#i think the way oblivion is written is so bland and i can make it far more fun

[hircinesring]

on that topic tho i like martin as a character and his relationship with HOF, but really only through the lens of what i see them as and not how the original plot and charaterisation has it all be.

in my and cel's canon, it's made pretty clear to cel and martin that they dont actually have a choice and this is what's going to happen- because jauffre, the blades, and the rest of the council want it to be this way. martin never wanted to be emperor, he still doesnt want to be, he doesnt think he SHOULD be, his apparent heritage means nothing to him because it was never a part of his life at all, and while he WILL do research into stopping the oblivion crisis he just doesnt. want. to be emperor. it's neither something he wants nor believes is right. but he's going to be, because now he doesnt really have a choice, the blades are around him 24/7 so he cant LEAVE, and everyone is telling him this is what he HAS to do and he might as well accept it. it's his divine right and destinyyyyyy! why else would he be drawn to akatosh? seeeeee it was meant to be all along!!!!

and cel is literally only there due to being the dude that gave the necklace to jauffre hoping he'd get paid, and went to go find the next emperor again hoping he'd get paid or at least some sort of nice pay off from the empire. and he got neither! and now he's being paraded around as the errand boy-hero who will restore the empire and help save the world from the tyranny of the daedra and uphold the empire's values, too scared to leave for fear of being chased down, and also the guilt of abandoning martin to what HE dragged him into, and also what if theyre right and this IS the only way?? its not, i wholly believe there are other ways to end the oblivion crisis, but this is what cel is scared into believing.

basically, youre going on that throne whether you like it or not, youre not going to be able to look for an alternative route to stop mehrunes dagon, and youre going to be good boys and hold up the status quo or they WILL find another convenient bastard and hero to replace you two and if they dont then its all your fault the world ends <3

its what draws them together throughout the entire oblivion crisis, not knowing how to escape what theyve got themselves into, they only have each other and they share their feelings of being trapped. and it ends with martin dying for something he didnt really believe in and cel becoming the madgod.

and afterwards? everything about them is sanitized into something more palatable as martyrs and heroes to be sold to the populace. martin's past with daedric cults and sanguine is smoothed over, cel's life as an assassin and necromancer is watered down, all so that the empire can continue to hold them up as 'bastions of empirical ideals', because look! they may have had some sordid past but they saw the light and got on the right path and became good members of society! you too can be a good member of society just like these two! theyre ideals to strive towards!

their whole thing is just fucking tragic. and way more fun for me.

[luckyasfuck]

maybe i just wanna be yours [k. bakugou]

A CAMBOY AU SERIES - PARTS 1, 2, [3], 4, 5

pairing // katsuki x female reader

tw // cussing, smut

warnings for this part // (kinda?) mutual masturbation

theme // enemies to lovers au, camboy!katsu au, college student!katsu and reader au, no quirk au

keys // y/n, l/n, h/c

words // 1.8k

a/n // pt. 4 will be written at 100 likes and posted at 5-10 reblogs :). i’m glad ya’ll are enjoying it, send criticism and/or ideas in my inbox.

previous part I masterlist

y/n’s head was no longer cloudy.

it scared her at first,  her twitter username and bio must have gave it all away. part of her hoped that katsuki wouldn’t notice the notification, and if he did, well she hopes he’d be too dumb or oblivious to know it was her. but of course, bakugou fucking katsuki wasn’t like that. y/n would know, especially when she woke up him following her back.

fucking son of a bitch.

it was very obvious that it was katsuki. from his voice during lives to his demeanor with his posts: reserved. it was a bitch to think about, no matter what y/n did it was all that occupied her mind. she was aware of the comments she had left on his last live, her other hand too busy pumping her fingers in and out of her pussy to make more than two. that’s what bothered her. not only did she get off to her rival of all people, she did it twice. twice!

she thought about it the whole morning as she reached UA. a person came from behind and bumped her shoulder, rushing to the group of people crowding the main gate. y/n knotted her eyebrows, her mind was too all over the place to know what they could have been fussing about.

the crowd completely blocked the gate and she sighed, opting to take another route until someone grabbed her arm. thinking it was a teacher or a student, she turned around with a smile.

what the fuck.

katsuki stood there gripping her arm and her heart dropped. she yanks his hand away and glared at him, goddamn if looks could kill katsuki would’ve made it to heaven right about now. she stared at him with so much intensity, it almost looked like she was gonna go crazy over the fact that he stopped her, let alone even touch her.

fuck, that’s hot. katsuki gulped and mentally slapped himself after the thought. “don’t let the teachers see you-” he whispered, looking around. y/n sighed, “too late.” she looked behind him where their Biology professor stood with a smile.

“good morning, kids! i’m glad i found you two together, which is um... quite new, don’t you think?” the old woman greeted. katsuki rolled his eyes before facing her, standing beside y/n.

the h/c-haired girl didn’t like being near him at all, he had this weird aura and she didn’t know what his intentions were at all. and him approaching her for the first time without being forced by a professor after the shenanigans of last night? way too timed to be a coincidence, though she wishes it was. 

“if you don’t know yet, our school’s competing with others schools with this little competition our school made.” the old woman got straight to the point. “the competition is that weekly for this month, a duo would take a quiz on a specific subject together. the subject changes every week and the questions get harder and harder! the 5 duos with the lowest scores are eliminated. it’s said on the board right there!” she pointed to where the students crowded.

“um, okay...? why are you telling us this then?” y/n questioned, adjusting her grip on her bag as the professor smiled again whilst katsuki breathed out a loud sigh. 

“i want you both to be the duo that represents our school!”

“miss-” katsuki started, but got cut off. “don’t you think we’re the worst duo for this? i mean,” y/n laughed sarcastically. “you know we hate each other, everyone fucking knows tha-”

“language, miss l/n.” the professor’s sternly scolded and y/n flinches a bit at the change of mood. “yes, ma’am.” the younger girl looked down on her shoes. “i think it’s a good opportunity for the two of you,” the old woman pointed to the two students. “to get along. you two are really gifted, and i don’t want our school to lose this or get humiliated just because you two have beef with each other for reasons unknown.”

y/n was sweating under her jacket and she gulped as the woman walked away, letting them know her decision was final. katsuki breathed out a deep sigh, face-palming. “what are we gonna do now? knowing that bitch, she’ll tell everyone we said yes.”

y/n didn’t bother to argue with the blonde, she knew he was right. the crowd near the gate starts to disappear and she leaves without responding to katsuki. she doesn’t know where the fuck he got the confidence to talk to her so casually. more like she wished she didn’t know.

she knew that he knew.

and he knew that she knew too. 

so simple yet so complicated.

class dragged out and y/n hasn’t spared a single glance at katsuki. she’s done this almost everyday since she met him, so it was easy to do. if only he’d stop staring into her soul, knowing she can see him in the corner of her eye. 

katsuki’s always liked to stare, though he had nothing to stare at. and now he does, even he doesn’t like how much he’s staring. he’d snap out of it, curse himself and y/n too while he’s at it, then get caught in a daze while staring at her again. 

multiple teachers approached them and individually asked them about the competition, their answers were the same the whole time, a bland “yeah, we’re competing as the duo.”

the students sat in their last class, blabbering around and not caring anymore. it was the last class, after all. they were tired and wanted to go home, but of course, they can’t. at least not yet. y/n didn’t feel like listening, she was tired too. doodling in her notebook, her heart drops when the professor calls her name. fuck, i don’t know the answe-

“oh. and mister bakugou too. i think it’s for the competition, the principal wants you two.” the old male lets out an intrigued hum. “don’t you guys hate each other?” y/n and katsuki walked out the room silently, filling the room with embarrassment on the professors side. 

the female walked on the other end of the corridor, she didn’t like katsuki at all. his mere presence makes her gag, and she knows it’s the same for him too. that’s why they opted to stay as far away from each other as possible.

the ash blonde walks into the principal’s office with y/n hot on his trail. “take a seat.” the principal said, not looking up from his paperwork. “listen, you two. i heard a lot from teachers about how you compete with each other, but the both of you are the smartest duo here. all i want is for you two to study together and pass the quizzes as best as you can. you don’t even have to get along! and your grades will be perfect A+’s for the whole month, and if you win, maybe i’ll extend to a month more.”

y/n and katsuki’s eyes widened at the offer, it was so tempting. and education always came first before pride anyway. “fine, i’ll do it.” y/n was the first to speak while katsuki just nodded his head.

“it’s settled then.”

[ timeskip ]

y/n plopped down on her bed. the two of them got sent home early and were forced to share socials with each other. they were also granted permission to use the library whenever they wanted, and were given the schedule to study together from their last two classes until whenever they liked. and before going their separate ways, she told katsuki to text her a plan if he had one.

her phone dings and she automatically assumed it was him. and it was. just... a little more lewd. definitely not what she was expecting.

y/n cussed, “since when the fuck did i let this stupid fucking site give me notifications?” katsuki’s heavy breathing and occasional grunts boomed through her speaker and she hurried to click off it, until her eyes landed on his cock.

from what seemed like it, he had already cum once, the white liquid dripping from his slit down his lenght. y/n can’t seem to tear her eyes from the way he stroked his cock, so gentle yet so rushed, so... satisfying.

she shakes her head and kicks herself out of her absurd train of thoughts, thumb hovering over the ‘X’ on the top left of the site. “have you joined the live, pretty face?” she flinches when she heard his raspy voice, thighs unconciously rubbing together and panties already soaked. 

“i hope you have, fuck. been thinking about you all day, mhmm~ why don’t you drop your little comments for me?” she could practically hear the smirk in his words, and it irritated her. but fuck, if he wasn’t so attractive. his perfectly sculpted body, his voice, and that pretty cock. it was that fucking cock.

