#not sure if they added that dialogue with the update or if i just never noticed before

[lgbtlunaverse]

Wait after Mel finds out Icarus is the one making the daedalus hammers she literally starts calling them "Icarus hammers" that's so fucking cute i'm gonna cry.

[pennyblossom-meta]

Gale/Wyll banter

Here's a collection of Gale/Wyll banter that I found in the dialogue files. I hope this is useful as both fanfiction resources and general curiosity :)

Help: I'm fairly sure there's a line from Wyll (?) mentioning how Gale doesn't ever eat vegetables, but for the life of me I can't find it. UPDATE 30/12/2023: Found it and added it to the post, the banter happens with the MC during the tiefling party. Also added a couple more interesting tidbits of dialogue.

Warning: long post.

Act 01

Loss of powers

Wyll points out that he used to kill big monsters, and now a few goblins are a challenge. What gives? Gale remarks it must be the tadpole. Wyll: Was a time I tussled with hill giants without breaking a sweat. Wyll: Now, a mere werebear could swat me halfway to Amn. devnote: Amn = city on the Sword Coast. Pronounced "AAHM" like UK Eng "arm". Gale: Strange things are happening to us. What festers in our minds may well impel our bodies.

—

Netherese magic

Wyll recalls the hag said 'Netherese' and asks Gale what he knows. Astarion adds a thought if he is present. Wyll: Ethel mentioned Netherese magic. What in blazes does that mean? Gale: Magic from the fallen empire of Netheril. Ancient, exceedingly dangerous, and quite unrivalled. Astarion: Wonderful! I'd hate to be destroyed by any common old magic. devnote: A little sarcastic. You've been told the dangerous magic inside you is ancient and unrivalled

—

Goblin raids

Wyll: I've known goblin raiders to slaughter entire villages and strip them for loot - but I've never seen one ravaged like this. Gale: It's hard to imagine anyone who'd willingly inflict such devastation, be they zealots, marauders, invading armies... A sign of far worse to come, I fear.

—

Act 02

Mountain Pass

Gale: These cragged hillls make for weary soles. I see why most headed inland prefer the smooth sailing of the Chionthar. Wyll: More importantly, the land west of here suffers under a terrible curse. Gale: You've seen it for yourself? Wyll: I've glimpsed that doom during my travels, but never dared get close. Wyll: If we continue this way, we may get too close for comfort.

—

Scary woods

Wyll: What a dismal forest. Monsters could be lurking behind any and every tree. Gale: We'd be wise to fear the trees themselves. It feels like the forest itself longs for our destruction. devnote: serious Wyll: Frustrating, that. Wyll: Monsters, I can fight. But I can no more sever these shadows than I could the wind or the sun.

—

Approaching Moonrise

Gale: Moonrise Towers lies ahead. We're nearing the Heart of the Absolute, I'm certain of it. Wyll: Then let us push forward, heads high, weapons in hand, and turn this tower to rubble. Gale: Your confidence is encouraging but a little premature. Let's keep our eyes on the task ahead. Or eye, as the case may be.

—

Tollhouse

Gale: A tollhouse like this would only be merited in the most prosperous of settlements. This was once a thriving trade route. Wyll: Should it be any wonder? The Chionthar's waters carry merchant vessels from as far east as Berdusk. devnote: bur-DUSK Wyll: And they wouldn't have brought just trade goods, but song, dance, and custom. Riches of the mind and the spirit. Wyll: So much was lost when the darkness fell.

—

At the Mason's Guild

Gale: The masons here thought they were building something to last. How wrong they were. Wyll: Perhaps it's a blessing that none of them survived to see it fall to the shadows. Gale: No need for such a grim assumption. Halsin helped many to escape these shadows before the town was consumed. Wyll: Then some masons were more blessed still, if they could put their talents to use elsewhere. Wyll: Perhaps some of their work even graces Baldur's Gate.

—

Guildhall

Wyll: It might seem a bit ramshackle, but this place has a boastworthy bar. Gale: A bar is only as good as its cellars. Which vintages can we expect to find on their racks? devnote: Anticipating a nice drink Wyll: Here, a bottle is judged more by its ability to crack heads than the quality of its contents. Gale: Ah. If that's the main criteria then I shall reset my expectations accordingly. Water it is. devnote: Good humoured

—

House of Healing

Wyll: This was a hospital? Feels more like a prison. Gale: A common enough interpretation. Sickness has a nasty habit of making you feel trapped, if only within the confines of your own body. Gale: I once spent weeks convalescing in the Hospice of St Laupsenn (*) after a nasty bout of ruddy pox. For all their kindness, leaving that place behind felt like freedom to me. Wyll: I've always relied on the kindness of the healers and menders of the Coast. Better a cleric's healing touch than a chirurgeon's scalpel.

(Lore note*): The Hospice of St. Laupsenn is a temple of Ilmater in the North Ward of Waterdeep.

—

Moonrise General_AssaultState

Wyll: This is it, Gale - today, we annihilate the heart of the Absolute's power. The bards will sing of our victory here. Gale: Entirely unnecessary. Though if they are so inclined, I might be convinced to share a stanza or two of my own for inspiration. devnote: Feigned modesty

—

Moonrise General

Wyll: This is no aimless horde - the Absolute's forces are organised. What do you make of it, Gale? Gale: All enemies have some chink in their armour, no matter how much they like to believe themselves invulnerable. That's what we must find. devnote: Cheery/determined Wyll: And if we don't find any clear weakness? Gale: Then we hope our mutual strengths are enough to dominate them. Or, we die nobly in the attempt. devnote: Cheery/determined

—

Moonrise Prison

Gale: Not a devil in sight. How disappointing. COL_MizorasRescue_State_SavedMizora = False, TWN_Wyll_State_MizorasCaptureHappened, MOO_MizorasRescue_Event_WalkedAway = False Wyll: I doubt a few iron bars are sufficient to hold one of Zariel's. Gale: True enough. But an illithid pod? That would probably do the trick. devnote: Cogs whirring Wyll: I wager you're right. Ah, Gale - what a pleasure to see a genius' mind at work.

Wyll: Of course Mizora was Zariel's captured asset. How did I not see it coming? TWN_Wyll_State_MizorasCaptureHappened Gale: It's in a devil's nature to conceal the truth - you can't fault yourself for that. Wyll: I've been pacted for seven years on, Gale. I should be able to read between Mizora's lines by now, no matter how narrow the gap.

Gale: How long have you been pacted to Mizora, Wyll? Wyll: Seven years. Seven years of hunting the monsters of the Sword Coast - and seven years of Mizora's tight leash. Wyll: And seven years of wondering if I'd ever rid myself of her - or if I even should.

—

Act 03

At the Basilisk Gate

Gale: The history of the city itself is captured in the archives here - a fascinating resource. Wyll: I wonder what those archives will reveal about us a hundred years hence. Gale: Only the most excellent and complimentary things. With some encouragement from us, of course.

—

Morphic Pool

Gale: Whatever the outcome of what's just ahead, it will be the stuff of legends. Wyll: In that case, someone needs to survive to tell the story. Gale: My money's on you, Wyll. Wyll: I'm betting on all of us.

—

Misc banter

Gale's ticking time bombs

Wyll points out that Gale has two ticking time-bombs inside him - but he's holding together pretty well. Wyll: I admire your courage, Gale. Gale: Thank you. Any particular reason? Wyll: Between the orb and the bug, you've got more than your fair share of unwelcome passengers. Gale: What can I say? Mother always taught me to be a gracious host.

—

Wyll thinks Gale has potential

Wyll tells Gale he's got potential, and suggests he rename himself something more... heroic. Gale finds Wyll quite the tryhard. Wyll: You're an impressive fighter, Gale. You should consider a new name. Gale: I take it you have some suggestions? Wyll: 'The Wizard Wonder!' Or how about, 'The Master of the Weave'? Gale: Tempting. But I think we might already have the maximum number of theatrical titles.

—

With Laz'el and Wyll

Lae'zel notes that Gale knows a lot about mind flayers. He responds with information about his training. If there, Wyll chimes in as well. Lae'zel: You strike me cleverer than most istiki, Gale. Multiple tutors, I should guess. devnote: istiki - non-gith. IH-stick-ee Gale: Many a wise man and woman indeed. Waterdeep is the home of myriad scholars. Wyll: Ah, the City of Splendours. Spent a whole Fleetswake there with my father. What a delight.

—

Romance

The following dialogues are marked as ROM, which I assume is a flag for triggering when there's an active Romance with the MC.

Romance banter, Act 1

Gale: If your natural charm isn't quite up to scratch, Wyll, there are magical means of adding a little flourish of charisma. Wyll: A kind offer, but I think I'd rather pursue things the old fashioned way.

Gale: Have you noticed any attachments of the more, erm, romantic variety flourishing in our camp, Wyll? devnote: Fishing for info, a bit awkward. Wyll: I think I'm not the right person to be asking. Wyll: I can recognise a troll's silhouette on a far horizon, but I wouldn't know a flirtation if you whacked me alongside the head with it.

—

Romance banter, Act 2

Gale: I knew you were a graceful man, Wyll, but I hear you're quite the dancer too. Gale: I've been known to trip the light fantastic myself. Mine was a popular hand at the annual Blackstaff's Ball. Wyll: I'd have love to have witnessed it, Gale. I wager you are as elegant on the dance floor as you are on the battlefield.

Gale: I've heard that in Baldur's Gate, 'wizard' is also a term used for one who eschews their more, ahem, carnal desires. Is that true, Wyll? devnote: Fishing for info, a bit annoyed about what he's heard Wyll: Where are we going with this, Gale? Gale: Oh, nowhere. I just think it a rather cruel misnomer. Not at all reflective of the glamour wizarding life affords. devnote: A bit sulky/sensitive about it

—

Romance banter, Act 3

Wyll: I'm probably going to regret this, but Gale - if I'm to be wed, would you like to make a speech? Gale: You've asked the right wizard. My oratory skills have left many a wedding guest weeping in their seat. devnote: Honoured/very excited at the prospect of speaking at length. Oblivious as to why his previous listeners might have been left weeping… Wyll: Promise it will last less than half an hour? Gale: I can promise it will feel like less than half an hour... devnote: Trying to avoid committing to a short speech

Wyll: I used to believe the beauty of first love was unable to be surpassed. Wyll: But Gale - you are so much more tolerable now you've found your second. Gale: I'll take that comment with the sincerity and good will I assume it was intended. devnote: Not rising to it, cheerful

—

Misc quotes

Tiefling party

Gale: Wyll's a good man. He may actually be a tried-and-true storybook hero. Gale: Then again he's so full of himself it's a small miracle he hasn't resorted to self-cannibalism yet.

Wyll: You're running away from Gale's cooking. Wyll: It's delicious, don't get me wrong, but that man wouldn't eat a vegetable unless Mystra herself commanded it.

Other

Gale: So, you didn't fancy sharpening up the old moniker? I'd have thought the 'Blade of Frontiers' might be feeling a bit dull after all you've been through.

Player: Sounds heavenly. Mind if I join you? Wyll: Not at all. You hunt the deer, I'll scrounge up the ale. Prepare your belly for roast a la Ravengard! Wyll: Let's hope Gale doesn't take offence if I assume cooking duties, just the once.

[deadboyfriendd]

Stains in the Granite

Summary: Throughout the years, Steve has undergone multiple head traumas. You knew this much when you were together. The migraines, the forgetfulness, moderate hearing loss in one ear, vertigo. The list was expansive. When you were together. It’s been over a year since you had last spoken to him, but an unexpected call from Hawkins Regional sends you reeling back to him. A forgotten emergency contact, he probably just never bothered to update it. You would let Robin know and be back to your regularly scheduled activities, sans Steve. A dead line turns the spigot, worry plugs the drain, and your inability to let him go drowns you in the tub. When he wakes up, he falls in love with you again. And again the next day. And again the day after that. They say he’ll regain his long-term memory storage eventually. They say the amnesia will wear off soon, but, for now, this is who he would have to be. He may only have to live through losing you once, but you’re not sure if you could handle losing him again every day until he regains his memory. You wouldn’t have the heart to tell him.

