#it would be the worst. completely and utterly mortifying. just the worst imaginable thing

[skenpiel]

looking in my drafts makes me qant to kill myseld ever since like 5 days ago. but i have posts there i need to save so i have to look in there sometimes

[bookishofalder]

Pretty Girl - Blurb

A/N- Surprise! This idea came to me last night and I decided to run with it. Companion blurb to Chapter 3 of my Pretty Girl Series.

Summary: An insight into Pretty Girl’s mind on a bad day. 

Warnings: Swearing, sexual harassment description, self blame, sexism, burns, reader is a thirsty bitch. WC-2,175

You were chewing your lip again. You had been working hard to break the habit, but you gave yourself a pass for today, considering the circumstances. While Ron had promised you that he wouldn’t mention any details to Flip whenever the tall detective returned to the station, but you knew him too well. Flip was going to know something was wrong, he was too damn perceptive.

Especially when it came to you.

And actually, you adored how he always seemed to read you like a book. But when it came to how you felt about your best friend? Yeah, he hadn’t seemed to figure that out. A fact that allowed you to breathe more easily. The older, gruff man gave you more attention and kindness than you deserved, you knew that. You had no intention of ruining a perfectly wonderful friendship by admitting that...well, you loved him. You could just imagine how he’d turn inward, his mouth dropping into a frown before he said, ‘Darling, you’re too young for me.’ Or something equally as mortifying.

It was selfish of you, in many ways, not to tell him. You enjoyed time alone with him more than you could even admit to yourself and you loved how protective he was of you. Something about the different ways he showed this-like when he slammed that rude man onto the counter, right in front of you, with a wild look in his eyes that disappeared the moment he had met yours. That moment had shot straight to your core, delighted you entirely, but you worried he might have caught the brief-expression on your face that gave away how turned on you had been.

His protectiveness was the reason you were so stressed at the moment; he was, inevitably, going to find out you had burnt your fucking arm with coffee. And when he did, you knew you needed to try to avoid telling him how it happened. But whenever he fixed you with that damn stare, eyes dark-fuck, you couldn’t help it. You always seemed to cave.

You contented yourself as you waited for the nurse now by imagining the conversation in different ways, practicing what you’d say, how you would explain. Flip had been especially moody lately, which didn’t bother you as you were as laid back as he was passionate, but it did worry you. The last thing he needed right now was a reason to get angry, and if you told him what David Cole had whispered into your ear before his cold hand slid over your bottom and pinched? Well, let’s say you would probably be giving testimony at the murder trial.

The curtains around you swung open as the nurse returned with her tray of supplies. You swung your legs, starting to feel antsy to leave, and smiled at her. You wanted to try and get back to the station before Flip, maybe meet him outside and explain-

Movement caught your eye, and your head spun around as the fucking all too familiar Detective stormed towards you. How, how had he already found out you were here? You knew he was good, but this was insane. You had been here twenty minutes.

And oh, the look on his face. He hadn’t even seen the burn yet and you could already tell he was devastated to see you sitting in a hospital. Your heart tugged at the sight, despite the panic bursting through your veins-you hadn’t thought of how to explain-oh, fuck, he’s seen the burn.

You tried to smile up at him, but you knew he could see the tears on your face from the way his entire body stiffened when he was right next to you. You wondered if he was going to knock the nurse away and start treating you himself. You wouldn’t have been surprised.

What did take you off guard, however, was what he said.

“Pretty girl,” Oh. Okay, where did that new nickname come from? It shot straight to your core, almost numbing the pain in your arm. He’d never called you that before, but you never wanted him to stop. “What the hell happened?” His large hand was on your shoulder, warm and welcome.

“I’m okay, Flip, I just spilled some coffee-it’s mostly on the back of my hand and arm.” You tried to keep your voice calm but flinched when pain shot up your arm as the nurse placed your bandages. You could tell your words had no soothing effect whatsoever, his expression entirely too distressed.

Whoever told him you were here was going to have raisins in their cookies for the next year.

“You were lucky the coffee wasn’t fresher, dear. These would be much worse. As it is, you’ve scalded yourself fairly well so you’ll need to repeat this treatment for a few days, I’ll send you home with the supplies and instructions.” You stared at your nurse, silently trying to convey that she had just utterly betrayed you by announcing that. Could she not see the man standing next to you was coming undone?

The hand on your shoulder squeezed tighter and his thumb began to rub gentle circles, something that should not have distracted you as much as it was. Hell, Flip’s hands were big. You lost track of their conversation, focusing solely on the feelings his touch was inspiring within you. You only pulled from your thoughts when his hand was gone and he was taking a seat next to you on the bed, heaving one of his great sighs. You always wanted to hug him whenever he made that noise. Like he had the whole damn world on his shoulders.

“How did you get here?”

That surprised you-he hadn’t spoken to Ron? Who else would have been brave enough to tell Flip Zimmerman that you were at the hospital?

“Ron was kind enough to drop me off-I insisted I was fine on my own,” You frowned and met his eyes, “How did you know I was here if you didn’t speak to Ron?”

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, “I brought in a gunshot victim, few beds over. Saw you when the nurse opened the curtain.”

Okay, so apparently the universe was just as against you as ever.

Now it was your turn to sigh. You glanced away, not wanting him to read your expressions, “I’m really okay, Flip. You don’t need to stick arou-“

“I’ll take you home.”

It was an order, as much as it was a plea; he couldn’t leave you. But the tone he used, that one that left no room for you to argue? You could only smile because you were afraid if you opened your mouth to respond, you’d say something that gave away that it turned you on whenever he used it. Or you’d moan. So you stayed silent.

You could sense him beginning to calm down; now that he knew you were okay, had seen that you received exceptional care, and was now leading you to his work car. He was especially content that he could drive you home, you could see the slightly smug smile on his lips. You were still considering what to say to him when he inevitably inquired again on how you’d managed to burn yourself, and so far your mind was blank.

He didn’t speak until you were both settled in the car. He had pulled out of the lot, the silence heavy. As if he wanted to give you a false sense of security, catch you off guard. But with his eyes on the road, he didn’t seem to notice how tense you were, already waiting for the question.

“You gonna tell me how you managed that?” He nodded at the burn, eyes scanning your face curiously when you made no reply. Damn, you had to say something or he was going to read it in your face and guess the worst.

“Just pouring coffees and spilled, that’s all.” No big deal, Flip, just leave it, for the love of-oh, now his hands were gripping the steering wheel and you could see the disbelief on his face, the surprise that you actually thought you could lie to him. Fuck.

“Okay,” He drew out the word, conveying his downright distrust. And then that damn tone of authority followed, the one he seemed to have reserved just for you. “What really happened?”

This. This was why you needed time to come up with a good excuse-you simply could not think on your feet around this man, and now he was glancing at you from the driver's seat like he just knew you were about to piss him off. Why did you get out of bed this morning?

Your voice came out in a breathy mumble, “Someone walked by me when I was pouring coffees and pinched...well.” You gestured vaguely at your lower body. He got the point.

The fact that he didn’t crash the car didn’t surprise you, you’d seen the way he had control over himself despite the anger many times. It always impressed you. And it made sense, as he was such a skilled detective.

He pumped the brakes as he looked around at you, meeting your eyes with the most searing expression you’d ever seen-okay, you knew he’d be mad, but he looked completely wreaked. You quickly grabbed his arm as he barked out, “What?”

“Flip, do not get so upset, happens more than-“

“Please don’t tell me that more than one person at work has put their hands on you-”

Yeah, you probably didn’t help yourself by saying it like that. But he was so upset it was flustering you. Alright, you’d have to stick with this, “It happens. I shouldn’t have to explain what it’s like being a woman working in a place full of men. Sometimes they forget themselves and-“

Flip threw the car into park, and you groaned internally. He was going to get out of the car, you just knew it. “And they grab your ass? And in this case, make you burn yourself?” He said the word burn as if it caused him physical pain to say aloud.

Before you could respond, he was out of the car, the door of which creaked with displeasure at how forcefully he’d opened it. You waited patiently, knowing he just needed to calm himself a little bit. But now you could feel your emotions bubbling up in the silence of the car, the days' events replaying in your head.

The smarter part of you understood that Flip wasn’t angry with you; though that section of your brain seemed to be down for maintenance. Being friendly, baking, you knew sent the message to some types of men that it was okay to cop a feel. To physically express their gratitude, your personal space be damned. You hated it, but it had been so much worse when you worked at that awful law firm. And really, it had only happened a couple of times since you began working at the CSPD. David Cole was just on another level, but you could handle him.

Flip came around the car and, more gently now, opened your door. You turned in the seat to face him as he crouched on the ground, and blurted out, “Flip, please don’t be mad at me.”

Flip took your uninjured hand into his own and rubbed his thumb across the back, his expression softening entirely. He met your eyes and seemed to steel himself to speak, “Pretty girl, I could never be mad at you,” Fuck, there was that nickname again. So it wasn’t an accident earlier, this was sticking around. You had no complaints, though you were sure he could see that in the way you gazed back at him like a dumb ass. “I’m mad for you-what happened ain’t right. Tell me who did it, each time.”

Absolutely not, you thought immediately. Shaking your head, you quickly replied, “Thanks, but I’d rather not get arrested for aiding a murder,” You squeezed his hand reassuringly and held his gaze, trying to convey just how okay you were, “It means a lot, how protective you are. But I’m alright, okay? I promise.” Relief swept through you when your words seemed to make a difference. First fucking time today, you thought. He visibly relaxed, though his eyes did scan your face for a few more moments.

You wanted to kiss him right there, for being so perfect. How lucky were you to have a man like him in your corner? Of all the dirtbags and assholes you’d encountered, he made up for them by simply existing in your life. For being so protective and caring for you in ways you didn’t even realize you needed. You also secretly loved how you seemed to always be able to calm him down, even if it took some time.

“Let me take you home.” He said after a pause, and you gave him your best smile, hoping he couldn’t see the blush on your cheeks.

[lailyn]

Can I have another loki fic with stomach ache? Any pairing is good. Also, the fic you wrote for me earlier was amazing! Now I want more....

These Chains Around Our Hearts

Pairing: Loki/Steve Rogers

"Another war movie?"

"This one’s said to be...not bad."

“Not bad,” Loki echoed. “Not one for overselling, are you?”

“I haven’t had much luck trying to impress you with my movie choices,” Steve said. “But it did win around seven Oscars or something so...not that that’s a true indication of what makes a movie great but it’s on my bucket list and I thought we could - ”

With a tease of a smile, Loki plucked the DVD cover out of Steve’s hand; for some reason, the good captain looked flustered. "Tut-tut, Captain. I was not questioning your taste in movies nor your diligence in compiling your list of buckets.” 

“'Bridge On The River Kwai'," he read. "Sounds promising. Was this your war?”

“I’ve fought many,” Steve said, smiling faintly. “But you could say this was my first, yes. Only it was fought on a different front.”

“Then let’s watch it, shall we?” Loki asked brightly. 

“I’ll be right with you. I just need to grab a few snacks from the kitchen - ”

“But we just ate,” Loki grumbled to himself as he picked a corner to get comfortable in, making sure there was ample room on the couch for Steve when he returned. 

The pot pie Steve made for dinner had been a tad too rich and Loki felt uncomfortably full despite not having eaten very much. He listened to the sounds of Steve pottering about in the kitchen and wondered if he had any space left to fit whatever bonne bouche his host had prepared for their movie night. 

Loki had suspected from the start, back when they first started seeing each other, that Steve was one nervous entertainer. True enough, when the super soldier emerged from the kitchen, his already impressive arms were burgeoning with bags of crispy, salty things, jars of dips and cans of drinks. 

“Oh my.” Loki eyed the smorgasbord laid before him critically. “Is that all?"

"It's not enough? I could get some more - " But before Steve could make a beeline for the kitchen once more, a hand touched his wrist.

"I was teasing."

They settled into their usual seating arrangement, not too close but at a companiable distance from each other. Steve and his appetite dived face-first into the tortilla chips and dips, but Loki refused to partake, what with his stomach feeling as unsettled as it was. 

For a film made in the fifties, Loki found it quite impressive, almost believable even, if one had not lived through the dark times first-hand. 

“Did you win it?” Loki asked. “Your first war?”

Loki’s vast knowledge of the cosmos and all it contained was legendary and Steve for one knew it included Midgardian history, so there was no way this was not a trick question. “In a manner of speaking.”

“You were fighting the same war, you said. Did it look like this?” Loki pointed at the screen with his regal chin. 

“No,” Steve shuddered. After the surrender of Germany in 1945, the Allied forces’ attention shifted east, and this was a film depicting the horrors of the time.

How many of his comrades-in-arms had been taken prisoner? Forced to live in squalid conditions, ravaged by disease and starved slowly to death as they slaved away in the harsh tropical sun piecing the Railway of Death track by track?

"The Auschwitz of the East." The thousand-yard stare bruised Steve's baby blues to a dark, angry cobalt. "I don't know if I could have survived it."

"Of course you would," Loki said firmly. "If any man could, it's you." 

Steve's mind turned, uncertain if he was deserving of such high praise, especially when it came from none other than Loki, the God of Chaos himself. 

"I am familiar with the concept of war. I was Odin's war trophy after all," Loki said casually.

Steve turned his head slowly. 

"Story for another day, Captain," Loki forced a smile; he was no longer in the mood for a romantic evening, let alone a heartfelt tete-a-tete. The vague discomfort in his belly was commanding more and more of his attention by the minute. 

He laid a hand on his stomach. When it twinged again, Loki knew he was in for a long, long night. 

Steve caught Loki's sigh. "Loki?"

"I'm fine," he said gruffly.

Now showing was a scene depicting insubordination among the ranks, and by the time the Japanese sergeant had finished giving the prisoners a dressing-down and placed them in a punishment hut, the twinging in Loki's stomach had blossomed into a full-blown ache that no amount of rubbing was helping. 

Steve caught Loki's hand grabbing his waist again. "You okay?"

"I am fine, Captain."

"Are you sure?"

"I seem to have what you Midgardians call a stitch," Loki said as he kneaded his side gently, his smile wan. "It is nothing."

At being denied its existence, Loki's stomach voiced its protest in the form of a loud, whining rumble. 

"That doesn't sound like a stitch."

"You are not going to let this go, are you?"

Steve groped for the remote control that had slipped somewhere down the side of the couch. "Yeah, no. We can continue watching some other time." 

Ignoring Loki's mewl of protest, he stabbed the pause button before he stood up, gathering the uneaten snacks and drinks to clear the table.

Loki rose to help, but as soon as he did, a sudden pain lanced through his abdomen, sharper than anything he had felt tonight, and he sank back onto the couch with a gasp. 

Steve dropped everything with a crash. "Loki, what's going on?"

A tense few seconds later, the pained expression on Loki's face eased and his whole body relaxed. "Something I ate is not sitting right with me, that is all."

"Do you want some water?" 

Loki shook his head. 

"Do you feel sick?" Steve pressed.

A wince. "A little. There is a slight ache, it is more uncomfortable than painful really."

"Somehow I don't think slight means quite the same with you guys," Steve sighed. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Only Steve could say something like that without sounding chastising or judgemental, only worried if not a little bit sad. 

"It was not my intention to keep anything from you, Captain," Loki said placatingly. "And I speak true, it is only a mild discomfort. Perhaps I merely overindulged."

It was evident from the look on Steve's face that he did not believe a single word Loki said. 

With a sigh, Steve patted his thigh. "Come lie down."

A flush of colour suffused Loki's cheeks. "I can't possibly."

He felt Steve lay a hand on his back, contemplated leaning into it, but the thought was obliterated by a fresh round of cramps so intense they folded him in half. 

These things happen at the worst possible time, Loki cursed silently, groaning into his knees in sheer frustration. 

Steve must have mistaken his moan for one of pain for suddenly, a strong arm enveloped Loki from behind and pull him down. 

Resist, don't give in, resi -

"Loki."

Like magic, the gentleness with which Steve said his name drained all the tension from Loki's body and sapped him of the energy to remain upright. He sagged sideways in a slump. 

Utterly mortified by his inelegant tumble into Steve's lap, Loki hid his face against a taut, well-muscled thigh. To his credit, the captain said absolutely nothing, only running a hand up and down the side of Loki's arm.

If his stomach wasn't hurting so much, Loki would have appreciated the comfort of Steve's lap much more vocally instead of trying not to be sick in it. 

"Are you sure you don't want me to get someone? Banner? Dr Cho?" 

"There is no need. I will be fine."

"What if this is something serious?" Steve patted his jacket for his mobile phone. “I should get your brother.”

“No!” Loki peered through strands of hair, which Steve tentatively brushed away. "If it were, it would have killed me already." At the aghast expression on Steve's face, he added in a hurry, "Or conversely, my healing spell would have cured it completely."

"What do you think it was?" Steve asked anxiously. "It wasn't my pie, was it?"

Loki shook his head. "No, Captain. This is just a run-of-the-mill stomachache, albeit a very irritating one. Exploring the vast diversity of Midgardian cuisine has truly been an adventure."

"Thor can eat anything."

"There is nothing my Brother can't and won't eat. I have seen Thor devour five wild boars in one sitting and that was after a light training station, imagine what he could polish off after a day's battle or two." A sullen mutter. "I am not like Thor."

"No." Steve smiled. "No, you're not. You're different."

Loki knew better than anyone all the ways in which he was different. He wondered if they matched Steve's list. "How so?"

Steve shrugged. "You were right. I like war movies. And you're the only person who'd watch them with me."

"I suppose I too am nostalgic for the olden days. Even if they were someone else's," Loki said, mirroring his companion's smile; it felt just as awkward on his face as it had looked on Steve. 

