignore some 13 year old kid whining how using RPGs aren’t fair.

2. …and then there are those who find patterns.

On the more extreme end of things there are those who learn patterns and exploit them. They’re the guys who learn spawning patterns, optimized loadouts, good sniping positions and so on. They put in serious time to get good at the game, they also know they have to do more than learn the game to get good at the game. In the time it takes them to master the theoretical or detail oriented parts of the game their motor skills have increased as well. These guys are like us. We improve our social skills, appearance, and confidence as well as exploiting the current system in order to get better at the game of life.

3. The importance of competition

Competition is at the core of our masculinity, without it we are just participating in existence. Call of Duty is the most immediate form of competition I have come across and I never realized its importance until the first powerlifting meet I competed in. At the meet adrenaline coursed through my veins between attempts and although I cheered others on I felt a burning desire to lift as much as I damn could to prove myself better than the rest. While you may only be competing against half-literate, drugged out teenagers playing Call of Duty, you still get that same rush when trying to annihilate the other team. Even while relaxing with friends, having a few beers and playing CoD you want to beat their score. You want to be the best.

4. The average man sucks

The last CoD game I played regularly was the first Black Ops game. There was an option to look at another player’s scorecard. This scorecard showed their kill/death ratio, win/loss ratio, and every other imaginable metric of success. In this data was hours played. Between matches I’d always look at the opposition’s scorecard and 9 times out of 10 the dude had fucking terrible stats. I would regularly see players who played hundreds of hours yet still died more than they killed. Even though most guys play CoD to relax they’re still fucking terrible and aren’t any better than when they started. Same goes in the real world. Most men you meet will be extremely average, and as we all know average never got anyone anywhere. You reconnect with a friend 5 years down the line and his accomplishments include: having a mortgage, being in debt, becoming overweight, and maybe driving a new car.

5. People will do anything if given the right rewards

Video game developers are crafty sons of bitches, like social media mavens they sell instant gratification. When you think about it a game like Call of Duty is extremely boring and repetitive. Each game is 10-15 minutes long and you do the exact same thing each time, something has to keep you coming back. While much of the draw can be attributed to the thrill of competition and success there is another factor: the instant gratification of rewards. The first few hours you play Call of Duty you’re assaulted with various medals, ribbons, unlocks and upgrades. You get a medal for 5 kills, then 50, then 500. You get sucked in from the start and desire the hardest to get rewards. As in the real world people will perform the same mindless action day in, day out given enough monetary or emotional compensation.

I still play from time to time. Its nice to do nothing but move your thumbs for an hour, but no man should spend the majority of his precious free time doing something so unproductive as playing video games. One of my biggest regrets from being a teenager was spending much of my time alone playing games when I could have been out doing something interesting, or in the very least reading books. However I’m grateful for the lessons I’ve learned. I know now to ignore those who complain and instead of complaining myself I seek out ways to overcome obstacles and get better. I know now how easily average people can be manipulated into doing mindless things if they are sufficiently compensated. Most importantly I know the importance of competition in masculine development.

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redantsunderneath · 8 years

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Critical Accommodation

The first forum thread I ever started, on some televisionwithoutpity-type forum, was on the topic of simultaneously overrated and underrated art/artists. Now, I don’t know if I expressed my ideas clearly or not, but in the email exchange subsequent to a strangely angry moderator deleting the post, clarity didn’t seem to be the issue as much as a failure on his part to admit to the idea that the relationship between quality and popularity could somehow be multivalent. At the time, I probably used Radiohead or something as an example – underrated by any sort of mass audience but overrated by what you might a few years later have call pitcthforkers – but maybe Serial is a good modern equivalent. I doesn’t hold enough interest for anyone who has seen more than 3 Datelines and thinks the idea of NPRing the concept up is boring, but elicits a little too much ado from the Slate reading contingent who, maybe, believe True Crime as a genre just got invented.

I kind of lost interest in this as a concept as, after a while, all you can see are the social signaling aspects of this multi-audience interaction, maybe thanks to hipsters turning countersignaling into a game of chicken where they threw their steering wheel out the window. But it seems that multiple axes of “is it good” that coexist have become more obvious lately, and not just because people are starting to notice that everyone lives in a bubble. Case in point: I was involved in an exchange recently about the movie Suicide Squad, with a poster claiming that the response to the movie showed how pronounced the divide was between critics and the casual audience. I had to ask what this meant because the critics I pay attention to have been very positive about Suicide Squad and the DC movies in general (in relation to the Marvel movies especially) and dismissive of the sea of internet opinions that call the films garbage. The person bringing it up was talking about the actual moviegoing audience which made the movie immensely profitable because they weren’t told they were supposed to hate it vs. the majority of internet based and payed critics who poo-pooed the movie as you would expect. Both of these critical-mass divides were true at the same time, but each of us preferentially saw one.