“are you touching yourself, pretty face? you better. this live’s all for you.” katsuki moaned out, stroking himself faster. y/n watched as the chat went crazy, all of them confessing their sins to him like he was some sort of God.

and maybe he was, cause she found herself running a finger through her wet folds as she watched the camboy play with his tip. she shoves a finger inside, moaning with him before moving in and out parallel to his strokes. 

katsuki comes again, his strokes coming to a half. he pants before smirking, “pretty face, lookie here.” he shows a fleshlight to the camera, his tip prodding at the toys entrance. y/n slowly adds another finger as he sunk the toy down onto his cock, both of them moaning.

they both fuck themselves into oblivion while thinking of each other, katsuki’s hips violently fucking into the toy as he hissed, “fuck, i bet your pussy feels a lot better.” y/n felt her cunt clench around her finger at the statement as she started to rub her clit as well. 

she orgasms a little bit before katsuki shot his load into the toy, both their movements halting as they tried to catch their breath. she types in a comment before finally exiting the site, feeling slightly disgusted of what she just did. she shudders and opts on taking a shower before napping.

“you dirty little thing.”

katsuki felt his cock twitch at y/n’s comment. he ended the live right after, knowing she probably left already. the notifications for money he hoarded sat heavy on his account and he smiled, cleaning himself up after. the image of her with her legs open, her fingers buried deep in her cunt and her moaning uncontrollably was all that filled katsuki’s brain.

and he fucking hates it. he hates how much power the desires of his cock had over him when he was horny.

and the only desire his cock had was her.

next part I masterlist

taglist:

@princesspeach-00 @tamakisropebunny @bakugous-mamas @ll379333 @j1-914 @gazelle-des-pres @trashpandainahat @dickinson-67 @victoriaestein @amelie-chan @your-worst-obsession [ cannot tag last two ]

[onthemeander]

ACOTAR Review

I have to start off by just mentioning that this book was heavily suggested to me. I only ever heard praise of the plot, characters, and the romantic message at its core. I feel this needs to be brought up because it was the fuel for the utter frustration I felt while reading this book. A frustration at my core that drove me to write my first ever review, so thanks for that.

Let’s start with the Pros of this book.

It is an easy read. I can inhale 300 pages in only two days. It is a good relaxing read if that’s what you are looking for. The kind of book you can curl up with on a rainy Sunday and just pass the free time if you're burned out on binging Netflix.

Okay, that’s it for the Pros. Now onto the Cons.

This book, a loose reimagining of Beauty and the Beast, feels like it has been written by a 50 shades of grey fan who hates Disney princess movies because the princesses are not “tough” enough. This novel comes off as the edgy version of a fantasy world that wants to include all the dark sides of life but doesn’t want to address the life long lasting implications of those dark actions. I am looking at you Ryhsand. Oh and I will go in on him later but first let's talk about our heroine.

Feyre is a young girl whose family has fallen onto hard times and it is her single minded goal to keep them all alive. They live hand to mouth, off the game she manages to hunt in a rather inhospitable forest. One day while trying to kill a Doe she sees a massive wolf and decides to kill it as well, as it was making eyes at her doe and a girl is hungry.

She kills the massive creature and takes both animals home to skin and prepare for meals. The money and food ensuring that her family won’t starve for at least a few weeks if they ration properly. Days later another more terrifying monster comes to her cottage, a Fairy in beast form by the name of Tamlin, who says she killed his friend. Now, because she killed a fairy, she can either die or come live with him for the rest of her life. She takes the later… obviously.

Feyre is a fine enough protagonist, bland enough that you can imagine yourself in her position and fantasize about having two hot men chasing you. In my younger years, I would have happily daydreamed about being in her world, surrounded by magic but being personally skilled enough to not need the aid of magic.

A pet peeve, a totally personal bias, is that to her everything is just the worst. Her Sisters are awful, her dad useless, the cottage disgusting, hunting she hates it, the fairies vile, the Spring Court a prison, and so on. The issue isn’t so much that she has a negative mindset, that is human and that can make for an interesting shade of protagonist but in this novel, it is so one-note. Everything is described with the same level of disdain. Which makes moments where she talks about having to protect her family or Tamlin honestly confusing because with how little she seems to like them the reader is left wondering why? Because of a promise she made? To a mom she hates?

Listening, family relationships are complicated. The best line I’ve heard about a relationship similar to Feyre’s, comes from the movie Ladybird, where the titular character tells her mother “I know you love me but I don’t think you like me.” Maybe it’s the fact it’s a movie and the way it is said but it is hurt there. There is a pain in the girl’s voice that her mother and she are at odds.

Feyre at no point talks about the personal pain that comes from being so distant from her family. She just resents them. Even a short moment of remembering the better days, little memories of when her and Nestia playing together as kids or Elane showed her something in the garden. Something that shows that there is, even for the briefest moment love in these relationships.

Without those moments, Feyre’s flip-flopping between going home and staying at the Spring Court feels more like padding to extend a book that saved all of the interest for the last 3rd.My bigger issue with Feyre is she doesn’t seem to really think so much as exist and react in the world. For a series that many have commended for being about feminist agency, Feyre lacks more agency than a rock in a river. At least then the water has to move around the rock.

A story based around Beauty and Beast is always going to bring into question the nature of female agency. This French fairy tale was written in 1740, in a women's magazine, meant to help teach girls about their ultimate futures. In a society where women were the property of fathers and husbands. It urged girls to look at their “beastlike” husbands and try to find the good in them. To become okay with the fact that who they marry might treat them terribly but means well… maybe this book is a perfect adaption of that idea, but I digress.

Feyre is whisked away to this magical world and through her, we learn about the fairy world. A world of violence, court games, and so much sexual assault.

While in the spring court she is tricked by a mirage of her father, nearly eaten by Naga’s, threatened multiple times by basically everyone, sees a fairy die from its wings being ripped off, finds a severed head in the garden, and so on. Whenever she expresses confusion on what is happening there is always a Fairy there to monologue away the day with detailed pages long exposition.

She readily accepts any explanation of the fairy world a man, in particular, tells her. Its exposition for the readers but for a girl who has grown up in a world that believes fairies are violent and enslave humans she is so quick to accept everything they tell her. She doesn’t stop and questions intentions and if she does wonder about the intentions of a character she usually ends on the side of being favorable to them, l especially if they are attractive.

It's clear that Feyre isn’t there to be a character but a vehicle, an avatar for the reader to travel from point A to B. She never reacts to things in a way that a person of this world with such polarized groups would react to being forced to live in the enemy camp.

Then there is Tamlin. He is fine. Your standard brutish romantic interest that is cursed to be ugly forever, by way of the phantom of the opera mask. He is demanding and haughty and thinks he knows better than everyone. Your standard High Lord ego makes for the verbal back and forth that toes the line between sexual tension and toxic relationships.

He does that standard bodice-ripping shtick, while hopping up on fairy dust, he pins Feyre to the wall and bites her neck. She says no, he ignores and then runs off. With a lovely little moment later blaming her for leaving her room, therefore, he can't be held responsible.

While Feyre has probably never listened to a single rule in her life that is still a huge red flag.

Lucien, an interesting play on the Beast’s servants. He is torn between wanting Feyre around to break the curse but also hating her for killing a friend. Honestly, I think this could have been the most interesting relationship if there was more time devoted to it. That happens a lot in this book, interesting things happen too fast and a lot of time is just devoted to Feyres’ water bowels.

Finally Ryhsand, oh dear Rhy, how I wish I could cut you from my mind just as easily as you pop other Fairies brains. Rhys is not a bad character but his introduction into the book is right when this 400+ novel went from bland but inoffensive to outright infuriating. He is the triple threat of assault; Mental, Physical and Sexual.

We first meet the Lord of the Night Court at the Fire Festival (or in honor of Maas naming conventions Fyre) where he saves Feyre from a trio of Fairies that wanted to assault her. A fine enough intro, maybe a bit overused, but I liked the Howl’s moving castle vibes with the playboy swagger and not knowing why this guy is helping at all.

I was excited at first when he showed up, I couldn’t help but get online and see what fans had to say about the books and instantly noticed that the top pairing from the series was Feyre and Rhys. Not just a fan-loved pairing but an actual canonical couple. I was interested to see how the story went and how the author would hint at this future couple while the current story was still very much pointing to a Tamlin happy ending.

Imagine my surprise when the very next scene that Rhys pops up in, ends with him physically pinning Feyre and mentally assaulting her. I believe she refers to it as a talon in her mind ready to rip her consciousness into oblivion. What a great love interest.

To add insult to literal injury, he then mentally violates her and reveals all of her more adult desires that she has been thinking about Tamlin.

He blackmails them all, threatening to tell an evil queen, Aramantha, about Feyre’s existence unless Tamlin kneels and begs. Even then he demands Feyre’s name. She lies and gives him a girl’s name from her village.

Later we learn that the village girl, Claire, has her family burned alive in their home and is dragged to the Fairy world where she is brutally tortured, mutilated, and put on display like a bear pelt. This cruelty is all the result of Rhys not keeping his fat mouth shut about Feyre being in Tamlin’s court.

The author thinks it's okay to excuse this innocents girl's murder away and make Rhys seeming cunning, by saying that he knew that wasn’t Feyre and lied to protect her. A logic so backward I am surprised my spine didn’t snap in how far it had to bend to dodge the fact that he caused her endangerment by telling Aramantha about Feyre to begin with.

Things get darker than the night court once we enter under the mountain. There, while trying to survive Aramatha’s trials, Feyre breaks her arm to the point that the bone is exposed. A day later, bleeding out, in pain, and feverish from infection, Feyre has to talk to Rhys in her cell. He offers to heal her arm in exchange for her living with him every month for two weeks.

Feyre is not interested in his deal and tells him to leave several times. What does our future perfect mate decide to do then when denied what he wants? He grabs Feyre by her exposed arm bone and twists. This man. This sexy dream boy that so many people say is their model for relationships, grabs an injured woman’s exposed bone and tortures her. Just so she will promise to live with him. He is the little boy kicking the dog because it didn’t follow his orders.