He tried to make himself comfortable but lying on his back hurt too much. With his head still in Steve's lap, Loki turned onto his side and curled into a tight ball. 

Meanwhile, Steve was beginning to fret. “What can I do?”

“Retire for the night, I suppose. I’m afraid I am not very good company at the moment.”

“Yeah, like that’s going to happen.” 

“Captain.”

“No man left behind, Loki. I’m staying.” Steve let Loki squirm against him as he tried to find the most comfortable position. “What do you need?”

“Sleep.” Loki was almost too embarrassed to admit it. “I could try walking it off, but - ”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Steve growled. “We’re watching a goddamn movie, not kicking some alien's ass in battle."

"I'm sorry you couldn't finish the movie," said the only alien in the room.

"It's okay. I couldn't concentrate anyway."

"Something on your mind, Captain?"

Steve shook his head. "Someone," he corrected.

"Anyone I know?" Loki asked, wanting to jest, but his intestines chose that moment to coil into knots inside him, each tighter than the one before; he could barely keep from crying out, he was in so much pain.

"I'm looking at him," Loki heard Steve say in a voice so soft it could only be a product of his muddled imagination.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on the grounding warmth of Steve's body heat against his face.

The beast clawing away in his belly was not real. Steve was. Good, kind, sensitive Steve.

Steve watched in sympathy as Loki massaged his stomach gingerly. "You really don't feel good, huh."

"There was a time when I would rather face the axe than admit to something so pitiful." Loki opened his eyes a mere fraction, lest he revealed too much his pain. "But no, I do not." 

"I'm not used to seeing you like this," Steve said quietly. "You always get stomachaches this bad?"

Loki had to laugh; Steve looked so serious it was adorable. "I have survived horrors far worse than this, Captain."

"Yeah, but you kept it to yourself this long, so it must be pretty bad."

"Oh, you know me too well," Loki said sarcastically. "I must have been too engrossed in the film to notice my stomach eating itself."

Steve appeared offended. "Hey, it's based on a true story!"

"They did not blow it up in the end, you know."

"What are you talking about?" Steve asked, baffled.

"The Bridge. There were many bridges like it along River Kwai, but the rest of it?  The uprising and the sabotage? That is all fiction," Loki said flatly. "Glorious fiction."

His eyes fluttered shut with a solemness analogous to that of one burdened with bearing bad news. 

It was hardly news, was it? These people had been dead for almost a century -

"Your friends did not escape the jungles. They were all packed onto ships that took them across the sea to the Land of the Rising Sun, but your own warships mistook them for the enemy and blew them out of the water. All ten thousand of them."

"Tell me one thing. Why does telling stories come so easily to you but not this?" Steve swatted Loki's hand away and replaced it with his own, ignoring Loki's surprised gasp. "Yes, war sucked. Watching your friends die in front of you sucked. But right now I don't care about any of that. I care about you!"

Loki swallowed hard. "Captain…"

But Steve was not done giving Loki a piece of his mind.

"I want you to tell me these things," he berated, his fingers curling around the taut flesh of Loki's stomach. "I'm not good at reading you."

A sharpness cut through Loki's words, a warning in disguise. "I do not want you to."

"I couldn't if I tried," Steve said quietly. "I have brought down walls thicker than you've ever seen. But I can't see through yours." 

Loki fell into a silence so deep it left Steve wondering if he had ruined the moment beyond repair. 

"A war hero like you has no business consorting with someone like me." Loki turned his face. "I am but a prisoner, begging for scraps from you, and from everyone else in the universe."

Steve's hand stilled. Loki's thin abdomen throbbed under his palm, the pulsations picking up pace in time with the racing of the ancient heart.

"I have been in chains since the day I was born. I will not chain you to me." Loki interlaced his fingers with the ones still clasped to his stomach. "This is a momentary comfort."

"We are all prisoners here, Loki," Steve said gently. 

As all anger left him, his other hand searched for Loki's. "We don't belong to this time, but there is no escaping it." 

His thumb danced across the bony row of Loki's knuckles. "There is only living."

"Perhaps I have lived too long." 

"That is a decision only you can make," Steve said, the sadness returning to his eyes. "But I have just found you. And I want you to know that I care."

With the confession finally out of the way, Steve inhaled deeply and leaned his head back against the couch, his hand resuming its gentle kneading. It was comforting, the sensation of Loki's tight, concave abdomen giving little by little to his ministrations. 

It was not overindulgence, the cause of Loki's pain. He knew that now.

"Captain."

"Yes, Loki?"

"What exactly do you want from me?"

Steve went quiet. The answer could not be any clearer, but Loki was notoriously oblivious to any notion of sentiment, even the most obvious one. 

"You said I was your comfort. I want you to allow yourself to be mine."

Loki remained quiet for longer. When he finally spoke, his voice quaked with a timbre of hope and unbridled joy. 

"If I say yes, would you do me a courtesy and let me choose what to watch for movie night?" 

Steve laughed. "Sure. On one condition." 

“This negotiation has strayed too far off course, Capta -”

“Steve,” he interrupted, cradling Loki's face in his hands. “Call me Steve.” 

It was an offer Loki could not refuse. "Steve." 

The name tasted good on his tongue. And so did those lips. 

[limerental]

hey @bards-rights-activist​ i wrote this for you. this is adapted from the tags on the original yennskier cottagewhore post which I realize is a completely ridiculous thing to say and all this is my life now

anyway this is a lilacs & dandelions crack ficlet, set ambiguously sometime after the end of the first fic but there are no actual spoilers do not worry. for anyone unaware of the context, l&d is a story about jaskier & yennefer falling in love and living in a little cottage by the sea together. this story is nothing like that story and yet also somehow neatly sums up their entire relationship.

----

The little cottage, despite all of its rustic charms, was hardly a farmstead. 

Sure, their home was surrounded by teeming gardens full of fresh herbs and flowers both annual and perennial and a surprising bounty of berry bushes. It was abutted by a quaint stable with a dusty hay loft and weathered stalls, and a gate off the cobblestone walk opened to a sweeping pasture hemmed in by stone. It certainly looked the part of any other rural homestead.

But there were no other accommodations for livestock, no flat stretches of fallow ground that may have once between tilled fields, no grain storage or crop cellars or manure heap or anything useful for an actual, functioning farm. 

Yennefer didn’t know the cottage’s full history, having bought it from a fellow mage years ago without asking where said mage had acquired it, but she knew at least it had never been intended as a proper farm.

That didn’t stop Jaskier, of course, from imagining he could try to make it so.

Or at least some bizarre fantasy of what he seemed to think a farm should be.

It was easy enough to forget, somehow, that he had been raised in a noble family, far removed from the dirt and grime and piss and blood of rural life.

Yennefer had not been so lucky, unfortunately.

And quite frankly, she could tolerate the acquisition of the goats and the chickens and the little checkered scarves Jaskier took to wearing tied over his hair and his sudden penchant for carrying around a hoe she was not sure he knew the purpose of and even his deep fondness for packing elaborate and aesthetically pleasing picnics complete with artful and meticulous arranging of the spread as though he were preparing their lunch to be viewed and judged by thousands of speculative picnic connoisseurs.

But she drew the line at whatever she was currently witnessing go on outside the kitchen window.

Jaskier took pastoral fantasy to strange and elaborate conclusions.

He was. Naked.

Entirely so, besides the scarf on his head, from his bare toes stained by the dark loam in the garden to his long, surprisingly slender legs, one tipped seductively in front of the other with hip cocked, to the soft give of his stomach covered in a down of dark hair that followed the line of his navel and spread from chest to throat, to the curve of his freckled shoulders, to the flex of his broad arms which, of all things, cradled a young goat to cover his modesty.

Worst of all, he was looking up at her with what she could only assume he thought was a horrible seductive glower.

Any other time, maybe it would have been, but given the present circumstances?

Yennefer leaned out the window, folding her arms on the sill, a windowbox of vibrant flowers tumbling out beneath her.

“Jaskier,” she called sweetly. “What in the ever living fuck are you doing?”

“I’m but a comely farmer’s daughter,” said Jaskier with a coy expression, batting his lashes. “Who has stumbled through a briar patch in a desperate attempt to rescue this poor, trapped goatling and lost all of my clothes to the terrible, clawing thorns. Isn’t that terrible? Aren’t I so brave?”

“Would you please,” Yennefer said, sighing deeply at the indignancy of what terrible things this little idiot she chose to continue loving forced her to both witness and utter, “please put that poor goat down and put your clothes back on? You really are going to end up with thorns stuck places you don’t want thorns. Or burrs. I’m not combing burrs out of your fur again, and you know it.”

“But I’ve come all this way! Just to ask my dear neighbor if I could come inside and warm up. It’s ever so cold.”

“You know what could solve that? Putting your clothes back on.”

“Were you not listening? They have been tragically lost to the thorns! Woe is me!”

“Woe is going to be to you if you don’t get out of the fucking garden and put that kid back where it belongs.”

The kid bleated, and somewhere over the stone pasture wall, its mother bleated in return. It began to kick its legs in a bid for freedom, and Jaskier spent a moment trying to keep it from wriggling free before relenting and returning the poor thing to the ground, his modesty be damned. It bounded away and scrambled through the pasture gate, returning to its mother’s side as Jaskier pouted.

“You’re no fun, Yen,” said Jaskier, standing in naked dejection in the garden.

The stupid, little bastard. 

Inspiring such bizarre and inexplicable things in her.

Namely being a complete inability to tell him no.

Yennefer sighed very, very deeply. 

“Oh my poor, poor dear,” she deadpanned, expression utterly blank. “You’ve been through such a terrible ordeal in order to rescue that little baby goat.”

A spark lit in Jaskier’s eyes, and he leapt into a seductive saunter toward the window. 

“Oh yes,” he said with a theatrical groan. “I’m so very embarrassed. Simply mortified.”

“You should be,” said Yennefer, leaning her chin against her arms folded on the windowsill.

He drew closer one roll of his hips at a time, and she had to reluctantly admit she did not mind how he looked naked in the garden. The afternoon sun dappled temptingly across his pale skin, and she could imagine herself going out to him and urging him to his knees in the earth, how comely indeed he would look with her fingers curled into his mouth.

“Would you invite me in to warm up?” he said through lowered lashes. “I won’t be any trouble. I’ll be good.”

“I somehow doubt that,” she said.

He drew closer to the open window, the height of the cottage’s foundation such that she was a good head or more higher than him, and he had to peer up to look into her face.

“Hello,” he said when he finally rested his hands beside her elbows on the weathered sill. His expression had changed from exaggerated sultry smirk to dopey grin.

“Hello,” said Yennefer, tilting her cheek against her bare arm to smile fondly at him. “You are the single worst terror I have ever endured in my long life, and I cannot believe I continue to tolerate you.”

“And yet, you love me anyway,” said Jaskier.

And she did.

She leaned down to him out of the window and he up on tiptoes in the garden to meet her in a mellow kiss that should have been absurd and ridiculous in its cloying sweetness, and yet, was not.

Until said kiss was interrupted by an unpleasant and intimate encounter on Jaskier’s part with the rose bush he had forgotten lurked below the kitchen window.

Yennefer did not say I told you so, simply settled her chin back against her folded arms to watch him howl dramatically from where he had collapsed in misery on the ground.

Perhaps now, he would give the pastoral fantasy thing a rest for a little while.

Though knowing him, he was unlikely to allow a little thing like thorn to the cock let him be deterred.

Frankly, somehow, she wouldn’t have him any other way.

[kayteewritessteve]

Beautifully Unfinished - 3/8

Description: One foolish outburst, one moment of weakness at the worst possible time, and everything goes up in smoke. Who knew finally voicing your true, deep-rooted feelings, would lead to the complete destruction of your most cherished friendship?

Masterlist HERE.

Word Count: 2,380 ish.

Pairing: Modern!Steve Rogers x Reader.

Rating: PG.

Warnings: Curse words. Lots of angst. But if you’ve read my stories before, then you know how this will end.

A/N: I sadly don’t own any of these characters. And no beta reader, so I do proudly own all the errors and this story, so there’s that.

High School.

You stand off to the side of the large stairs, that lead up to the front doors of your new school. Unable to stand still, your whole body buzzing from both excitement and fear.

Today is a huge day in your life, it is not only the first day of grade 9, your first day of High School, but also the day you finally get Steve back. His parents had divorced long before you knew him, and every summer he’d have to go stay with his dad, for the entire break.

So you’ve just gone 2 full months without him, which is not okay, not even in the slightest. But you figure you’ll never be able to go long periods of time without him anymore. Not since he’d ran into your life like some damn knight in shining armour, and then continued to protect you ever since. Though Buck ended up also becoming your knight in shining armour in a roundabout way, as he always had to protect Steve when he’d foolishly step up to defend you.

It was a domino effect really. That whole first year of knowing them, all of grade 7, you’d get picked on for being the new kid. Which always meant Steve would step in, and then Bucky would have to do the same.

Then finally at the beginning of grade 8, everyone started to leave you alone, and therefore Steve and Bucky finally got a much needed break. Everyone either gave up on bullying you because you finally weren’t the ‘new kid’ anymore. Or they just learned that Bucky would always finish the fight, so there was just no point in even starting it to begin with. Either way, you were just happy for the outcome. For finally being left entirely alone.

Steve’s dad had ended up being deployed over the summer months between grade 7 and 8, so Steve hadn’t gone to visit him. And instead spent the break with you and Buck. And it was the best summer you’d ever had, the three of you had only grown more inseparable during that time.

So this summer was strange, it honestly would have been a complete write off had it not been for Bucky. He’d done everything in his power to keep you entertained and outside, enjoying the time off and the heat. It had started to feel a little like he was smothering you, actually. And you had this weird suspicion that he knew of your feelings for Steve, yet he never brought it up, not once. And you’d never voiced them aloud, as very last thing you ever wanted was for anyone to find out, but especially not Steve.

Oh God, that would just be mortifying if he ever learned the truth. If he ever figured out you were basically head over heels in love with him for the past 2 years. That is the exact reason why you are currently standing here, impatient and antsy, as you wait for Steve to meet you in this very spot. Bucky too, obviously, but you’d been around him all summer, you are sick of him at this point. Steve is the true reason for your fiddling and anxiety levels, at this moment.

A strong set of arms wraps around your waist, and scaring the Jesus out of you. You gasp as the arms lift you up and spin you around, and it only takes you a moment to realize who they belong to.

“Bucky! Put me down this instant!” You squeal as you continue to spin, having attempted a stern voice but obviously failing miserably. However, the moment the words leave your mouth, the spinning stops and you feel a rumble on your back. He is laughing at you, that little shi—wait a tick, that doesn’t sound like Bucky’s chuckle...

“Guess again, Doll,” a deep, amused voice rings in your ears. Their lips sounding just mere inches from your skin, and the breath fanning your neck confirms that thought.

Your mind blanks at the voice. You don’t recognize it so who the fuck is behind you right now?! Your feet hit the ground and you snap around, ready to give this weirdo a piece of your mind. How dare some stranger touch you! But the second your eyes land on the solid chest in front of you, your whole body freezes.

Your eyes slowly lift up to meet a piercing set of blues that you would recognize anywhere. Your throat goes dry, as your mind tries to come to terms with what you are currently looking at. It’s obviously Steve, but holy fuck, what the hell happened to him!?

You involuntarily step back and give him a full once over. Your eyes hungrily taking in every new detail. What the hell happened to your best friend?! It has only been two months! Yes, in that time you’ve changed a lot as well, you’ve grown an inch taller, your face matured just a little, and you’ve finally filled out in all the right places. You can thank puberty for that. But Jesus! Steve looks like he has had a full body swap. He is tall, stupidly tall, and he’s bulked up. And by that you mean he looks like a damn Greek God now.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck fuck fuck. What the hell are you supposed to do about your feelings for him now!? Shit. You’d loved him when he was small, sickly even, back when he was a large personality and heart trapped in a small package. But now, now his outside matched his insides, and that is entirely too much for your brain and heart to handle.

“Y/N?” He quietly says, sounding unsure. “It’s me, Steve,” he adds, as if you hadn’t already figured that much out on your own.

You shake your head, plastering the fake nonchalant smile on your lips, the one that you’ve become so good at doing. You’ve mastered this exact smile by now. Having to use it every time he’s done something thoughtful, or said something sweet. As you didn’t want him to know just how much those little moments, words and gestures all truly meant to you.

“Thanks Tips, I never would have figured that out without you telling me,” you joke a small chuckle bubbling out, causing that deep rumble in him, again. And your knees almost go weak at the sound, swallowing thickly as your eyes fully meet his. And now it takes everything in you to push your loud thoughts of attraction down, feigning friendly intrigue instead. You weakly gesture to his whole form, “So, ah, what the hell happened to you?”

He smirks and glances down at himself, your eyes doing the same. Taking advantage of his momentary distraction to give him another full once over, drinking in how he now looks. And fuck! How is it possibly for someone to be this attractive?! Why must the boy you love, now be even more appealing?! Someone upstairs must be fucking with you! This has to be a joke!

You’d loved him inside and out before, his large heart and immense kindness taking you completely by surprise, and causing you to basically melt into a puddle of admiration and disbelief. How someone could be as utterly amazing and completely awe inspiring as him, was insanely unfair before.

But now, now in this ridiculously attractive body, it was downright illegal. It shouldn’t be allowed for one person to be so damn perfect!

He chuckles, and the deep sound again messes with you. Your breath hitches in your throat and your eyes flick up to his once more. Instantly seeing the amusement in his blue orbs, he clearly saw you fully checking him out. How utterly embarrassing.

He shrugs nonchalantly now, as if his change was nothing major, as if it had just happened over night and he hadn’t really even noticed it till this exact moment. “Dad is big on being healthy and exercising. He got me into it over the summer, and this was just the outcome.”