I’ve written a lot about textual story and subliminal story in an effort to pick at the meaning of entertainments of all kinds. But all this is making me think about the fact that there are more levels than just above and below and various audiences are habituated to look for satisfaction at a certain level. One problem is that no matter how smart and attentive the audience member is, they tend to privilege this one layer and, as a result, this strata is optimized for by producers (via a complex Darwinian system) if they are viewed as the primary audience. So the actual most complicated and interesting multilayered stuff is going to suffer for any specific audience in that it will not be “the best possible thing” at the level they are trained to value the most. The funny thing is, this system more and more doesn’t favor people who focus on depth and complexity in producing a serious work, but artists who are profoundly unhinged at some level who are willing to operate at the most superficial levels primarily with the deep stuff inadvertently spilling out like piñata guts. These movies often don’t make intellectual sense.

I think in order to consider this, text and subliminal aren’t going to cut it. There is a superficial or visceral level of engagement – incident, big emotion… the action movie thing, but also at a different pitch the romantic comedy thing. Crowd pleasers that satisfy the lower levels of Maslow’s pyramid – oral (safety, threat, need, good/bad) and anal (dominance, desire, will). Then you have the mid level engagement of the genital (intricacy, complex relational, intellectual satisfaction) and basic social consciousness (mid to upper Maslow) which is common internet aesthete and print critic land. If there is talk of screenplay structure or complex characters or representation, it is in this middlebrow-that-thinks-it’s-highbrow area. The Oscar zone.

There is another level, though, which me might call the ineffable, the preconscious, the deep structural, the semiotic, the transcendent, or the sublime. People who I usually pay attention to are focused on this later level to some degree. The thing that ties these people together is an emphasis on visual storytelling (or poetics if we are talking about print) and a philosophical bent. The escape of conscious forms, of spoken language and structure, receiving symbolic content and using that to construct meaning. There is a lot of theory in this zone… it is not not intellectual, but rather senses something hidden or unintentional and wrestles that into the zone of language and reason. This includes primal unexamined societal impulses where the motivations for politics and hatred lie.

So group 1 are the conscious experiencers (popcorn moviegoer). Group 2 are the social intellectualizers (the maven or critic). Group 3 have found some way to touch an unmediated submerged experience and bring it up to examine, which oddly gives them more in common with group 1 (the dredgers and deep divers). Everybody at a higher number level has some experience with the lower numbers but what I have noticed is that most people in this hierarchy tend to limit focus to their preferred layer and stick there, losing the ability to really engage at the other levels with something that doesn’t satisfy on theirs. I do run into more people who are able to put a foot on 1 and a foot on 3, people who go deep on trash cinema for instance, but these people usually take a shit on level 2. Many of these people hate prestige TV very viscerally. Others stick to 3 and tend to close read based on one particular “deep topic” like capitalism or gender.

This leads to extremely insightful people who have a fixed level of focus. I almost said “myopia” but a better ophthalmologic analogy is loss of lens accommodation, a common problem of age (the need for reading glasses after you turn 47 is this). With this condition you can be nearsighted or farsighted or have 20/20, but you can’t focus very well outside of a narrow range of your focal length. My very favorite writers on narrative art are able to focus up and down the scale and, importantly, experience the piece as a blank slate, so the reading can be guided by the piece and not a bias as to level of engagement. Zizek is great, but I’d prefer it if he seemed to be able to be exhilarated, have fun, recognize bad pacing, or appreciate an actor/actress performance without making these a function of some Marxist/Lacanian equation.

The good reviews of Batman vs. Superman I have seen dwell on the visual composition and fuck off attitude, but also focus on the movie as a critique of a kind of moral simplicity implicit in nerd/internet culture who can’t see what these characters are really up to. The film is deliberately provoking the group that generates all the reviews. Superman is an alien who is hyper aware of the conflict between humanity’s potential and its reality. His choice to act for the good in Man of Steel is that of a god in absolute agony as he has to take the war into himself, killing because moral choices are horrific and don’t have the external consequences they should in a just universe. Superman knows he chooses his path to suffer and serve the good and the universe could care less (Nietzsche’s Ubermench, anyone?). His suffering imposes a moral order on the universe. In BvS he confronts the prospect of progressive inaction, the Obama path, do no harm because everyone seems to want you to be blamed, shamed into will-less-ness… one of the failure modes of the current American (masculine) spirit. Batman represents the other failure mode, the wallowing in the anger at traditional American values violated by the rise of selfishness and me first mentality. Of course they need to fight – they are primal opposites: deflated optimism vs. pessimism on steroids, past vs. future, sun vs. void, naturally gifted immigrant vs. driven legacy born on third base.