After being physically assaulted in a way that is so painful I am sure most people would black out, Feyre agrees to his deal. However, she bargains the time down to one month. He agrees and seals the deal. Just like that Rhys becomes the male embodiment of a period, complete with all the emotional distress, muscle cramps, and blood.

So does the torture end there? Oh no. For several nights after that he makes servants strip her, paint her and dress her in fabric so thin that she is basically naked. Why paint you ask? Rhys claims it is so she and he knows if anyone touches her. Though I will say that while he states this he touches her shoulder and the paint magically fixes itself. So You know it will show if anyone but Rhys touches her.

He then parades her publicly in front of the entire court like a toy. She is forced to publicly expose her breasts and genitals to a crowd of people that from day one want to see her die. He reduces her to a sex object in a crowd that already does not see her humanity.

Then he drugs her. Not an exaggeration, he even admits to it later in the book. He forces her to drink wine that makes her blackout. The next morning she can barely remember anything and has to rely on Lucien to tell her what happened. While blacked out she is forced to dance practically naked, giving Rhys lap dances and just sitting in his lap. She is exposed so throughout that Lucien even comments that he has seen more than he ever wanted to.

All of this culminated in a moment where one-night Feyre gets a moment with Tamlin, the man she loves, and they kiss and touch each other. The paint is smeared and Rhys finds them. He tells Tamlin to leave and then pins Fyre again calling her a stupid human. Then shoves his own tongue down her throat against her will as she thrashes. Aramantha finds them then and makes sure everyone in the court gets a good laugh at Feyre’s “promiscuity”.

The act is disgusting but what really made me want to burn this book was the scene directly after this. Where Rhys shows up and gives his “reasoning” for abusing her. He was just protecting her because Aramantah would be mad if she found Feyre and Tamlin kissing. He was using her nude dances to try and anger Tamlin so he would fight back when he can. He drugged Feyre so she wouldn’t have to remember the humiliation of being someone's harlot. He did all of it to help her and him.

It's okay that he abused her because it was all for a greater plan. It's okay cause he is hot.

This is the moment when I have to step away from the book review and talk about what I have seen surrounding this novel. I have heard several fans explain away Rhy’s abuse by saying “but it was in her best interest” and “that’s what war does'”. So, let's unpack that, first “in her best interest” is basically the catchphrase of every abusive partner at this point. There will always be a reason for the abuse, it’s a gaslighting tactic that ensures that abusers can deflect any blame from themselves and onto their victim. This creates complicated emotions that will paralysis the abused person from leaving the relationship altogether.

If you find yourself in a relationship where you are always rationalizing away mistreatment then please take a step back and question why there are so many excuses to begin with.

As for the but war does that. I would like these same people to say that while looking at photos of real war atrocities. To look at images from the Nanjing Massacre or the Wounded Knee Massacre and say the same thing. Those acts of violence against men, women, and children were done during the war. Does that make it okay then if the violence was done by an attractive soldier who was deep and brooding?

I have a tendency to write my own preferred scenarios which I know is kind of pointless for a published book but fix fit fiction is a thing so hear me out.  Or don’t, that’s fine you can stop reading here as the review is over. I just have one simple idea that could fix a lot of my problems with this series.

Separate Rhysand into two separate characters.

Make the man she meets at the Fyre Festival and the guy who threatens her in the mansion and under the mountain just different guys.

You can keep the dark cunning mystery man of the Fyre Festival, maybe not even name him until he shows up again in the court to help. Have him come to her cell and offer his help. Have her say no and instead of grabbing her exposed arm bone he just says it’s the only help she will get. Hell Feyre talks herself into anyways after he grabs her bone so let's just skip that violence. Have her agree just as he is about to leave and give her the stupid arm tattoo and save her life. Then that’s it. He shows up at the end to help her but that’s it.

The man who meets her in the cell does not need to be the same man who forces her to do stripteases in front of hundreds of people. Make it Attar or some other male henchman of Aramantha who makes her do the dancing and drinking and everything else.

You still want him to be cunning and calculating? Maybe have a little bit of the grey morality that makes us all squirm?  Great than keeping the scene with the forced kiss (not great but whatever). That is easier to overlook than drugging, sexual harassment, and assault.  He can be forcibly kissing her to protect her and hell let's throw in an apology for fun.

Then you set up a situation where you have this dark and mysterious figure who we still don’t know why he helps her.

I know people say wait till book two and I do plan to read it. I got to see what excuse the author comes up with that seems to explain away so much abuse. What could she possibly say that makes me sit back and say “You know yes he pimped her out and yes he pulled on an exposed bone but you know what he just suuuuuuch a good guy.” If she is that good of an author then she should become a PR writer who makes spin articles for R. Kelly and Harvey Weinstein.

[sirspud]

BREAKING NEWS

We interrupt your regular broadcast for more shitty wish-fulfillment fanfiction written by Australian dipshit, SirSpud. Links to this atrocity are found below, and an excerpt of this nightmare is under the banner.

Fanfiction.Net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13615322/11/Pokemon-Diamond-and-Pearl-An-Abridged-Novella AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24725101/chapters/81455863

Floaroma Town was, by popular opinion, one of the most beautiful villages in Sinnoh. The place was home to a massive flower meadow that sent wonderful aromas through the town, making it a retiree’s dream and a pollen allergist’s nightmare. It was here that the Floaroma Spring Contest was starting to begin in earnest. Stalls were being set up, coordinators were practicing, and a small army of TV crews had invaded the normally quaint and quiet town, trampling the local scenery in the name of ‘cinematic shots’.

It was here that our heroes had just arrived, having made their way through the Ravaged Path and through the light forestry of Route 204 to arrive in this picturesque little village. Like any Pokémon trainer worth their salt, their first stop was to the Pokémon centre for some healing, cheap food, and a well-deserved break.

It was here that Ash and Dawn sat at a small table in the communal area. They were currently waiting on Brock to finish up with his business, whatever that was, and had each bought a rather bland pasta dish, covered with cheese and sporting a few vegetables that had been boiled to oblivion. Beside them, sitting on the ground, Pikachu and Piplup ate from their bowls of dry, tasteless kibble, trying to pretend that they were instead enjoying Brock’s cooking.

“So…” Ash started to say, trying to break the silence that had settled upon them like a blanket of awkwardness. “New contest, huh?”

“Yup.” Dawn nodded, scooping a spoonful of terrible pasta into her mouth. “Hopefully it’ll go better than last time.”

“It should do. You’ve been practicing every morning, right?”

“Urgh. I tried to.” Dawn groaned. “But I’ve been having really bad dreams lately, so I wake up and I’m not in the right headspace for it.”

“Really?” Ash said sympathetically. “How come?”

Dawn looked up from her meal with pointed, deliberate slowness to give Ash an accusatory glare of disdain.

“Oh. Right.” Ash looked away for a moment. “…Sorry.”

“…It’s fine.” Dawn sighed. “The fact that Pachirisu still isn’t listening to me isn’t helping either.”

“Ah, that stuff just comes with time.” Ash said dismissively. “When I started out, Pikachu didn’t listen to anything I said. He got a bit better after we almost drowned and got attacked by a flock of Spearrow, but it still took a long time before we trusted each other.”

“…Sweet son of Arceus, dude.” Dawn looked up at her friend in concerned disbelief. “How many times have you almost died?”

“I prefer to think it in terms of how many times I haven’t died.”

“That means the same thing!”

The sliding doors from the atrium slid open, interrupting their conversation. Brock walked slowly over to their table, clutching his lower back in pain. Croagunk followed by his side, his ever-present creepy grin upon his face.

Ash looked at Brock as he came to the table. “…Nurse Joy?”

“…Maybe.” Brock replied reluctantly, sitting next to Ash and wincing as he did so. “I think he might’ve actually poisoned me this time.”

“So, was that why you wanted to do your stuff alone?” Dawn asked, unimpressed. “So you could harass the local single women unjudged?”

“Not originally, no.” Brock sighed. “I wanted to give both of your parents a call to let them know about the Hunter J situation, but the reception here is awful. Couldn’t even get a connection.”

“…Oh. Cool.” Dawn replied, trying to hide her alarm. “Uh, weird question, but… why would you do that?”

“Yeah, why?” Ash added quickly, almost panickily.

Brock raised an eyebrow. “…Because that’s the responsible thing to do?”

“Yeah, but, like, I can do that.” Dawn said hurriedly, chuckling nervously. “You don’t have to call her, I can call her on, like, my Pokétch!”

“Mm… hm.” Brock folded his arms at her. “So, why don’t you call her now?”

It was almost issued like a challenge. Dawn opened her mouth, closed it, then she spluttered, “Well, why doesn’t Ash call his parents on his PokéDex, huh?”

“Can’t. I don’t have an internet license.” Ash explained.

Dawn stared at him for a moment, trying to make sense of what he said. Quickly giving up, she said, “Okay, well… maybe I don’t have reception here either! Did you think about that?”

“The Pokétch uses a different network than the phones here, doesn’t it?” Brock asked neutrally.

“Different doesn’t mean better!” Dawn replied defensively, holding up the hand that held the watch and pointing at the device. She heard the atrium doors open again, but she ignored them. “This thing can barely reach people a hundred feet away! There’s no way it can hold a conversation all the way to Twinleaf Town! It also can’t send texts, or set alarms, or… tell me what date it is…”

Dawn lowered her hand and looked down at the device, hesitantly admitting, “…It actually kinda sucks.”

“I see you’re still the ideal model for financial independence.” A boyish voice said from the side.

“Shut up, Kenny.” Dawn replied automatically, turning around in annoyance. “If I wanted your sass, I-”

Dawn blinked in surprise as she registered who had just spoke to her. It was a young boy, around about the same age as her, sporting a green t-shirt with white stripes worn atop a long-sleeved undershirt that was also green, but a little darker. His hair was an unkempt dark auburn mess, his eyes a blackish-brown, and his face sported a mischievous grin.

“Kenny!” Dawn cried with delight, immediately leaping up to embrace him.

The boy spread out his arms welcomingly. “Dee-Dee!”