You go to reach out involuntarily to touch his chest, but halt the action and quickly drop your hand as you clue in to what your hazy mind was just about to have you do. You were just about to feel him up, just about to allow your fingertips to graze him as if to fully check he is real. That he is actually standing in front of you currently, and that this isn’t just some insane trick your mind is playing. Like you’d made this all up and he is just a figment of your imagination.

But wait, he’d picked you up, he’d already touched you, so you know this was all real. He is actually here, standing in front of you.

That last thought trumps all others and you jump towards him, wrapping your arms around his neck. Which proves to be way more difficult now with the height difference. “Holy shit, Stevie,” you happily squeal, your mind only focused on one thing now. The return of your best friend. “You’re finally home! I missed you so much!” You smile widely as you feel his now insanely large arms wrap around you again, his face tucking into the spot where your neck meets your shoulder.

“I missed you too, Y/N. So much,” he murmurs into your skin, his breath causing goosebumps to form instantly.

After a moment someone clearing their throat beside you forces you both to pull back and release from the embrace. Looking to the side you see Buck, standing a few feet away, his arms crossed and one brow raised as he glances between the two of you. He gives you a smug look, like he knows exactly what you are thinking currently. Giving you the distinct impression again that he knows about your true feelings for Steve.

You don’t even have a chance to give him a pleading look before he unfolds his arms and smiles at Steve, “welcome home, Punk!”

They move towards each other and share a bro hug—ya know, the type of hug guys share. The one where they each loudly clap a hand on the others back before promptly separating and taking a step back. Yeah, that kind of hug.

“Thanks, Jerk,” Steve chuckles again as Bucky gives him a full once over.

“Jesus, Stevie,” Buck shakes his head, widening his eyes slightly. “What the hell did your dad feed ya all summer, fucking steroids?”

Steve throws his head back, laughing loudly at your friends feigned shock and dismay. “Nah, just a bunch of protein, meat and veggies. Ya know, the good stuff.”

“Guess we can’t call you Stevie anymore,” Bucky jokes.

“No, screw that,” you quickly pipe up, your eyes meeting Steves as you smirk, “he’ll always be Stevie to us.”

He smirks right back, “that I will.”

You all spend a few more minutes catching up before you head into the school. It only takes a few weeks to get used to his new Steve. Which isn’t overly surprising as he is still entirely the same guy on the inside. So all you have to come to terms with is his new exterior.

But that isn’t really the hard part, no, you getting used to his new looks is nothing in comparison to having to get used to his new attention. Every girl, and some guys, in your school now notice him. Most of them damn near throwing themselves at his feet.

You spend most of grade 9 in a jealous rage that you have to try desperately to play off. Using the excuse of just being angry that no one paid any attention to him when he was small, but now they were all just being superficial, and he deserved better than that.

Bucky clearly saw right through your bullshit, but luckily Steve didn’t. He appreciated that you cared about him enough to glare at the stupid girls fawning over him. He laughed when you mumbled insults about them under your breath. He’d smirk when you’d say some of those insults to their faces. Yes, it was rude to insult these girls, but they didn’t deserve him. Not before, when he was small, and definitely not now, that he was big.

But then again, you clearly didn’t deserve him either. Or at least you never felt like you did. Which meant you never once told him of your feelings, and instead dated other guys during high school. Trying to get over your feelings for Steve, over this ridiculous love you had for the guy.

The day he came to you, finally telling you he’d started dating a girl, was the first time your heart truly cracked. But you’d plastered that same fake smile on your lips and congratulated him. You’d pushed your feelings down the second you’d heard the true excitement in his voice. He was happy, but just because you weren’t the one causing that happiness, didn’t mean you weren’t excited for him.

You’d managed to make it through the entire school day, and got home before you broke down and cried all night over a tub of ice cream. You’d eventually passed out, your eyes puffy and red.

Then the rest of the week had gone the same, faking that you were fine all day and then crying yourself to sleep. After a while, the pain numbed and you became used to seeing him with someone else. The years quickly flying passed and before you knew it, it was grade 12.

Steve had had a few girlfriends over the years, just as you’d had a few boyfriends. He’d never really liked any of your boyfriends though, just as you’d never really liked any of his girlfriends. So whenever you both hung out, it was always alone or with Buck, which was one small thing that you were thankful for. He never forced you to be around his girlfriends, and in return, you never forced him to be around your partners.

Because if they ever had, they’d probably all instantly notice your reactions to Steve’s presence. Something he, himself, never noticed, as you’d always been this way with him. But anyone else who witnessed it, usually could tell instantly about your true feelings for the guy.

Cause every time you’re with him, somehow you forget to breathe.

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

@caps-lockdown @boxofteenageideas @giggleberts @strawberry-gothchild @theonelittleone @agentbadbitch @ratwrites @bandsandanimefreak @rockyroadthepastryarchy @lovvliies @cuffski @icesoccerer @steeeeverogers @zombiepotterfour @ledandan1244 @straightforwardly @denzmallows @xremember-me-notx @gwynethjodie @lollipopdomination @capstopavenger @jemimah-b99 @rcvenqers @justkending @alagalaska @silent-loucidity @sabertooth-potato @pies-wands-and-more @interstellarmess @gabriella69816 @phantom-soilder @viarogers @kaithezaftig @the-kinkiest-goblin @hysterically-original @badassbeckettswan @heyiamthatbitch @zlixlle @givemehopenfandoms @pretendingandpreposterous @frozen-phoenix17 @emotionallysalty @saturngirlz @atomicsludgedonutbiscuit @bohemian-barbie @marvelous-capsicle @ivoryhazlewood @cjhorseback @jessiedaeum @capricornprince118 @pinkleopardss @drayshadow @wiserebelpartypie @dark-night-sky-99 @patzammit @cs-please @troublermalik @anika-ann @wxstedhexrt

[ghost-in-the-hella]

anything pricefield with 17. “We should go somewhere. Just the two of us. How does that sound?” :)

Once again, I seem to have misplaced the “short” in my short story. Enjoy me absolutely eviscerating Max’s parents, though. Unbeta’d and unrevised, so please take it with a grain of salt.

---

Dinner with the Caulfields hasn’t gotten any less awkward in the three months since the storm. If anything, it’s gotten worse.

Chloe’s been trying. She really, really has. She always walks around the corner from the house when she needs a cigarette no matter how hard it’s raining, and she’s down to three smokes a day at this point anyway. She hasn’t smoked pot at all, apart from a couple times when they were hanging out with Max’s friends and they offered. She made very, very sure to cover the scent on both herself and Max before they got back, but somehow she suspects Max’s parents still knew. She grew out the last remnants of blue in her hair because Vanessa wouldn’t stop making snide comments about it. Of course, as soon as she cut off everything but the three or four inches of remaining blonde Vanessa just started snarking about her hair being too short. She never complains about being compelled to sleep on the couch even though Max said she’d be happy to share her room. Even though there’s a fucking guest room right next to Max’s room, but “oh what if Maxine’s grandparents want to come for a visit; we can’t have the sheets smelling like cigarettes” - never mind that nobody’s come to visit at all since they’ve been here. Even though her nightmares since they left Arcadia Bay have been The Worst and it’d be really nice to have a living person nearby when she wakes up from them in the dead of night.

She’s even been looking for a job so she can start paying rent like the Caulfields keep unsubtly hinting they want her to. Funny thing, though: turns out high school dropouts with no work experience, a criminal record, severe PTSD symptoms, and highly visible tattoos aren’t exactly in high demand in the workforce. Go figure.

Earlier that day she even had her first interview in over a month: an underpaid barista gig at a local coffee shop. She’d showered and brushed her teeth and made sure she was wearing clean, unstained, untorn clothes and everything. She’d even shaved her legs, which was probably stupid because it’s January and there was no way in hell the interviewer would see her legs, but she was just so desperate to make a good impression she wasn’t thinking clearly.

So of course she fucked it all up. Honestly, it was fucked before she even went in. They probably only even called her in to meet a quota or some shit. The person interviewing her liked her tattoos, which seemed promising, but he liked her criminal record and total lack of experience a lot less. Classic Chloe Price: fucking up every opportunity before she even enters the room. 

So when the Caulfields start laying into her over “family” dinner, she’s even less in the mood for it than usual. It starts with a couple of none-too-subtle digs about the smell of cigarettes, and what an unpleasant smell that is for a non-smoker to endure when they’re trying to eat, and Maxine, dear, can you even imagine marrying a smoker and how awful that would be; why, they’ve all got one foot in the grave already. Chloe put on cologne and brushed her teeth again after the cigarette she stress-smoked after her interview, but Vanessa’s got the nose of a bloodhound. 

This is followed by a series of apparently-casual-but-actually-very-rehearsed comments to Max about colleges in the area, and what a great idea it would be for her to apply to one of them when she finishes her GED so she can further her education and still live at home with her parents; certainly she won’t want to stray far from home again, not with, well, everything that happened at Blackwell (not that the Caulfields ever actually talk about what happened at Blackwell). Nobody asks Chloe how her GED is going (surprisingly well, actually) or what her plans for college might be (waste of time and money, probably), and Max just quietly pushes her peas around on her plate and tries to answer without answering. 

Once this line of questioning (pressuring) is exhausted, Ryan turns his attention to Chloe - the first time anybody but Max has addressed her directly since she returned this afternoon. “So, Chloe. Maxine tells us you had a job interview today.”

Max almost chokes on her peas, flicking frantic blue eyes toward Chloe to silently scream that ohfuckshedidnotmeanforthistobedinnerconversationpleasepleasepleaseforgive. 

Chloe swallows the impulse to put a calming hand on Max’s knee to reassure her; no way that would escape Vanessa’s eagle eyes. Instead, she clears her throat and focuses on the crumbs in Ryan’s beard. “Uh, yeah. Coffee shop.”

“That’s great!” Ryan’s enthusiasm catches Chloe utterly off-guard.

“It… is?” She glances at Max to nonverbally inquire whether Max’s dad has perhaps been replaced by a pod person in the past five minutes. Max shrugs silently, looking as baffled as Chloe feels.

“It is!” Ryan affirms. “I have to say, it’s good to see you showing some initiative. Of course, it’s been, ahh, a real... trip down memory lane, having you with us. But, well, one cannot live on nostalgia alone - however much Max may disagree, with her polaroid and her vinyl collection.” Ryan chuckles, shaking his head as he gazes fondly at his increasingly confused daughter. “And, of course, one cannot live on charity alone.” His gaze settles on Chloe once more, every trace of fondness now abruptly vanished.

“...Dad?”

“Now, now, Maxine; I know it’ll be an adjustment, but--”

“Are you kicking me out??” Somehow, Chloe manages to squeeze the words out even though her lungs feel like they’ve been punched out of her chest.

Ryan and Vanessa exchange a look, and holy shit they totally fucking are.

“Dad? Mom?” Max’s voice is trembling. She sounds like she’s about to cry. It’s hard to confirm, since all Chloe can see is red. “Are you?”

“‘Kicking out’ is a bit harsh,” Ryan objects without denying it. “But it’s been three months, Maxine, and we all agreed that this arrangement would only be temporary. It simply seems--”

Max stands abruptly, her silverware rattling on the table. “She-- She didn’t even get the job, Dad! It’s just an interview; she might not even--”

“Maxine, really!” Vanessa exclaims, mortified.

“Now, Maxine; we’re not going to just throw her out on the street. But--”

Chloe can’t listen to another word of this. She’s fucked. She’s completely and utterly fucked. She already lost her parents, her hometown, everything she owned, Rachel, everyone and everything but what she’s managed to scrape together here in Seattle… And now she’s going to lose that, too. She’s not going to get the job. She won’t have anywhere to live. Max’s parents won’t let her visit. She’ll probably never see Max again. And honestly, Max will be better off for it.

Chloe’s not sure how she got to Max’s room or how long she’s been there, but the next thing she knows she’s being spooned by a puffy-eyed Max on the too-small bed Max slept in the five years they were apart. Max is saying something to her, and it takes a few minutes before Chloe can make out anything more detailed than the sweet softness of her voice, the slight, familiar rasp to it like she’s always just woken up.

“I’m sorry,” she’s whispering over and over, “I’m sorry.”

“S’okay,” Chloe murmurs when she can persuade her vocal cords to engage. “S’not your fault your parents are dicks.”

Max freezes for a moment then squeezes Chloe tightly. “I’ll talk to them,” she promises. 

“Nah.” Chloe shakes her head. Her eyes hurt. “No reason you should tank your relationship with your folks just because I’m a fuckup. I’ll figure something out.”

“You’re not a fuckup!” Max objects, pulling away so she can look Chloe in the eye. “You’re not,” she insists when Chloe gives her a skeptical look. “My parents are just…” She lets out a burdened sigh.

“Dicks?” Chloe suggests.

“Yeah.” She strokes Chloe’s hair in silence, and Chloe lets her. She relaxes into the quiet of the moment. It’s going to be okay. Somehow, it’s going to be okay. She has no idea how, but Max will make it happen. Eventually, Max’s hand stills and Chloe can feel her chest tense as words attempt to form in her mouth. She waits patiently for whatever Max is trying to figure out how to say. “We should go somewhere. Just the two of us. How does that sound?”

Chloe lifts her head from Max’s shoulder to look her in the eye. Max looks slightly nervous, but mostly she looks determined. “You’re serious?”

Max nods. “Completely. Anywhere you want.” She scratches the back of her neck and gives Chloe a sheepish smile. “Well. Anywhere you want that we can realistically get to, anyway.”

“Hmm, good point. We probably can’t drive to Paris.”

Max laughs. “So you want to? No nagging, no job interviews, no--”

“No separate beds?” Chloe cuts in.

Max makes a face at her then giggles. “No separate beds,” she agrees. “Just Max and Chloe and the open road.”

“Uhhh, no shit I want to! But your parents--”

“They’ll get over it.” Max shrugs. “Or they won’t. But if it’s a choice between staying here without you or leaving with you, then I’m with you to the end of the road.”

There are a million things that Chloe should say. Admonishments, expressions of gratitude, admissions of fear, declarations of love. Chloe swallows them all when Max leans in for her kiss.

[crackinglamb]

I was wondering if I could ask you about Solas? See, I've never really understood his appeal as a character, let alone a LI. And in the past, I'd usually say something brash an insensitive about a character I didn't like, or more mortifying I'd do them a serious injustice in my writing. I was hoping you could tell me more about him. He's always seemed so harsh, so judgemental, and I personally hate how he ends his relationship with the inquisitor, but maybe I haven't given him a fair shake?

See, a year ago I would have been in complete agreement with you.  All I knew about him was what I’d seen or heard from fandom sources.  Then I started writing Maker Damned Fools for the Fluff-uary prompts and he was a side character.  So I started to do some research.  He’s a conflicted Boomer, a rebellious mage god and quite possibly the most complex character I’ve ever run across in a video game.  And you’re about to get an essay, so I’ll put it under a cut.

Solas has woken to a world he is responsible for creating and to his eyes initially, it’s horrible.  And in typical fashion, he thinks he can fix it by doing it over.  Rather like the way the Inquisitor who sides with the mages prevents the red future from happening at Redcliffe.  I am by no means excusing his attitude or plans.  They’re terrible and lack critical information and perspective, imo.  But I can understand why he wants to fix what he thinks he did wrong. 

He has a reputation for being a liar, but aside from a single instance, he never actually says something untrue.  He bends the truth until it squeaks and allows the listener to come to their own conclusion, whether it’s the right one or not.  He’s been reviled by generations of elves as a traitor to the gods, but he was actually rebelling against what constituted a government that would ruin the world and everything in it.  This isn’t to say he didn’t do terrible things, he absolutely did.  He threw down those in power and imprisoned them.  He made the Veil, which in turn reduced his people to a shadow of themselves.  They were conquered and enslaved.  He wore himself out so thoroughly he took a several millennia long depression nap and was powerless to stop everything he did from falling apart.  I can fully understand why he would want to fix that upon waking.

Solas exists in a Schrodinger’s paradox state.  Gaining his high approval (which is remarkably easy, even without romance) makes him understand that modern Thedas is beautiful in its own right and that if he goes ahead with his plans, he will destroy that.  However, low approval confirms all his worst fears and he is even more determined to fix what went ‘wrong’.  He is the only companion whose attitude is completely dependent on how the Inky treats the world and himself.  It always makes me laugh when people say Solas is an asshole, because in order for that to happen, one has to deliberately make him that way.  He is forming his opinion of this new world that’s utterly foreign to him by how he’s treated in it, which is completely natural.

I went into my first playthrough having all the spoilers.  I didn’t hold out much hope for him as a character, and didn’t get why he has such a popular standing as a romance option.  I get it now.

Solas approves of anything you do that is compassionate and kind.  He likes it when you ask questions, even if you disagree with him.  There's always a way to get him to see another perspective (if you’re a Dalish Inky anyway) and salvage the conversation to a good place.  He approves of treating all thinking beings, including spirits, as people and with respect.  He abhors violence for its own sake, willful destruction (which is ironic, yes), and giving power to the ambitious, such as siding with the Templars and allowing the Grey Wardens to stay in Orlais.  He dislikes the Qun and Tevinter because he absolutely detests slavery of any kind.  His friendships with the rest of the companions often start off rocky, but grow to be healthy and respectful (for the most part, he never gets on with Vivienne and his relationship with Blackwall turns...self-projecting).

He doesn’t sound like much of a monster, does he?

You mentioned romance.  Part of what makes it delicious is that it’s doomed.  He’s gonna break Inky’s heart and his own.  It’s awful.  It’s a goddamned Shakespearean level tragedy.  It’s slow and hesitant and fragile.  It has nine separate ways to end.  It’s deliberately ambiguous in terms of whether or not it’s a physical relationship.  It’s the only one without a repeatable scene.  It is frustratingly genuine, full of doubt and worry and honest emotion that terrifies him, I think.