Content Warning: My content is 18+, Minors DNI, head trauma, mentions of hospitals and the things that go in them, smut, fluff, angst, exes to lovers, hurt/comfort, alcohol

Word Count: 14.2k

Author’s Note: This is dedicated completely to @dr-aculaaa I have had this piece in the works for months before getting it to the version that you are getting. Drac has tirelessly loomed over my docs like God beta reading, helping out with dialogue, and brainstorming these characters with me. This is as much her baby as it is mine, and I love her very very much.

Drac, I love you.

Find the Playlist Here!

Granite, noun, gran·​ite ˈgra-nət 

: a very hard natural igneous rock formation of visibly crystalline texture formed essentially of quartz and orthoclase or microcline and used especially for building and for monuments

: unyielding firmness or endurance

the cold granite of Puritan formalism.

the cold granite of your heart.

You were sullen, eyes unable to focus on any one speckle of the countertop in front of you. You ran your hands over it in a grounding motion, forcing tired eyes upon skin instead of stone. You blinked and it settled. The warmth of your palm could feel the slight unevenness of the surface, where the natural stone had been polished down just slightly too much. You watched it catch the light, glitter beneath your fingers snuffed out by the shadows of your touch. You watched the way the light cast a glowing square onto the ground in its early-morning iridescence. You had not slept, only watched the sunrise before you went to sleep. 

You missed the nonchalance of high school, when being sad was not an inconvenience, in the same way you missed the grandeur of college, where being sad was an art. Now, though you took comfort in the blanket of sadness, it was more obnoxious than anything. Your sighs held a certain bitchiness to them now, less sad than they were unimpressed. 

But you couldn’t help the way the hogs-hair bristles from your years-old, overused brushes stuck in the too-thick paint. You couldn't help the frustration that bubbled through when the linseed oil seeped through too thick and thinned the pigment of your paint so thin the underpainting shone through. It was hard enough to paint your heartbreak, without the added interruption of frustration and all of its woes. You wanted to pick at the scabs of old wounds, reopen them and let the blood drip down onto self-stretched canvases with ragged edges. You wanted your art to feel as raw as your heart did. 

Sometimes you wish you could go back, study something practical like education, be something stupid like an art teacher and talk about fulfillment with dead eyes, but you were too ceremoniously tortured for that. You thought about easy, but you didn’t want it. You craved goddamned difficult. You were goddamned difficult. 

But people bought it. Commissioned it to hang in their ugly suburban sprawls. Ugly art in ugly homes. Maybe people liked the subjectivity, felt like they could see their own heartbreak in it. You weren't so pretentious that you felt like the only person in the world to experience it. You certainly weren’t. Maybe there were people that were introspective, that wanted to feel the heartbreak when they dissociated into the white walls of their cookie-cutter homes. Maybe heartbreak was the only emotion they could force themselves to feel. 

Maybe they took comfort in it, too. 

You didn’t exactly know who you were anymore. Yes, at whatever bullshit ice breaker you could define yourself as an artist. An even more bullshit mediocre descriptor that served as a face to the sacrifice of self you went through for the sake of it all. That was usual, it just came with the territory. It was your only redeeming personality trait. You traded your sense of self for an established style that put cans in your cupboard and secondhand clothes on your back. 

Everything was covered in a wax sheen, the desensitization taking over your personage and casting a vignette across everything you saw. Not even sex was good anymore. It hadn’t been for a while. It had reduced itself to nothing more than another school of art— another subject of  heartbreak. Another thought process and another complication. Your entire sense of self came from academic validation. You were a bachelor of fine art, consistently praised by professors and featured in student exhibitions, graduated magna cum laude from your university. But now? You were lost in a vapid attempt to redefine yourself outside of the college community. This was the real world now, and sucked even worse than college had. 

Your studio apartment overlooked the heart of the historic downtown district of Hawkins, Indiana. It was gray this time of year, rain a near-constant promise over the thick smattering of clouds overhead. You paid entirely too much to live in eight-hundred square feet, but you could justify the cost with the stone hearth and floor-to-ceiling windows, even if that meant sleeping in a twin-sized mattress sprawled on the floor in the corner of the room. Your clothes hung messily on mismatched hangers over a laundry rack beside it. Your few enamel dishes cast drip-drying across the countertops in their own choreography. The rest of the place was barren, save for paint splatters over tarps, stacked canvases, and easels. Maybe it was too indulgent to live in-studio, but poverty would argue and win nearly every time. 

The tortured artist persona was trendy while you were in college, but you were just plain insufferable now. You didn’t even want to associate with yourself. You guessed that’s why you had Robin. She was just as insufferable as you were. 

She was the embodiment of everything you hated, a humbling experience in a flesh box wrapped with a short bob and a beret and adorned with a nose ring. You had met her in an Art: History of the French Renaissance class. She was a linguistics major with all of the subtlety of a clapped-out Honda Civic. She heavily romanticized the greater works of Van Gogh and made her brief year in a study-abroad program in Paris a personality trait. Though, you supposed, her redeemable feature was that she was loyal to a fault, albeit mean. Like a small, white dog that haunted your home instead of offering companionship and happiness. 

Though you, for the most part, kept it to yourself, you had made it known in the past that the Italian Renaissance was far superior to the French. You didn’t understand how she could so  heavily romanticize the ritzy portraits of those aristocratic jerk-offs when she had the Arnolfini Wedding Portrait directly in front of her. Maybe you just didn’t think Van Gogh was all that great. Maybe you hated him altogether. Maybe you hated yourself and you were just projecting– or you were jealous that he could be a tortured artist and people left and right seemed to romanticize his work but when you did it, you were just annoying. You knew, for a fact, that you hated yellow. And she sure liked to wear a lot of it.

The weathered oak was hard and uneven against the curvature of your spine, but you refused to move, the numbness in your fingers happening were the beginnings of the best high you had gotten in ages. There was a resonant patriarchal tenor shrill in your ears as you attempted to focus on the beams and exposed plumbing on the ceiling above you. She spoke it again, louder this time, 

“What are you gonna do with an art degree? Be a tortured artist forever?” You could hear her arm slap coldly against the ground next to yours and echo throughout the emptiness of your apartment. 

You groaned, though it was only proving her point, “I don't know, what are you gonna do with a linguistics degree? Be super fucking annoying?”

“At least I have a job.” 

And she did. She was a translator who rotated on call-circuit to Indianapolis for international business meetings, sometimes they even paid her fare to other countries, in essence getting to vacation on some company’s dime between meetings. The grandeur of it all was sickening. 

The ring from your land-line was shrill and echoing, shattering the silence of your own discontent like tempered glass, fragmenting and exploding into millions of little pieces. No one called here ever, and the suddenness of the tone made both Robin and yourself jump. You gave her a shove to the shoulder, a wordless gesture meaning, go get that. 

Her Hello was tepid, in the same meek demeanor she twirled the line around her finger. Her face registered from confusion to concern, a quick contortion that took place over the course of seconds, “Is he okay? What do you mean you can’t disclose that?” 

You sat up, propping your arms underneath you like the kickstands on a bike, brows knit together in question. She looks to you, holding the receiver out towards you, 

“For you.” She says, then silently and exaggeratingly mouths, About Steve.

What? You mouthed back.

Just– Pick. It. Up. She insisted in silent accuse, shaking the receiver towards you once again, 

You took the plastic receiver from her, fingers drawing the skin of your temples back and rubbing your eyes, “Hello?”

You don’t recognize the voice on the phone. A woman you know is older than yourself by the way she sounds, officiating and knowledgeable, but carrying a certain morosity with her. She held the kind of tone you know brought bad news. 

It feels like a fog, hearing his name again. Hearing that he is a person who is alive and living a life separate from you. It wasn’t right, and that unease turned itself in your stomach as you repeated back her medical jargon to yourself in layman’s terms. Steve fell off a ladder and hit his head. Again. He was unconscious but stable. The neighbor found him and brought him in and gave them your name and phone number 

“And why are you calling me?” You finally asked, followed by a long pause. You cursed yourself mentally, realizing the harshness of the statement after you had said it.  

The nurse sounded displeased, “You’re his wife, aren’t you? You were listed as the primary emergency contact.”

You hadn’t spoken to Steve in over a year, not since you broke it off with him. You trailed your thumb over the webbing between your middle and ring finger, still feeling the phantom sensation of the ring that sat there just a year prior. The dissidence churned in your stomach, and you couldn’t help the worry that filled you. 

Steve was the embodiment of everything you loved. He was smooth like linseed and fell into all of your texture. He didn’t understand it, but he agreed on the superiority of the Italian renaissance. If you hated the romanticization of Van Gogh, then so did he. Steve was agreeable. Steve was easy in all of the places you weren’t. 

Steve cared about people in the way that you didn’t. 

When you broke it off, your families, both found and biological, were shocked. Robin especially. You’d felt bad for her, caught in the crossfire between two of her best friends. You and Steve had both agreed not to make her choose. She was the sentient being of pure neutrality. It was as if she was a separate entity on two different timelines. If she was present in your reality, Steve did not exist. You assumed the same of her relationship with Steve. Though, a part of you still hoped he’d ask sometimes. 

Your brain is a flurry of Steve. His migraine medication, his medical history, his eyewear prescription, fuck his shoe size. You card through the rolodex of head traumas he had undergone through the years, recounting them between relationship markers. You don’t allow yourself the time to think, slamming the phone back down on the stand with a quick, I’ll be there. 

The drive to the hospital is sombering, though, you selfishly are less worried about him being okay than you are about what he would think of you showing up after they thought you were his wife. 

The smell of the hospital is pungent. Horrendously human and unnaturally sterile wrapped up into one fragrant demise. There are people buzzing, both physically and metaphorically, yet despite the controlled chaos the women at the front desk seem unnaturally calm. Uninterested, even. You tell them your name and who you are here to see, and yet, despite the fact that they had just reached out to you over the phone, they still attempt to validate your marriage. 

You knew it was nasty when, “If you don’t think I’m his wife, then why did you call asking if I was his wife?” rolled off your tongue, but you knew Robin would smooth the turmoil with an apology on your behalf. Frankly, you didn’t care. They buzzed you in without another word. 

There was an older man in a white coat standing in front of the room, flipping through a chart with Harrington across the top. The embroidery on it read neurology. You figured he would have to undergo a few whirring uncomfortable scans with any head trauma, but his face remained stoic. You couldn’t read him, and, personally, it was terrifying. 

“Mrs. Harrington?” He asked, holding a hand out. 

You took it as an appeasement, tried to let his old man charm seep into your bones and put you at ease. If he was old, that means he’s done this before. “Yes.” You knew it was a lie, but who else was going to claim him? Not his parents. There was no one else remaining in Hawkins but you and Robin, and she wasn’t family. Technically, you weren’t either, but you weren’t cruel.  

“I wanted to formally speak to you before you saw him. There’s a few things we need to discuss.” This sent a panicked chill through your bones. You expected to step into the room and they would ask you for permission to pull the plug or something. 

“Is he..?” Your face must have registered as panicked, because the neurologist quickly backpedaled with a grounding hand on your shoulder. 

“Oh, no. He’s fine ma’am, we weren’t seeing any bleeds or swelling that he can't recover from.”

That he can’t recover from. Meaning that there is, in fact, something wrong with his brain. You figured that much, with maybe six concussions within the last ten years, but you wouldn’t dwell on that fact too much for now, “But?”

“There is a small amount of swelling in the temporal lobe, which is responsible for short-term memory storage. Your husband is suffering from a form of fixation amnesia that is pretty uncommon…”

You zone out listening to him talk, trying to piece everything together. Steve is okay. He lost his short-term memory for a while. Words like retrograde and anterograde and Transient Global are thrown around and bouncing back with a resounding tenor in your phonetic loop. Steve has forgotten the last year, he cannot store new memories for the time being. He forgot your breakup. He still believes you are together. He needs around the clock care. 

Steve was awake when they opened the door and pulled back the curtain to the room he had already been admitted to. At least someone in this administration was competent enough to get him into a room instead of keeping him in the ER. 