Dawn skidded to a stop, shutting her eyes tight in a grimace.

“I hate you so much.” Dawn growled exasperatedly as Kenny burst into laughter. “Why won’t you let me forget that?”

Kenny chuckled. “Hey, you stop reacting to it, I’ll stop teasing you.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s how it works!” Dawn snapped. “That’s like a mugger going, ‘Hey, I’ll stop robbing you if you stop defending yourself’!”

Kenny smirked at her, and though she tried, Dawn couldn’t keep up the irritation for long. She broke back into a smile and embraced him.

“I missed you, dude.” Dawn sighed.

“Me too.” Kenny said as the two friends let go of each other. “I thought you were going to tell me when you started your journey!”

“…Not gonna lie, I actually completely forgot about that.” Dawn said sheepishly. “First few days were… pretty intense.”

“Wow.” Kenny folded his arms, an expression of mock hurt on his face. “I can’t believe you’d just betray me like that.”

Dawn smirked, folding her arms right back. “You really wanna talk to me about betrayal? Who was it, again, who only remembered his best friend’s birthday at the last minute?”

“Erm…”

Dawn looked back at the others, who were kind of just staring awkwardly.

“I don’t wanna be rude, but… we don’t know who this is.” Ash said.

“Ah.” Dawn stepped to the side. “Ash, Brock, this is Kenny Greenfield – my best friend stroke tormentor.”

“Yo!” Kenny greeted.

[firewoodfigs]

into each life some rain must fall 

Six times he stands before a grave in the rain, grieving. But this time, courage is reborn. [5+1 Things] 

read on ao3 

i.

Riza Hawkeye is terrifying. This is the first thought that crosses Roy’s mind when he sees her slicing up the carcass of a chicken (or is it a duck?) without even flinching. So when it rains that day, he doesn't think it’s necessary to find her, in hopes of passing her an umbrella. Truthfully, he doubts someone like her is even capable of catching the common cold.

Perhaps it’s childlike bravery, or sheer stupidity, but Roy decides to search for her anyway. He can think of many reasons why this is an awful idea. First, Roy knows he’s kind of good-looking, the same way he knows he’s sort of ingenious and incredible. But he also knows his aunt is paying a lot of money for his lessons, and that he’s here to learn; not to chase girls or get a girlfriend. Second, he knows from his sisters’ stories that the female imagination is capable of unimaginable things, and he most certainly does not want her, of all people, to get the wrong idea.

If word ever gets out about the little stunt he’s about to pull, his sisters would never let him live it down.

But thunder rumbles in the distance, and rain pelts down incessantly, relentlessly. It’s enough to make even a grown man shiver. So he jogs over to her school in quick strides, searching for a socially awkward urchin with messy golden hair and a terrifying glare.

Roy only manages to find her in the end, after what must have been hours of searching. She’s not at school, no. She’s kneeling in front of a tombstone with a bunch of wilted freesias and roses, staring blankly at the inscription written on it.

He says nothing, only lifts his umbrella over her grieving form and lets half of himself get drenched.

Miss Hawkeye glares at him when she finally notices his presence, but accepts the umbrella begrudgingly nonetheless. As she turns around to face him, he sees rivulets streaming down her cheeks, and Roy wonders if it's the rain or her tears.

She rubs her eyes impatiently. “It’s just the rain,” she insists, even though the umbrella shields her from the raging storm overhead.

ii.

Master Hawkeye dies in his arms after begging him to take care of his daughter. He’s only twenty, halfway through the academy and still unacquainted with death. He’s too stunned to care about decorum and propriety and honorifics at the moment, and ends up yelling for Riza to come.

She appears a moment later, hair still a dishevelled, dampened mess; knuckles white from gripping the doorframe so hard. Her eyes are hollow and she’s too numb, too shocked to say or do anything as she stares at her father’s unnaturally still form.

For a long while, nothing he says seems to elicit any kind of response from her. It’s almost like she’s catatonic; trapped in another dimension where he can’t reach her.

He ends up taking care of the burial and the estate and everything else.

The funeral passes by in a haze. It’s a small, quiet affair. His master has never had many (or any, actually) friends to begin with, anyway, given his eccentricity and preference for seclusion.

Roy stays by her side before a gravestone again afterwards. It’s a sunny day. She doesn’t kneel this time; only stares quietly at the name engraved on it like it belongs to a stranger rather than a father.

To his dismay, he learns that, unlike him, she has no other living relatives or family to turn to. How lonely must it be, then, being trapped in this nondescript, deserted town all by herself?

So he offers her his contact details; his dreams and aspirations for the future as an excuse for them to maintain some semblance of a friendship. It’s probably closer to an acquaintanceship, given that they hadn’t really spoken much even during his stay at the Hawkeye manor. Either way, it’s better than being all alone, he thinks.

In exchange, Miss Hawkeye simply responds with a small, sad smile before asking if she can entrust her back to his dream; offering her own naive ideals and hopes for a better, brighter future.

And then, she unbuttons her blouse as soon as they return to the manor to unveil an intricate array begging to be deciphered. For all his brains and talents Roy can only stare, shell-shocked.

What the hell had his master done?

The sky begins to weep for the abuse she’s endured for the sake of bearing an alchemist’s legacy. But the misty rain can’t wash away the ink splaying out like blood on her back; the pain she must have suffered during the excruciating procedure.

“I’m sorry,” is the only thing he can say to break the silence that hangs over them like a death sentence, as he crosses the distance between them to ghost his fingers over the apology inscribed onto her back.

Miss Hawkeye offers him an impassive shrug. “It… it doesn’t matter,” she mumbles, but her shoulders are quaking and her hands are trembling as she grips on to her blouse for dear life.

iii.

The war finally ends. Rain descends from the heavens like drops of silver after what must surely have been hell on earth. A rarity, Roy thinks, where condensation in the air is caused only by blood, not water. A gift from the gods (do they exist?), perhaps. He lifts his palms heavenward, as if begging for the rain to wash away his sins; his scars and his very soul.

It doesn’t. A soldier like him now inured to violence and gore doesn’t deserve such a reprieve.

At the very least, though, the Hero of Ishval is grateful that it renders him useless. A hero. The title sits uncomfortably on his tongue, in his gut. He’s nothing more than a murderer; a monster, and he doesn’t want any medals of gold or glory emblazoned across his military garb. Not when they’re just symbols celebrating death and destruction.

Roy watches from the distance as a sorrowful silhouette with a familiar tuft of blonde hair kneels over a makeshift grave.

“An Ishvalan child, shot and left to die on the roadside alone,” she explains reverently with a forlorn smile, when he inches closer to ask whether it’s a fallen comrade.

He swallows thickly. God, if only he’d kept his ugly mouth shut back then. Then maybe she’d still just be shooting birds and rabbits and antelopes. Maybe she’d still be making chicken soup for dinner now (imagining the smell of cooked meat is enough to make him nauseous). Maybe she’d still be stuck in the raffish countryside; in that countrified, eerie manor all by herself.

Being alone, he thinks, is still infinitely better than being surrounded by cadavers in a deluge of blood-stained sand.

The… sniper (The Hawk’s Eye leaves an awfully bitter taste in his mouth, like he’s biting a bullet) clenches her fist when she’s done, before asking him for the impossible.

“I have a favour to ask of you, Mr. Mustang,” she begins. “Please burn and crush my back.”

“There’s no way I can -” Roy replies immediately, almost yelling. How in the world could he burn her flesh, with the alchemy he’d learnt from her back?

“Please,” she says, begging for him to liberate her from the bonds chaining her to a deceased man so that she can be her own person. Just Riza Hawkeye, not the keeper of her father’s secrets.

“Damn it,” Roy curses under his breath. She makes it sound like it’s her fault for entrusting her father’s research to him. But isn’t he the one who had abused the power entrusted to him; defiled her trust, destroyed her hopes of everyone getting their happy ending somehow?

And yet... endings like these only exist in grand castles and fairy tales. Not in arid, scorched deserts, and most certainly not in their horror stories of ruthless murder and bloody genocide and endless strife.

If only he’d been a little less foolish back then. If only.

Roy relents.

iv.

Rain pours down in heavy, roaring torrents when he burns her back. Roy wishes it could fall through the roof somehow; douse the fire eating her at her flesh so he doesn’t have to hear her suppressed screams that come out as whimpers as she bites down on an old, ragged cloth. It breaks his heart to burn her, a friend he’s come to cherish and appreciate through all the hell they’ve endured together over bland coffee and stale bread.

But he does so anyway. Because it’s what she wants - no, what she needs. He lets the massive downpour swallow the sounds of their cries; lets the wind carry away the lethal secret that has killed hundreds (or thousands?) into the dark, endless void.

“It… it’s done,” Roy whispers breathlessly at last. He removes the burnt tissue carefully, mindful of her quivering frame before covering them with sterile dressings. Then, he gives her the painkillers he’d gathered from the apothecary, which she eagerly swallows.

He doesn’t dare meet her eyes while she’s still conscious, fearing that he’ll only see hatred swimming in them. How could she not, after all that he’s done? He wouldn’t blame her, to be honest. She has every right to, and he deserves every ounce of it.

Fortunately, the medicine kicks in quickly. Roy kneels before her half-lucid form as her eyelids begin to flutter shut. God, he wants to beg for forgiveness, but...

“I forgive you,” she murmurs sleepily even before he says anything, before finally falling into painless oblivion. Roy stays by her side, nervously close and gentle as he wipes her forehead with a cool, damp cloth to make sure a fever doesn’t develop.

Afterwards, he goes to her parents’ grave to beg them for forgiveness; to repent for all that he’s done to their daughter.

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t fulfil your last wish, Master,” he cries, filled with regret that he hadn’t listened to his warning back then. The stones only stare back at him wordlessly. Self-reproach swallows him whole, the way squalls of driving rain completely engulf him.