You take an immortal near god and plunk him into chaos of his own making and he potentially comes to care for a person who was in the wrong place at the right time and got sucked into his machinations through no fault of their own.  And they change...everything.  At least as far as his emotions are concerned.  He feels that what he’s doing is his duty, either because he’s that stuck in it or because he’s under the thrall of Mythal (there’s some debate).  And it’s heart wrenching for him to continue even just friendship, which is why he leaves.  He feels like he can’t tell Inky the truth about himself or his plans, because how could anyone still care about him after that?  There’s some serious self-loathing going on there.  And I imagine at least a few of those players who romance him are doing it from a need to show that a character like that is still worthy of being loved.

Bioware has a lot of problems, I don’t think anyone would disagree.  But something they do very right is the morally gray area.  Solas/Fen’Harel is the epitome of that moral grayness.  Is he a literal demon monster, self absorbed and determined to destroy everything for some idealistic greater good?  Is he a man with a decent, soft heart who has a duty he hates?  Yes, he’s both.

Hope that helps, and thanks for the ask.

[lifeonashelf]

COBAIN, KURT

Dying was definitely the worst thing that ever happened to Kurt Cobain.

That may not read like a particularly brilliant statement. You’re saying: “Taylor, I’m sure if you solicited any random sampling of people to compile a list of the worst things they could imagine happening to them, dying would end up at the top of most of those lists” (although, it would land below “being married to Courtney Love” on mine). However, the reasons I’m positing this in regards to Cobain are only tangentially related to the most common side effect of death being an immediate cessation of one’s mortal presence on this earth. Explanation: Cobain’s too-short life was characterized by profound and abiding existential pain, so in his specific instance I presume ending that life at least came with the not-unwelcome corollary of providing a respite from his suffering. Besides, the manner of his death left ample evidence that he sincerely did not want to be alive anymore, so it’s unlikely he was overly concerned with side effects. In case there’s any misconception that I’m somehow endorsing Kurt Cobain’s suicide, please feel free to text me and I’ll gladly forward you a selfie so you can see the tears that are filling my eyes right now as I revisit the devastating final chapter of a man whose music means the world to me. Yet, somehow, the strip-mining of his memory that began the very day his body was found strikes me as a tragedy which nearly equals what was done to that body.

Tucked away on one of my shelves, you will find a bootleg box set entitled Into the Black (I mean that figuratively; you will not find it—if you really want to see it, I will get it down for you; seriously, don’t start touching my shit). I procured this anthology upon its release in 1994, and back then it had the distinction of being the richest available source of previously-unreleased Nirvana live performances and songs that were never included on any of their albums. Such a find would be largely meaningless today, when a quick internet search can immediately unearth all of those tracks within seconds. But for a distraught fan to whom the prospect of facing a world where there would never be any new Nirvana music again seemed unbearable, Into the Black was an immensely cathartic salve for me at a time when I desperately needed it. The scope of the compendium remains impressive—I think it’s a way better collection than the official With the Lights Out box set that came out 10 years later—and by presenting the included material in chronological order, all the way from Nirvana’s first demo cassette to a complete recording of their final North American concert, the seven hours of tunes on Into the Black provide about the most fitting and comprehensive Kurt Cobain encomium ever delivered.

Which is part of what makes the final track on the anthology arrive like a dagger to the soul and the ears. There really isn’t a name for this closing selection—after all, it isn’t even a song. But the creators of Into the Black had to call it something in the track listing. So they called it exactly what it is: “Courtney Love’s Complete Eulogy For Kurt Cobain.”

This recording was played for a crowd of several thousand despondent fans who gathered in Seattle for a public memorial on April 10, 1994, two days after Cobain’s body was found. Its manifestation occupies a limbo unique to itself, half significant historical document, half ghoulish tabloid spectacle. Though the song “Miss World” was released on March 28, in a very real sense, it was this Courtney Love recital that served as the first proper single from Hole’s Live Through This, which would be released forty-eight hours later and subsequently propel her music career to previously unthinkable heights—a result that arguably stemmed as much from Love’s deft public navigation of her grief process as it did from the fact that Live Through This is a fucking incredible record.

Reactions to “Eulogy” (for lack of a better title) will inevitably vary by listener. If you view Courtney Love as an unfortunate casualty of Kurt Cobain’s war against himself, you will probably hear a shell-shocked widow valiantly facing her worst nightmare. If you view Courtney Love as one of the likely reasons Cobain loaded his shotgun on April 5, 1994, you will probably hear an unhinged harpy using the most intimate words her late husband ever wrote against him in a monstrously demeaning fashion. Over time, I’ve come to rest somewhere in the middle of those two poles, so I don’t quite know what to make of the recording now. What I do know is that I never want to listen to it again, and don’t really need to since it’s still vividly burned into my brain from past spins—I couldn’t bring myself to revisit it while authoring this segment about it. Because even in 1994 when I was playing Into the Black endlessly, even when I was struggling to make sense of something that seemed utterly senseless, and even when the message Love was delivering was allegedly intended for anguished fans just like me, my reaction to that audio was exactly the same as I assume it would be today: I shouldn’t be hearing this.

“Eulogy” essentially features Courtney Love narrating Cobain’s suicide note in its entirety. Since photographs of the document have subsequently surfaced in numerous places, a cursory review plainly reveals that despite Love’s proclamation on the tape that she elected to omit parts of the letter about herself and their daughter Frances “because they’re none of your fucking business”, she does in fact share nearly everything that appears on the page. Irrespective of that, her rationalization is a bizarre one—after all, it can be sensibly argued that nothing in that epistle was really the “fucking business” of anyone outside Cobain’s immediate circle. The mere reading itself denotes a sort of indecent invasion, but it is the peculiar spin the author’s self-appointed spokeswoman put on the broadcast that truly makes it astonishing. Love didn’t simply orate Cobain’s note, she annotated it, interjecting frequently to pose her own biting counterpoints to his words, sometimes leveling these ripostes directly at him, sometimes addressing her running commentary to the royal listening we. Her delivery veers between naked tear-choked agony that will move you no matter how you feel about her, and primal hissing vitriol—at one point on the recording she instructs the entire crowd to call the man they came to mourn “asshole.” It is the sound of a woman purging an entire spectrum of very private emotions in a very public way, it is an unseemly peek under the mortuary drape of a man who had just shot a gaping hole in the hearts of millions, and it is extremely uncomfortable to listen to.

I do not know Courtney Love. I have no desire to know Courtney Love. Only she could tell you how actively she calculated the channeling of her deceased husband’s musical legacy into the birth of her own. I cannot definitively state that Courtney Love exploited Kurt Cobain’s death to make herself famous; it’s not nearly that simple. I can state this again, because it’s true: Live Through This is a fucking amazing record, and it probably would have been a next-level hit even without the supernatural timing of its arrival and the uncanny way several of its key tracks seemed to capture what all of us who were shattered by Cobain’s suicide were feeling at that moment in time. But regardless of her intentions, the transmission she delivered at the Seattle Center on April 10, 1994 was undeniably indecorous. The very circumstance of it feels wrong, and witnessing it via that recording feels even worse. I didn’t want to know what that note said. I wish I didn’t know what that note said. And I wish I could listen to Live Through This—which is, to reiterate, SUCH A FUCKING GREAT RECORD—without inescapably pinpointing it as the moment Courtney Love became the first person to strike gold at Kurt Cobain’s gravesite.

Unfortunately, that was only the beginning of the excavation.

Elsewhere in my apartment, on the bookcase directly to the right of the desk at which I’m sitting, you will also find no fewer than six biographies about Nirvana. In relation to the sum of available material, my library isn’t even close to complete; after a while, I stopped buying every associated text as they were published (once you read a half-dozen volumes about a band that only existed for a half-dozen years, redundancy becomes an issue—also, reading about Nirvana is always a dispiriting experience because no matter how good the book is, you’re inevitably going to reach THAT chapter eventually). Filed next to those is Cobain, a coffee table book which assembles almost every Nirvana-related article that appeared in Rolling Stone during their career. And directly beside that rests an even larger coffee table book entitled Journals. Kurt Cobain is the credited author, which I suppose makes sense, since nearly every word therein is in his handwriting. Nevertheless, that attribution becomes difficult to digest when you consider that the tome was released in 2002—given that Cobain had been dead for 8 years when Journals came out, I’m naturally skeptical about the scope of his involvement in the project.

I have a hard time accepting that this book exists. On one hand, the drawings, correspondence, and scribbled musings which comprise its pages offer a rare and informal glimpse into the mind of one of my favorite songwriters of all time. Yet a much larger part of me can’t discount my impression that by glimpsing these things I have in essence sneaked into Kurt Cobain’s room and picked the lock on his diary. It seems highly improbable he would have ever published this material in this form of his own volition; actually, I suspect he would have been mortified if these logs were leaked while he was alive. The justification, one would suppose, is that Cobain is a singularly iconic figure and remains an object of fascination, therefore any piece of himself he took the time to immortalize in writing has intrinsic value (even a dip recipe he got from his mom, evidently). Except the absence of his agency over this particular venture indicates that the significance of the content showcased in Journals was determined solely by outside agents. Cobain was actually fairly prolific given the brevity of his career—it would take a book roughly the same size as Journals to assemble all of the lyrics he wrote for Nirvana’s catalog. Yet, like any artist, he put most of his work through rigorous internal scrutiny and editorial refinement before he unveiled it to an audience; he was the only person who decided if and when it had value. A lot of the poetry featured in Journals was eventually funneled into Nirvana compositions; those are the pieces we can presume he was ready to share with the world—because he, you know, did share them. But when it comes to the numerous drafts of personal letters that appear throughout the tome, it seems innately obvious he did not want those to be read; if he did, he would have fucking sent them to the people they were addressed to and they wouldn’t still be present in his notebooks to be pilfered.

When the release of this relic was announced, the rabid fan in me was of course curious, and I knew this was an item I wanted in my library. But the altruistic side of me always grappled with that desire; I could never quite concur that Cobain’s inability to object constituted a license for me to read work that he chose to keep to himself. Obviously, Journals was a guaranteed best-seller, which is precisely why it was published (oh, I was never snowed by that “a way for his fans to better understand him” bullshit; I have no doubt “a way for his fans to spend money” was the primary purpose this tome was meant to serve). It certainly has intriguing bits, particularly the sections that show sketches Cobain made for early Nirvana t-shirt designs that were never produced and the numerous mixtape track-listings he itemized (sadly, due to his fondness for bands so deeply obscure they are outside the scope of even a collection as large as mine, I don’t have all the listed tunes to faithfully reproduce any of them for my own listening pleasure).

Other articles such as a grossly-gushy sweethearts note to Courtney Love and a childish screed addressed to MTV are far less interesting to me, since the only parts of Cobain they help me “better understand” are parts I already know far more about than I care to. Good and bad are basically negligible designations here anyway, since the revelatory bits and the patently trivial snippets are all culled from the same invasive pedigree. It certainly didn’t assuage my conflicted feelings about reading Journals when I opened the book and saw that the very first sentence printed in it is, “Don’t read my diary when I’m gone”… a request that becomes somewhat clouded by what Cobain wrote two lines later: “please read my diary… look through my things, and figure me out.” I did look—I looked cover to cover—but since I listened to all of Nirvana’s records long before that, I already had Kurt Cobain figured out about as much as I imagine he wanted myself or any of his fans to. A photocopy that confirms he did ordinary things like pay his phone bill doesn’t do much to augment my appreciation of all the extraordinary things he did.

By exhibiting monumental developments like Cobain’s first stab at the lyrics to “Smells Like Teen Spirit” alongside snippets of humdrum humanity like his jotting down of the 1-800 number for NordikTrack, a chronicle like Journals is ostensibly meant to show that even a man who was exalted as a demigod used to put on his Daniel Johnston shirts one sleeve at a time just like the rest of us. If so, the very existence of Journals negates its own premise, since none of its content would be considered even remotely noteworthy if said content wasn’t scribed by Kurt Cobain—which only advances the misguided hero-worship that plagued his quintessence and encumbered a future suicide victim with spiritual baggage he never welcomed nor desired. Even with my limited understanding of what Kurt Cobain’s art meant to him, I am certain he would never have wanted a book like Journals to happen. Just as I am equally certain that the inflation of his esteem to such excessive heights that his admirers would be itching to read the undisclosed documents he kept in his underwear drawer played a large part in the events of April 5, 1994.

I guess this is as good a time as any to explain why a songwriter who was never a solo artist is the subject of his own entry here—especially since I just chastised the publishers of Journals for giving him special treatment. It’s true that nearly every piece of music Cobain had his hand in was issued under the Nirvana masthead (except for that collaboration with William Burroughs I wrote about a long time ago… but I’m trying to forget that ever came out since it’s not much more enjoyable to listen to than “Eulogy”). Yet, thanks to the same vulturous machinations I’ve been recapping throughout this piece, the Kurt Cobain discography does indeed include one solo album to date. There is an itty-bitty asterisk next to that item, though:

* Kurt Cobain’s solo album came out twenty-one years after Kurt Cobain died.

Oh, and * Kurt Cobain did not participate in the making of Kurt Cobain’s solo album.

Oh, and * Kurt Cobain’s solo album is not technically an album.

Oh, also * Most of the songs on Kurt Cobain’s solo album are not actually songs.

Oh, and lastly * When Kurt Cobain recorded this solo not-album of mostly not-songs, he had no idea that anyone was ever going to hear it.

The sort-of record I’m referring to was assigned the title Montage of Heck, which is needlessly confusing for anyone familiar with Nirvana’s history, since Montage of Heck was originally the title Cobain bestowed upon one of his earliest demo cassettes. The Montage I’m examining in this essay bears no relation to that one; rather, Montage of Heck: The Home Recordings is an ill-considered compilation that was released in conjunction with a congruently-monikered and congruently ill-considered 2015 documentary. Licentiously-hyped as one of the most profound musical portraits ever unveiled, Kurt Cobain: Montage of Heck was directed by filmmaker Brett Morgen, who was granted unprecedented access to Cobain’s personal archives and shaped that material into an allegedly insightful study of the artist’s epigrammatic life and shocking death. Since she had already exhausted the potential for monetizing her late husband’s sketchpads, Courtney Love upped the ante for this project by allowing Morgen to use the family’s personal home videos as the film’s major selling point—evidently, neither party gave a shit that two decades earlier Cobain expressed how violated he felt when strangers invaded his private life in a song bluntly entitled “Rape Me”.

I’ll keep my review of the biopic Kurt Cobain: Montage of Heck brief—mostly because I didn’t enjoy it at all and the overriding emotion I was left with after watching it was anger. But it is worth mentioning here, since it was similarly levied with the purported intention of making its viewers “better understand” its subject. Strange, then, that the two most memorable moments in the movie are unabashedly salacious, and both are focused on candid glimpses of Courtney Love’s behind-the-scenes comportment rather than her husband’s. If you’re wondering what Love’s breasts looked like in the early-‘90s, or if you relish the notion of watching her toddle around the couple’s apartment in a state of opiated incoherence in the presence of their baby daughter… then, brothers and sisters, this film is the Casablanca of that specific genre. But anyone seeking a meaningful exploration of what kind of person Cobain was outside the limelight is bound for disappointment since Montage mostly underscores his least appealing traits, the unpleasant facets of his humanity that we as fans have trained ourselves to banish from our thoughts as we continue applauding his inimitable artistic contributions. Aspects which, of course, Courtney Love is central to. Her odious presence throughout the documentary, and indeed in Cobain’s orbit, serves as a manifest reminder that a man we lionize for writing some of the most exquisite songs of all time was also deeply in love with a vulgar, revolting succubus. And perhaps this is a key reason why revisiting him via panegyrics like Montage of Heck and Journals always leaves a sour aftertaste—as long as Courtney Love has stewardship over his legacy, the worst thing Kurt Cobain ever did will be always be a principal figure in each new celebration of the best things he did.

In addition to her boobie videos, Love also turned over a box of cassette tapes to Brett Morgen (if memory serves, this batch of recordings was dutifully referred to as a “treasure trove” in every press release about the project I read). Morgen cherry-picked a few bits of music from this lot for usage in his movie, which were naturally cobbled into a soundtrack that was touted to fans as a cache of “previously-unheard music by Kurt Cobain.” Since the filmmaker was ostensibly the one who decided what portions of the tapes to appropriate, he is recognized in Montage of Heck’s liner notes as its “Executive Producer”—a dubious acknowledgement that gives Brett Morgen the distinction of being the only person in the history of audio engineering credited with producing an album whose recording he wasn’t actually present for, by an artist he never even met.    

Morgen’s pastiche job doesn’t merely form the basis of Montage of Heck: The Home Recordings, it is the disc’s entirety. Stripped of any historical provenance generous listeners may feel obligated to apply, what the proffered material basically amounts to is a half-hour of Kurt Cobain getting stoned in his living room and fucking around on a series of out-of-tune guitars. I wasn’t present for Morgen’s listening party, so I can only speculate on how much music was available for him to sift through, or what the stuff he rejected as inadequate sounded like. But this much is clear: the pieces he chose to disseminate on Montage of Heck range from drearily frivolous to blatantly insulting. The disc offers no real insights (unless you didn’t already know Kurt Cobain got high or played guitar, I suppose), and fans searching the conclave for Nirvana songs that might-have-been will merely discover that Cobain was sensible enough not to pursue an inane number called “Burn My Britches” any further than the two-minute segment he toyed with on his couch here.