These are gods, and are presented like gods, in a series of mise-en-scene straight ripped from renaissance paintings. It is wrong to speak of subtlety, because subtlety is the opposite of the point. Look at those (Turin?) horses, gaudy symbols like oranges in the Godfather! The structure of the story is a mess by normal metrics, but there is a shape there, and that is enough when you are dealing with art film rules. The collision of two celestial objects, awaiting the feminine to mediate their Hegelian synthesis and convert their masculine valances to the positive. Dwelling on act structure is stupid. Recognizing that they failed to make this a conventional narrative is useless. Citing plot inconsistencies, “X wouldn’t do that,” and calling it emptyheaded and over the top mean you are watching a movie you can’t handle. This is a skilled, smart but “off,” bodily centered outsider artist grappling with shit that is really, really big and deep. It isn’t perfect, but no one should want that out of this (there are countless clockwork left brain things to watch)… you should come to this wanting a mess, gods of ideas punching your midbrain, opening you to experience the catharsis of basic archetypal struggles in the world. You know, like superheroes work. It is wrong to privilege level 2 which, remember, is where mass of expressed “learned” opinion is. This is where the DC Verse lives. Marvel is centered in DC’s hole, and it is right to talk of story as structure.

My point is that the best thing you can do is learn to focus where the thing is most ready to connect with you and be flexible enough to let the thing tell you how to read it. There is a lot of crap, but there is a lot of good stuff that gets critically ignored because too few are focusing in the right areas. If you like more stuff, if you find everything more interesting and complex, you win. Not everything is good, but you can almost always find a way to engage it at its best. You can say many bad things about the book Twilight, but damn if there isn’t something there about the subject/object struggle of being desired as a young woman, the disconnect of inner and outer experience, and the consideration of the choice of traditional-relationship-as-road-to-marriage in a modern context. If you smirk and say Mary Sue, you have failed.

This three cluster model isn’t perfect, but explains a lot why I see lumpy, weird high budget stuff with the high viewership (mass audience), pissed off forums and think pieces (critical consensus/perceived audience if you live online), and elated jaded curmudgeons (deep critics) troika so often. I think this is more than just a status economy (though that is clearly involved) but the production system has adjusted so that the qualities of the output levels align to the audience expectations. The most interesting stuff is that which crosses levels, which requires risking a product that will probably seem suboptimal to everyone. So, let’s have a toast for the auteurs who don’t fit, making movies that are a scrum of potential meanings that require you to get dirty and renounce the tyranny of “the way it should be done.” And I mean Michael Bay as well as David Lynch. If they seem insane, it’s a feature not a bug.

#lynch #michael bay #zack snyder #dc #marvel #batman #superman #suicide squad

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lady-divine-writes · 8 years

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Klaine fic - “Not Just My Wingman” Chapter 4/4 (Rated NC17)

Kurt and Blaine are roommates, living in the loft together after Blaine graduates from high school and moves to New York. Kurt is determined that he’s over Blaine, and tries to prove it by helping him get a date…or ultimately, get laid. But when Blaine succeeds in finding a guy that’s actually interested in him, will Kurt realize that he wasn’t as over Blaine as he thought?

***Edit - In case you’re wondering, yes, I had posted this a while ago, but I came back and re-read it…and decided I hated it. So I re-wrote it. It’s basically the same, only the language is way better, as are the characters. So, read it again!

Based on the Tumblr prompt - Where Kurt and Blaine go out club hopping as friends, with each other as their wingman. “I’d like them to kinda be like ‘well, we’re pretty dumb for not realizing how back together we are’ or something, and ultimately get back together. Maybe someone points out that they’re basically together again…”

Passing mention of Rachel and Santana, but they don’t live at the loft. Also, the bedrooms in the loft are actual rooms with doors. Mention of Adam (Adam friendly) and Chandler. (Mentions the break up and Blaine’s cheating.)

Read on AO3.

Chapter 1 - The Chapter Where Kurt Tried to Get Blaine Laid…and Succeeded

Chapter 2 - The Chapter Where Kurt Freaked Out and Blaine Went on a Date…in that Order

Chapter 3 - The Chapter Where We Find Out What the Hell Happened to Kurt

For the remainder of the week, Kurt and Blaine barely saw each other, and they definitely didn't speak. They didn’t text. They didn’t even acknowledge one another if they happened to find themselves in the same room together. Kurt left the loft earlier than necessary every morning to seek refuge at his favorite coffee house, drowning his sorrows in various flavors of chai tea since nonfat mochas had suddenly developed the power to bring him to tears.

They didn’t make eye contact when they passed each other in the halls at school between classes, but Blaine would often turn and watch Kurt walk away when he knew that Kurt wouldn’t catch him.

Blaine couldn’t help it.

He missed him.