A little less than a month later, Riza Hawkeye marches into his office, stoic and stalwart with an unrivalled expertise in guns and an unyielding duty to the living and the dead. He’s inclined to believe that maybe, just maybe, he can make the necessary reparations and restitutions with her by his side. And so he makes her his personal adjutant; gives her the right to shoot his back if he steps off the path.

It’s the least he can do after he’s defaced hers, after all.

“Will you follow me?” Roy asks apprehensively.

“If that is your wish, then even into hell,” she states, not flinching in the least. He wants to tell her that she’s already been through hell with him, and she doesn’t deserve anymore of that.

Instead, he grits his teeth and looks on ahead resolutely, determined not to let her down this time.

v.

Brigadier General Maes Hughes is buried on a relatively bright afternoon. The sun shines as birds sing and flowers begin to bloom. The spring sky shimmers overhead in a vibrant, cheerful shade of blue like it’s paying an ode to his sprightly nature.

And yet, the ceremony is distinctly somber: it’s filled with soldiers who aren’t allowed to break protocol and say their eulogies and prayers; a wife whose heart is torn asunder, who still yearns for him to return home, and a child who’s far too young to understand that he’s not coming back.

Colonel Mustang stands at attention as the soldiers lower his best friend six feet under. His stomach coils as his heart wrenches. He feels like throwing up again. A part of him wishes his body would stop behaving in this manner so that he can at least attempt to convince himself that this isn’t real; that it’s just a feverish dream which will be chased away by the morning light.

But it’s real. It’s not a dream. Because Elicia, darling Elicia is crying for her father. “Why are you burying Papa?” she yells. “He has to return to his work!”

Roy only barely manages to stop himself from grieving aloud. Years of military training, perhaps. He continues watching quietly as the bugle sounds off in Hughes’ honour instead, and waits for everyone to leave before saying his piece.

Well, almost everyone.

“... Are you alright?” His Lieutenant asks.

“Yes,” he answers unconvincingly. “It’s… it’s a terrible day for rain.”

She looks up at the vast horizon above them, a pretty pastel pink with tender ribbons of lilac streaking across. “It’s not raining -”

“Yes, it is,” he whispers, before donning the military cap once more.

Thankfully, Hawkeye understands. She gives him a moment to grieve, not bothering with senseless platitudes or empty sympathies. A crow caws in the distance, calling for the departed soul of his friend as he stands, uniform dry but cheeks inexplicably damp.

“Let’s go, sir. It’s getting chilly here,” Lieutenant Hawkeye calls gently. Colonel Mustang nods and obliges, leaving his best friend behind in the setting sun.

Daybreak arrives once more, like clockwork. His eyes are raw and red and swollen shut as he mulls over the consequences of ditching work for the day.

Hawkeye turns up at his doorstep with freshly baked bread and a warm cup of coffee just then: the morning light that offers him a brief respite from grief.  

vi.

It’s pouring this time as he stands in front of Hughes’ grave. Somehow, it always does whenever he stands alive before death.

The sky and rain are like sackcloth and ash, Roy thinks, as it falls on his shoulders and shrouds him from the rest of the world in a sad, pearly grey. But he’s been so scared and frustrated and exhausted over the past few months - from losing his closest friend, to dealing with a government corrupt to its very core and an impending nationwide catastrophe - that it’s a welcome relief.

“It’s almost time, Colonel,” comes a gentle voice in the midst of the gloomy darkness.

The downpour gradually lessens into a soft drizzle.

It’s impossible to miss the scent of her, lavender and petrichor masked beneath gunpowder even in this graveyard reeking of death. And it finally dawns upon Roy then, why the time they’d spent apart had felt like an eternity; why it’d pained him so badly like someone was ripping his innards out. Because he loves her. He loves her so much that it pushes out through every fiber of his being; that he almost can’t contain the urge to kiss her; hold her, keep her in his arms forever.

Behind him, he hears her feet shift subtly. Her breathing is weary and slightly laboured. A well-timed reminder that she’s very much alive, not buried underneath soil like the other rotting corpses in this god-awful place.

Roy bites on his lips, hard, to restrain himself from crushing them on hers. They don’t need any more fires between them when they already have enough to extinguish.

But she’s here now, at least, and that’s more than enough. It’s enough for him to keep moving forward despite having buried a part of himself alongside the man he’d seen as a comrade, a friend and a brother. It’s enough for courage to be reborn; for him to face another day with strength and hope.

“Let’s go, Lieutenant,” he says at last, a genuine smile crossing his features for the first time in months. She hesitates for a moment before trailing behind him, footsteps quiet and steadfast. And when they depart the land of the dead (together) to meet the maelstrom awaiting the living he’s not afraid anymore.

[doshmanziari]

Demon’s Souls || 2020 Notes [1]

While replaying Demon’s Souls I thought it’d be fun to describe some of its special qualities and certain differences between it and the Dark Souls series. The latter has almost completely overshadowed the former, to the extent that the first Dark Souls is often treated as the starting point for FromSoftware’s post-PlayStation 2 output, so it is now arguably more worthwhile than ever before to, you know... acknowledge Demon’s Souls’ existence.

• It is a little ironic that the visually darkest of the Souls games is not any of the ones with “Dark” in their title; it is, in fact, Demon’s Souls. Demon’s is full of spaces with utter or near-utter blackness, spaces which only reveal their structural character until you’re a step away from a wall or colonnade. This is an exciting quality on its own, one that makes the areas you’re navigating retain a sublimely threatening aspect separate from that of the mortal threats the enemies pose, and it becomes especially exciting when comparing it to Dark Souls 3′s inappropriate brightness on even its lowest lighting setting.

• Relatedly, Demon’s Souls is the only one of these games which bothers to explain your character’s illuminative capability: a small, brightly glowing stone (perhaps a good luck charm and a practical item) is attached to their hip. Dark Souls 2 and 3 and Bloodborne allow torches to be used (Bloodborne, too, a lantern), but your avatars otherwise exude an inexplicable light.

• The Dark Souls series represents a break from Demon’s Souls’ level design not just by way of its variously realized interconnectivity but also by distancing itself from constricted meandering layouts. Although Demon’s Souls’ areas are organizationally diverse -- one couldn’t be mistaken for another --, there are pervasive architectural motifs such as halls no wider then your person, slim towers or verticalities with staircases or planks tightly winding up and down the walls, and bits where you can miss a thin portal or doorway by not swiveling the camera around your entire immediate surroundings. This is, perhaps, one consequence of differing staff on level design and of Demon’s Souls’ adjacency to the King’s Field series.

• I’ve written before about how adventurous Demon’s Souls is with its boss fights, and I’ll write about it again! Oftener than not, bosses’ rooms are extensions of the preceding level design, rather than stripped down, isolated rings. Think of the church wherein the False Idol appears: this is a struggle where offensive tactics assume equal importance to weaving around the obstructing pews and hiding from magical projectiles among the side aisles. For this trend, we might be able to partly thank a lack of confidence in the mechanics sustaining head-on, arena-based fights. It is also notable that a number of bosses have fairly passive designs (e.g., Phalanx, Adjudicator, Storm King, Maiden Astraea, the Dragon God in its final phase, or King Allant). Opponents can be vulnerable and pitiable, creating an emotional variety and accentuating the narrative of us being the “demon” in the game’s title.

• Demon’s Souls doesn’t allow you to access the Nexus, the game proper, without firsthand experiencing your own death. Dark Souls shows your person as having already hollowed; Dark Souls 2 marks your entry into Drangleic with a cinematic wherein you pass through the threshold of a vortex; Dark Souls 3 shows you rising from your grave. Bloodborne may be the closest to Demon’s Souls: most of us will have likely died our first before coming across a lamp, and thus will be introduced to the Hunter’s Dream -- Bloodborne’s home base -- by death; but this is still unlike Demon’s Souls, which establishes a significantly fatalistic atmosphere with this moment of utter requisition.

• With its visuals’ technical effects (e.g., the warm, distinct halos surrounding candles’ flames), the muted palettes, and the plain attire of other characters and architecture -- often severe, and lacking any ornamentation or just minimally articulated -- Demon’s Souls recalls King’s Field IV. Monolithic sites and structures can impress a domineeringly absolutist effect by their scale and degree of aesthetic anonymity/repetition, and Demon’s Souls’ architecture utilizes this effect in places like Stonefang Tunnel, the Tower of Latria, and the Boletarian complex to create a world capable as much of intimidating as it is of suggesting monomaniacal psychologies and historical dramas.

• Demon’s Souls has the unique, relative to the Dark Souls titles and Bloodborne, contextual mechanic whereby your person can mount a higher tier if you continue walking against the designated rise in terrain. Fall damage is also drastically slight, so you can fall farther distances and survive. To me, these two particularities create a subtly broader sense of exploratory possibility that you don’t get in FromSoftware’s later Eurocentric games, despite Dark Souls’ addition of a running jump mechanic. This sense of possibility is not proportional to what you can actually do; rather, it is about what you feel that the game might allow you to do.

• For a miscellaneous conclusive entry: I went through the 2009 reviews for Demon’s Souls on Amazon a while back to see what English-speaking/writing people were comparing it to. Nowadays, we have the bland, readymade term “Souls-like”, but, a decade and several months ago, Demon’s Souls seemed to many people outside of Japan to have come out of nowhere, making their likenings interesting to read (of note, too: even among the 800+ reviews, spanning from 2009 to 2020, King’s Field is mentioned less than ten times). I recognize that the image is blurry, and have, for accessibility, written the selected quotes out below.

This game strikes out to be a bit of a throwback 1980s style RPG in both difficulty and handholding (or lack thereof). If you played and enjoyed the original Wizardrys, Ultimas, and AD&D *Gold Box* games, this is your ride. This game was designed for you.

This game is not hack n’ slash. I repeat, NOT HACK N’ SLASH. Those of you expecting a game like Diablo 2 or God of War will probably be a little confused when you are getting destroyed by every little puny enemy in game.