Perhaps fittingly, the disc opens with the unmistakable bubbling of a bong, which effectively sets the tone for what follows: Cobain yodeling to warm his pipes up before launching into a rudimentary power chord sequence and yodeling over that for a little while for no apparent purpose (at least Morgen gave the cut a suitable title—it’s called “The Yodel Song”). Elsewhere, attempts are made to tie this cycle of doodles into the songwriter’s established canon, such as the inclusion of the promisingly-dubbed “Scoff (Early Demo)”. Yet, while the prospect of hearing a preliminary version of the 7th-best number on Bleach may seem like cause for celebration, the actual track lands like a slap to the face once you hear that this extract which Morgen judged as precious enough for commercial immortality merely consists of Cobain scat-growling gibberish lyrics over the tune’s main riff until the tape unceremoniously cuts off 38-seconds later; identifying this nothing-morsel as a rough draft of the song “Scoff” is akin to calling a piece of paper with the word “It” typed on it a rough draft of A Tale of Two Cities. Such is the caliber of material spotlighted on Montage of Heck: The Home Recordings, a “treasure trove” that would have been better left buried.    

One of the few genuine items of interest among the detritus is “Reverb Experiment”, which consists of three minutes of droning throwaway instrumental noodling, but still sounds kind of cool since a lot of it sounds like the refrain of Slayer’s “Dead Skin Mask”. There’s also a fairly well-formed idea called “Desire” that might have been turned into something striking if its author had chosen to develop it, and the closing number “She Only Lies” is noteworthy since it features Cobain working out an idea on bass guitar instead. Regardless, nothing on Montage of Heck justifies the ballyhoo that accompanied its release, and even the marginally decent pieces are unworthy of mention on their composer’s resume—although, Brett Morgen certainly got a great resume item out of the deal; now he can call himself a “filmmaker / record producer.”

However, this was Kurt Cobain who documented these scraps on the battery-operated boombox in his apartment. And he’s an icon, remember? So—said Brett Morgen and Courtney Love and everyone at Universal Music who had their dollar-bill-mounted fishhooks in the water of this endeavor—Montage of Heck: The Home Recordings shouldn’t be treated like some gratuitous cash-grab collation of idle time-killers which Cobain thought so little of he didn’t bother revisiting most of them again. No, no, no. This is an Event. Try this: Montage captures a peerlessly illustrious artist as his fans have never heard him before, in his rawest, most intimate form, no studio, no audience, just a man and his guitar seizing inspiration out of the ether and channeling it into his instrument as he explores new incarnations of the sound that made Nirvana the band that launched a revolution. Well, hey, that sounds pretty good; we can really shift some units with an idea like that. The only problem is, if we’re going to treat this thing like a legitimate album, it has to have a legitimate hit single we can sell it with. And how do you dig a unicorn out of a pile of lo-fi cassette tapes that live in a shoebox?

Luckily, Brett Morgen found just the solution for this quandary inside that shoebox.

“And I Love Her” was issued with all the buzz of an actual lost Nirvana song—it was even pressed on 7” vinyl like a proper single. It didn’t really matter that the sound quality was wispy, nor that the performance wasn’t particularly polished. This was a recording of Kurt Cobain playing a fucking Beatles tune, dude, and not only was it previously-unavailable, no one even knew it fucking existed. And the internet went apeshit. The cosmic synchronicity of this find couldn’t have been scripted any better: the architect of the band who electrified the zeitgeist in the 1990’s covering the band who electrified the zeitgeist 30 years earlier, arguably the only other rock group in history whose rapid ascension to immortality Nirvana’s was comparable to. The concept alone was glorious, and it wasn’t merely some music nerd’s wetdream—this Moment in musical mythology Actually Happened.

Here’s the thing, though: Kurt Cobain’s rendition of “And I Love Her” only has significance because people desperately wanted it to, NEEDED it to. It was still just a lark the dude recorded in his living room one lazy night, and it still sounds just as slapdash as every other fragmentary living room lark featured on Montage of Heck: The Home Recordings. There isn’t anything especially revelatory about Cobain esteeming The Beatles so highly that he learned to play one of their songs—both his backstory and his discography are liberally sprinkled with evidence he appreciated the Fab Four’s work, and in case you missed the homages there, nearly every piece of literature ever written about Kurt Cobain has helpfully cited the “Beatle-esque hooks” in songs like “About A Girl” and “In Bloom” to underline his unambiguous approbation. Even casual Nirvana fans were surely already well aware that Cobain enjoyed playing songs by musicians he admired—the dozen-or-so covers in the band’s repertoire and the fact that nearly half the tunes which comprised their legendary MTV Unplugged performance weren’t written by Nirvana provided some telling clues on that front.

The level of hype which heralded the arrival of “And I Love Her” (and Montage of Heck as a whole) intimated that a vital missing piece of the Kurt Cobain puzzle had finally been unearthed. Yet the disc supplies nothing more than a disenchanting anticlimax once you actually listen to it and ascertain that the venerated songwriter’s busy-work wasn’t all that impressive. Perhaps this is more a result of a faulty selection process—I’m willing to imagine there is some truly fantastic material on those tapes which Brett Morgen overlooked for whatever reason—but whether or not Cobain’s archives are ripe with undiscovered gems, the resounding impact of The Home Recordings is much the same as that of Journals: nearly everything in that time capsule would be appraised as inconsequential nonsense if it wasn’t Kurt Cobain’s nonsense. Which takes us right back to the pitfalls of deifying any musician to such a degree that every note they ever played is assigned an implied indispensability, even the botched ones that actually make them sound like a less gifted musician than they were.

Besides, we Nirvana fans already got our missing piece. That happened in 2002, with the release of the band’s self-titled greatest hits package. The one I bought despite owning every record which sourced that compilation, solely because there were three minutes and thirty-eight seconds of music on there I had never heard—the one and only known completed and previously-unreleased Nirvana song: “You Know You’re Right”. (Although, Courtney Love had the audacity to debut that tune way back in 1995 when she performed it as part of Hole’s MTV Unplugged set—seriously, sometimes I wonder if every single thing she’s done in the past 25 years has been predicated on a willful and concerted effort to make everyone who loves Nirvana hate her; although, her campaign of terror has made it nearly impossible to even mention Nirvana without also mentioning her, so maybe she’s a fucking genius).

In stark contrast with the nebulous scribbles on Montage of Heck or the interesting but inessential rehearsal tracks which dominated With the Lights Out, “You Know You’re Right” is indeed a revelation of almost religious proportions, a roaring burst of dynamism that is as powerful as anything else in Nirvana’s catalog—the lone tantalizing taste of a fourth record the band would never get to make, a frozen moment of fragile optimism captured just before the world as we knew it ended. “You Know You’re Right” is fucking AWESOME, and its explosive potency is all the more impressive considering that the lone recording of it which exists was essentially the group’s first stab at it. It is one of my absolute favorite songs in a catalog bursting with favorites. And I cried the first time I heard it. And I cried the second time I heard it. And the third… And, 17 years onward, I cried when I listened to it moments ago.

Plenty of Cobain’s tunes have this effect on me. Still, “You Know You’re Right” is a singular case. And I know exactly why that song, above all others, devastates me the most. It’s not because the lyrics are especially poignant, even though they are. It’s not because the track’s intoxicating promise reminds me of precisely how much all of us lost on April 5, 1994, even though it does. The reason “You Know You’re Right” tears my fucking guts out every time I hear it… is because that was it. That was the final song Nirvana recorded. And after it came out, there would never be any more. “You Know You’re Right” was the moment I had to say goodbye to Kurt Cobain forever.

I did that. And I think it’s time for the rest of the world to let him sleep, too.

Over the years, I have accumulated bootlegs of more than 200 Nirvana concerts. Roughly 150 of those shows are phenomenal, and plenty of them are of strong enough audio quality to warrant an official disclosure. That is the true “treasure trove,” a nearly limitless stockpile of unreleased Kurt Cobain recordings that could fuel a supplementary Nirvana release every single year for the rest of human history. And we already know he wanted an audience to hear that music, because he stepped onto the stage and played it for them. Since the continued fracking of his legacy is inevitable, by all means, the Cobain estate should absolutely tap into that wellspring whenever the marketplace is clamoring for fresh product or Courtney Love is clamoring for further cosmetic augmentation. I’ll buy every goddamn disc they put out, and I’ll probably buy them all on vinyl, too. And if you, personally, feel the need to explore the more obscure corners of Cobain’s discography, there are already plenty of places you can look—start with the single for “Smells Like Teen Spirit”, where you’ll find the tremendous B-side “Even In His Youth” and a killer alternate recording of “Aneurysm” that blows the version on Incesticide out of the water.

Hey, I’m a fan first and a snarky asshole second; I get it. I can surely identify with the sustained hysteria enveloping his heritage. Cobain’s suicide was the single most traumatic event of my teen-hood, and all these years later I can still tell you where I was, what I was wearing, and even what I was eating when I first heard the horrifying news of his departure (my family’s comic book store in Anaheim Hills, a Groo the Wanderer t-shirt, and a foot-long tuna on white from Subway). Still, even then, I had a firm pragmatic grasp on my grief. Kurt Cobain wasn’t my mentor, my hero, someone who embodied the man I hoped to eventually be when I reached his epoch of then-unimaginable elder statesmanship (hey, when you’re fifteen, 27 seems like an eternity away—at the time I assumed when I was Cobain’s age I’d probably be doing all sorts of old-people shit like buying a house and raising babies… or at least finally having sex). He wasn’t deity to me, he was simply someone responsible for some of the most imperative music in my life; unfortunately, since music has always been a lot more imperative in my life than deities, his abrupt absence was crushing nonetheless.

But the nature of Cobain’s subsequent beatification seems to suggest that many of his fans choose to remember him as something more, a shooting star that painted a tapestry of light across the heavens before inexorably crashing down to earth, “the grunge-poet voice of a generation” and all that. Hell, to many people, he was. But despite his canonization by the masses, Kurt Cobain was not a messiah and never strived to be. He was flawed and beautiful and complex, and a mystery even to himself—in other words: he was just as fucked-up and human as any of us. Kurt Cobain is not some riddle to be solved; we will never decode him because he didn’t stay the course of his journey long enough to find out who “him” really was or would become. And his awful conclusion will never make sense, because there’s ultimately nothing sensible about putting a shotgun in your mouth and ending a life that meant so much to so many when it had barely just begun.

As we near the 25th anniversary of Cobain’s death, let’s resolve to (finally) allow him his humanity again, and to allow the still-buried pieces of his spirit he chose to keep solely for himself to remain interred with him. Because we’re only paying disservice to the topsoil of his legacy by continuing to dig. And besides, we have Bleach, we have Nevermind, we have In Utero, we have Unplugged, we have a few-dozen additional non-album tracks, and we have “You Know You’re Right”—Kurt Cobain already gave far more of himself to the world than any of us were entitled to ask for.

So if you want to “better understand” him, you won’t achieve that by reading his diary, or seeing his widow’s areolae, or hearing him offhandedly strum some ditty from his childhood to amuse himself. The best avenue available for those of us who never met Cobain to look through his things and figure him out is lighting a candle, putting on a set of headphones, and letting the breathtaking majesty of “All Apologies” surge out of those speakers and into our souls. There is no more intimate way to honor him than that. Nor should there be. Understanding Kurt Cobain isn’t necessary. As long as we understand his music, and we understand what it means to us.

We don’t need his secrets. We have his songs. And for anyone who truly holds the memory of Kurt Cobain in their heart, that’s enough.

 March 25, 2019

[roswell-gift-exchange]

Fic: What Waits in Darkness (Polar, PG-13)

What Waits in Darkness to @mrskatiegecko / from @grufflepuff

I started out with every intention to write an episode tag for Missing. I guess technically this isn't not an episode tag, but…it ended up going in a very different direction from what I originally planned. I hope you like it, @mrskatiegecko, even though it doesn’t successfully hit many of the things you mentioned in your survey. 

made for round two of the @roswell-gift-exchange

It started not long after Michael returned her journal. Or maybe it’d been going since long before that night, but she’d just never noticed it before. Either way, Michael was spending a lot more time in the restaurant, especially around closing. She never quite saw him come in, and she was never the one to take his order, but, almost without fail, he would still be sitting there at his booth even after the last diners filed out the door.

There was just something about being in the restaurant after closing. No matter how crazy, rushed, or busy it was during the course of the day, that same silent hush always fell over the empty booths and tables once that “Closed” sign was turned around. It was eerie. It was creepy. The front windows made it worse. When darkness closed in around the restaurant there was really no way to know what could possibly be lurking outside, watching. It was probably her most childish fear, all things considered. But it was still always present in the back of her mind.

So she never asked him to leave. She never asked any of the other servers not to ask him to leave, but…they didn’t. Or if they did, he didn’t listen.

She kind of…liked it. Which was stupid. At best, he barely tolerated her most of the time, and that’s when he wasn’t actively seething at her. It wasn’t like she could necessarily count on him as protection in case anything bad ever happened after hours. Right? She studied him out of the corner of her eye as she tried to refill the sugar dispensers. If someone came in right now, waving a gun or demanding money or something, he might try to stop them. So what if it was probably only so he wouldn’t have to give a statement to the police or deal with Maria losing her mind if either of them got hurt? In this sort of situation, it was the action—not the thought—that counted, surely.

He was reading something, some thick, dog-eared book. She hadn’t been able to get a look at the title, but he seemed utterly engrossed in it. His eyebrows were furrowed, his eyes trained intently on the page. But he took his time with the words—not like he was struggling with them or anything like that, but like he was trying to absorb them, really make sense of them. It was kind of sexy.

Immediately, she felt shame rush through her. He was with Maria. Her best friend. This really wasn’t okay. It absolutely was not okay for her to be sitting here, alone, with her best friend’s love interest, noticing the way he tugged at his lower lip as he read.

“Hey, if you’re just going to sit there staring at me, would you mind warming me up?” He’d lifted his mug in the air to illustrate his request, but he still wasn’t looking at her. Heat suffused her cheeks, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of trying to stumble through an explanation. She slid off of the seat and went to get the last of the coffee.

“Looks to me like you’re the one just sitting there. I’m refilling the sugar.” She gestured with her free hand as she poured fresh coffee—well hot coffee, anyway—into his mug. He still didn’t look up, but it almost sounded like…maybe he laughed?

“You’ve been watching me for the last ten minutes.” He started to turn the page in his book, but then hesitated, apparently rereading something. Liz caught herself staring at his hand, the way his fingers curled beneath the page, and forced herself to look away. “That’s all I needed. Thanks.”

She tried not to laugh as she turned and headed back to the damn sugar. She was tempted to ask him how he’d kept track of how long she’d been staring if he was so busy reading, but that ran the risk of sounding like she was confessing to having been staring. So. Fine. She spun the seat around to face the counter completely, and worked twice as hard to get the job done. And if she felt his gaze rake down her back as solidly as if he’d been touching her, well…surely that was just her imagination.

When she’d finally finished, she swept up all of the dispensers into her arms and carried them behind the counter. Then she set about the rest of her closing-up tasks: wiping the tables down, putting the chairs up, sweeping. Without meaning to, she gave Michael’s booth as wide a berth as she could manage.

It was so stupid. Her mind just kept going back to that night he returned her journal. It should have made her want to crawl into a hole and die—standing face to face with someone who was essentially a stranger and yet who had read her most private thoughts. To her credit, most of the time she was appropriately mortified by that night.

But sometimes she focused on other things. How he’d looked at her—his eyes had been sharp and intimidating at first, but then they’d softened, somehow, as he’d paced around the restaurant. How, when he’d pulled her journal out, the first thing she felt hadn’t been horror, but relief. Relief that he’d been the one who had it, and yes, that meant that he’d been reading it, but, more importantly, it’d been safe. That whole time that she’d been panicking and imagining the worst, her journal had been in his care.

Thank you for giving me one more reason to envy Max Evans.

Words had bubbled up inside her when he’d said that, mostly explanations for the countless embarrassing things she’d said about Max in her journal. Starry-eyed descriptions and purple prose and who knew what else. Max had saved her life, and…she’d kind of lost her mind for a while there. But he’d read it all, and he was sitting in front of her, telling her that her journal spoke of who she was. And then, unless she was mistaken, his eyes had flickered down to her mouth for a moment before he’d looked away and gotten up to leave.

She was absolutely ridiculous, projecting this amount of intimacy onto her non-relationship with Michael. He’d made it clear, over and over again, that he didn’t want anything to do with her. He’d taken her journal, and read it, out of self-preservation alone. Granted, that didn’t quite explain why he’d given it back to her instead of burning it to ashes, but there was no reason for her to still be reading this much into such a brief interaction. So, in an attempt to force it out of her mind and just get these last few tasks finished, she heaved a frustrated sigh and focused on mopping the floor.

Just as Liz dunked the mop back into the bucket, and then put it into the wringer to get rid of the excess water, a movement in the window caught her eye. She looked up, involuntarily, and then stumbled backwards with a sound that was half-scream, half-growl. Someone was standing way too close to the door, with their hands and the side of their face pressed against the glass. Initially, she had the dizzying, bewildering thought that it was an actual alien—the face was bulbous and oddly-proportioned and…silver, and the fingers were inhumanly long. But then her rational brain kicked in and she recognized it for was it was—that stupid costume that they sold at the UFO Center. When the visitor saw her looking, they turned their head and wiggled their fingers at her.

Someone else appeared beside the costumed person—except, no, not beside them. It was Michael’s reflection. He was standing next to her. He placed his hand on the small of her back, and she couldn’t help but feel grateful for that. “Do you know that idiot?” He asked, jerking his chin towards the alien. “That’s not Maxwell.”