Blaine spent his nights with DeLeon since the man’s days in New York were numbered. Soon he would be packing up and boarding a flight to London. After that, Blaine had no idea what would happen back at the loft.

Would Kurt continue to ignore him? Leave early every day and look past him in the hallways?

Could Blaine live like that, with Kurt acting like he didn’t exist?

Blaine contemplated moving out since he didn't want to make Kurt uncomfortable. He didn't want Kurt to feel like he had to go to extraordinary lengths to avoid him. The loft had been Kurt’s home long before Blaine moved to New York, but Blaine could easily imagine Kurt hiding in the costume shop at NYADA at night, or the vault at Vogue so he wouldn't have to come home to a place where Blaine lived.

Blaine didn’t want that. If their friendship was over, and he prayed it wasn’t over, he didn’t want chasing Kurt out of his home to be the last impression Kurt had of him.

On DeLeon's last night in New York, Blaine made an attempt to chip away at Kurt's carefully constructed armor by inviting him along to their Bon Voyage night out on the town.

Blaine and DeLeon had come up with the idea to invite Kurt together, but Blaine made it a point not to mention that part.

"Come on, Kurt," Blaine begged, checking his watch for the twentieth time in five minutes, a gesture that did not go unnoticed by Kurt, who shielded himself behind his issue of Vogue. "It's going to be a blast! And you need to get out. You haven't gone out a single night this week, have you?"

"How would you know?" Kurt grumbled, pretending to read an article on the resurgence of dyed faux fur accents. "You aren't here at night anymore. I could be whoring myself out in your bedroom and you wouldn't have a clue."

"Kurt, I think I'd notice that," Blaine chuckled, hoping that comment was Kurt's attempt at diffusing a tense situation through humor. This was the first time they’d spoken to one another all week. Frankly, Blaine was ecstatic that Kurt didn’t immediately vault off the couch and race into his bedroom the second Blaine walked through the loft door. He took it as a good sign. But when Kurt didn't even crack a smile, Blaine realized that Kurt was still upset, more so than Blaine had anticipated.

This week they’d spent apart had done little to cool Kurt’s temper.

Kurt turned the page he had been glaring murderously at, even though he’d only read the headline and photo captions.

"But, seriously," Blaine continued, "I think you'd have a great time."

Kurt scoffed and turned another unread page, counting the minutes until Blaine left so he could get a start on his pity party.

"Do you think I want to watch you and your stewardess friend pawing all over each other while I sit in a corner and chug Shirley Temples? If I want to watch porn, I can stream it off the Internet. I've been considering getting a Cockyboys membership, anyway."

Blaine sighed. Kurt and porn weren't two words that one often uttered in the same sentence. The thought of Kurt sitting on the couch, miserable and alone, with a cheesecake in his lap, watching two guys going at it through the spaces between his fingers the way a little kid watches a slasher film, grabbed a hold of Blaine’s heart and twisted.

Once again, Blaine considered canceling and staying home. He wouldn’t tell Kurt this time since Kurt would probably just tell him to go. Yes, DeLeon was leaving for London in the morning, but Blaine had spent quite a bit of time with him this week. He was sure DeLeon would understand.

Even if he didn't, would it matter? DeLeon was leaving, and who knew when he would be back.

A loud knock ended the non-conversation.

The door slid open and DeLeon stepped in. "Hey guys!"

“Hey!” Blaine turned and waved cheerfully to the man headed his way, but a second later, his eyes darted back to Kurt. In the small space of time that Blaine had turned his attention away, Kurt had huddled as close to the arm of the couch as possible, with the edges of the throw wrapped around his shoulders clutched tight in his fist. He hunched down, burying himself deeper into an interview with Rihanna.

DeLeon sashayed up to Blaine. He laced a hand with Blaine’s and kissed him on the corner of his mouth. Kurt groaned quietly, his nose practically sinking into the seam of his magazine.

"Sorry for the intrusion," DeLeon said in the rhythm of a Beyonce song he’d been humming. Kurt frowned. He didn’t expect the man to have such a melodious tenor voice. But why not? The man was built, handsome, and could apparently carry a tune. And now he was dating Blaine. The man had everything. "But Blaine said you guys usually keep the door unlocked and that I could come right in. How you get away with that out here in Brooklyn, I'll never understand."

“It helps that we don’t own anything worth stealing,” Blaine joked.

“Oh, I don’t know.” DeLeon raised a hand to run a finger down Blaine’s cheek. “I’d break in here just to snatch up the two of you.”

Blaine kissed DeLeon’s hand when it came close to his mouth.

Kurt smiled begrudgingly, but didn't lift his eyes from his magazine.

DeLeon bent over to catch Kurt's gaze. When he realized he wouldn't, he stood back up. Never one to be deterred, he smiled, preparing to try again.