I like this game, but I wanted to love it. I was hesitant to own it because I am a little old for hardcore games that everyone praises for their difficulty, but I was persuaded to try it because of fond memories of a wonderfully difficult combat RPG called Severance Blade of Darkness. Unable to find a rental I bought it. Sadly, I think this game does not measure up to the reviews.

The RPG system of Demon’s Souls is quite reminiscent of Vagrant Story’s, allowing players to increases stats and equipment as they like, without following a set path. You must choose a particular class to begin, but you can then develop however you like. It is entirely possible to start as a barbarian and become a mage, or choose to spread your stats equally. The path you choose will, however, have a drastic effect on how the game is played.

This Demons Souls has definately redefined a “HARD” game. Reminds me of the game ICO, yet makes me feel that Im actually there. You may die alot, but each time you do, it is always your fault. I mean this in the literal sense. No more button mashing.

Some people may compare the toughness to games like the Devil May Cry or Ninja Gaiden series, but in my view, although it may be as tough, it’s in a very different way. Whereas with DMC or NG you had to wide awake and really on top of things to both enjoy it and actually get anywhere, I find it’s actually possible to play Demon’s Souls while half asleep. DS is more about being careful and not entering an area until you’re absolutely sure your character is completely prepared.

1st: this game is very much like a modernized old nintendo game, for better & worse. I would liken it even to Deadly Towers(gasp!), but I mean that in the good way. You’re dropped in an extremely difficult gameworld with almost no introduction, you’re character starts out very weak and you need to explore (carefully!) to find some loot that will begin to make you stronger.

Gameplay: It’s hard to describe Demon’s Souls since it feels like something you’ve played before yet you couldn’t think of it if you tried. Essentially imagine the 3rd person swordplay of Oblivion, world traversing of Zelda and RPG elements of pretty much every one you’ve tried in the past 10 years.

[seydaneencensusoffice]

Day 2: Magic

   On the journey from Vvardenfell, by ship from Sadrith Mora to the northern coast of Stonefalls and then by silt strider south across the fungal plane, Araynys busied herself putting the finishing touches on her costume for the masquerade ball to be held on her second night in Mournhold. She had spent the past lonely weeks in the Dagoth stronghold working on it, first laying out the cloth – a slippery, shining silk dyed greenish-blue, the colour of a clear freshwater pool in the forest – over the stone floor of her room, and lovingly cutting and shaping it, then sewing the pieces together by hand with silver thread. She had sung, softly and only to herself, as she worked, and her song made the air around her ripple with magicka, drawing the stronghold cats to her to curl up and bask in the veil of serenity she had created unthinkingly.

   Now, in the hollow compartment of the silt strider’s carapace, concentrating hard to keep her stand steady through the rocking gait of the great arthropod, Araynys sewed the last of the beads onto her costume. They were tiny spheres of glass bought by the scoop in the nearby market; some clear, looking like real preserved water droplets, and others blue and green. As it grew dark, she conjured a glowing ball of light to float about the compartment while she sewed the beads onto the dress in dewy strands that made a soft clinking sound when the fabric shifted over her lap. She had designed the dress so that the beads would fan out around her as she danced; indeed, she had practiced, alone in her room in the stronghold, hoping that her provincial dancing instruction would be up to the standard of the royal court.

   When the caravaner brought the silt strider to a halt, Araynys alighted with a look of wonder on her face and brushed away his suggestion that she take a carriage to her destination.

   “I’ll walk, thank you,” she said, and set off with her trunk through the cobbled streets of the Resdaynian capital. She held her conjured ball of light in the fist of one hand, so that light seeped through her fingers.

   Although it was now evening, and this was her first visit to Mournhold, Araynys was not afraid; she knew that she could cast a shield spell faster than a thief could draw a dagger, and the main streets of the city were lit with enchanted lanterns. Besides, after two years of reading Voryn’s letters, in which he devoted pages of careful detail to Mournhold, its streets, its landmarks, and its people, Araynys felt like she knew it almost as well as Sadrith Mora, where she made frequent trips to buy fabric and alchemical supplies. She was thinking already of how she might contrive to stay in Mournhold beyond the single term she was to study at Shad Astula, the nearby academy of magic. It would certainly please her cousin, who had been trying for years to convince her to come to stay.

   Voryn lived in an upstairs apartment in the temple district, a short walk from the palace walls. Ever since he had become friendly with Sotha Sil and begun to advise the First Council on north-eastern Chimer politics, he had spent much of his time there, and Araynys was sure that she would recognise most of the most important mer at court from the vivid descriptions in his letters. Sotha Sil, a mage and scholar like her cousin, with a line between his eyes from his near-permanent frown; Almalexia, the warrior queen, who was both mighty and fiercely attentive to her subjects; the poet Vivec, whose very presence at court drove the more old fashioned nobles, obsessed with family and blood, mad; and, finally, Nerevar, who was only a soldier when Araynys had met him, years ago when he had come to win the Grandmaster’s support, but who was now the king. Voryn had devoted pages of writing to him alone.

   She was proud of her cousin and pleased that he had managed to escape the anxious, suffocating grip of his father for a promising career at the Resdaynian court, but she had felt his absence keenly over the past years. Out of the eight Dagoth children – four of them the sons of the Grandmaster, with Voryn the second eldest, and four of them distant Dagoth cousins fostered or adopted into his household – Voryn had always been her favourite, and she his. Thus, she was not surprised when she stepped into his apartment, and into his embrace, and felt immediately more at home there than in the place she had left.

   The apartment was small, just several rooms, and looked exactly as Voryn’s bedroom in the Dagoth stronghold always had: dark and cluttered with books and papers and the stubs of candles, melted in on themselves, with his harp standing near the sofa and an assortment of alchemical ingredients drying on every available surface of the living room. Voryn himself looked exhausted, his eyes bracketed with dark circles and his hands stained with pen ink, but he only laughed when Araynys admonished him.

   “Don’t they let you sleep, Voryn?”

   “There’s a lot of work to do,” he said, peevishly.

   She prodded his stomach, about to give a quick retort, but then paused and frowned.

   “Don’t they feed you, either? Come on, I brought some of that spice mix you like, from the market. We can make saltrice dahl.”

   Voryn perked up at that, and the cousins set about cooking their meal together, laughing and bickering and getting in each other’s way, just as they had done all their lives at home. They ate sitting cross-legged on cushions around a low table, their faces warmed by the steam rising from the bowls of spicy dahl in their laps.  

   “So,” Voryn began, speaking slowly and with care, “how is father?”

   “Fine… well, he kicked out another healer and we’re still waiting for the replacement to arrive, but other than that he’s fine. Your stepmother has been making him get out more. You know, I think he expects me to come back with a written report about how you are and what you’re up to. That’s probably why he let me come.”

   Voryn frowned. “You should feel able to do as you like, Rayna. You don’t owe him –”

   “I do. Gilvoth…”

   “Is dead.” A firm edge had crept into his voice. “I wish you would consider staying here, in Mournhold. I’ll be moving to a bigger place soon; you know there’s always room for you.”

   “I am. Considering it, I mean.”

   “Rayna…” Voryn took her hand and squeezed it in gentle reassurance. “You don’t need to feel guilty anymore. You never did.”

   She had to look away for a moment, dashing the back of her free hand across her face.  

   “Thank you, Vorya.”

   That evening, as she prepared for bed in Voryn’s study-turned-second bedroom, which was even more cluttered with books than the rest of the apartment, she found she had little need of her usual protective wards to soothe herself to sleep. Away from the miserable Dagoth stronghold, where Voryn’s surviving brothers fought like cats and the ghost of Gilvoth lurked behind every door, she felt more at peace than she had in years. She would stay. She had to stay – damn the Grandmaster to Oblivion.

   On her second night in Mournhold, before the masquerade ball, a transformation – woven with magic, paint, and costume – took place, and Araynys and Voryn became nereid and dremora. They stood together in front of the grand mirror in Voryn’s bedroom, she in her beaded dress and he in a hooded black robe embroidered with black thread, laughing as they altered their features with Illusion spells.

   “I quite like this look,” said Voryn, as he turned his eyes from gold to blood red.

   “Maybe you should make it permanent.” Araynys slid another pin into her hair to hold her leaf headdress in place. “You’d certainly turn heads that way.”

   “And who says I want heads turned in my direction, Rayna?”

   Araynys waved off his attempt at bland innocence. “Come on. He’ll be there tonight, I presume?”

   “I don’t know who you’re talking about. Now… let me do your hair. It should be blue, don’t you think?”

   “Fine,” she said with a sigh.

   Voryn hid a smile as he ducked behind her and began to work his spell, turning her long black hair, a distinctive Dagoth feature they both shared, cloudy blue.  

   Finally, as they stepped out into the fading daylight and made their way on foot to the palace, Araynys slid her arm through Voryn’s, and she knew that his smile was out of joy in seeing her so happy.

   “How do you like Mournhold so far, cousin?” he asked, and she laughed and titled her head up to the sky, where birds flew in a wide arc home to roost.

   “It’s magic.”

[retphienix]

Well.

That’s that. I’ll make a final quick post but what even is there to say?

Skyrim ends on the limpest noodle of an ending it can. A bethesda tradition- though miles lesser than even Oblivions cutscene ending.

What an ‘okay’ game. A game I truly still don’t understand the intense popularity of. Like, this is a game that often comes up in discussions of Bethesda making their titles more streamlined or ‘mainstream’ or ‘easy’ and honestly, yeah, it’s plenty of that. And I don’t really see anything wrong with that- not my preferred flavor- but also not something I’d remotely push away because it increases accessibility and CAN BE A GOOD THING IN GENERAL.

But this... I just don’t really like this. It’s funny that the point I had stopped at years and years ago was right after capturing the dragon in Whiterun- because that’s like 10 minutes from beating the game and I just stopped because my interest was zero and some new exploits for grinding levels quickly were found that removed the last pittance of enjoyment I was having.

I was harsh on the game back then, and I can’t help but say at least half of that spite was justified. Today though? It’s okay.

It’s purely, entirely, 100%, okay.