“Baby.” A large, flat palm reaches itself towards you. You stood in the corner in silence, waiting for someone that wasn’t you to speak. But, it just so happened that you were the only person in the room. You don’t realize he’s talking to you, so he says it again, a little more firmly, and you walk up and sit at the chair next to his bed, avoiding the hand outstretched towards you. 

Though, in all of his firmness, where the weight of your elbow finds a dip in the bed, his hands finds your arm. It searches for your hands and finds them with a firm grip. They’re warm like you remember. Steve was always warm. 

“Hi, Steve.” You keep your voice quiet, remembering the days of migraine management. Barely-there decibels creating resounding, echoing pain around his skull. 

“What happened?” He asks you, “ –-head hurts.” He manages, burying his face into the polyfilament of the pillow below him. 

You tried to make your explanation concise, only giving him the cause and not the prognosis. You’d deal with that at a later time. “You fell off a ladder, hit your head pretty hard. Cullen brought you in.” You explained. 

“The dentist? With the labs?” He asked you, and it made you laugh. Steve always remembered people by their cars or their dogs. 

You agreed with him nodding your head despite his closed eyes, “Yes, the dentist with the labs.”

“He’s a really nice guy.”

“He sure is.” 

+

The discharge process was long and rigorous the next morning, swarms of insurance and neurologists and shrinks and case managers. All faces to a crowd that apparently had never communicated with the other department a day in their sad, corporate lives. 

Steve had no car, no means of getting home, and, quite frankly, no recollection of the year leading up to the accident. So, you loaded him into your car, pulling out as slowly as possible and driving at least ten under the speed limit the entire way. He seemed chipper as his hand found yours resting over the shifter, hands meeting your movements as your gears moved up and down with the rhythm of traffic– almost as if he was driving the car himself. You silently thanked him for the movement, already distracted by the constant fear of rattling his already tenderized brain any more than it had been. 

The street looked like it had frozen in time as you slipped past its residents unscathed. The dentist, surrounded by the flurry of yellow labs, waved as you drove by. The house sat in a caul de sac, the one you used to call yours, the third one in from the end between a vacation home and a stalled fixer-upper. It was a smaller Victorian built at the turn of the century. Your selling point was the turret at the front end of the house, sporting floor-to-ceiling windows and housed by oak buttresses. 

You pictured Steve carrying you through the threshold of your home the night of your wedding as you half-dragged him from the driveway to the bedroom. Some of your spring daylilies were coming out of dormancy, the pertinent blooms bulbous and waiting to open. You remembered picking the pink ones, to match the pink peonies and coneflowers that you had planted alongside it. 

This house was a dream. Actually, this house was his dream. Encased in dark oak and copper plumbing. You just wanted a place to paint – and, for this, he had spared no expense either. 

You remembered the day he’d surprised you with the keys:

You had felt soggy, the stale coffee and milk drying into the stomach of your apron and hardening into a sugary breast plate. You knew you’d never be able to get the smell out, instead understanding that was just a part of life when you were a barista. Along with the burns and odds-and-ends scrapes and bruises. 

Steve had been waiting for you on a barstool in front of the door, looking like he had something to say. You knew he had most likely been pacing back and forth from the couch to the barstool as he had waited for you to get home. You weren’t a stranger to his mannerisms. Living with him had been a front-row ticket to The Steve Harrington Show. Sometimes you joked that David Attenborough should join you for dinner, narrating Steve in his natural habitat. 

He had greeted you with a kiss, saccharine sweet like everyone before it, grip on your waist like a vice and a smile that he couldn’t help on his lips. 

“I picked something up today,” He mumbled against your lips, “for the house.” 

The incomplete set sat freshly unwrapped in its paper casings. The Blue Willow china was beautiful nonetheless. Steve had taken a liking to it almost more than you had. You didn’t mean to get annoyed, you had just had a long day. Though Steve knew it, your defensiveness caught him off-guard. 

He would never admit it, but he took after his mother in his eyes and in his shopping addiction. You knew you were moving, house-hunting on weekends and late evenings. You didn’t want to begin your life together in this apartment, which had been filling quickly with heirlooms and antique pieces collected from both shops and family members, “for the house” and, “as an engagement gift”. 

“Steve, what happened to saving money?” You had asked him, reaching behind you to untie your apron to throw into the basket that needed  to be dragged downstairs to the wash. “We’ll never get a house if you keep spending the money as soon as we get it.” 

“Actually,” He said to you, pretty lips turning into a smile as he dug around in his pockets, “We already have a house.” 

He watched the cogs turn in your head, your face exchanging confusion for shock as your eyes widened and you brought your hands up to cover your mouth. You couldn’t help the small years that spill from your eyes and you jump on Steve, laughing along with him as he spun you in a circle. 

You remembered buzzing the entire way there, only remembering to pull your apron off once you tried to buckle your seatbelt. It was dark out, and the streetlights in the historic neighborhood were sparse, if present at all. 

The house was a great cathedral in front of you, rickety and crumbling in nature. 

“The bones are good.” He reminded you, “We can take care of the rest.” 

“I love it!” You squealed to him, throwing your arms around his neck. It caught him off guard, your enthusiasm. 

That night, he refused to carry you through the threshold of the house. He said he wanted to save it for the wedding night. Only do it once so it stays special.  

You sat alone at the dining table, cigarette in hand. You rarely smoked anymore, but you figured this ordeal permissed one. He kept the binders of your wedding planning, all of the stuff you bought, the cause of your cold feet. They were tucked away next to the dining table in the built-in for easy access. They looked like they had been untouched save for a finger print along the spine of the binder that remained bare of any dust or particles– like he had gone to take them out, but hesitated. You looked up and around at the main living space. 

He was going to build you a new life and it didn’t look like he had touched it for a year. 

+

The first day is just playing the game. You were aware he would have temporary, moderate-to-severe memory loss. You attempted to recall the words that swirled around your phonetic loop. Words from neurologists and trauma doctors and nurses alike. 

Steve knows he was in the hospital and knows desperately how horrible this migraine was. He spent it in the dark, on his regular dose of sumatriptan, supplemented wonderfully in a vicodin-induced haze. You did not expect him to remember today, nor did you expect him to care. You know he is alive from barely-spoken words between exchanges of water and his prescription, which, thank God, hadn’t changed in the last year. 

You sleep on the couch. 

The second day, you are up before him, sifting through the pots and pans you’d let him keep to try and feed both him and yourself. You are surprised when he gets out of bed before 9:00, and even more surprised when he asks, 

“So, what are you going to paint today?” Through squinted eyes, lean arm braced against the counter to support the weight of his body. He sips idly from the orange juice glass he used to take the sumatriptan, but not the vicodin. 

It’s not like it was a question that strayed away from the mundane, however, it had been almost a year since you’d heard it last. You’d tried not to let the surprise register on your face as you’d continued to stir the eggs around in the pan. You let the corner of the wooden spoon scrape some of the dried remnants of soft egg from the sides of the pan where the butter hadn’t reached. You shrugged with a soft, I don’t know, unsure of how to answer. 

As Steve retreats back to the master bedroom, you hear the kick of the plumbing and the steady stream of water rattling through the house. You thanked him silently for buying an old place, the plumbing was loud enough to drown out your own thoughts. 

The knock on the window sends you reeling back like the crack of a gun. Your ménage-a-trois with a nose ring and encased the ugliest yellow beret like some gay French Alp paratrooper stood guard outside the bay seating of your kitchen window. You hated yellow, but, for today, you would keep it to yourself. She came bearing gifts. The only suitcase you owned was filled with the only clothes you owned, and as many art supplies as she could carry with the promise of more. Today, she bore her yellow beret as a barrel full of brandy around her neck– a drooly Saint Bernard to your avalanche. You propped the window open on its stakes, cinnamon color mixed with dirt crumbling from its unused hinges. 

She looked around in secrecy, “How is he?” 

“Better today. He just got in the shower.” You shrugged, looking back over your shoulder. 

“How’s the…” She circled her splayed hands over her head, signaling amnesia. You wish she would just say it instead of tiptoeing around the subject. 

You shrugged again, running a hand over your head, “I’m not sure yet. He knows who I am, but, ugh, I don’t know.” You sighed, sitting down at the bench and burying your face in your hands.

Robin leaned against the windowsill, reaching a hand through to push your hair back out of your face, “What’s wrong? Why is that bad?” 

“He still thinks we’re together. Like– doesn’t remember that we’re not together.” You said through your palms, knowing that her linguistics degree also covered your dramatics and mumbling. 

“Oh God,” She gasped to you, not quite able to contain herself, “What are you gonna do?” 

“I’m just gonna have to roll with it, I guess.” You slurred past your arms, willing back the onslaught of stress-tears beginning to pool against your tightline. You couldn't abandon him now, not when he was like this. 

Your former studio, nestled at the base of the turret within the house, surrounded by windows encased in stained-glass embellishments and flying buttresses, remained the only room in the house that was finished. You sat on your spinning stool, ignoring the creak from the way you pushed yourself back and forth on the balls of your feet. Your eyes fixated on the piece in front of you. It had been sitting on this easel for a year– the only one too heavy for you to move on your own, however, you were past asking for Steve’s help. So here it sat, holding your work once again, arms open in waiting. 

“Woah, you work fast.” Steve’s voice startled you, the stool squeaked again as you jumped. 

He walked up behind you, hands smoothing over your shoulders in apology– his skin still shower-warm and tacky from the water, “What are you talking about?” 

Your voice was much softer than you initially intended it to come out as. It resonated under the guise of a smile rather than the initial annoyance you turned to as a defense mechanism. 

“Didn’t you start that painting last week?” He asked, smoothing a broad hand down the exposed expanse of your upper arm, turning his face to look at the painting, “It’s done now.”

You tried not to let the confusion register on your face. You had finished the painting well over a year ago. The oil had long-since cured. You thanked the universe softly for Steve’s untrained eye. 

“I guess I just got really into it.” You shrugged, feigning your own insufferability for his well being– just this once. 

You had forgotten what it was like to be held by Steve. He lingered around your proximity in a near-shroud of constance. You had forgotten the soft feeling of nimble fingers as they grazed across any exposed skin you had. You had forgotten about warm hands cupping your cheek or twirling the ends of your hair. You had forgotten what the warmth of his felt like, in the same way that you moved away from the slow-creeping sun square that beamed from the windowsills. You didn’t realize how long you had been fighting any warmth after him. 

That night, his broad hands lured you to bed with the promise of warmth. You try to remember the way it felt a year ago, if it resounded in the same way. His hands were still a comfort as they encased you in a tight embrace. His breath still felt the same coming from his nose and traveling across your shoulder, dotted intermittently by haste staccato kisses. 

You tried to hold on to that feeling after he had long been asleep, and held on to it again as you peeled his hands from your waist. You let it slip from your fingers as you slid from the bed and let your feet pad across the hardwood flooring. You laid it to rest next to you on the couch, let it fold into itself and hibernate once more. 

By the next morning, Steve’s brain had pistoned back into his regular routine, which consisted of a god-awful early morning jog. It was almost obnoxious how perfect he was for this neighborhood, golden skin glowing against the rays of morning, efflorescence in nature and ugly, heinous perfection. By the time he gets back, it’s still ungodly early. The sun only casts a blue haze into the atmosphere in its feigning presence. 

You could guess by the way he tried to control his heavy breaths as he walked through the door that he was dewy, shirt tucked into his jogging shorts and hair raked back with sweaty fingers. You would not force your eyes open to look at him, leaving any feelings of adverse adoration back in the white quilt you had abandoned over a year ago. He walked up to you, feat unabashedly heavy against the hollowness of the floor despite the carpet muffling them. His hand was warm and heavy against the exposed expanse of your hip, riding your shirt up further.

“What are you doing out here? You know this couch kills your bac-” He started, pausing abruptly in surprise,  “Where did that come from?” 

“What?” You mumbled through closed eyes, still only barely awake. 

He traces the tattoo on your back, rough fingers tracing over the thickened lines of ink, “This.”

You didn’t bother to crack an eye open, instead folding your arms in further on yourself and readjusting against the couch cushions, “Gee, Steve, you must've hit your head really hard.”