"You know, for a fashion maven such as yourself, this look is a little low-key for the night we had in mind, Kurt."

Kurt harrumphed. DeLeon smile wider.

"He said no," Blaine answered for him, gazing plaintively at the rug beneath his feet. DeLeon looked from the disappointed man by his side to the stubborn one sitting on the couch, staring at an ad for Dior, and decided to try, and succeed, where Blaine had failed.

"Well, too bad." DeLeon grabbed Kurt by the arm and dragged him to his feet. "It wasn't a request. So put on the sexiest thing you have, darling, because we are partying hardy with six of the hottest men who ever played for our team. And get a move on. You've got five minutes."

Kurt glared, mortified, at the man with tremendous biceps who practically lifted him into the air, but then he caught sight of Blaine staring at his shoes with a hopeful smile on his lips.

Kurt could never refuse that smile. It was Kurt’s kryptonite. But he wasn't going to pretend to be happy about it.

"Fine. But five minutes only gets you mildly sexy. If you want truly devastating, I'll need fifteen."

"Take your time then. I’m willing to wait for devastating. I’ve heard it’s something to see." DeLeon swatted Kurt on the backside. Kurt spun, shooting daggers at both of them when they dissolved into giggles, turning in toward one another like conspiratorial teenagers. He stared at them a little longer than he should have, which is why he saw DeLeon lean in to kiss Blaine’s neck … and Blaine close his eyes to enjoy it.

And somewhere in his heart, that he had let grow hard against any amount of Blaine's lingering love for him, a single sliver fractured off.

***

They took three subways into Manhattan to a nightclub Kurt had never heard of before, but that DeLeon insisted was the hangout for flight attendants when they hit the city.

“It has an awesome vibe,” he said, leading Kurt from the subway car with their arms linked together (the other looped inside Blaine's, walking three across with DeLeon in the center like they were performing in an all-male remake of The Wizard of Oz, skipping down the Yellow Brick Road), “the hottest dancers, the tastiest specialty drinks, and the music! Man, it is always bumping! Am I right, Blainey?”

Kurt turned his head to look past DeLeon at Blaine. Blainey?

“Yeah,” Blaine agreed, looking at Kurt. “This place is seriously fantastic, and the music is on hit! You’re gonna love it!”

Kurt watched DeLeon bend to Blaine’s ear and whisper something that made him nod and titter. “Oh my God!” Blaine said. “I totally forgot! That was the best!”

So, Blainey agreed it was hot. Which meant he'd already been there.

They hadn’t even left the subway and Kurt hated it immediately.

They could hear the music pounding all the way from the subway turn-stall. Once they got up top and crossed the street, Kurt saw that the line to get in wrapped completely around the building. But DeLeon blew by the line and managed to get them through the ropes, kissing the cheeks of the bouncers at the entrance. The trio had barely taken a step through the doors when they were mobbed by six extremely handsome, astonishingly well-built men, with freakishly perfect teeth and flawless skin.

That must be the package deal for flight attendants, Kurt thought. The minute you sign on, they cap your teeth and perform some ritual that magically fixes your skin. But even as he privately jeered, he made a note to ask one of these guys what exfoliator and moisturizers they used because damn!

“Kurt” - DeLeon put his hands on Kurt’s shoulders in a familiar way that irritated Kurt to no end - “this is Savon, Michael, Kevin, Trey, Dominick, and Stephen. Guys …” DeLeon pushed Kurt slightly forward, as if presenting him for the group’s approval. “This is Kurt.”

“So, we finally get to meet the famous Kurt,” Kevin said, taking Kurt’s hand in his and kissing it.

“Enchante,” Savon said, taking Kurt’s other hand at kissing it as well.

"Oh … my … goodness,” Kurt murmured. “Why don't I fly more often?" He was sure no one could hear him over the pulsing music, but DeLeon did.

“I’ll find a way to comp you some tickets so you can join our Mile High Club,” he whispered. “Have at him, boys!” He shoved Kurt headlong into the throng of men and let them lead the way out on to the dance floor.

Twelve songs into the evening, Kurt's shirt clung to his torso, almost entirely see-thru with sweat, which Kurt normally hated, but he was loosening up. He felt more carefree than he had all week. These six guys, who seemed entirely focused on him and him alone, were so sweet, so nice, so complimentary, that he could almost let go and pretend that this was a normal night out, that he was free of his feelings for Blaine, but his enjoyment dimmed every time he caught a glimpse of Blaine and DeLeon grinding together, their hands all over each other, smiling, talking, sharing little pecks, lost in their own little world.

Kurt remembered that world.

And even surrounded by six men who could classify as super models, apparently willing to cater to his every whim, he missed that world.

He missed Blaine.

Another song started, a slower song. He saw Blaine and DeLeon wrap their arms around each other. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t not watch. He had to put some distance between him and them before he went crazy.