It won’t let me role play because the customization limits me in every way that would allow me to better enjoy my character (no custom spells, no athletics or acrobatics, no real reason to do anything but use a bow, and some innovations that should have come to this title way back in 2011 such as buffing weapons with spells aren’t here either which is weird).

It won’t let me role play because every character you could ever have an opinion about is essential so you can’t decide “My character would NEVER take this, they’d take matters into their own hands and kill one to save a hundred”.

It won’t let me enjoy the world because it’s aesthetics are BORING AS HECK and the politics are just laughably annoying. Seriously “Race superiority as a character trait for an entire race of people” isn’t interesting or fun, it’s racism, a boring and easily written trait which I’m gonna hate and you making so many of these racists essential is you telling me that you’re crappy writing is more important than me role playing in your role playing game. I’m not saying “Don’t include that” so much as “Let me DO something about it other than sit there smiling while I listen to your crap writing”.

Dragons are the innovation of this title compared to Oblivion (well, that and removing all fantasy aesthetics for brown and white colors) and they suck. They suck entirely. They aren’t fun to fight. They are the final boss and you saw how it goes- just stand in place waiting on their bulletsponge health bar to go down. Dragons. Suck. In. Skyrim. They are ‘okay’ aesthetically, though I prefer more fantastical interpretations, but they just suck in every other way. Being the only part of the story that matters? Sucks. Gameplay? Sucks. Loot being pretty much just ‘scales and bones to make the strongest armor for yourself and that’s it which in itself makes it so a smith character can be fully equipped a couple hours after starting the game’? Sucks. It’s not fun or interesting.

Music? Sucks. Say whatever you like. I hated the viking chant from the first trailer and every time I turn on the game I despise it, and the other music is just boring.

I’m ranting. The game’s okay. There’s a lot of fun here for the first few hours. Exploring caves is fun for a little bit- but then it quickly becomes a chore. Looting is fun for a little bit, then it becomes pointless. Leveling stuff is fun for a little bit then you realize there aren’t any interesting spells and no custom spells so all you’re doing is leveling attack stats and picking perks that literally just raise your damage, how interesting.

There’s good. Some quests are really well done- heck- Dragonborn was a riling good time throughout with interesting enemies, aesthetics, and questlines! THAT WAS FUN! Fighting a Giant at level 4? FUN! The first time you absorb a dragon soul and everyone cheers? FUN! Heck- that first encounter with a giant spider? FUN!!!!

But then you’re exploring the umpteenth dwarf ruin, or feeling your brain melt as you face yet more falkner, or ask yourself if you want to just use the dragon comman shout on this random encounter dragon so you can walk away and not fight it for pointless loot, or you start asking yourself why spells like candelight or items like torches even have time limits when so many of the locations you enter are dark and drab to the point of inducing a headache, or you get dragged into another quest telling you to care about the Empire vs Ulfric quest which I CAN’T CARE ABOUT FOR THE LIFE OF ME, or any number of things.

But then you see a troll, light them on fire, and it feels good a moment again.

It’s a mixed bag. I don’t hate it nearly as much as I did before, but yeah, still not remotely my jam.

There’s plenty I didn’t do. Version I played can’t support mods so there was none of that- which I’d argue isn’t the point, but also I’d argue ‘good mods make a game better and only exist because of the community so in a way good mods SHOULD be considered a part of the game’ so I don’t know. Irrelevant for me anyway since I couldn’t use em. Didn’t make a house though I know that’s a feature somewhere, I’ll look up a video and feel like I did it myself, it’s fine. I didn’t bother maxing out blacksmithing like I did years back, which means I didn’t bother making dragon armor, but it didn’t seem to matter and I’ve done that before anyway. Didn’t do a lot of things- but most of those things would entail repeating the exact boring complaints I’ve had just to do em- like grinding resources for a house, or clearing more caves for some of the guilds.

Heck, guilds, didn’t do most of them because they don’t interest me as much in this game. Didn’t do thieves because I was burnt out on Riften by the time it became a real option despite that being one of my favorites in Oblivion. Same with Dark Brotherhood. Maybe I’ll revisit to do them but I gotta be real- I’m burnt out on Skyrim’s bland everything, I probably won’t.

But yeah. This was a very negative take away so let me recolor that as best I can.

Skyrim was okay. I had a lot of fun that I didn’t expect to have. I really like my character Senn’Rawg despite the fact this game didn’t let me role play and craft her at all- I would like to revisit her in another game that better lets me, you know, be a person instead of a boring “yes man / no please die” protag. I had a lot of fun. And I had a lot of not so fun times. And now I’m done. I’ll toss a quick post just because but yeah, this wasn’t as painful a revisit as I thought it’d be. I’ve been saying things like that a lot lately- I think it’s because my view on games has grown with me to the point where now I really honestly do look for what the game has to offer despite any flaws, as opposed to seeing flaws and giving up seeing anything good. Too bad my writing didn’t give off that impression in this wrap up, lol.

[theunaccomplishedwriter]

Breaking the Surface - Chapter 1: Cold Awakening

Hello there! Apologies I've been absent for quite a while with my writings but I've had a severe case of life happening. That and writer's block. I've been reading a lot of other people's fics though and this is something I've been thinking about writing for a while. Just glad I've finally got something published after so long! I'll try and keep this updated regularly since life has given me a break for the moment. Please leaves comments and tell me what you think! Any feedback will help me make this work the best that it possibly can be! So, without further ado, enjoy!

"Lance!" Becky yelled, causing Lance to groan and pull the covers over his head as if they could protect him from his already irate girlfriend, something which was becoming a default mode for her, even at the ungodly hour of seven in the morning.

"Lance!" Becky called again. "Lance if you don't get up right now I will come up there and kick you out myself! You know I will!"

With the memories and bruises still fresh from Becky's last gentle attempts to get him out of bed, Lance reluctantly tossed the covers off and groggily got out of bed. Lance still wasn't sure why he had to get up at the same hour that Becky did, it wasn't as if he had anywhere in particular he had to go anyway.

Grabbing a towel and heading towards the shower, he pushed the bedroom door open and mechanically headed towards the bathroom, his brain going on autopilot so he didn't see or hear the despairing look and exasperated sigh Becky tossed at him as his dishevelled frame trudged passed her.

Twiddling with the shower knobs and tentatively placing his paw under the water, Lance stepped into the small cubicle, allowing the water to flow over him as he stood there passively. While Lance knew, and had been reminded by Becky several times that he constantly looked as though he had been dragged through a hedge backwards, Lance did try to make himself somewhat clean and presentable. But, with things going the way they were, there didn't really seem to be too much point in worrying about his general hygiene too much.

Without paying too much attention, Lance went through the motions of lathering his fur with shampoo, rinsing it off and spending an inordinate amount of time drying his fur and spines. He really needed to get fur dryer but he accidentally busted Becky's the other week and Becky wasn't about to lend him his new one, so he'd been stuck with a towel dry for a while now, which was hellish and all but impossible to get his spines done.

Eventually giving up, shaking the excess water off his quills and allowing them to drip dry again, Lance wrapped his towel around himself and chucked his dirty clothes in the washing basket, not wanting another argument about the whole cleanliness thing this early again.

Heading back into the bedroom, with Becky too preoccupied with getting ready for work to give him anymore disparaging looks, Lance rummaged through one of his boxes for some clothes. He didn't blame Ash for dumping his stuff in those boxes and shoving on the street. Well, at the time Lance remembered a lot of colourful words being shouted at the impassive front door but he'd been freaking pissed then.

"She's overreacting." Lance had thought. "It's not like I was going to do anything. She was just jealous. So some other girl likes me. What a fucking surprise! Had she not met me? I'm me! I'm the fucking bomb! Who wouldn't be interested in me! Hell, if I weren't me I'd been interested in me! She just can't handle the fact that she may have some competition. That's it. Just can't hack someone friendly competition. She'll be crawling back soon. This was all temporary. Just a bump in the road. It's not like I'm gonna do anything with Becky. I mean, she's nice and all but, I mean come on! I'm not that fucking shallow! This was all just temporary. Just temporary…"

But she didn't come back. The door remained firmly shut and no matter how loud Lance would shout, no matter how often he texts or called, Ash remained as silent as the grave. Day after day he'd turn up and the same silence was his only reward for all his loud efforts.

He'd been rooming with Becky since he was kicked out. Sleeping on the sofa, obviously. He wasn't in to her. She was nice and liked to play at being a musician, but that's all she was, just someone to play along with. Nothing serious. Nothing permanent. Then he saw the concert.

Becky left but, disparaging her efforts but, as soon as she was out the room, Lance scrambled to the remote to watch her play again. She was… amazing. Her voice. Her guitar skills. Her power. That's what it was. Her sheer, unbridled, unadulterated power. She had those mammals on their feet cheering. Cheering for her. Just her. He watched, jaw slightly dropped until he turned the TV off, walked over to the kitchen, and pulled a bottle of Glenfiddich.

"How can she do this to me?" Lance had thought, chugging down another mouthful of whiskey from the bottle, the bottle nearly empty and an hour being lost to his internal venom. "She fucking needs me! I made her! What's she without me? A two-bit guitar player and I fucking showed her how to play! Could barely strum a G chord when I met her and now she's thinks she's Jimi fucking Hendrix or something! Those people they… they don't know talent if it appeared in front of them with a massive neon sign and a firework display spelling it out with a choreographed display happening round it. Fuck them all! Fuck her! Set free? SET FUCKING FREE! Set free from what?! She wasn't trapped! She didn't fucking escape anything! All I did was tell her a few truths! I'm not the bad guy here! She's the conniving bitch here! I'm the good guy!"

Downing the rest of the whiskey, Lance slowly got up from the sofa, his legs nearly buckling from the sudden movement. Looking to the bedroom where Becky had not re-emerged from, Lance stared at the door for what seemed to be an eternity, his mind contemplating his next move as the alcohol sloshed the rational thoughts out of the way, as he moved towards the door and was thoughts and warnings were consumed by the oblivion of the blackout.