“What?” 

“What?” You asked him, finally waking up enough. You pushed your arms underneath you, squinting at him as best you could through the haze of the morning light. 

“I hit my head?” He asked, confusion– then terror– registering on his face. 

You sat up fully, realizing then that, in your daze, you had effectively put your foot in your mouth. The look on your face, supplemented by the look on his face tells you that there is no way that you could backtrack now. 

“... Yeah-” 

“When?”

“Three days ago.” You started, and he let out a deep exhale, almost in relief that it hadn’t been longer. 

He turned to look at you, and you reached out to grab his hand. He took it, gripping yours like a vice, but never enough to hurt, “What did I do?”

“You were up on a ladder, doing something with the electrical. You fell and hit your head pretty good. Cullen brought you in.” You shrugged, trying to play it off. 

“Where were you?” He asked, it wasn’t accusing. He just tried to piece everything together. Still, you couldn’t help the pang of guilt that pooled in your chest after he said it. 

You weren’t going to break his heart, not now. Not while he was already fragile like this. You hated lying, but anything was better than a category five meltdown. He shook now, acting too tough to hide it. Steve was strong for everyone, too strong for too long. 

“Am I okay?” 

“Yeah, Steve. You’re okay.” You reassured him, no matter what. 

+

That night, you put a band-aid over your neck, despite the itching, burning sensation from the adhesive, it would live there for now. You said it was to save yourself the trouble. You didn’t know why you’d thought to care so much. You also don’t know why you felt so guilty. Maybe it’s because you weren’t there. Maybe it’s because you were here now and you shouldn’t have been. All you know is that you can’t break Steve’s fragile psyche now, not again. 

Steve’s routine was stone-set and rigorous, you’d remembered that much. He was the kind of person that thrived off of routine and egg-whites alone. You’d envied him for his discipline. 

He started out of bed every morning at the heinous, ungodly hour of five. Every morning, without fail, he rose silently, rubbed his hands over his face, fought the urge to disturb you and lost every time. He would smooth a tender hand over your hair and slip out the door with a soft, waking kiss, and proceed with a jog. Every morning, he would run his 3.1 miles, 5,000 kilometers, and every morning, he would slip back through the front door. 

Every morning, you woke to the smell of a better-than-cheap cup of coffee with a sweet kiss, and he would whisper to you that he achieved the run in thirty minutes– a personal best, and you wondered if one day it would slip below that number. Without missing a beat, he would place the coffee on a coaster placed there for that specific purpose on your antique bedside table, and your body would roll into the dip in the mattress where his body sat, his warm hand circling waking patterns across your bare back while you sifted through the prevalent swarm of too-little sleep. 

Because, every afternoon, Steve would take his Saturday (which was actually a Tuesday) and  paint that heinous yellow wall in the guest bedroom over with an earthy green tone– one that, without fail, would remind him of you enough to where he would seek you out to tell you. 

And every night, without fail, you would slip from the bed in silence, pull the heinous yellow paint bucket delivered thankfully by Robin out of the bushes from the window that was set just slightly too high to be comfortable reaching over, and paint that lovely green wall back to that awful, ugly yellow. 

There were no discrepancies to his routine. He was an unfortunate creature of habit, and it was so dreadfully painful that you indulged him in this routine. Because, every day, he would pull those old wedding binders out– no longer covered in dust and forgotten memories– and pick the same three options for wedding china that you never saw the point of anyways. Every day, he would try to cheekily pull you in for a shower, and you would make up the same excuse over the same dishes from the same meal that you had eaten to the point where you were just choking it down. 

And you would do it all over again. 

Because, if that same meal and awful yellow paint and ungodly six o’clock wake time would be enough to stop him from feeling like that again, you would keep doing it. 

Your nightly decompression was your saving grace. The only way you felt like a human again. Because every night, Steve would sit and read the same chapter out of the same book, and you would get in some still-life practice. 

Steve was pretty always, even in his blissful unawareness. Even in his ignorance. Even in the fact that he was no longer yours. Steve was pretty by fact. Pretty by nature. You had gotten good at drawing him, you knew where to block the square of his head and the triangle of his nose. You knew where his glasses rested against his face and exactly where to place every mole. You knew where the bone beneath would ebb and flow and where the warm light from that stained glass bowl-lamp would accentuate and valley against them like rivers. Steve was a topographical map and you had explored every inch in these moments of blissful dissonance. You did not need to waste your time getting the likeness correct by now, only getting in the fine details. 

Every night, your wonderful moment away from the catatonic nature of this ordeal would end when Steve would finish his chapter. You would act like you didn’t notice, like you weren’t staring at him. He would act like he didn’t know you were. He would press a tender kiss to your shoulder, smile at the work in your hands, tell you how talented you were, and finalize the ritual with a kiss to your cheek– an invite to bed. 

You know there will come a time when there will be a deviation from this routine, and you try to prepare yourself for this by running every possibility through your head. Calming tactics in the event that he has a category four meltdown, the words you would say and the explanations you would give him, but nothing prepared you for this deviation. Not in the slightest. 

You are unsuspecting as you wipe down the kitchen counters, melancholy with your towel in hand. Your hair is still wet and dripping uncomfortably down your back. You breathe deeply, enjoying the smell of kitchen lemon multi-surface cleaner. Steve approaches you. You feel his presence before you see him or feel his arms around your waist. You indulge in his warmth before he even touches you, before he reaches for your hand. You bask in his radiance before you feel the cold smoothness of gold scrape across your ring finger. 

“You forgot this after your shower.” He whispers through a kiss against the tender skin beneath your ear. He does not understand the devastation his words have caused you, not in his innocence. 

You reconstructed the scene in fragments of memories:

They were lawn seats, and you had no idea how he scored them. This concert had been sold out for weeks. The Tragic Kingdom tour was potentially the greatest album to ever grace this earth, and Steve agreed– potentially more than you did. 

When your eyes turned to get a good look at his face, it was hard to tell where that light sheen of sweat ended and the glitter that wafted in the air began. He was so fucking beautiful. You could look at him forever, put him in a jar on a shelf to admire for a lifetime. He was more blonde than brunette at this time of year, gold-skinned and eager. The July rays had set minutes ago, yet seemed to settle their clinging remnants in his eyes. 

His eyes that shone when they met yours, the eyes that gripped on to your hands, met your mouth, and settled within your gaze. 

You came in with the breeze, on Sunday morning…

You almost missed his words over the ambient concert sounds around you, louder now as Gwen started the beginnings of the song. Had you not been staring at him, you figured with your mouth open like a trout, you would have missed the two quiet words he mustered. 

“Marry me?”

You didn’t say anything back, you didn't need to. You remember the feeling of your knees sinking into the grass beneath you, wet against your skin. You remember how his body was too-warm in the staleness of the July air and the hardness of his body pressed tight against yours. Any qualms he had about saying more than those words disappeared in an instant, your hand willingly accepting the modest diamond encased in a gold band the only answer he ever needed. 

You thought back on that time, on the I love you’s and the please hold me’s. 

You remembered the I can’t do this anymore.

The problem was never committing to Steve. He had you. He had all of you. He could take you whole or in pieces in any slice or interval or fracture that he could have ever dreamed up. Though, that was the problem. You had committed yourself to him fully, never to the idea of committing yourself to anyone else, never thought of having to share him or change what you had. You lived in comfort, willful bliss. You’d never wanted anything more. 

But you saw that hopeful glimmer in his pretty eyes. The ones that looked like chunky baby legs and bubbly giggles. The distant memories that sounded like mimed laughs and raspberries against new skin. You were not maternal, not by nature nor by instinct. You felt broken, not wanting that. 

And knowing how well Steve was made for it. 

How he mapped rooms in the house with oak cribs and baby-pastel paint colors. How he pointed out names he liked and stared for just a little too long at happy families in passing. 

That night, long after Steve had fallen asleep, those dusty old wedding binders called out to you, screamed your name in birdsongs and infant wails. You clung to them, still covered in that awful yellow paint on the floor of that awful yellow room, and you cried awful tears that stained the pages of the awful thing that could have been. 

Except that could have started to feel less awful. It felt more like a should have now. 

You kept the wedding band on, convincing yourself it was more for him than yourself. 

+

“Hello?”

The shrillness of the landline still rings in your ears despite picking up the sound of a voice on the other end. Instinctively, you twirl your fingers into the cord. 

“Hey.” Her voice is scratchy on the other line. You know who it is, yet you still ask. 

“Who is this?” 

“Bill fucking Clinton.” You can hear the way her eyes roll in her voice. You almost find it endearing. 

You roll your eyes back, knowing that she can’t see it. You hope the sentiment is the same. “Hi, Robin.”

Silence on the line. You know what she will ask. She asks almost every other day or in the in-betweens where you can catch each other and she doesn’t have to fake a conversation on the phone with Steve. 

“How is he?” 

You feel like she knows the answer by now, she knows every part of his routine and exactly where you fit into it, “He’s fine. He just got into the shower.” 

There was a silence again, this time slightly more deafening. It felt like she was thinking, pondering the exact thing she was going to say and how exactly she planned on saying it. 

“How are you?” You hated it, despised it. It almost made your blood run cold. You didn’t do feelings, you were just a pawn in this big, fucked up game. It was your obligation to live in this lie. You had already hurt Steve once, the least you could do was keep him safe now. 

“Fine, Robin. I’m good.” You willed, regurgitated it like a curse. 

She sighed, hoping she wouldn’t have to pry but knowing she was going to, “Ha-ha. But really?”

“Really what?”

“How are you?”

You fell silent, the static basso of the line between you buzzing like a flatline as the tears welled up and over your lash line. The first sob you choke out is louder than you expect, and draw your knees up to your chest in the bay as you cry over the phone, unable to find words and unable to speak if you had then anyways. 

For once robin shuts the fuck up. For once she doesn’t have anything to say. Somehow you wish she would. Instead, she lets you cry for a few minutes in silence. She lets you let it out. 

“Do you need me to come over?” She asks, voice a welcome comfort not that you can breathe through the snot and tears running down your face. 

“No.” You sniffle, wiping the stream of facial fluids across your sleeve like you didn’t disgust yourself when you did it. 

“Do you need a professional?”

“No.”

There was a sigh, followed by another moment of silence. She didn’t know how to help you, though, she didn’t really think you needed help. 

“Hey, Robin?” You finally spoke up, eyes finally dry and your throat finally clear enough to be coherent. 

“Yeah?”

“Tell Monica Lewinsky I said hi.” 

+

You have a headache, simply put. That you could supplement. The ache and the pressure behind your eyes could be solved with acetaminophen and a glass of water and a bath. The ache in your chest was less tangible, and would have to wait until the ache in your head was fixed to even be evaluated. 

You’d managed to slip past Steve getting dressed in the convex opening of your walk-in closet, light spilling yellow against the dark floors in the dim lighting of the master bedroom. The one thing you’d greatly missed about this house that your apartment did not have the luxury of was the cast-iron tub, in its claw-footed, wing-backed glory. The water spilled steam from the mouth of the faucet as it spilled down the white porcelain glaze, hot enough to turn your skin red and draw the overage of blood from between your temples. You dimmed the lights, shoulders lax as you slumped your arms sideways over the edge of the tub, water tinged green from both the reflection of the seafoam walls and the capful of eucalyptus epsom salts dissolving in the water around you. 

You close your eyes, focusing more on the crisp smell of the water instead of the pounding of your head. You rest one arm beneath your head as a barrier between your temple and the porcelain, allowing the other to hang off the side. 

You don’t miss the way Steve slips in, nearly silently. The change of air pressure that came with his presence was what gave him away– that and the soft click of the chair legs against the hexagonal tile as he rotated it to face you. 

His touch is so gentle. His touch feels like the only inherent good in the world around you. His touch is soft enough to bring you to tears. And it does. 

You cannot help but let two roll down your face, not upset enough for it to scrunch up in the ugly sobs that you heaved on the kitchen floor to Robin. They splat quietly on the tile beneath you, and you sigh like an exasperated hound. One deep, shuddering breath beneath Steve’s hand. 