Liz shook her head. Max had worn something like that once, but even from this distance, in the dark, on the other side of a pane of glass, Liz knew that it wasn’t Max. She swallowed, hard. Something wasn’t right. Her eyes slid away from the alien’s face, to the deadbolt on the door, and her stomach dropped. She hadn’t locked the door. Just like the night that Michael had returned her goddamned journal, she hadn’t locked the door.

Of course, if…whoever that was, was determined to get inside the restaurant, the deadbolt was not going to keep them from breaking the door and just stepping through, but…she didn’t have to make it easy for them. Her heart was beating way too fast. Could she make it in time? She was still quite a distance away from the door, but maybe she could make it.

So, before she could talk herself out of it, Liz started forward. She thought she heard Michael hiss her name behind her, but she made it to the door—just in time for the alien to pull it open and step inside.

Fuck.

One single, helpless syllable was the only thing on Liz’s mind as she stared up at the intruder. She couldn’t see through the eyeholes of the mask. Nothing else about them seemed particularly familiar. Someone—Michael, it had to be Michael—grabbed her arm and yanked her backwards, away from the alien. As he did, she couldn’t tear her eyes off of whoever it was. They yanked off their stupid gloves and reached into their pocket. Another sharp yank, and suddenly she was standing behind Michael, while he blocked her with his body.

“Hey, pal, we’re closed. I know what it’s like, jonesing for that Green Martian shake, but you’re gonna have to come back in the morning.” He had his hands up and out, like he was approaching a wild animal and trying to show that he meant no harm, but Liz caught the beginnings of an orange glow in his hands. She touched his back, because how else was she supposed to draw Michael’s attention to the problem without also telling the visitor?

“I don’t want a milkshake, stupid.” Liz wracked her brain, trying to identify the voice, but she came up empty. She had no idea who this person was. Michael’s back stiffened, and he took a step backwards, closer to Liz, which is when she saw it.

The alien was pointing a gun at them. The silver glinted menacingly in the dim lights of the restaurant. Her whole body went numb. Suddenly she was thrust backwards through time, to that first afternoon. That was how she thought about it: The first. The beginning of this whole mess.

“Okay,” Michael said, placating, and she realized that the alien must have said something. He kept his hands up (Liz was relieved to see that the glow had gone away, at least) but walked slowly over to the register. He wanted money? No, the alien wanted money. When he was standing behind the register, he fumbled with the screen, with the drawer. She should be the one standing there. She should be the one doing this, not Michael.

“There’s a key—” Her voice started out too loud, and the alien swiveled towards her. Suddenly all she could see was the barrel of that gun. She froze, hands outstretched in front of her like they could stop a stray bullet. They hadn’t the last time.

“Hey, buddy, focus on me. She’s not gonna do anything stupid. Come on.” Michael’s voice was tight, but he was trying to get the alien to point the gun at him. A quick, warm rush of gratitude ran through her chilled body. The alien was still looking at her, though, and finally gestured with the gun for her to join Michael. She did, though her feet currently seemed to be fully encased in blocks of concrete. With hands that trembled too much, she fumbled with the key to the register until Michael finally took it from her and did it himself. When he did, he pulled the drawer out and held it out to the alien.

“That’s it?” The disgust in his voice was almost enough to make Liz laugh. Quiet, queasy laughter was bubbling up inside her, but somehow she managed to choke it down.

“We did a deposit earlier…” Her throat was dry.

In one fluid movement, the alien came around to their side of the register—way too close—and swiped his hand around inside the register as though looking for the secret stash of money. When he didn’t find anything, he pointed his gun at her again.

“Where’s your tips, then? Where do you keep them? Don’t move.” He raised his gun a little higher, threatening. Instinctively, she took a step backwards, right into Michael. She felt him put his hand on her side, but every single one of her senses was tuned in to that gun. The alien tightened his grip. He’d asked her a question, but he was too close. That gun was too close. Language had fled.

“They’re in the pocket of her apron, the one on your left. That’s where she keeps them.” How could he possibly sound this calm? Her heart was literally going to explode in her chest, and Michael sounded like he was chatting with an old friend.

The alien reached into her pocket, and if she’d had more presence of mind, she might have been disgusted by the feeling of him rooting around in her clothing. But then he pulled out her miserable wad of singles and stuffed it into his own pocket, along with what little remained in the drawer. When he was satisfied, he chucked Liz under the chin with the barrel of his gun and walked backwards towards the door. “Pleasure doing business with you folks. You have a good night, now.”

And just like that, he was gone. Liz felt herself crumbling, and reached to brace herself against the counter, but Michael grabbed her wrists and spun her around to face him.

“Don’t touch anything. The police might be able to get fingerprints. Are you okay?” His voice sounded softer than she’d ever heard before, but she couldn’t bring herself to look at him.

“I’m fine,” she said, in a voice that said pretty much the opposite. She cleared her throat. “Really.” The last thing she needed was to look like a delicate little damsel in distress in front of him. How many times had she put his life in danger, now? “What about you, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Let’s sit down, though, okay?” He really did sound fine. Liz got the distinct impression, however, that he had not missed the way her legs were trembling, and so she allowed him to lead her over to the counter. But before she could sit, she pulled away from him and went over to the phone.

“I need to call the police. And my dad.” Her brain was slowly coming back to life, now, even though she felt like she could only focus on one thing at a time. Police. Because they’d just been robbed. But before she dialed, she had a brief moment of clarity and looked over at Michael. “You should leave, right? Because when they get here, they’ll have questions? I can wait until you leave.”

He looked like he was thinking. “No, they might find my prints on the register too. I think it’s okay. I don’t want to talk to Valenti, but it’ll look weird if I’m not here when they get here.” He jutted his chin towards the phone. “Just make the call before you faint.”

“I’m not going to faint,” she muttered as she dialed. When someone at the sheriff’s office picked up the phone, she managed to stumble her way through some kind of description of what had just happened, then hung up and numbly dialed the number for her parents upstairs and repeated the story, more or less, when her father picked up the phone. Finally, she made her way back over to the seat next to Michael. After a moment of silence, he shrugged out of his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. “What are you doing?”

“That’s what you’re supposed to do when someone’s in shock, right? Keep them warm? I know I’ve heard that somewhere.” He kept his hands on her shoulders, through his jacket, as though to keep her from shrugging it off.

“I’m not in shock.” It was bad enough to turn into that frozen mess, but now for Michael Guerin to treat her like she’d been a frozen mess…she didn’t like it.

“Well, humor me?” He ducked a little, to catch her gaze. His eyes were the color of whiskey, she thought dimly. Had she ever noticed that before? “If you pass out and hit your head on the counter or something, I can’t heal you like Max can.”

Liz opened her mouth to tell him, once again, that she had no plans of passing out or fainting or anything else so ridiculous, but then thought better of it and just nodded. She could sit here arguing with him all night like a petulant child, or she could just shut up and move on.

Before the silence could stretch very far between them, she heard her father’s heavy footsteps on the stairs, and he burst through the door. “Lizzie!” He called, looking more frantic than she would have liked. She was still having trouble processing what had happened, but she knew he’d have a million questions, so she started to stand up. But Michael beat her to it, going to Jeff and explaining to him, once again, what had happened. Every once in a while, Jeff would look to Liz over Michael’s shoulder, as though looking for confirmation. All she had to do was nod. An incredulous gratitude continued to build inside her—to Michael.

When most of Jeff’s questions—for now—had been answered, Michael stepped aside, and let him stumble towards Liz. She allowed him to sweep her up into his arms, holding her in a bone-crushing hug while he mumbled apologies and vows that she’d never be alone in the restaurant again, and all of the other types of things that she could have expected from her father.

It wasn’t terribly surprising that the sheriff himself showed up, along with Deputy Blackwood. Beneath the expected veneer of concern, Liz could have sworn that Valenti was pleased to be back in the Crashdown. He asked her all the right questions, but she saw the way his eyes kept wandering. He studied Michael, who was giving his statement to Blackwood. He studied the walls, the tables, everything. He was still looking for something about the shooting. When his eyes focused on Liz, she got the uncomfortable sensation that he was cataloging every single detail about her.

Feeling exposed, she finally slipped her arms through the sleeves of Michael’s jacket and zipped it up. The movement must have caught his eyes, because when she looked over at him, he was already watching her.

“Well, I think we’ve got all the information that we’re going to need from you folks,” Valenti finally drawled. “Before we go, we’re just going to need to take your fingerprints, so we can eliminate your prints from the register and the other surfaces.” His face gave nothing away, but Liz couldn’t help but feel he sounded way too excited about the prospect of having Michael’s fingerprints on file. She caught his eyes again, from across the room.

“Are you out of your mind?” Jeff, who had mostly been listening while Liz and Michael gave their stories, finally spoke up. “You’re not going to fingerprint these…these children. They’re not criminals.”

“Jeff, I understand where you’re coming from, but it’s protocol—” Valenti kept his voice level. Probably he thought he’d dealt with parents like Jeff a thousand times in the past, but Liz recognized the glint in her father’s eyes. She fought back a smile.

“I don’t care if it’s protocol; it’s not going to happen tonight. They’re kids. Just take all the prints off of the register and run them all through the system and when a criminal pops up, that’s the one who pointed a gun at my baby.”

Deputy Blackwood had since gone over to the stupid gloves that the alien had left behind. He picked them up carefully and dropped them into a bag. Liz gestured to him. “He was wearing those gloves. Your guys can get prints from the gloves and match them to prints from the register, can’t they?” She’d watched her share of forensics shows on television: she knew it wasn’t exactly easy, but…it was possible, sometimes.

Valenti gave her a look that would have made her shiver, on a different night, maybe. But tonight she’d stared down possible death, and she had her father on her side. She held her chin up high. Finally, Valenti sighed and looked away.

“If I didn’t know your family better, Jeff, I might think y’all had something to hide. But it’s late, and I know where to find you all if I need you, so I guess we can skip the fingerprinting for now.” He slipped his notepad back into his shirt pocket and gestured to the deputy. A few moments later, they had cleared out of the restaurant.

Jeff stood at the door and watched them go. Even when the taillights of Valenti’s cruiser were long gone, he kept standing there, staring out into the darkness. Liz tried not to shiver. After a while, Michael stalked over to the booth where he’d left all his things, and started packing it all away. Something drew Liz to him. A question. The night was already blurring into one big mess of terror, but something was bothering her. She glanced up to make sure her father was still looking out the windows.

“How did you know where I kept my tips?” She finally asked, leaning against the end of one of the booths. Michael’s easy movements stilled for a moment, and he ducked his head before finally zipping up his bag.

“I’ve been coming here for a while now,” he finally said, as though that explained everything. He looked up at her, and her questions must have shown in her face, because he gave her a little half-smile before going on: “You always put them in the same pocket. I see you do it a hundred times a day. How am I not gonna notice?”

Liz dropped her gaze but raised one shoulder in a half-shrug. Through everything else that had happened that night, she felt a little rush of…well, there was really no other term for it but “pleasure” at the thought that Michael paid enough attention to her to remember anything she did. Ridiculous. There were much bigger things she should be thinking about right now. She pushed an errant strand of hair behind her ear.

“Thank you for being here tonight,” she mumbled after a while. “Really… Thank you.”

“Anytime.” She didn’t miss that edge in his voice. He was getting uncomfortable. Rather than pressing the issue, or trying to find any other words strong enough to convey what she was really feeling, Liz simply nodded and took a small step backwards, giving him a little more space. He shouldered his bag, but then stood there for a moment too long, like he was trying to think of something else to say. She held her breath.

But then the moment passed, and he shoved one hand deep into his pocket. “Okay, see ya,” he finally said. It may have been the exact right thing to say: the night had flown wildly off-kilter, but to hear Michael try to distance himself from the situation, as usual, was…well, comforting. She felt herself smile a little and, when she looked up at him again, his eyes were a little softer than normal, like maybe he was smiling too. He strode toward the door, bade goodnight to Jeff with an awkward wave, and disappeared into the night as easily as anything.

He left his jacket.

[buzzwheeze]

skeptics and true believers: ch.6

Ryan has never felt luckier [AO3] [Wattpad]

Ryan looked at himself in the mirror, nervous excitement tingling underneath his skin as he smoothed out the wrinkles in his shirt.

He was going on a date-- but, not just any date, a date with Shane Madej. He could barely hold back a smile as he thought about it again; he was going on a date with Shane! Apprehension and anticipation began to form a knot in his stomach.

There was knock at his door, and Ryan could see his mother peeking in from the other side.

"Come on in," He said, giving her a nervous smile as she opened the door.

"Okay, so you know your father and I are fine with you being gay and everything," His mother began, making Ryan narrow his eyes in suspicion, "But we're going to interrogate your boyfriend when he gets here. Y'know, just to make sure he's good for you and everything."

Ryan groaned. "Absolutely do not do that. You're the absolute worst, mom." He told her, anxious mind already imagining his mom and dad interrogating Shane the second he showed up at the door, "It's just a date, it's not like we're getting marri--" He was cut off by the doorbell ringing from downstairs.

He practically ran down into the living room to reach the door before either of his parents, only to find, to his dismay, that his dad had already beaten him there. Ryan could feel his face turning red in embarrassment as he came to the door and overheard his boyfriend and his father having a conversation.

"Oh yeah, I'm just here to pick up-- there he is," Shane grinned when they made eye contact, clearly not picking up on Ryan's discomfort, "Hey, Ryan. You ready to go?"

"Yea--" Ryan was cut off by his mother pushing past him to greet Shane.

"Hi there, Shane, I'm Mrs. Bergara." Ryan internally groaned as his mother accosted his boyfriend. "So, how are your grades? GPA?"

Ryan shoved past his parents and stepped out onto the front porch with Shane, who looked surprised by the sudden questions. He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "Well, I, uh--"

"You don't have to answer her," Ryan assured him, shooting his mom a dirty look over his shoulder. He appreciated his mother's concern, he really did, but he was equally, if not more, annoyed by it. "She's crazy." He grabbed Shane's arm and pulled him towards the car and off of the porch.

"Bye, love you guys, be back later!" Ryan shouted to his parents as he dragged Shane to the car. Shane laughed as they climbed into the front seats-- Ryan glanced at him sheepishly.

"I'm sorry," He began rambling, absolutely mortified by his parents' behavior, "They're both insane and annoying and the absolute worst--" He fully intended to continue on like that until Shane rested his hand on top of his own.

"It's fine, Ryan," Shane chuckled softly, eyes alight with warmth and affection. "It's endearing." He grabbed Ryan's hand gently, picking it up and pressing a kiss to it. "There's literally no reason to be embarrassed, goofball," he said, before giving a sly grin that made Ryan figure he knew exactly what he was doing, making Ryan's thoughts go static and face go red.

Ryan stammered in-eloquently for a couple of moments, skin warm where Shane's lips were. A nervous laugh bubbled out of his throat, only thought holy shit I'm so gay Shane is going to be the death of me.

"Got it," he squeaked out, voice embarrassingly high-pitched."Should we go?"

Shane laughed again as he started the car and started down the road.

They got to the movie theater fifteen minutes before their movie started, some slasher flick that, judging by the trailers, looked to be more guts and gore than actual plot. Shane spent ten of those minutes kicking Ryan's ass at Dance Dance Revolution in the arcade before they actually went into the theater.

"You're a goddamn cheater, Madej," He grumbled as they sat down in their seats, Shane's eyes glittering as the theater lights dimmed."I don't how, but you fucking cheated. I didn't even realize it was possible to cheat at DDR, but here I am."

"I've got good reflexes." He grinned, and maybe Ryan's heart fluttered just a tiny bit, because Christ, Shane was so beautiful when he smiled. He dropped his gaze to the floor and didn't reply, feeling embarrassed for staring.

Shane noticed. He leaned on the seat divider and tilted Ryan's face up. "Hey," He said, softly, "Chin up, Ry. You can look at me all you want-- we're dating!" There was something so wondrous in the way he said it, as if he still couldn't believe it himself, that Ryan couldn't help but smile back at him.

He knew how Shane felt-- it still hadn't really sank in for him, either. That day in the woods had been just three days ago; they'd held hands all the way back to Shane's house, and Ryan had spent the night. Not doing anything intimate, just spending time in the presence of one another, talking to each other. Making sure they were both on the same page and just enjoying the fact that they were with each other, now.

The newness of the word 'boyfriend' still hadn't worn off, the fact that he could kiss and stare at Shane all he wanted still felt novel. It was all such unfamiliar territory, but Ryan wouldn't trade it for anything. The way Shane was looking at him now, eyes shining with affection, made suffering through any anxiety or uncertainty worth it.

It soon became apparent, however, that Ryan had picked the wrong movie. He was more on the skittish side, and well. The movie was kinda scary, okay? He didn't do well with jump scares, and this shitty Halloween ripoff had many of them.

He jumped when something scary happened on screen, and braced himself for Shane giving him shit about it-- and instead, was surprised when Shane rested his arm around his shoulders.

"Scared?" He asked, voice humourous but not teasing. He nuzzled his face in the crook of Ryan's neck before kissing his cheek and okay wow, when did Ryan die and go to heaven? Because he's pretty sure that's where he's at right now.

"Why would I be scared of some movie serial killer when my boyfriend is a super hot werewolf dude?" He murmured, leaning into Shane's touch. He felt Shane chuckle beside him.

"You think I'm hot?"

"We're dating, Shane." The words felt odd leaving his mouth, and for a moment 'we're dating' reverberated around in Ryan's mind, the fact he somehow was lucky enough to end up dating Shane still utterly foreign.

Shane laughed and pressed another kiss to Ryan's cheek (something so casual about the touch, yet it made Ryan's breathing hitch), the conversation effectively distracting him from the movie and its scares entirely. The rest of it passed in a blur, Ryan only paying attention to the fact that Shane was resting his head on him and had his arm around his shoulder-- still struck with newness of being so tactile with one another.