"I think I'm going to sit this one out, boys," Kurt announced. “Don’t miss me too much.” He walked briskly away to a chorus of disappointed groans and pleas to come back soon. He headed through the crowd toward a ring of tables, trying not to break into a gallop in his need to be away from Blaine and DeLeon.

But the universe rarely ever worked in Kurt's favor.

No sooner did he claim a vacant booth than DeLeon slid in beside him, lips curled in a devilish grin.

"Leaving the dance floor so soon?" he purred. "The party's just getting started."

"Yeah, well, I think I overdid it a bit," Kurt lied, gaze rising from DeLeon's eyes to lock with Blaine's as he joined them, his eyes wide and full of concern. “That dance floor’s a little too hot with me on it.”

"Why don't I get us some drinks?" Blaine offered, resting a hand on DeLeon's shoulder and squeezing gently. Kurt's eyes followed that hand, felt the squeeze on his own skin, and he swallowed hard.

"Nothing for me, thanks," Kurt said, looking away. “I’m good.”

DeLeon put a hand over Blaine's and patted gently. "I'll have a rum and coke.”

"You've got it," Blaine said with a wink. He waited one more pause to see if Kurt would change his mind, then headed off to the bar.

DeLeon watched him go.

When he turned back to Kurt, the mischievous glint was still in his eyes, but the expression on his face was much more serious.

"When are you going to tell that man that you’re still in love with him?" he asked, cutting to the chase.

Kurt sat straight up, jerking back in his seat. "Excuse me?" he said indignantly.

DeLeon rolled his eyes, far too done with this conversation already.

"I see you," DeLeon said, tapping his temple. "I see you watching us. If you think you're hiding anything, you're mistaken."

Kurt chuckled viciously. "Then maybe it’s a good thing you’re sitting down because I think the heat is getting to you. That, or you seriously need to have your vision checked."

DeLeon slid in closer. Kurt fought the urge to slide further away.

"You see, I want to like you," DeLeon said, "but when you say things like that, you make it really hard. Now usually I'd tear you a new one for being such a bitch, especially when I went through the trouble to ensure that you would be thoroughly entertained tonight, but seeing as you probably wouldn't be in this situation if your boy Blaine hadn't cheated on you, I'm gonna let it slide."

At the mention of his name, Kurt's eyes subconsciously swept the club to find him. And he did find Blaine, with surprising swiftness, standing at the bar, waiting for their drinks.

"Even hearing Blaine’s side of things, I’m gonna tell you, you weren’t wrong,” DeLeon continued. “And I told him that … repeatedly. He should have driven past that hotel, gotten on a plane, and talked to you face to face before sticking his dick in someone else. You have every right not to take him back if that’s what you really want. But I know that face. Fuck, I've even worn that face. And that is most definitely love, son."

DeLeon's expression softened, his eyes following Kurt's where they rested on Blaine's back. He could easily picture Kurt’s face on the night Blaine told him he cheated. Blaine’s story had broken DeLeon’s heart, but Kurt’s story, the one he hadn’t even heard from the source, hurt worse. It was the one that DeLeon could relate to. He had hoped that he could get Kurt to open up to him, but Kurt stayed tight lipped, staring longingly at his ex.

So DeLeon decided to try a different tactic to get Kurt to spill.

"Or maybe I'm wrong.” He shrugged. “Maybe those heart eyes of yours are staring at his sweet, sweet ass."

Kurt's head snapped so quickly back to the man beside him, he was sure he’d pulled something in his neck.

"Yup, that boy has a fine behind," DeLeon remarked, watching Kurt react. As he suspected, Kurt's shoulders tightened, his back went rigid, and his jaw clenched. "Too bad I didn't get the chance to see it."

Kurt's hands balled reflexively, but his face morphed from disgust to confusion in the blink of an eye.

"Wait … b-but … he's been spending every night this week at your place. I thought you two were …"

"Well, the first night he came over I tried," DeLeon admitted. "Lord knows I tried. But he stopped me before I could do anything." DeLeon grimaced at the memory. "And I was so close, too."

"So, what did happen?" Kurt hated that he was curious, but he needed the truth to erase his heartbreaking fantasies of Blaine and this man making love to one another.

"He said he was sorry and asked if we could just be friends. Seeing as I'm leaving for London and then God knows where after that for a few months, I agreed it was probably for the best."

Kurt felt relieved, which he knew he probably shouldn’t. He was being unfair. He had no exclusive rights to Blaine anymore. And he had made that decision. But he was also confused. He shut his eyes, trying to put the pieces of this puzzle together, especially after what he had seen of their behavior with his own eyes. "So, what has he been doing at your place?"

DeLeon shook his head, as if the answer was blaringly obvious and Kurt's denseness far from amusing. "Giving you space."