You cannot confide in him, even if he asks. You wonder if that fact hurts worse than understanding that he is going to wake up eventually. 

Steve does not pry. He’s really good at that. Instead, he rakes his fingers across the grain of your hair, thrown upwards with reckless abandon– fingers both a consolation and a devastation. He wishes desperately to know. Wishes desperately that he could fix it, but he knows this sadness. Knows the pain of forcing you to talk. The only thing that hurts worse than not knowing is the pain of seeing you cry. 

But he’s so tender, and he’s so endearing. You can’t help but want him. 

“Can I get you anything?” He says to you, just above a whisper. He even dips his head down closer to yours so you can hear, but you’re already clawing at the collar of his shirt. 

“Wanna be close.” You mutter, words muffled against your arm. He understands it anyway. 

His skin is hot. Hot enough to still be felt under your hands despite the temperature of the water. You missed the texture of it, smooth, interrupted by soft constellations of moles and bone. Quickly, and with grace, he stands– pulling your hands from his body for a mere few, painful seconds. He strips his clothes quickly, and you watch the muscles of his shoulders ripple as he maneuvers to pull his shirt over them. 

Silken skin glides across your back, the hot water squelching between your bodies as he slides into the tub behind you, arms encircling your waist in an iron-clad grip. Caring and grounding all at once. 

His lips are soft as they press a hot path against your neck and you sigh, tilting your head further away to allow him the affection you so desperately need. 

“That’s it, honey. Let me give you what you need.” It’s a low growl, not quite a whisper. His voice keeps that resonant patriarchal basso that vibrates against your neck and settles in your coccyx. His kisses turn to soft nips, as he takes the suppleness of your flesh between his teeth– never enough to hurt. 

His hands reach up to cup your breasts, squeezing tenderly as he runs a thumb over a pert nipple. He leaves one hand on your chest, gently pinching and rolling the flesh between his thumb and forefinger, another hand sliding over the hills and valleys of your body to find a home between your legs. 

Despite the water surrounding you, there is a much more distinct slickness that has gathered there in decadent anticipation of him. When his thick fingers finally breach the threshold of you, it is both a devastation and a need. Slowly, he finds the bud of your clit, circling it slowly. 

You suck in a breath, accompanied by a soft whine. When you arch your back, you feel him press against your back, hard and heavy against your flesh. 

“Come on, honey,” He urges, a heeding groan fans across your shoulder disguised as a breath, “I’m gonna get you there. Just gotta let me do it.” 

His middle and ring finger circle your core, easing their way in. You relinquish the new, subtle stretch. His other hand leaves its place on your breast, coming down to hold the soft flesh of your lower belly, creating a soft pressure that soothed the ache in your core as he held you there, relentlessly pumping in and out of you with his fingers. The other hand crept lower, the other two fingers continuing the rhythmic circling of your throbbing clit. 

You cried out, the coil in your core hitting that vapid crescendo and tumbling over the edge with shaky legs and breaths. Steve continued working his fingers within you, easing you through the climax of your orgasm and slowing when you whined. His arms remained around you like a vice, holding you in your place against him. 

He nibbled at your ear softly as you came down from that wonderful, floaty place, and whispered softly, “You did so good.” against your neck. His hands rubbed the insides of your thighs in slow, soothing circles. You felt the water from the tub rush over his arms and create whirlpools over the valleys of your skin. 

It was then that you turned, your arms locking around his neck and your lips crashing into his. Your body fell against his with enough force to push a wave across the edge of the tub, but the wet floor was an issue for another time. Your own carnal desire to have him seated within you was far worse than your desire to maintain the grout in the bathroom floors. This much you knew. 

The stretch was welcome and familiar, albeit foreign to you, now. You cried out, as you slid down to the hilt and seated yourself firmly atop his thighs, either one of your thighs bracketing around his. You felt the scrape of hair from his thighs scratch against your skin, broad hands planted firmly on the plush of your waist, and deep, guttural groan fan out across the crevice of your neck where he buried his head. 

Your hand clutched the nape of his neck for purchase, fingers burying themselves in the damp locks there and tugging softly. It draws a gasp from pretty pouted lips as his head tilts back in reverie. He looks at you through dreamy, half-closed lids, reminding himself to draw himself back and forth again, now that you have adjusted to the sensation of him filling you. 

“Oh, baby. Honey.” He cried, pistoning his hips upward, more rhythmically now. It was more of a cry now than it was a plea, and a rosy blush crept its way across the bridge of his nose, spread over his cheeks, and kissed the tips of his ears. He was ethereal as it spread across his chest and he heaved whines into your mouth like he needed to feel himself inside you to survive. You caught the way his dark lashes kissed the apples of his cheeks, and the way the space between his brows scrunched as he huffed breaths towards your face. 

There is a realization in the impending vapid crescendo where Steve attempts to push you over the edge a second time. Your body is on fire as he rubs fast, sloppy circles around your already sensitive clit. He falls from the edge first.

“O-oh, fuck.” He cried out in pleasure as a tear rolled from beautifully crinkled eyelids. Though, he desperately urges you to continue bouncing with fingers buried into the plush that accumulates where your hips fold. His thumb is still relentless over your sensitive bud until he pushes your already teetering form over the edge as well. 

He holds you close, strong arms around your shaking frame and wet hands smoothing back your flyaway hairs. He presses a kiss to your forehead, guiding your head between his palms and trailing them down your nose. He lands his final kiss, longer this time, against your lips and fans his palms across the expanse of your cheeks and neck. 

You whine when he pulls himself from you, suddenly empty. Steve soothes you with a, “Shh. It’s okay honey, ‘ve got you.” as he pushes water up from the tub and over your cold, drying shoulders. 

You cannot tell if you feel better or worse, having him in this way again. You think of the way he slid the ring back over your finger, and relived all of the gilded moments of your past. You’d always felt like a ghost in this house, haunting the remnants of what the life that should have been. But this did not feel like the life that you walked out on. This felt like the life that you chose. 

Steve felt like your husband when he kissed the skin of your shoulder in the early mornings after his runs. He felt like your husband when he sprinkled the feta into your spinach omelet in the morning, and when he sat behind you to watch you paint like you couldn’t sense him behind you, and when he gave you that goofy smile and wave when you caught you peering at him from the bay curtains while he tended to the lawn, 

And he certainly felt like your husband when he helped you from the tub on shaky legs, while he dried your legs with fresh towels and planted sweet kisses against your ankles and knees as he did so. He felt like your husband as he held your hand and guided you with soft hands to bed. He felt like your husband when he pulled your head to his chest beneath the sheets, sneaking a not-so-secret sniff to the crown of your head and smiling a not-entirely-concealed smile. 

Steve may not have been yours anymore, but he was yours for tonight. 

+

The morning light is dappled when you wake, and the way it sparkles hurts your eyes. You half expect to see Steve, feel his lips against your shoulder and relinquish the warmth that radiates from his skin like the sun as he invades your waking space. Instead, you find him sleeping, golden and beautiful under the dappled light, white linens draped over the oiled ellipses of his hips and legs tangled in the sheets. You bury your nose into the valley of his spine and he jolts awake. You can’t help but to giggle. 

“Jesus, what the fuck?” He starts, pushing himself up on his elbows, stomach pressed to the bed. 

“Oh, good morning, Steve.” His brow furrows as he looks at you. Steve does not look happy to see you. Steve looks confused. 

“What are you even doing here?” He asked, more towards the sheets than you. He buried his face in his hands, groan echoing in his palms before he asked, “Oh, God, how drunk did I get?”

Your heart sinks. He is awake. There is no retrograde and anterograde and Transient Global to worry about anymore. It is just you, and him, and your new sense of impending doom. Though, how impending could the doom really be if it was staring you in the face this very moment? Impending should have been reserved for when you decided to move back into the house you tried to build. Impending was reserved for the phone call from the hospital. No, this was doomed from the start, and now, it was blowing up in your face. 

You can tell he doesn’t know what happened, and that he has a throbbing headache. 

“Here– let me–” You start, turning over to grab his prescription from the drawer in your– Steve’s bedside table. He stood, suddenly. 

“No– ugh,” He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to apply some pressure there, “I think you need to go.” 

“No, Steve, let me explain–”

“Just, go. Please.” He pleaded. 

You would not argue. You especially would not cry in front of him, not now. Instead, you scrambled the bathroom floor for your clothes that were shed before your bath, pulling them on, scrambling for your purse and car keys on the counter, and promptly leaving with those items to your name. It was foolish for you to build another home there, to leave remnants of yourself and reminders to him of just how fucked you were around his house. You don’t remember breathing on the drive back to your apartment. The air in this place is stale and, if you owned more things, you figured they’d be shrouded in a fine layer of dust from your negligence. 

When Robin answers the phone, you are incoherent. At first, she figures it is the shoddy signal from her company-issued brick phone, though she eventually realizes that it is not the faulty technology. You are in fact, choking on words and hot tears. Robin has a nagging feeling that she knows what happened, and your few words, “Steve” and, “fucked up” both confirm her suspicions and are reminiscent of a time where she was caught in the crossfire over a year ago. 

Robin’s car zig-zags in and out of the morning traffic, shaving both minutes off of her commute time to your apartment and her life. Her entrance to your apartment is dramatic, tired screeching and door hitting the wall so hard you can almost feel the security deposit solidifying in you landlord’s bank account. She greets you with a hug that you don’t ask for– you don’t need to. She doesn’t ask what’s wrong. 

Instead, she stands there, in the nearly empty room where your studio once stood, and she holds you. And you cry. And you want to scream and want to throw things and want to curse the universe and ask why me? But you know why you stand here. You know that you are shitty. So instead, you sit here, and feel sorry for yourself, and let Robin hold you. Because, no matter how shitty you are, she won’t say anything about it. 

This ugly nostalgia rears its even uglier head when the phone rings shrill, deafening against the brick walls that encase you in this place worse than they had when there were paintings occupying this space. She slides across the concrete on the floor just slightly so she can grab her phone.

“Hey– you busy?” Steve asks, and she can tell he’s been crying. 

You look at her, eyes red and confused. 

“No,” Robin lied to him, it was small and white, “What’s going on?” 

Who is it? You mouth. 

Robin is inherently a bad liar. She could say it was her boss, or her mom, or a telemarketer. Instead, she stares back, contemplating the lie and the inevitable conversation she would have to make up on the spot. She decides it is not worth the effort, and mouths back, 

Steve. 

You sit up, looking at her with wide eyes. You will not ask to eavesdrop, though, there’s a small, shitty part of you that wants to. 

“Something happened.” He started, and she knows exactly what happened, “but I don’t exactly know what.” 

What’s he saying? You mouth back at her, though, she holds a pointed finger up at you in waiting. 

“Are you in trouble?” She asks, “Do you need help?” 

“Look, I don’t know. Can you just come over? I’ll explain everything.” He asks, voice small. He sounds like he is on the precipice of a breakdown. She hangs up the phone, knowing you know what she is going to ask next. 

“Hey, are you gonna be okay? I’ve gotta–”

“Yeah, I’m fine. You can go.” You tell her, pointedly, though, she doesn’t fully believe it. However, your nosiness outweighs your ability to be this hurt for this long, “Look, can you just give this back to him? It doesn’t feel right.” and it's not right, it never was right. 

You slide the ring from your finger, closing Robin’s palm around it. She opens her palm once again, twirling the diamond between her fingers. She slides it over her middle finger, diamond side in to protect it. 

“Yeah, I can.”

“Thanks, Rob.” 

“Call me.” She says to you, and It is both a threat and a consolation. 

“Okay.” 

+

There is an aura that has overtaken the house since this morning. It was threatening. Robin had sensed the shift from her car, clear up the avenue. There was something frighteningly wrong here. 

Her knock on the door was poignant, scared almost, and she held her breath as Steve turned the knob. He looked tired. He looked spent. He looked like he wanted to cry, and yell, and throw things, and curse the universe, but was too morose to perform any action but stare blankly at Robin. 

“What happened?” She asked, taking the invited, but welcome, step through the threshold of the front door. She knew what had happened already, there were remnants of you strung about this place like shrapnel. Steve avoided them like landmines, even though the explosion had already happened. 