They came out of the theater laughing, and Ryan almost felt drunk in how happiness warmed his chest and how his elation made him feel lightheaded and dizzy. At some point, as they walked back to the car, Shane slipped his hand into Ryan's. He revelled in how it felt to hold Shane's hand and press up against his side in the cold autumn air.-- he didn't want this night to end, and felt oddly sad as they climbed into the car.

Shane didn't say anything for a couple of moment as the sat in the car, and for a few irrational seconds, Ryan feared that Shane didn't have a good time tonight, that this wonderful date would meet an awkward, uncomfortable end--

"Let's go stargazing," Shane's soft voice pulled Ryan from his anxiety, "It's nice out tonight."

Ryan looked up and met Shane's eyes, suddenly feeling that not wanting this night to end was an emotion shared between the two of them. He let out a sigh, his anxiety leaving as well, and couldn't help the smile that crept onto his face.

"Yeah, of course," He said, not able to get the words out fast enough. Shane grinned back at him and started the car. An unexpected surge of fondness rose in Ryan's chest, almost hurting in its intensity.

Maybe it was too soon in their relationship-- it could have been merely teenage infatuation--but Ryan was in love, he's so fucking in love with Shane and his humor, in love with his skepticism, his height, the way his brown eyes flashed as they passed streetlights, everything about him was so beautiful and Ryan felt as if he couldn't breath suddenly, drowning in emotion.

Shane pulled into one of the local parks and parked, gravel crunching underneath the wheels of the car. He cast Ryan a sidelong glance, small smile on his face.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to stare, Bergara?" He teased as he unbuckled his seatbelt, and on a stroke of impulse, Ryan leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Upon pulling back, a smug satisfaction overtook Ryan at the flustered blush that dusted Shane's cheeks.

"C'mon, let's go look at stars or whatever," Shane mumbled, voice an octave too high, making Ryan laugh as they climbed out of the car.

The night was chilly, and the waning gibbous moon above cast a low light over the parking lot. The stars were numerous, park far away enough from the more populated part of town to where light pollution was less of a problem. Shane was sitting on the hood of his car, and motioned for Ryan to join him.

Ryan nuzzled up against Shane's side, letting the other wrap his arms around him. For a couple of moments, they just sat like that in a companionable silence. Ryan pulled his jacket tighter and shifted closer to Shane.

"You're very warm," Ryan mumbled, resting his head in the crook of Shane's neck-- Shane's body temperature felt like he was constantly running a fever and Ryan leaned into it now, the heat comforting in the cold night

"It's a werewolf thing, I think," Shane murmured, Ryan listening with rapt attention, still endlessly intrigued by his boyfriend's lycanthropy, "I'm still not completely sure about what is and isn't a werewolf thing-- I've never met another one. I think I witnessed my father transform once, before he left." The way Shane spat the word 'father' and fell silent made Ryan curious-- but he wouldn't press something Shane didn't want to tell him about.

"Do you believe in aliens?" He asked, trying to change the subject, "I mean, knowing you, you probably don't, but..." He looked up at the sky and the vast glitter of stars across it, "I don't think we're alone in the universe."

"I believe in aliens," Shane replied, running a hand through Ryan's hair, "Not in a, 'little green men came into some country bumpkin's home and probed his asshole' way, but in a 'it would be ridiculous to believe that humans are the only intelligent life in the entire universe' way."

"So I win, basically" He sat up to look Shane in the eyes, a wide grin creeping over his face, "You believe in something supernatural, so I win."

Shane snorted. "Absolutely not-- aliens are science, not supernatural. There's a difference," He rolled his eyes, "Your spooky ghosts still aren't real."

"Oh, shut your stupid skeptical mouth," Ryan shot back, getting closer to Shane's face. Something about the atmosphere changed, and Shane smirked.

"Make me."

Ryan's not totally sure who initiated it, but suddenly the space between them was gone and his lips were pressed against Shane's-- it wasn't urgent and desperate, like their first kiss, instead it was slower, something more languid in how they pushed against each other this time. The unspoken tension erupting that had defined their first kiss was gone, replaced with a mutual and clear desire from both of them. Shane tasted like soda and popcorn, but Ryan didn't mind it-- exploring Shane's mouth with his tongue was enough of a sensation in itself to distract him.

They pulled their lips apart, but stayed close, Ryan resting his forehead against Shane's. He felt out of breath, but it was good-- everything about this moment, everything about being hand in hand with Shane, kissing Shane, was so fucking good in a way that Ryan never envisioned himself lucky enough to experience.

He almost thought it might be a dream, but as he cupped Shane's cheek, tilting his head upwards to look into his warm, brown eyes, Ryan could feel his pulse just below the surface. Shane's heartbeat raced in time with his own, a constant drumbeat telling him that this was real, real, real.

--

Ryan laid on Shane's bed, intertwined in Shane's gangly limbs, head on his chest. It was a Saturday, a lazy Saturday, one in which time passed slowly and the two of them were bound to the bed by lethargy. They hadn't gotten up almost the entire day, content to just talk aimlessly and be with one another.

"You're the densest person ever, Shane," They had gotten onto the topic of their friends, and somehow, Ryan did not know how, Shane hadn't realized Safiya and Freddie were dating, "For all your super werewolf senses and shit, you're incredibly unobservant."

"Not my fault the only person I pay attention to is you," Shane mumbled as he pressed a series of kisses onto Ryan's neck; Ryan swatted him away playfully.

"Don't blame your own obliviousness on me, Madej" Ryan said, rolling over onto his stomach to face Shane. "Tell me you at least know about Steven and Andrew."

"I'm not blind," Shane scoffed. "Astronauts could see they're a thing. That and Steven is always loudly proclaiming Andrew as his boyfriend, as if we'd forget if he didn't remind us."

"By that logic you should know about Saf and Freddie. They're always holding hands, calling each other babe," Ryan absentmindedly took Shane's hand in his, "How could you not know?"

"Well, I know now," He grinned, "Hey, what if I asked you to start calling me 'babe'?"

"The only pet name I will ever give you is Bonestilts," Ryan teased."I don't think I could say 'babe' without it sounding corny."

"I'll accept Bonestilts. It's got a nice ring to it," Shane said thoughtfully, furrowing his eyebrows. "What about those two jock dudes who are always super competitive? They seem like they have some unresolved sexual tension going on."

"Ned and Eugene?" Ryan asked, and Shane nodded. He had to think for a moment-- Ned was their school's only good soccer player, Eugene the football star, and they were pretty competitive, Shane was right. Ryan thought he might have even seen them holding hands before-- as well as with the two far less athletic, nerdier dudes that they hung around. There were plenty of rumors, sure, the most plausible one that they were all just dating each other.

"Absolutely no clue," Ryan replied finally. "I think they're in a relationship with Zach and Keith, but I'm not totally sure. Whatever's going on it's not something they broadcast for the world."

"Is everyone at this school gay?" Shane laughed, "I'm genuinely curious."

"Probably," Ryan deadpanned, "You wanna know who's really gay though?"

"Wh--"

"--You," Ryan interrupted with a cheeky grin, poking Shane in the chest, " ooh get wrecked." Ryan giggled at his stupid joke even as Shane rolled his eyes.

"Whatever, you gigantic dork." Shane pulled Ryan closer, something far too fond in his voice before kissing him on the cheek. They had been dating a while, but the way Shane's stubble scratched against Ryan's cheek still made his heart race.

Ryan can't help himself-- he kissed Shane, Shane's hand immediately coming up to cup his face as they embraced. It was slow and aimless, like most of today has been, and before long they broke apart with smiles on their faces. He could see the affection alight in Shane's eyes and knew his must look the same.

They laid together in a companionable silence, Ryan resting his head on Shane's chest, listening to the rise and fall of the other's chest.

"The full moon's coming up soon," Ryan said, breaking the silence. He felt Shane momentarily tense underneath him before relaxing again; Ryan couldn't blame him. It was only the second full moon after they had gotten together, since Ryan had found out, and Ryan knew it must be weird talking candidly about something he had kept under wraps for so long.

"Yeah," Shane breathed the word out like a sigh, before wrapping his arms loosely around Ryan. "You know... having you around, having someone around to talk about this werewolf stuff with makes it... I don't know. Easier, I think."

"How so?" Ryan asked, glancing up at Shane.

"I told you about how there's always this compulsion to transform, and it gets hard to control sometimes. Especially whenever I'm emotional," He huffed out a laugh, "I transformed a lot when we first met--I had a lot of confusing emotions surrounding you, y'know. But what I'm trying to say is, you being here, and more specifically us being together, makes those compulsions less strong."

He paused, but Ryan still listened intently.

"I tend to get trapped in my own head a lot, I get lost in my own perspective and I let things build up that shouldn't. But you..."He interlocked his slender fingers with Ryan's. "You caring about me, and knowing about the whole werewolf thing makes it easier for me to snap myself out of it." He looked down at Ryan, small smile on his face.

"You make it easier for me to breathe, whenever it feels like I'm drowning," Shane said earnestly, pressing a kiss to Ryan's forehead. "I can't thank you enough for that, Ryan."

There were thousands of things Ryan wanted to say-- no, I should be thanking you, or you it hard for me to breathe when you're around, or I love you, I love you so much it hurts.

He didn't. He didn't say anything; instead, he smiled at Shane and pulled him close and kissed him again--for a moment, the rise and fall of Shane's chest was the only thing reminding him to breathe.

--

Ryan was alone. He felt the loneliness as if it were a physical presence, crushing his chest and making it ache.

The full moon was tonight, its pale face already high in the night sky. Ryan was in his bedroom, and he missed Shane intensely, more than anything else in the world. His heart ached at the thought of Shane, alone in the woods, wrapped in chains.

He tried not to think about it.

He attempted to fall asleep, but every howl made him miss Shane even more-- and something else, as well. There was a nagging sense of dread that had followed him all day. He tried to tell himself it was just him missing Shane, but no matter what he did he couldn't shake the feeling that something is wrong.

Everything's been so good lately, though, he thought to himself, Everything's perfect. He knew this-- knew how good things were better than anyone else.

And yet, a foreboding sense of doom followed him, followed his thoughts-- and it worried him.

[8bitsupervillain]

End of the Year 2019: Games of the Year

Hello everyone, it's that special time of year again! Time for me to shower praise upon some games that I absolutely adored, while mentioning some games that I liked, but not really enough to put on this list. For a remarkable change of pace I have a full list of ten for the best of 2019, however I only have four for the pre-2019 so that's a bit disappointing. If you notice any glaring omissions for the best of the year the simple explanation is that I probably just didn't play it, or I didn't play it enough for it to enter consideration. I also didn't really play anything this year that stands out as particularly bad, there was maybe one game, but I don't have it in me to write a full length thing to expound upon its terrible state. There are also some games that I'm disappointed I didn't get to play, but hopefully I'll be able to in 2020.

Honorable Mentions:

God Eater 3. I've sunk almost twenty hours in to this game, but I haven't played enough of it to really make a declaration that I think it's good. I still intend on playing the game to the finish, but for all I know the game could take a real nose-dive in quality towards the end. I have a desire to go back and play the previous God Eater games as well, so I guess that could be considered an endorsement. I like the visual style in this game, the models all look very nice, and the monster designs are pretty neat to look at as well.

Remnant: From the Ashes. I never quite got to finishing this game, but from what I played this was a pretty fun little co-op shooter. There are some things that the game does that I don't particularly care for, some of the one-shot enemies in the swamp level, the confusing design of this one dungeon in the desert area being particularly troublesome things I remember. I would love to go back and finish this one, but as it stands it'll have to stay with an honorable mention.

King of Fighters XIV. I'm not great at fighting games, but I still enjoyed this game a whole hell of a lot. But like I said I'm not great at the game, but it's a fun one to pop in every once in a while just to get annihilated by all the killers online.

Death Stranding. Please don't post spoilers here. I've greatly enjoyed my time with this game, but as with Remnant and God Eater 3 I didn't finish this one. I've played maybe about twelve hours into this one, but I don't know if that's enough to really comment on the games overall quality. As with God Eater 3 for all I know it could take a real nose-dive in quality.

Hollow Knight. I played a very little amount of Hollow Knight, but I liked what I've played so far. Hope to go back and finish this one before Silksong comes out.

The Elder Scrolls Legends. I quite liked the Alliance War and Jaws of Oblivion expansions. It's a shame they've cancelled all further expansions for this game, because I liked the story based ones they've put out in the past and I was hopeful for more sets in the future. It was never a particularly great game, but I liked what they had going for the longest time.

Pre-2019 Games of the Year

04: Death Mark

This is a fun little RPG/Visual Novel horror game that came out in 2018 that I got a chance to play back in May. It's an investigation game where your character and a host of other characters are trying to solve the mystery of their death mark. A strange design that looks like a bite that materializes on their bodies one day. If they don't get to the root of the problem they die a horrible grisly death. I like the episodic nature of the game with each chapter revolving around a mystery involving a different type of vengeful spirit than the other chapters. There is a small combat element that happens toward the end of each chapter that isn't particularly deep to deal with as it's more puzzle-based rather than being an actual combat engine. It doesn't feature much in the way of blood and gore, but what's there is frankly mortifying to look at. I played it on the Switch, but the game is available on the PS4 and PC as well. Death Mark is definitely worth playing through at least once.

03: Monster Hunter 4: Ultimate

I'm ever so slowly going through my 3DS backlog and finally played through this one. I can understand why people say that 4U is their favorite Monster Hunter game because it is just an absolute blast to play through. I really like the design of the monsters in this game especially Gore Magala and Masharu Magala. I don't know if I would recommend it over World or Generations Ultimate but I had a hell of a time playing through this game.

02: Dragon's Dogma: Dark Arisen

I love the way the combat in this game feels. I love how you can climb on the monsters and start stabbing away at them. Magic and ranged combat feel really good, and I especially like the Pawn system so you can keep trying out other player's pawns until you hit that sweet spot of the type of combat you want to have for the game. The story is a little basic, kind of your typical "slay the evil dragon" storyline even though it's great how the game gives you a personal reason to want the dragon dead. Guy stole your heart after all, literally ripped it from your chest. I liked the story towards the end when you actually face off with the dragon and all that occurs from then on that was great fun. I played this on both the PS4 and the Switch port that came out earlier this year (I guess I could've put this in the 2019 category), and I was surprised at how well the Switch was able to play the game. The game doesn't look completely awful in handheld mode, and it kept a stable framerate throughout my playthrough. The PS4 and PC versions look better of course, but the Switch version keeps the spirit of the game rather well and is just as good to play there as on the other consoles.

01: Nioh

Bill Nioh's adventures in feudal Japan was a great time. This game made me consider the notion of a mission/loot based Diablo done in a Dark Souls style to not be the worst thing I've ever heard. My only major complaint with the game is that there's too much vendor trash in this game. There's also the problem that you'll be constantly switching from one version of your weapon to another with barely any time to gain "familiarity" with your weapon. Familiarity means you hit slightly harder than you would with another version of that weapon, but with how many variations on whatever weapon your using you'll constantly be scrapping older versions of your weapon and armor without really raising your familiarity. I wish that the game would've gone with an experience meter per-weapon deal rather than loading you up with a million variations of each weapon. Like a leveling bar for Katana, Dual-Blades, Nodachi, and so on, there's already a skill-tree for each weapon, so I think an experience meter for each weapon would work better. It's not a deal-breaker by any means, but I think it might work better.  I like the mission-based focus of this game rather than being a pseudo-open world affair like most Soulslike games. I still need to play through the expansions before Nioh 2 comes out.

Games of the Year 2019

10: Bloodstained: Ritual of the Night

This was a good Metroidvania to play through, and certainly better than I thought it was going to be. I enjoyed the various weapons you can acquire throughout the game, the spear and great swords were particularly fun in my playthrough for instance. I have some minor complaints that arise towards the end of the game, but they're not major issues. A boss fight or two will just absolutely destroy the framerate while you're fighting them (I can only imagine how they play on the Switch if the game was dying on the PS4 Pro). I liked some of the extra bosses you can fight like the Millionaire's Bane and the bonus boss that's Definitely Not Simon.

09: Untitled Goose Game

An amusing game to play, and I had a fun time playing it. It's definitely not the deepest or longest game to come out this year (from start to finish the game is maybe four hours long), but it's a fun enough "nuisance simulator." It reminds me of playing a game like Hitman, cause Goose Game is definitely a stealth game, even if every time I completed an objective I unfurled my wings and honked to assert my dominance over the people in the village.

08: Samurai Shodown

As previously mentioned I am not good at fighting games. Yet despite my being bad at them I find myself constantly going back to SamSho just to get obliterated online. I positively adore the art style in this game and the completely vicious gameplay. Unlike some other fighting games you can be destroyed within mere seconds of the match starting. If you play super poorly your opponent can cut your lifebar down from 100% to next to nothing with one or two moves. It's very exhilarating when that happens, or when they do a super that just destroys your lifebar. It reminds me a lot of samurai movies in that way where guy does the move and the opponent just stands there for a second then falls over dead. I get the impression that this is going to be a "small pond" scenario where there's the handful of godlike players and everyone else will just get bodied everyday, but I really love this game. I absolutely despise the final boss in the arcade mode.