Kurt threw his hands up in frustration. "Why didn’t he just tell me the truth?”

"No disrespect, man, but did you give him the chance? Or did you get upset and back him into a corner? Because I think both you and I know the answer to that."

Kurt wanted to be angry at Blaine for lying about sleeping with DeLeon, but then he thought about the last few days of avoiding Blaine like he was the plague or a Sears Department Store. His cheeks pinked with embarrassment, and then with a touch of anger. It was one thing for Kurt to recognize his own shortcomings, but another to have his ex's current sort-of platonic fling shove it in his face.

Shortcomings that DeLeon would only know if Blaine was talking about him behind his back.

Kurt’s eyes shot open wide. "Now wait …"

"Before you get all high-pitched on me, no, he didn't say anything," DeLeon said, his arms raised in defense. "I just happen to know a thing or two about flying off the handle. I can get kind of high-pitchy, too."

“So …”

“I guessed, and he might have confirmed … vaguely. That’s all I’m sayin’. I don’t need to get that boy into any more trouble.” DeLeon chuckled. “He obviously does that fine on his own.”

Kurt nodded, relaxing even though he wasn't sure how any of this would change things between him and Blaine. But Kurt's shoulders squared again when another thought entered his mind.

"What about the grinding and the touching and the little kisses between the two of you?" Kurt asked, becoming high-pitchy anyway.

"So, I took a few liberties,” DeLeon said. “Can you blame me? Look at him. He's gorgeous … but you already know that."

Out of the corner of his eye, Kurt watched Blaine walk toward their table, eyes trained solely on him as if he were the center of the known universe and a few others as well.

DeLeon saw it, too, and sighed. "Unfortunately for me, he's all yours, sunshine."

Blaine set the drinks down, sliding a glass of clear, bubbly liquid overflowing with cherries in front of Kurt.

"I know you said you didn't want anything," Blaine said, "but I thought, you look so hot … I mean flushed … and just in case you changed your mind …"

DeLeon took his rum and coke and sipped it, recognizing with regret just how quickly he had disappeared from Blaine's notice. He wasn’t angry at Blaine. Blaine talked about Kurt like he was the moon and the stars. Even if DeLeon had had a chance with Blaine and they had slept together, he’d only be borrowing him.

It would have been fun, but DeLeon wanted more. He deserved more.

He couldn’t have that with Blaine.

"Look," he interrupted, backing out of the booth, "I don't mean to drink and run, but I've got an early morning. I think I'm going to bow out now."

Blaine watched him stand, his shame at ignoring the man of the hour apparent in the way his mouth stopped working.

"B-but, DeLeon," Blaine stuttered. "Don’t go. I'm sorry if I …"

DeLeon put a hand over Blaine's lips and shushed him. “It’s alright. I get it.” He smiled at Blaine's apologetic eyes and leaned in close, kissing him gently on the lips. Kurt's drink suddenly became very interesting and he glued his eyes to it, counting the cherries in an effort not to burn holes into DeLeon's skull.

Why should Kurt be jealous of a little kiss if they weren’t dating? Though the way his heart seized up at the idea of Blaine kissing DeLeon back pretty much answered that question for him.

DeLeon pulled away from Blaine's lips, sparing a glance at Kurt, who was staring down his drink as if the cherries were marked for death.

"I think it's time you fixed this once and for all, don't you?" DeLeon whispered. Blaine looked at Kurt, too, curled over his drink the same way he had been on the couch when he was crawling into his magazine. He had so many walls built up around him. Blaine did that. Those walls hadn’t been there for years after Blaine helped knock the original ones down. These were new, and they’d been built to protect Kurt’s heart from being broken … by Blaine.

With a final hug, DeLeon walked off into the crowd, disappearing from view.

"You know, come to think about it, I should probably call it a night, too." Kurt slid out of the booth from the opposite end so as not to disturb Blaine, who stared blankly into the crowd as if trying to summon DeLeon back. Kurt was confused how DeLeon could assume that Blaine only wanted Kurt when he seemed genuinely smitten for the sage man who had just gone. Kurt headed off in a different direction, but a hand grabbing his stopped him.

"Don't go," Blaine pleaded softly, his voice managing to rise above the noise even with Kurt's back turned. Blaine pressed his body against Kurt’s, not overbearing or aggressive, the simple warmth of his presence bleeding into Kurt’s skin and simply making itself known.

"Blaine," Kurt started, not sure what he wanted to say, hoping the words would come to him as soon as he opened his mouth, and that he would actually mean them, whatever they were.

"Dance with me?" Blaine dared an arm around Kurt's waist. "Please? Just … just once before you go?"

“You sure you haven’t had enough dancing?” Kurt snapped. “I mean, it looked like you were getting your fill before.”