“She– she,” She meaning you, he started, but didn’t know where to begin. He sat on the couch, bouncing back with the weight and force of his body thrown against the cushions. 

“You don’t remember anything, do you?” Robin finally asked.

Steve looked up at her, red eyes slick with freshly fallen tears, “What?” 

“Steve, you hit your head. You fell off a ladder and knocked something loose.” Robin explained to him, voice soft as she said it, “You couldn’t remember anything that happened in the last year.” 

Robin wished you were here to help her explain. She wished she could remember the big words you remembered to describe what was wrong with him– maybe it would help him understand better. Maybe you should have come. She could have been able to act as a buffer between the anger– 

“You fucking knew about this?” Steve interrupted her thoughts, he had stared for a few seconds while he figured out his thoughts. 

Robin went quiet, more quiet than she already had been, “Yeah. I did.” It was a statement riddled with shame, though she didn’t quite know for what. 

“Steve, you were sick fo–”

He stood, rage apparent in his eyes as he poked his finger into Robin’s shoulder, “No, Rob, I wouldn’t put it past her to lie to me like that but you?” Robin didn’t say anything to him. Instead she just looked up at him, “Whose side are you even on?”

“Steve, you know goddamned well I’m not picking a side.” She was angry, standing now to match his posture, “You brooded for months fucking haunting this house like a ghost, Steve. You. Were. Miserable– and you were making me miserable too! All you did was talk about how you were gonna get her back, and now that you had her, you decide you don’t want her?” Robin started. It was Steve’s turn to stare, now.

“I get that you’re mad, and I get that you’re confused, and I’m sorry that this happened to you, but this isn’t my fault.” She continued. She was a republic of voices tonight, and unfortunately, that republic was Italy. 

“Oh, and here’s your stupid ring back. It’s ugly, anyways.” She finishes, shoving the ring back into his chest. He holds it in his hands, stunned. 

There is an immediate regret that fills him up and drowns him in it. Robin was right, it was not her fault. “Ugh, Robin. I’m–”

She turns at the beginning of his apology, scooping her back from the doorway, “Don’t. I’m not the one you should even be apologizing to.”

“Rob–”

“Bye, Steve.”

He is alone now. The house is quiet and stale, the walls sing in silence, speak their truths, tell him how awful he was. He was so quick to anger, wore his father’s anger like a hand-me-down coat. It hung loose in the wrong places, did not cling to him like his father and looked silly while he was wearing it. He twirls the ring in his hands, watching the light refract white off the brilliant-cut diamond. 

He should call Robin, should. He knows that, even after this, that she will forgive him. You, however, would not be so easy, though, he can’t exactly fathom how badly he wants your forgiveness when he has not quite forgiven you himself. 

He twirls it in his hands as he gets into his car, runs his thumb over the cluster of diamonds in his pocket as he drives down the road, in search of your apartment. It burns a hole in his pocket as he parks, burning hotter and hotter until he swears it scorches his skin the closer he gets to your door. 

When you answer, door swinging open in reprieve and eyes holding the morosity of several generations, he feels a pang of guilt begin to choke him, though it is not big enough to not be swallowed. Something else burns there, still hot and still angry and still confused. It takes over the forefront of his mind. He should not have come here. It was not right to come here. 

“Seriously? This? You still had it?” It is an ugly statement, it's the first thing that he can think of. The angry coat was still tied tight around his waist, the anger was still bubbling in the forefront of his temporal lobe. He holds the ring up in your face, the sparkle hurts your eyes. 

You furrowed your brows, confused by both the fact that we was standing at your apartment door and also that you opened your door to him yelling at you, “You gave it back to me Steve–”

“No, the version of me that forgot what you did gave it back to you. And you took advantage of that. You–”

“Steve, I couldn’t–”

“Couldn’t what?” He wouldn’t give you a chance to explain yourself, he took a step forward and crowded your space. It wasn’t entirely fair, but you hadn’t been entirely fair either. There was no winning this battle. 

You stared back at him in silence, willing fresh tears from breaking over the edges of your lash line. His eyes seethed with anger. You had never seen Steve this angry before. 

“Couldn’t what?” He asked again, taking another step closer. He stood over you now, towering and angry. 

You were shaking now, seeping with your own anger and frustration, “Anterograde Amnesia!”

“What?” He stops sudden;y, realizing his closeness to your figure, taking a step back. 

“That’s what you had. Every morning you woke up and it was the same day. Every morning you woke up and you– you–” You were crying now, hot tears running down your face at an embarrassing, unrelenting pace. You could not tell if they were of anger or sadness. Probably both, “You woke up and did the same thing, and then every night you went back to sleep and we started all over again.”

“Why didn’t you just walk away?” He asked, turning and bracing himself on your counter, hand on his hip as he stared you down. 

“I-I I just couldn’t, okay?”

“Why not?” He had a way of backing you into a corner, making you feel small in this confrontation. Steve was rarely angry with you, and never like this. 

“Because the one day you did find out, before all this shit,” Before he felt like yours again, “–you begged me to tell you that you were okay. You fucking begged me to.” Your arms were flailing now, it was your turn to back him into a corner. You hadn’t meant to be this defensive, hadn’t meant for this to end in a screaming match, but no one ever intended that, you supposed, “How the fuck was I supposed to leave after that, huh? Let them institutionalize you? Saddle Robin with you? How the fuck was that supposed to be the better option?” 

His hands were up now too, defenses in a war against yourselves, “Oh so you just did this so you could be a hero? So you could prove to yourself that you aren’t shitty? Prove to yourself that you weren’t gonna fucking leave again?” 

You found silence, suddenly, more hurt and more angry than before. You stare at each other. He knows he’s crossed a line. Several lines actually. You aren’t as forgiving as Robin. 

“Just go, Steve.”

“I–”

“Just fucking go.”

+

This felt like the remnants of a hurricane. You could hear the wind ringing heavy and violent in your ears like screams. You could feel the rain hot and heavy as it rolled across your cheeks still. Yet the air was still, entirely too still. The shrapnel of your reality built back up and torn back down again, and now you were here. Alone. In silence. 

Robin’s pointed knuckle is quiet against your door, yet it crashes and booms a resonant patriarchal tenor across the echoing walls of your solitude. You groan at her, something akin to its open. You hadn’t managed to lock it again after she left this morning. 

“Are you still being insufferable?” She asks you, as if it isn’t clear by the way you seem to enter a state of active decay, melting into the corner piece of your sectional. 

Though you are insufferable, you are not so insufferable that you cannot bite back, “Are you still being annoying?”

She does not answer, instead, the clinking of glass on glass and heavier glass against granite serves as an answer for her.

“Do you want a glass?”

The ruffling of a paper bag wills your head up, and she exhumes the bottle from it. You see that it is red, but don’t say anything about it. You recognize the bottle as Beaujolais Nouveau, from the same region in France in which it is aptly named– the same region in which Robin did her semester abroad. You could have said something about how it is not winter, or how there are better italian wines or better whites or literally anything else from Trader Joe’s, but alcohol seems nice, and you are never one to complain about free alcohol. 

“Yeah.” you say instead. 

“Okay.” 

She serves you a too-full glass on the couch. She had half a mind to bring some snacks over, but did not feel like putting forth the effort into making a snack board. Instead, she pulls a bag of salt and vinegar chips and a candy bar open with her teeth, pointing the mouth of the bag towards you in a peace offering. You oblige, stuffing a handful of them into your mouth as a chaser for this awful, dry red. 

“What a jerk.” She says, and you know who she is speaking about. 

“What an ass.” You say back to her, and she knows who you are speaking about, 

Your body rolls into the dip where hers sits on the couch, and you let the natural flow bring your head to her shoulder. You do not wrestle with the qualms of physical affection, and, if she is surprised by your sudden affectionate nature, she doesn’t say anything. 

“I spilled some wine on your counter.” She said to you, but you’ll clean it up later. 

You have half a mind to let it stain. 

+

You beg Robin to get your stuff from his house. Your heartbreak is scabbed over enough for you to pick at, and you have a desperate urge to smear some goo all over a canvas in an Oliver De Sagazan-esque pity party, but alas, your studio resides in the place of your demise– Steve’s house. 

Robin is more forgiving than you are, and also more willing to brave the walls of Fort Steve for your stuff. Robin is also a saint, and you have let her know ten times over. 

“She wants her shit back. Have it ready on the porch when I get there.” She says to him on the phone, the line aptly going dead seconds later. 

His hands on your things feel foreign when they touch them, like they might blow up. He had been avoiding them like landmines as he haunted the remnants of this home. Nothing had been touched since that morning. The house would not change. 

There is a fine layer of dust that has accumulated over the confines of your studio, and it makes his eyes water as he agitates it enough to send particles swirling through the air. He stacks your canvases in piles according to their sizes and fills your water cups with brushes. He takes extra care to separate the current painting you abandoned midway through, the one where the linseed-to-oil ratio wasn’t quite right and, in turn, the layers of paint would not cure properly. 

When he moves to the last stack, one of a modest collection of books and sketchpads, he loses his bearings, and the top sketchpad slides out with loose pages all over the floor. He sighs in exasperation, and bends down to scoop them into a pile. He recognizes the figure drawn on one page, and then another, and then another. A mirror image of himself, ruched hair at the end of the day, glasses perched on the end of his nose, elbow on the arm chair. In some he can see the tops of his folded knee. In some he is smiling and looking directly back at him. 

Every one of them is dated one a day for eighty-six days in chronological order, yet every paper he is holding has the same headline. 

The final page in the stack is a doodle page, he almost misses it. A series of boxes and riddles. Number two down, number three across. You were creating crossword puzzles, a new one every day, and yet none of the answers vaguely familiar to him. His blood runs cold. He was the ass. 

In a panic, he scoops the drawings up, sliding them as quickly as possible into the sleeve from which they fell and clutching them to his chest like previous gems. To him, this was a lifeline, and he did not have time to wait for Robin, though she is sitting outside waiting for him when he runs out the front door, leaving it open in a panic. 

She is colder when she greets him, colder than he’s ever seen. It's an odd juxtaposition, seeing her be so cold. She adorns black jeans with a black turtleneck. She does not look like herself, she looks like you. 

“And where are you going?” She asks him, watching hum fumble with his car keys and with the drawings in his hands. 

He puts his hands on her shoulders, wraps her in a hug, and gives her a kiss on the forehead. 

“Robin, I love you, and I know you came here for her stuff, but I’m going to talk to her.” 

She is stunned, staring at him with wide eyes at both the kiss and the sudden change in demeanor. She does not have time to ask him what drugs he possibly could have been on or make a back-handed remark about how hard he hit his head. Because, instead, she is standing in his driveway while his car takes off down the road. 

Your ground floor apartment has floor-to-ceiling windows. It was charming, really. It was one of the reasons you chose this place despite its ridiculous cost. Well, that, and the fact that it was the least suburban place you could think of. You are sitting on the kitchen island, scrubbing now at that wine stain on the counter with a rag and granite polish at the forefront of this battle when the first thud sounds off clear against your winder. You thought it had been an unsuspecting bird, but the shadow of a man behind your sheer white curtains startles you. You unfold yourself quickly, going over to pull them back and investigate. 

Steve stands with his feet in shrubs, hands with papers pressed flat against the glass. He pulls more from his chest, switching them out every so often, and then ends the spectacle with a crossword puzzle placed flat to the glass. He looks ridiculous like this, hands splayed across glass, hair disheveled and out of breath from running. He left his glasses on in the shuffle, and they slid down his nose in the commotion. Your confusion registers clear across your face, and he says something adjacent to, “Can I come in?” against the glass. 

You nod, and he shuffles the drawings back into a cohesive, carryable pile. You meet him at the front door, letting him run in and dump them on the counter you were currently cleaning. He spreads them out in front of you, breathless and disheveled. They are in order, chronologically. All of your drawings of him. You are both mortified and embarrassed. 

“That one.” He points to it, moving to stand next to you on the counter to look at it. 

“The first one.” You say, looking at the date. 

“Was that the first day?” He asked, “Of being home from the hospital?” he specified, staring down at you with intent eyes. 