07: Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice

Speaking of games that are absolutely torture to play. Sekiro is really insidious, the first half or so of the game is relatively easy, but then you hit a certain boss and the game decides its done toying with you and will just start absolutely and utterly destroying you. Every single boss fight from that point forward are some of the most brutal and agonizing fights that have been put in a video game. I had to give up on playing this game for a few weeks because I was getting too tired of throwing myself against the wall in the hopes that this time I'll get the best of this bastard. After finally killing the final boss I had vowed to never play the game again. Then two days later I started a new-game plus playthrough. Whoops! I love the verticality of this game, being able to jump and use a grappling hook was absolutely great. Despite my complaints about the sheer difficulty of the bosses  I love the combat in this game. It is particularly exhilarating when a guy makes to stab you with a spear and you stomp it into the ground and take him out yourself. Masataka Oniwa and the Divine Dragon are hands down the best fights in the game, with the final boss being a particularly noteworthy bastard of a fight. Oniwa and the Dragon are great because of the sheer spectacle of the fights, whereas the final boss is great because of he is a great amalgamation of everything the game has thrown to you at that point. I liked this game a lot, but I certainly don't hold it against anyone who decides the difficulty is too much.

06: Nioh 2 Beta

Meanwhile Nioh 2's beta was an absolute gem of a thing that I played this year. Sadly I didn't get into the private alpha towards the start of the year, but I did download the public beta and proceeded to sink nearly thirty hours into it. I love the new weapon they added to the game the switch glaive, which is a combination knuckle weapon/spear/scythe depending on your stance. In low stance it's a lot like Bloodborne's switch-axe or spear in that the blade covers your fist and you punch it into enemies. Mid-stance it turns into a spear, and high turns it into a scythe and I had great fun trying out all the forms in this beta. I adore the fact that the game gives you a devil trigger for your spirit animals, and I love the fact that this game has a character creator. It seems like they're keeping the volume of the drops to the same level as the first game, but that's fine. I cannot wait to get my hands on the full version.

05: Devil May Cry 5

This was a great game, filled to the brim with some amazing set-pieces and great moments. It very much feels like a "greatest hits" version of Devil May Cry combining all the elements from the four original DMCs and also bringing over some stuff from DmC. I was worried a bit about the game being similar to DMC 4 and splitting the action into "Here's the Nero section, here's Dante's, and V's" but it worked out pretty well. It gives you a mission or two to get used to how the characters play but not too much time that it feels like "you've learned this character, but screw that learn Dante." It all blends itself really well. They each have their own feel which works really great with their differences in character, but for my money Nero is the best to play as. The story is also really fun to play through, it has some amazing moments even if some of the stuff is really silly. Also the game gives us Nico, and she's really great.

04: Monster Hunter World: Iceborne

The jump in difficulty from the High-Rank quests to Master-Rank was crazy. Maybe it's because I got rusty, not having played World since roughly February, but I was not really prepared for the increase in difficulty. That said I still adore this game, plus they added both Zinogre and Stygian Zinogre, the only way they could've made an already great game even better is if they were like "and here's Gore Magala and Masharu Magala." I like the new hunter's hub, and they made the game so much better with all the variations of monsters they added to this game. I like the Seething Bazelgeuse and Blackveil Vaal Hazak a lot, and the Ebony Odogaron has an amazing looking set of armor. My only wish was that they add some variations to other monsters, I would've loved to see a variation to Kushala Daora or Teostra and Lunastra. I like the clutch-claw very much even if it's the reason my deaths in hunts has skyrocketed. I can't help but wonder what they're going to do for the next Monster Hunter. What can they do to improve this for the inevitable PS5 and Xbox versions? HD version of Gen Ultimate?

03: Blasphemous

The past couple of years I've grown really dismissive of pixel-art 2D games. Just something about the way they look made me grow weary of them, and maybe I've missed out on some amazing games. Then I believe it was E3 2017 I saw a trailer for Blasphemous and I was instantly drawn to it. There was some combination of the religious horror and gore that just made me very excited. Then the game more or less disappeared, then I laid eyes on this game's trailer and I was instantly back in. This game is absolutely wonderful to play, I love the unlockable moves the game gives you as well as the amazing bleak tone and atmosphere in this game. I like the fact that the more you die in the game the more the game covers up your available MP meter, that's a nifty little mechanic, and I liked the paying money to cure yourself from that problem. It's flavorful, and fits with the tone very nicely. I plan to one day go deeper into why I think this game is as good as I think it is, from both a gameplay and aesthetic sense, but I don't think here's really the place to do it. It's a very good 2D exploration game, and I love it to pieces even if I do think some of the bosses aren't good.

02: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Aside from Monster Hunter and Samurai Shodown I probably spent the most time with this game. One campaign playthrough took me over a hundred hours, and I'm presently ten hours into a second playthrough (of four). I went with the Blue Lions for my first playthrough and I really liked the story the game presented to me. It's not without its faults but overall I quite like what it did, I felt that it was a nice upgrade from the storyline from Fates. I get the distinct impression that there was originally going to only be the Red Eagles and Blue Lions routes but then someone at IntSys just went "give the Golden Deer a path" and so here we are. I don't entirely understand why there's the weapon degradation system in this game, for the relic weapons sure, but for your standard weaponry it doesn't make sense. That said I do really enjoy the missions in this game, there aren't any that really stand out as horrible. I like most of the characters in this game, and it kept me gripped for the entire length of the campaign. A ton of fun this game.

01: Resident Evil 2

I played through this game six times in a month, and once more while I was writing this list. I really, really enjoyed my time with Resident Evil 2 and it is positively astounding that Capcom did such a great job with this game. There are some minor complaints I have with the game, the second run having the completely silly and superfluous handgun with its own ammo certainly stands out. However the game is positively gorgeous, sounds phenomenal and is just ridiculously fun to play. In addition to the wonderful base campaigns there's also the revised 4th Survivor and Tofu modes, then in the summer Capcom released the Ghost Survivor DLC missions which are fun little challenge modes to play. I love everything about this game Capcom really knocked it out of the park with this one, and I cannot wait to see what they do with Resident Evil 3.

The real game of the year was all the War of the Spark pre-release, and the drafts I did. Both IRL and in Magic Arena and Online. That and Core 2020 Pre-release.

[batterymonster2021]

The price of shame | Monica Lewinsky

New Post has been published on https://hititem.kr/the-price-of-shame-monica-lewinsky-7/

The price of shame | Monica Lewinsky

You’re watching at a girl who was publicly silent for a decade. Obviously, that is transformed, but most effective not too long ago. It used to be several months ago that I gave my very first principal public talk on the Forbes 30 beneath 30 summit: 1,500 exceptional humans, all underneath the age of 30. That supposed that in 1998, the oldest among the many staff have been only 14, and the youngest, simply 4. I joked with them that some could simplest have heard of me from rap songs. Yes, i am in rap songs. Almost 40 rap songs. (Laughter) however the night time of my speech, a stunning thing happened.On the age of 41, I was once hit on through a 27-12 months-ancient guy. I do know, correct? He was once charming and i was flattered, and i declined. You already know what his unsuccessful pickup line used to be? He would make me think 22 once more. (Laughter) (Applause) i noticed later that night, i’m ordinarily the only person over 40 who does now not wish to be 22 again. (Laughter) (Applause) on the age of twenty-two, I fell in love with my boss, and at the age of 24, I realized the devastating consequences. Am i able to see a exhibit of fingers of anyone here who failed to make a mistake or do whatever they regretted at 22? Yep.That is what I suggestion. So like me, at 22, a couple of of you could have additionally taken flawed turns and fallen in love with the unsuitable person, possibly even your boss. Unlike me, though, your boss by and large wasn’t the president of the united states of america. Of path, existence is filled with surprises. Not a day goes by using that i’m not reminded of my mistake, and that i remorse that mistake deeply. In 1998, after having been swept up into an unbelievable romance, I was once then swept up into the attention of a political, authorized and media maelstrom like we had not ever obvious before. Take into account, only some years earlier, information used to be consumed from just three places: reading a newspaper or magazine, paying attention to the radio, or watching television. That was once it. However that wasn’t my destiny. As an alternative, this scandal was once brought to you via the digital revolution.That meant we could entry all the information we wanted, once we wanted it, each time, wherever, and when the story broke in January 1998, it broke online. It used to be the first time the normal information used to be usurped through the web for a foremost news story, a click on that reverberated all over the world. What that meant for me personally was that overnight I went from being a utterly private determine to a publicly humiliated one international.I used to be patient zero of dropping a private repute on a world scale nearly immediately. This rush to judgment, enabled by using science, resulted in mobs of virtual stone-throwers. Granted, it used to be earlier than social media, but men and women would still remark online, e-mail stories, and, of path, electronic mail merciless jokes. News sources plastered pictures of me far and wide to sell newspapers, banner advertisements on-line, and to hold persons tuned to the tv. Do you recall a exact photograph of me, say, sporting a beret? Now, I admit I made errors, certainly sporting that beret. However the awareness and judgment that I acquired, not the story, but that I individually received, used to be unparalleled.I was branded as a tramp, tart, slut, whore, bimbo, and, of course, that lady. I was seen by way of many however surely known via few. And that i get it: it was once effortless to put out of your mind that that woman used to be dimensional, had a soul, and was once unbroken. When this occurred to me 17 years ago, there was once no identify for it. Now we call it cyberbullying and on-line harassment. Today, I need to share a few of my experience with you, speak about how that experience has helped shape my cultural observations, and how i’m hoping my prior expertise can lead to a transformation that outcome in much less suffering for others. In 1998, I misplaced my status and my dignity. I lost just about everything, and i virtually lost my life. Let me paint a photo for you. It’s September of 1998. I’m sitting in a windowless place of business room inside the office of the independent suggestions underneath buzzing fluorescent lights. I am listening to the sound of my voice, my voice on surreptitiously taped mobile calls that a supposed buddy had made the year earlier than. I am here due to the fact i’ve been legally required to personally authenticate all 20 hours of taped dialog.For the earlier eight months, the mysterious content material of those tapes has hung like the Sword of Damocles over my head. I mean, who can don’t forget what they mentioned a year in the past? Scared and mortified, I pay attention, hear as I prattle on about the flotsam and jetsam of the day; hear as I confess my love for the president, and, of direction, my heartbreak; take heed to my routinely catty, normally churlish, sometimes silly self being merciless, unforgiving, uncouth; hear, deeply, deeply ashamed, to the worst version of myself, a self i do not even appreciate.A few days later, the Starr report is launched to Congress, and all of those tapes and transcripts, those stolen phrases, kind a part of it. That persons can learn the transcripts is horrific enough, however a few weeks later, the audio tapes are aired on tv, and big parts made on hand on-line. The public humiliation was once excruciating. Lifestyles was just about unbearable. This was once no longer something that occurred with regularity back then in 1998, and via this, I imply the stealing of individuals’s personal words, actions, conversations or graphics, and then making them public — public without consent, public without context, and public with out compassion.Fast ahead 12 years to 2010, and now social media has been born. The panorama has alas become way more populated with situations like mine, whether or not someone virtually make a mistake, and now it can be for both public and exclusive individuals. The penalties for some have turn out to be dire, very dire. I was once on the cell with my mom in September of 2010, and we had been speakme concerning the information of a young school freshman from Rutgers university named Tyler Clementi. Sweet, touchy, ingenious Tyler was secretly webcammed by using his roommate at the same time being intimate with an additional man. When the online world realized of this incident, the ridicule and cyberbullying ignited. Just a few days later, Tyler jumped from the George Washington Bridge to his loss of life. He was once 18. My mother was beside herself about what occurred to Tyler and his household, and she or he was once gutted with affliction in a way that I just couldn’t really recognize, and then eventually i spotted she used to be reliving 1998, reliving a time when she sat via my mattress each night time, reliving a time when she made me bathe with the lavatory door open, and reliving a time when both of my father and mother feared that i would be humiliated to demise, actually.Today, too many mother and father have not had the hazard to step in and rescue their cherished ones. Too many have learned of their baby’s suffering and humiliation after it was too late. Tyler’s tragic, senseless death was once a turning point for me. It served to recontextualize my experiences, and i then began to appear on the world of humiliation and bullying around me and see some thing distinctive. In 1998, we had no approach of figuring out where this brave new technological know-how referred to as the web would take us. On account that then, it has related individuals in unattainable approaches, becoming a member of misplaced siblings, saving lives, launching revolutions, however the darkness, cyberbullying, and slut-shaming that I skilled had mushroomed. Daily on-line, persons, in particular younger folks who are usually not developmentally organized to manage this, are so abused and humiliated that they can’t imagine living to the next day to come, and some, tragically, don’t, and there may be nothing digital about that.ChildLine, a U.Okay. Nonprofit that is enthusiastic about serving to young humans on more than a few problems, launched a striking statistic late final year: From 2012 to 2013, there was an 87 percentage increase in calls and emails regarding cyberbullying. A meta-analysis executed out of the Netherlands showed that for the primary time, cyberbullying used to be main to suicidal ideations more drastically than offline bullying. And what stunned me, despite the fact that it do not have, was once different research final yr that determined humiliation used to be a more intensely felt emotion than either happiness or even anger.Cruelty to others is nothing new, however on-line, technologically improved shaming is amplified, uncontained, and completely available. The echo of embarrassment used to prolong best as far as your loved ones, village, institution or community, but now it is the web neighborhood too. Hundreds of thousands of people, traditionally anonymously, can stab you with their words, and that’s a lot of discomfort, and there are not any perimeters round what number of individuals can publicly notice you and put you in a public stockade. There’s a very personal price to public humiliation, and the progress of the internet has jacked up that price. For close to two a long time now, we now have slowly been sowing the seeds of shame and public humiliation in our cultural soil, both on- and offline.Gossip web pages, paparazzi, reality programming, politics, information retailers and sometimes hackers all site visitors in shame. It is led to desensitization and a permissive environment on-line which lends itself to trolling, invasion of privateness, and cyberbullying. This shift has created what Professor Nicolaus Mills calls a culture of humiliation. Do not forget just a few distinguished examples simply from the past six months on my own. Snapchat, the service which is used in general by way of more youthful generations and claims that its messages only have the lifespan of some seconds. That you may imagine the range of content that that will get. A third-social gathering app which Snapchatters use to maintain the lifespan of the messages was once hacked, and a hundred,000 private conversations, portraits, and movies were leaked online to now have a lifespan of without end. Jennifer Lawrence and a number of different actors had their iCloud debts hacked, and confidential, intimate, nude graphics were plastered across the internet without their permission. One gossip internet site had over 5 million hits for this one story. And what concerning the Sony photographs cyberhacking? The documents which bought probably the most concentration were confidential emails that had highest public embarrassment value.However in this culture of humiliation, there is an extra form of price tag connected to public shaming. The price does now not measure the rate to the victim, which Tyler and too many others, in particular ladies, minorities, and contributors of the LGBTQ community have paid, however the price measures the profit of individuals who prey on them. This invasion of others is a uncooked fabric, effectually and ruthlessly mined, packaged and bought at a revenue. A marketplace has emerged the place public humiliation is a commodity and shame is an industry.How is the cash made? Clicks. The extra disgrace, the more clicks. The extra clicks, the extra advertising bucks. We’re in a harmful cycle. The extra we click on this kind of gossip, the extra numb we get to the human lives at the back of it, and the extra numb we get, the more we click on. The entire even as, anyone is being profitable off of the back of anyone else’s suffering. With every click on, we make a choice. The extra we saturate our culture with public shaming, the more authorised it is, the more we will see habits like cyberbullying, trolling, some varieties of hacking, and online harassment. Why? Because all of them have humiliation at their cores. This conduct is a symptom of the culture now we have created. Simply suppose about it. Changing behavior starts offevolved with evolving beliefs. Now we have visible that to be proper with racism, homophobia, and plenty of other biases, today and in the past. As we have now transformed beliefs about equal-intercourse marriage, more men and women were furnished equal freedoms. When we started valuing sustainability, more people started to recycle. So so far as our culture of humiliation goes, what we want is a cultural revolution.Public shaming as a blood game has to stop, and it can be time for an intervention on the net and in our tradition. The shift starts offevolved with anything easy, but it surely’s now not easy. We must return to an extended-held price of compassion — compassion and empathy. Online, we have received a compassion deficit, an empathy drawback. Researcher Bren Brown mentioned, and i quote, "disgrace cannot survive empathy." disgrace cannot live on empathy. I’ve obvious some very dark days in my lifestyles, and it was once the compassion and empathy from my family, buddies, experts, and usually even strangers that saved me. Even empathy from one individual could make a difference. The idea of minority influence, proposed through social psychologist Serge Moscovici, says that even in small numbers, when there may be consistency over time, trade can happen. In the online world, we can foster minority impact by becoming upstanders. To turn out to be an upstander way as an alternative of bystander apathy, we will submit a confident remark for any individual or document a bullying quandary. Trust me, compassionate comments support abate the negativity. We are able to also counteract the culture through supporting firms that deal with these types of disorders, like the Tyler Clementi foundation in the U.S., in the U.Ok., there’s Anti-Bullying professional, and in Australia, there is undertaking Rockit.We talk so much about our right to freedom of expression, but we need to speak extra about our accountability to freedom of expression. We all wish to be heard, however let’s acknowledge the change between talking up with intention and speakme up for concentration. The web is the superhighway for the identity, but online, showing empathy to others benefits us all and helps create a safer and better world. We have to keep in touch on-line with compassion, consume information with compassion, and click on with compassion. Simply think running a mile in any individual else’s headline. I’d like to end on a individual note. In the past nine months, the question i have been asked essentially the most is why. Why now? Why was I sticking my head above the parapet? Which you can learn between the strains in those questions, and the reply has nothing to do with politics. The highest word answer was and is considering that it’s time: time to discontinue tip-toeing round my prior; time to stop residing a life of opprobrium; and time to take back my narrative.It is also now not just about saving myself. Anyone who’s affected by shame and public humiliation wants to understand one factor: that you could live to tell the tale it. I realize it’s rough. It might not be painless, quick or easy, however you could insist on yet another ending to your story. Have compassion for your self. All of us deserve compassion, and to are living both online and off in a more compassionate world. Thank you for listening. (Applause) .