“It’s not the same when I’m not with you.”

Kurt felt himself melting into Blaine's arm, molding against his body, and it frightened him. It would be this simple, wouldn't it? To fall back together? But what would that mean?

Could it last this time?

He thought about it as he followed Blaine out onto the dance floor, as he let himself get wrapped up in Blaine’s arms, swaying with him to music that didn't match their beat since the music over the speakers pounded through the floor like a rainstorm, and they glided along together like a wave. Between the beats and the laughter and the loud voices, Kurt could hear the occasional I'm sorry …

I miss you so much …

You have no idea how much …

I love you …

I love you more now than I ever have …

I'll do anything …

Anything you want …

I'll even move out … give you more space …

Just please say we get to be boyfriends again …

Kurt heard every word, and he believed them. But before he made any decisions, there were a few things he needed to know. “I … have to ask you something.”

“Anything.”

“Why did you make me think you and DeLeon had slept together? Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

“Because …” Blaine looked guilty, maybe even more guilty than he had when he told Kurt he’d been with someone else “… when I came home, you were drunk … and you looked destroyed. I was confused, and I wanted to help, but I didn’t know what to do to make it better. You’d been trying for so long to get me together with someone. I thought that if you thought I had been, then you could …”

“Could what?”

“Be free. Have closure so you could move on. It seemed to be what you wanted so much. I thought … I thought you were done with me and that, somehow, I was hurting you. I didn’t want to hurt you anymore.”

“Well, unfortunately, I think we were both damned if we did and damned if we didn’t.”

“Or, maybe we’re just …”

“… made for each other?” Kurt finished. He was going to say stubborn, but for some reason that came out instead.

Blaine didn’t agree or disagree, but Kurt knew that’s how he felt. He didn’t need to confirm it.

That’s part of what it means when you belong with someone.

Blaine raised a hand to caress Kurt’s cheek and nuzzled his neck.

“Please tell me you still love me,” Blaine whispered. “I know I hurt you, and I’m sorry, Kurt. I’m so so sorry. I don’t think I’ll ever stop being sorry. And if you want to remind me every day for the rest of my life, then that’s fine, but let me spend that life with you. Tell me I have a chance to fix this. Let me try. We can go to counseling, or I’ll go by myself if you don’t want to go with me. I’ll take classes on how to be a better boyfriend. I’m sure they have some somewhere. And if I can’t make things better, then I’ll accept that I can’t, and I’ll respect any decision you make. I swear I will. But can I have a second chance? Just one more?”

Kurt felt lips press tentatively against his neck, begging for an answer, and with every shy kiss, Kurt felt himself cave. Kurt knew exactly what he wanted. He had for a while. And it didn’t take DeLeon draping his handsome self all over Blaine for Kurt to decide.

Kurt wanted Blaine. Even when he didn’t want Blaine, he wanted Blaine. Even when he couldn’t forgive Blaine, he missed him. Even when he never wanted to speak to Blaine again, sometimes all he wanted was to hear his voice. He hated how much he wanted Blaine because he felt like he was betraying himself, but the fact remained.

And Blaine wanted him, too.

But that was too much for him to put into words without sobbing like an idiot.

"Grrr! Alright, you colossal pain in the ass!" Kurt groaned, feeling a smile on Blaine's lips grow against his skin. "I can't believe we're doing this again! But if we are, we're doing it my way. We're taking it slow. Do you understand?"

“Of course,” Blaine said with a giggle, his lips eagerly finding Kurt’s, kissing him in reply.

***

It was 3 a.m., and it was sweltering. Not in general, and not outside considering it was winter, but in the loft, specifically in Blaine's bedroom, the air was stifling.

Kurt moved over Blaine's body with a deliberate slowness, pushing in deep, then pulling out to the tip, drawing out every low, long moan he possibly could from the man who arched beneath him, sweat rolling down his spine. Kurt had bound Blaine’s wrists with a few of his old scarves, tied together end-to-end so that his left wrist was connected to his right by a string of fabric running underneath the mattress. The more he pulled, the tighter the knots became. There was no way for him to slip free.

Not that Blaine wanted to move. He never wanted to go anywhere ever again.

"God, I missed this," Blaine growled, his voice rough, his body burning. He rose up to meet Kurt when Kurt pushed in again, deeper this time, as if such a thing were even possible. But somehow, Kurt found a way. Kurt met Blaine's mouth and kissed him hard, sucking his top lip between his teeth and biting to hear Blaine whine, to feel him shudder. "At least we're not drunk this time," he remarked when Kurt pulled away.

"Yeah," Kurt agreed, grinning at Blaine's debauched expression, at the fingernail tracks raising welts down his back, at his damp curls clinging to his cheeks, "but so much for taking things slow."

#klaine fanfiction #klaine fic #klaine #frankie writes

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