You nod, looking back up to meet him, “Yes, that was the first day. I knew you had amnesia, I knew you thought we were still engaged. Though, I didn’t know the extent of your condition yet.” 

You go through all eighty-six drawings, the things he said to you, the things you did. A lot of them are repetitive, some of them caught you off guard and you are able to  laugh about it now. You talk about the day he gives you the ring back, and the day you realized he was in the same infinite time loop, you talk about the dastardly yellow paint and the vellum crossword puzzles so he wouldn’t get bored even though you knew he wouldn’t remember, and the binders. You talked a lot about Robin and her place in it all. You talked about the dentist up the street, and how Steve, even in his delirium, still knew him as the guy with the labs. 

There is one day where the drawing is missing. 

“Is this the day,” He asks, “The day that I–”

“Yeah, it is.” You answer. 

“What exactly happened then? On that day?” 

You struggle to recall every detail, so you start by giving him the gist, “Well… you saw the tattoo on my back,” You reach up to touch it, running your fingers over the raised lines of ink beneath your fingers. Steve tilts his head back to get a glimpse of it as well, his own fingers calloused as they chase yours across it. 

“Looks nice.” He says, without thinking. 

“Thank you.” You reply back, “And then you got really confused. I was still sleeping on the couch then. We were still figuring it out, and I was still clumsy. I asked you how hard you hit your head, and you didn’t even remember doing it. You panicked so quickly, I– I had a hard time calming you down.” 

The guilt still ate you alive, the guilt at your own clumsiness for letting it slip, and the guilt that you lived in the lie for that long. The guilt mostly for leaving in the first place. 

“You asked me where I was, and I couldn’t answer. I wasn’t there because I was trying so hard to live my life separately from you. We hadn’t been together in a year, but I couldn’t tell you that.” You said, words becoming frantic as you fought off tears. 

His hand is both a consolation as it is a devastation as it rests across your shoulder, broad and warm and grounding. 

“What did you say to me, then?” He asked. 

“You asked me if you were okay. You were so confused.” 

“And?”

“I told you that you were.” Hot tears broke the threshold of your lash line, and spilled in streams down your face. It cut through the dryness there, and you choked on a sob. “I didn’t even know if you were or how to take care of you or what I was doing and, and I’m sorry.” You cried ugly tears now, wet into your own hands. 

He grips your shoulders, pulling you into a familiar hug as your words grow frantic and your breaths become shallow and stuttered. He holds you close to his warm chest, encased in soft arms. He cradles the back of your head like you are encased in glass, and he plants a kiss to the top of your head. 

“I’m sorry.” He whispers into your hair, now rocking your back and forth as you calm down. A wet drop falls on your shoulder, and you cannot tell if it belongs to yourself or him. You would forgive Steve in every life. 

He pulls back from you, hands still planted firmly on your shoulders as he stares at you, amber eyes both piercing and comforting. 

“Listen, you don’t have to take this, not yet. But it would make me so fucking happy if you would.” He pulls the ring, sparkling and brilliant from his pocket, and presents it to you. You oblige happily, sliding it back on to your hands before tackling him into an embrace. His kiss is as soft as it had always been. 

You would do this again, and again, and again if it meant you could have him, because the same day with Steve was better than any of the days you had ever spent without him. 

[subwaytostardew]

▽ Subway to Stardew - Adoptable Joltik ⚡️

This would play after Emmet's 8 heart event and getting Joltik up to 8 hearts as well.

I released a separate mod specifically for adopting Joltik, so you only need to get them up to 8 hearts to adopt them! You can do it right now!

Adoptable Joltik Mod Link: https://www.nexusmods.com/stardewvalley/mods/21002

And of course... Commentary under the read-more.

Joltik's adoption event sat in the drafts for quite a while. It took me whole a day to implement and I didn't let myself sleep until I finished everything. (It's 1 PM now...)

The event ended up wildly different because of how extra custom pets are implemented. You would think that they would be added in the same way as you get your cat/dog that you select during character creation. No. You have to buy a license. Only Marnie is authorized to sell them.

Here's the original script for Joltik's adoption event:

[Joltik Adoption Event]

Emmet: @! Joltik likes you verrrrry much. They want to stay with you. I'm letting you adopt them. Yup. I filled out all the paperwork. The Joltiks are legally documented now. 

I never gave ours a name... Galvantula wouldn't let me. She is verrrry picky about it. But that's okay. Joltik is yours. You should name them. She came along for approval. So. What name should I put on the adoption form?

[Name input box like Marnie's adoption thing...]

[Galvantula pauses for a moment to think and then offhandedly agrees.]

Emmet: Galvantula didn't shock me for that. That name is okay. Yup. I will file that with the Ferngill Republic. Don't worry about it. Make sure you take verrrry good care of our little Joltik!

[Joltik jumps and heart emotes]

◇──◆──◇──◆

The whole naming portion was a source of much more frustration than it should have been. In events, the name input box is brought up by the "catQuestion" command (which applies to dogs chosen at the start, too...

If you refuse, then Marnie also shows up no matter what you do. Farmhouse positions are also tricky and made even harder to find reference for after 1.6 added the farmhouse being moveable. Joltik kept spawning where Emmet was supposed to be so I had to use a move command just to get them to spawn one tile to the side. Galvantula was fine. I didn't get to updating her vanilla portraits yet so she's staying quiet.

The catQuestion command also only adds the pet you pick during character creation. There's no fields to target the usage. You have to buy a license. It's the only way to get another pet. I didn't want Joltik to replace a cat either since in-story you would have to earn the trust of both Emmet and Galvantula... There's no way you can do that by the first 25 days of spring. It's immersion breaking and you lose a cat.

I did find the license aspect funny though. It was oddly fitting for the mod's lore of Pokemon being pretty much banned from the region. Emmet is a threat to Stardew Valley's ecosystem. Not the best guy for the task of combating anti-Pokemon xenophobia.

Pet sizes are apparently hardcoded so I had to make a new spritesheet for Joltik as if they even need a 32 x 32 pixel area per frame. I did end up making new sprites for them while I was at it. I tried to base it off of the cat's behaviors so I have less animation fields to edit (I was tired). The cat loafs a lot. Trying to convey that in a tiny spider posed quite the challenge.

After everything was done, I figured that the whole adoption portion of the mod could easilly be taken apart to be its own mod as a demo of sorts for the expansion. So I went and made a content pack to post.

Bringing up your starter pet's friendship level takes quite some time, so it would be awkward if I let the event play with no preconditions. Because of that, I ended up including Joltik as an NPC and locking their adoption behind their heart level.

We actually only had two lines per day of the week (not including season) for daily dialogue. That shot up to six lines per day of the week for a full 0-2-4-6-8-10 in spring because I was determined to publish a mod. (I've been modding for nearly a year nonstop and I don't have anything playable... humiliating...)

Anyways! I hope you're all having fun with 1.6! It certainly brought new challenges and opportunities to the modding scene!

▷ Station Steward Thylak

[27vampyresinhermind]

They added English subtitles (not completely though, the captions seem to go in and out) so I watch it twice.

It makes me think of someone who’s a local in a touristy area so they never really did the touristy things and when they take their significant other to their touristy hometown, they experience their hometown from a tourist perspective for the first time.

Pong is from Chiang Mai but a lot of the places he took Tong to were places he said he’d never been before or had only been to when he was younger. I’m like 90% sure a masturbation joke was made because there was a part where Tong talked about Pong needing to “relieve stress” and the captions said “relieve stress (Thai joke)” and they share this look with each other before they crack up.

They went to Pong’s family home and seeing Tong just perfectly at home with Pong’s mom and dad was so beautiful.

They went to a few temples and one of them, when they left, they both had red thread bracelets!! I was trying to not delulu scream “Red Thread of Fate” at my phone as they held their wrists up but I failed.

They ate a lot of food to the point where they both made jokes about it turning into a food vlog. I’m sure no fans would have a problem with that though.

At multiple times, Tong called Pong by his full name which I found hilarious.

They bought outfits for each other to wear the next day and that was adorable. And Pong fed Tong ice cream which made me do a little happy wiggle.

I hope the subtitles get updated at some point to include all of the dialogue between. Sometimes, when the subtitles go out, whatever they’re saying seems really funny or cute but I have no way of knowing.

After the last two days, I really needed this so it came at the right time!

[rainboq]

Meowdy!

I just wanted to start by saying that I adore Statistics and Purity Through a Prism.

Do you have any general advice you can give to less experienced writers? I’m also hella into making LiS fics, but I’m still trying to find my footing. Plus most of my projects fizzle out around chapter 5, and I’m not sure how to get momentum back after taking a break 😂🥰 how do you write stories that go for so long?

Thanks!

First of all thank you very much for enjoying my fanfics! I'm sorry that I haven't updated anything in a while, life and original fiction projects have pretty much taken over (I'll be self publishing a novel in the next few months).

For general advice, consider the following.

Keep an idea diary. Write down your ideas, just because you have nothing to go with it doesn't mean you won't later and don't be afraid to mash things together.

Learn about story telling as a craft. Study any and every medium and think about how to apply their lessons to word smithing. I highly recommend Every Frame a Painting, Thomas Flight, Hello Future Me, and Ellen Brock.

Read everything twice. Once for pleasure, once to tear it apart to figure out how the sausage is made. Dissect word choice, structure, pacing, foreshadowing, all of it. If you want to get better as an author, get better at media analysis.

Ask yourself why a project fizzles out. Did you lose sight of your original goal? Is it not turning out the way you hoped? Can you not remember where you wanted it to go? I tend to write with a few very specific scenes fixed in my head and I need to massage the characters to make those scenes happen and make sense. For Prism that was Kate and Chloe's clifftop kiss. Everything after that was kinda ad-libbed.

Embrace failure. Enjoy failure. Fail faster. As the Frizz would say: take chances, make mistakes, and get messy! You will learn more from your mistakes than from your successes. It's okay to be disappointed and upset when things don't go your way, but then dust yourself off and figure out what went wrong where and learn your lessons. (Just because you can write a novel in 3 months doesn't mean you should)

Your ideas are crap. It's okay, mine are too. Ideas always suck, they become good when you actually write the stories and find your blind spots. Make it work in the edit. You can change things right up until you publish, so play around and have fun.

It's okay to not finish projects. Use them as learning experiences. Practice writing better and better hooks. Find character's voices. Toy around with premises.

Practice with a purpose. With everything you write, pick something you want to focus on. Dialogue, pacing, structure, action, word play, imagery, etc. Pick something, study, execute.

Keep it simple. Elevator pitches are 30 words or less. If you can't summarize the crux of your story simply and succinctly, consider revising your idea to make it less complicated. Prism's premise is literally "What if Max never went to Blackwell". Statistic's premise is "What if Chloe was a homeless trans girl dealing for Frank". Complicated premises aren't bad, but they make executing much harder, and you don't need them to tell a good story.

Don't stop. Always be reading, writing, and thinking. Your creativity is a muscle, work it out. Hit the brain gym regularly with focus and intent and you'll see the growth.

I hope these help and good luck!

[commander-rahrah]

Talking to the Moon: Part VI

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader Word Count: ~4800 Warnings: slightly suggestive, swearing, blood, non-con touching (Cazador touching reader), some borrowed in game dialogue, canonical warnings apply!

archiveofourown: here

masterlist: here

part I: here part II: here part III: here part IV: here part V: here

Summary: Set in Act III, after you arrive in Baldur's Gate and have met some of Astarion's siblings but not yet confronted Cazador. Astarion struggles with inner turmoil as he is suddenly thrusted back into the clutches of his old master's influence.

Notes: Long time no update! Long story short December was the month where everything was bad and everything hurt - ER hospital visits and many, many days laying in bed and on the couch very unmotivated and just wanting to feel better! I am very grateful to be feeling better and up to writing as my fics is one of my favorite creative outlets! So thank you for being patient between updates! I really appreciate it and any kind of interaction like a reblog, like or comment truly makes my friggin' day!