Waking up, he didn't remember what had happened, but he could feel the shame and regret hit him like a freight train. Looking over, he saw Becky asleep, her mouth forming a little smile as she lay next to her guilt-ridden partner. He placed his head back on the pillow, staring up at the bland white ceiling. There was no going back. He didn't mean it, but he couldn't undo it now. He'd become the very thing that Ash had sung about. Someone to escape from. To be set free. And now he'd ensnared another in his web. Whether it was the bottle of whiskey or his feelings, he had to run to the bathroom to get all the bile out of him, knowing whatever he brought out of himself, it would be a mere fraction of what lay within him.

The first few days were so beautiful for Becky. She kissed him so loving every morning, played with him at gigs, made dinners just to show how much she cared. She wasn't the best at any of those things, but she tried. Goddamn she tried. He remembered her saying how perfect everything would be. How their life would be glorious and beautiful, not matter what anyone else said. Their relationship was all that mattered and they would have a life and home that matched. She was so hopeful, so caring, so… fucking naïve.

So here he was. Six months down the line on a dreary September day, still living out of the boxes that his ex had thrown out of their old flat while he lived a half-existence with a girl he never loved and turned her love of him into a deformed and decaying thing, it's colour faded from its early bright hues to a near blackened husk of its former self.

Throwing on his usual get-up, Lance wiped away the last vestiges of sleep and cleared his mind of the bitter thoughts and headed out to get some much-needed breakfast. Schlepping over to the kitchenette, Lance quickly made himself some cereal and planted himself on the sofa, mindlessly skimming through the TV channels.

"Urgh, seriously Lance? Can you not do that at the table?" Becky said, still doing her last touch up of mascara with her pocket mirror.

"'Ow elsh am I gonna watsh the TV?" Lance responded slovenly, every word having to negotiate its way round the cereal in his mouth.

"Ew, that's so disgusting!" Becky grimaced, before turning to check herself in her pocket mirror one last time for any defects in her appearance before snapping the mirror shut, satisfied with her work.

"Sorry." Lance replied, swallowing the food and casting his eyes away from Becky.

"Got any more gigs lined up then?" Becky asked, her tone implying it was more to fill the dead air than out of genuine interest.

"No… nothing yet." Lance eventually muttered in response.

It hadn't been hard to get gigs initially. Becky and he got gigs quite regularly, even becoming the favourites at some bars. For two whole months it had been going fine. Even after Ash's rise to fame their bookings didn't dwindle. They all knew she'd been with Lance but just assumed they'd decided to split and both had gone in different directions. At least, that's what Lancer had been saying. He needed the gigs and, so long as they drew in paying customers, the owners were happy to give them time to play.

But then the article happened.

He'd been woken up by the phone ringing, with a very cold sounding manager telling him not to darken his door again. Three more similar calls later and very little explanations as to why all his gigs were being scratched off led him to search the internet. Maybe someone had written a bad review or something. It wouldn't have been the first but definitely the first that cost him gigs like this.

He didn't need to look far.

It was everywhere. An article with Ash promoting her new album and giving the story behind her hit single. A reveal all story. A reveal all story that included him. A reveal all story that included him that did not put him the best light. Or any light for that matter. It was a character assassination except the assassin in question had not only put a bullet in his head, but rather had dropped an atomic bomb over him. There was not a shred of light of him left, just the pit of blackness that was Lance, the ex-boyfriend who belittled an up and coming star's dreams before galivanting off with some seductress of equal ill repute.

It can't be that bad, right? Lance thought. I mean, who hasn't had a bad breakup? I'm sure this'll all blow over soon. Something else will come up and overshadow this. No problem, I just have to wait this out. That's all.

Waiting it out took a bit longer than expected. Booked gigs vanished, door slammed in his face, glares and outright abuse became the norm from animals he's never even met before as well as those he'd known for years.

It was when he was out with Becky on their way to one of the few bars that hadn't slammed its door in their faces that a boar strode straight across the road and stood in front of them, his eyes blind with rage, looking not at Lance, but directly at Becky, into her eyes, as if he was trying to look directly into her soul.

"You are a fucking whore." And then he spat directly into Becky's face and abruptly marched away.

With the boar stalking off, Becky wiped off the saliva off her face, flicked it to the ground, wiped her paws on her dress, grabbed Lance off and led him to the gig, his face still uncomprehending and unmoving. They played the gig, got paid, and went home. It had been their best gig yet. Becky, while not the best singer in the world, somehow broke through whatever barrier that held her back and let her voice soar. Even the mostly hostile crowd softly applauded her efforts. And all the while, through every song, every chord, every note, Becky smiled. A smile so simple, so innocent, so good.

Lance had never heard anyone cry so hard. She curled up on the bed, bawling her eyes out. Those choking, guttural cries were almost primordial. It was if the boar had split her in two, bearing her innermost self, open to the world to judge while she, flayed, could do nothing.

Through all of it Becky had been supportive. She told him not to take notice, held his hand, encouraged him to go out with her to do gigs, even going out of her way to book them for him when he was too depressed or drunk to do it himself. She'd been his support, a lifeline, a compass in this hostile and seemingly unnavigable sea of bile, trying to get him to the shore where her almost saccharine promises lay of everything just being fine. And now she was letting everything seep out and stain the sheets below her, as if everything that kept her up had snapped.

All Lance could do was feebly hold her. He didn't say anything. What could he say? That it would be okay? Even if he didn't truly love her, he couldn't lie to her like that. Couldn't promise those sweet dreams she promised him. It wasn't his way. All he could do was hold her so she wouldn't be alone.

She got a job in real estate two week later. It was good for her, she had always been a kind and chatty person so it suited her. She met other animals, animals who weren't interested in the music scene. Normal animals. Animals into gossip, fashion, TV shows, all that jazz. Good animals. It was just what Becky needed and Lance wasn't going to stop her. She needed something good in her life. Something normal. Something pleasant. Something that wasn't Lance.

It wasn't long later that the seams of their relationship finally started to fray. It was inevitable really, Lance could see it as soon as the headlines were plastered all over the online forums. But neither compelled themselves to end it. Instead, they existed next to each other. They lived their separate lives, said the occasional nice word, though those turned mean-spirited sooner than either had anticipated or wanted.

Becky reached for handbag and, with a last flick of her hair, began making her way to the door. Lance had to admit, for all the bitchiness that had surfaced from within her, she still looked wonderful. Maybe it was because Lance was looking up at her from the sofa, Becky gave out a sigh, and turned towards him.

"Lance" she began tentatively "I think it's time to face facts. You need to get a job."

Lance looked down at his cereal bowl glumly, avoiding her gaze. He knew this conversation had been coming, perched in the backgrounds of both their minds for a while like an unwanted guest. He didn't want to face it, but he knew he would have to silence its incessant cawing at some point, and it seemed the time had come.

"I… I know, but it's hard Becky."

"Have you been looking?" Becky replied with a bit of sharp directness in her tone.

"Well, you know" Lance said, rubbing his paw against the back of his head "I'm not exactly the most qualified person in the world…"

It wasn't a lie per se, Lance had good qualifications behind him, but they were just from secondary school and thinking back to the days when he tried to get a job to help him while getting into the punk scene, many saw his GCSE's of all A's as being someone who wouldn't exactly be there in a year's time, so they all turned him down.

But Becky wasn't buying it.

"Come on Lance, I know you're not stupid and you're not a teenager anymore. You've got some brains in there somewhere, so get using them and get a job! Anything Lance! Shop Assistant, Waiter, Janitor, bloody well anything!"

"You think it's that easy!" Lance returned hotly. "You think I can just turn up somewhere and go 'Hi, I'm Lance, that guy who broke what seems like the world's favourite singer's heart? Can I start Monday?' I'd be lucky to get out of there with all my quills on my back!"

Lance was stood up now and seeing red now, the bottled-up rage built up within him threatening to explode. "Half the world crosses the street to avoid me and the other half to shout abuse or worse! What chance do I have Becky? What fucking chance…" The anger left him, his legs giving way as he slumped back down on the settee.

"Hate to break it sweetheart" Lance continued dejectedly "but no-one's hiring a cheating scumbag, and especially ones whose only accomplishment in his field of choice was managing to strum the guitar without setting it on fire."

Huffing slightly and looking at her watch as if it was worth her time responding to Lance's mini-tirade or whether she should get going to avoid being late. Looking up, Lance saw the determination in her eyes. She wasn't finished.

"Look Lance, I don't want to deal with your self-pitying shit right now. I've got to go to work and it's getting old now. I got shit too, remember? A life that doesn't revolve around the pity show that is Lance Morgan." Lance winced. She only used her last name when she was making a point.

"Rent's not cheap you know" Becky continued, her voice rising in anger "and it's about time you started paying me back. Do you know how much time I've missed going out with friends? Buying things just 'cos I want them? Going to the pictures? Having fun?! It feels like an eternity and I've got a schmuck of a boyfriend who won't try anymore because of a few bad words!"

Becky's paws were trembling with anger and Lance's could barely keep eye contact with her, the shame tasting like bile in his throat.

"Do you realise how I feel? Being with someone I have to mother just to get him to do basic stuff? Jesus Lance, I'm younger than you! I don't need to be doing this shit! I know the world's been unkind to you but whoop-dee-fucking-do! I've not had an easy ride either you know? I've had the abuse, the comments, the looks, but look at me! I've got a job, I've got friends, I've got a life! You, you're just… a fucking embarrassment…"

Becky marched over to the front door, swinging open forcefully and stared out into the empty corridor. She seemed to stand there for an age before, she slowly shook her head. Not looking back to see Lance's face, Becky said quietly, anger still on the edge of her voice. "I don't care what it is you do Lance, just do something. Anything. You can't coup yourself up in here forever. I won't allow it. If you don't, then I'll…" Leaving the sentence unfinished, Becky left, slowly letting the door click shut behind her, leaving Lance with a pained look and cereals starting to go soggy.