So this update and the next chapter will be focused on confronting Cazador! I have had these thoughts and ideas to add more to the in-game scenes since the very first time I played it! I was doing a multiplayer save with my fiancé and the second we finished Astarion's quest (I sobbed the entire time btw) I stayed up all night writing all my thoughts onto my notes app. I didn't even intend to write into a fic back then, I just wanted the outlet of writing it all down to help with how emotional I was feeling about it all! And now a few months later, I have a fic with over 30k words. Aha... whoops!

Anyways, I really hope you enjoy this update and the slight changes and add-ons I've added to this final part of Astarion's quest. I honestly teared up writing parts of it, because Astarion and his and my Tav's story means so much to me, I couldn't help it. ALSO, I don't plan on these being the last updates since it is the "end" of Astarion's quests. I still have plans for this Tav/Reader and Astarion yet. Not enough kissing and happiness had happened yet!! Just some angst and pain has to happen first.

As always, reblogs and comments are very very appreciated ♡♡♡

·:¨༺ ༻¨:·..·:¨༺ ༻¨:·..·:¨༺ ༻¨:·..·:¨༺ ༻¨:·..·:¨༺ ༻¨

You had wandered the streets of Baldur’s Gate before. Long before the nautiloid, in your time living in the city you had explored as much of the exciting city as you could. But never like this.

Your party had taken every cobblestone street, every back alley and shortcut. Astarion lead the way for most of them, pointing things out and sharing antidotes with you.

But you noticed how his smile strained at times, that he was wearing down the stitches on his leather pants from his fingers picking them nervously. At night when you slept side by side you’d wake to him trembling and muttering through a nightmare, which had become more frequent since you stepped into the city boundaries.

The vampire has been so sure of the next step in the Shadowlands and Wyrm’s Crossing. But now anytime you neared the streets leading to Cazador’s castle, he was turning on his heel and looking at one of your companions to ask what they needed to do instead.

Meeting his siblings days ago had been eye-opening. You thought you understood what he had gone through, that the memories he had described to you, and even shown you through the tadpoles, was enough. But after seeing how controlled and manipulated Petras and Dalyria had been… What they were being forced to do…You couldn’t bring yourself to picture Astarion like that.

You couldn’t imagine the turmoil and anguish going through your lover — seeing his siblings, being in the city again in a way he never thought he would, being so close to seizing power that could change his fate forever. You hadn’t voiced that every time he mentioned taking the ritual for himself fear stabbed in your belly. You knew what was motivating him to even consider the choice — outright fear and the call of power that was easily addicting. But too many things in his life has been decided for him… so you didn’t voice that to him, instead insisting that you only needed for him to be safe and happy. You trusted him to make the right choice.

You did trust him. You loved him.

And you showed him as such — throughout the day as you laced your fingers through his, as you rolled your neck for him to feed, as you curled into each other to sleep.

And he had been returning that trust and love back.

He had continued to expand his boundaries with you, slowly but surely as the days went on. Your quiet time together after a long day, you were a reprieve he sought out over and over. You whispered and giggled with each other between kisses in your shared bed in the Elfsong Tavern — tucked into the corner and hidden behind privacy screens. Privacy screens that Karlach had loudly dragged over before giving you both a very unsubtle wink. Then she did the same for her and Shadowheart.

The teasing had been relentless.

You still hadn’t taken those final steps, and you were in no rush too. Astarion’s happiness and agency was the most important to you, always. Yet, you couldn’t help the way your heart thundered and breath got higher as he slowly explored any kind of touch and intimacy with you again.

You were laid together now, draped across each other — you only in your night clothes and Astarion in very thin linen pants. You were pressed gently on top of him, your voice and lips whispering across his pale skin as he pointed his fingertip to various parts of his body. His new game he had started that night — seemingly convinced that he would find a part of himself that you did not love.

Utterly impossible — but you indulged him anyways.

“Even this? You like this?” He pointed to his knobby elbow.

"Hmm,” You hummed approvingly, pressing a gentle peck to the bare, taut skin of his bent joint.

His low laughter rumbled through both of you, shaking you slightly. “I’m running out of ideas.”

You eyed him greedily, “I’m not. You’ve missed some of your best parts.”

“Have I?” He cocked a brow, a smirk spreading across his face. “Alright, go on then.”

“I can—?”

“Mhmm,” He nodded his head against the silk pillow, settling himself deeper into the mattress under your weight.

Swallowing, you took him in underneath you and felt your mind start whirring. Slow, patient, soft — you reminded yourself. You gently touched his jawline, the tip of your finger following the strong line. “Here.”

Then your forefinger and thumb rubbed the cartilage on the tops of his ears, “Here.” His mouth fell open deliciously with that one.

“Here,” You caressed the mole on his cheek with a swipe of your thumb.

You continued your movements, so drawn into him that you didn’t notice his red eyes blazing as they flickered between watching your hand and watching your face.

Your fingers gracefully dragged across him. His Adam’s apple. His knuckles. Collarbone. Inner wrist.

“I told you, there is no part of you that I do not like. Every inch of you I want to—“ You cut yourself off. Perhaps that was too much. This was a fun, teasing game — exploratory and gentle. You hadn’t meant to make it about your own desire and arousal.

He swallowed, his mouth hanging open slightly, “You want to what?”

You let out a fake cough, lifting yourself off of him slightly with a blush crossing your cheeks. “Well, I—“

A grin spread across his face, “Oh, I love it when you get all coy.” He purred, pulling you back before you could fully get away. “Tell me, please.” He whispered.

“There isn’t an inch of you that I don’t wish to kiss. To taste.” You admitted huskily, the heat on your face spreading to your neck.

The groan that escaped him made the fire in your belly sputter even hotter.

“Show me?” He asked softly, but his tone was slightly more sultry than before.

“Sho—show you?”

He nodded before fidgeting under you to display himself more — stretching out his neck, spreading his arms out.

“May I—“

“Darling,” He said the pet name a tad exasperated as his slowly closing eyes snapped to yours. “This was my idea. You don’t have to ask every time.”

“Yes, I do.” You insisted.

He rolled his eyes playfully, shaking his soft curls, “Really—“

But you cut him off. “Astarion, I do. I will continue to. It’s important to me. I never want you to do something you don’t want. I never want to make you feel like that with me.”

“You haven’t. I know you wouldn’t.” He trailed his pale fingers through the hair hanging in front of your face as you hovered over him. He tucked it behind your ear.

“I know it seems like a silly question, especially between us but I want you to know you can—“

It was his turn to cut you off, silencing you with a reassuring kiss. He was looking at you with astonishment when you finally opened your eyes from the deep kiss. “What ever did I do to deserve you my lovely moon?”

You smiled tenderly down at him, “Perhaps it was fate.��

“Hmm," His red eyes blinked slowly, "I used to despise that sentiment.”

“And now?”

Astarion gave you one of the most tender smiles you'd ever seen. “I think you might be right.” He ran his fingers gently down your cheek before letting out a dramatic puff. “Now, stop turning me into a sappy lovesick fool and kiss me already.” He growled playfully.

"As you wish, love." You mumbled as you pressed your lips to his.

• • •

You woke with a stir, the weight of the mattress shifting suddenly and then the sound of scuffling feet. Astarion was standing in front of the bed — in front of you defensively, still only in his night pants with his bare chest rising and falling quickly. A dagger was closed in his fist, aimed in front of him of threateningly. “Stop right where you are.” His voice was commanding like it had never been before, but you could still hear a twinge of uncertainty in it.

“You know why we’re here, brother.” A low, masculine voice said — seemingly coming from the dark shadows in the corners of the large suite.

Astarion's stance grew wider, his grip on his dagger tightening until his already pale knuckles turned white. “Come any closer to us and it will be the last thing you do.”

Peering over your lover's figure, you found four pairs of glowing red eyes studying you intently. The hairs on the back of your neck and arms started to stand up.

"I mean it - get the hells away from us!" Astarion growled again, his hand blinding reaching back for you. You laced your fingers through his and a protection spell was on your lips seconds later, muttered quietly until you felt the magical aura surround him.

The rest of your companions were up on their feet after Astarion's shout, pushing in towards your bed, edging around it in a protective semi-circle. Most of them were scantily clad in only undergarments and nightclothes - but all of them had their hands glowing with magic or weapons drawn. Fury was etched on every one of their faces from the intrusion and threat.

One of the female vampires eyed the rest of your group, counting and calculating. Then she raised her hands up, "We come in peace, brother."

"You call this peace, Aurelia?" He frowned at her. Your grip on him tightened as you stood up and tried to go to his side, but he stepped in front of you protectively once again.

A male stepped forward slightly, his mouth and eyes ruby red with deep scars carved over his skin, trailing down his chin. It was a terrifying sight. But his voice did not match his appearance, and instead was laced with desperation and hope. "The master needs all seven us for the ceremony. Come with us and be reborn. We'll live again."

The suite remained deadly silent. Like you all were waiting to see who would make the first move, who would let loose a spell or swing a blade first.

But it was your meek voice that broke the silence, "How did you find us?"

Their red eyes snapped instantly to you, but it was one of his sister's who spoke. "Master Cazador has known where Astarion was this entire time — where both of you were. He has been watching carefully since you arrived in the city."

"You know what our master will do to them.” His scarred brother warned, nodding his head towards you. His eyes almost looked... sad.

“He won’t get the chance, Leon.” Astarion snarled back.

Leon raised his hands defensively, "We aren't here for them. We are here about the rite. The master needs you. You must attend."

Astarion scoffed, "Oh, I am well aware of what the master needs. But don't we all deserve better?" His features were contorted in a strange mixture of emotion. "After these centuries of torment, I know what you all want. More then power. More than to walk in the sun. You want to see him dead."

The desire for revenge, for Cazador's death, did not surprise you. He had said as much, and bluntly too. You had agreed that Cazador deserved such a fate after the years of abuse and exploitation he had forced upon Astarion.

"If you think I will be a willing sacrifice for him and his deranged ritual, you really are stupidly blinded by him."

"Sacrifice?" Aurelia stepped forward, shaking her head. "No, this is our way to cheat undeath."

"Is that the lie he told you?" He sneered.

"I-"

Astarion's lips curled up, "You're all fools. You think he cares about us? You think he will grant us such power? We are nothing but pawns to be slaughtered for the king — one final, grand maneuver so he can win the game."

His four siblings shook with disbelief. "The master doesn't need to lie to us. He controls us, fully. Why go through the trouble of giving us hope..."

Leon got there first, his face crumbling. "Because its more cruel... shit."

The vampires exchanged a look — a look between siblings that you knew well. One that you had shared with your own brother many times. A silent conversation had happened between them in an instant.

"That manipulative bastard." The other female finally spoke, her words a hiss between her fanged teeth.

"How did we not see this?"

Leon squared his shoulders, moving his red eyes to look back at his free brother. "Astarion is right... because we are blind fools."

"We must go before he compels us too— agghhh." Aurelia grabbed her head, her expression one of excruciating pain. "Aggghhhhh!"

"Take her." Leon commanded the other siblings who looped their arms around her, dragging her away as she fought them. But he lingered behind them for a moment, stopping to look over his shoulder and study the pair of you. To look at the rest of your companions surrounding you defensively. "Help us, brother." His voice was a whispered plea, his terrifying, red eyes wide and shining. Then with a loud crack and a sudden puff of red, they were gone.

A collective sigh escaped your party as they disappeared, spells extinguished and weapons dropped down to their sides before they turned to face both of you.

Astarion’s shoulders sagged as he realized his family had indeed left. He all but collapsed into your side, burying his face into the crook of your neck as you held him back. Really, as you held him up.

You stroked his hair as he murmured into your shoulder, “Tomorrow. This ends tomorrow.”

“Okay, my love. We’ll be with you the whole way.” You whispered into his pointed ear, returning the concerned expression of your companions watching as your hold on Astarion tightened a bit more.

• • •

Whatever you do... I just don't want to die down here.

Sebastian’s voice was echoing in his ears, his mind, and creeping down into parts of him he had just barely started to recognize again. Parts of him that a few months ago he had deemed long dead. He had to force his pink lips into a firm line just to stop them from trembling. 

This place, his so-called home was his personal hell. Every step through the fading carpets and ostentatiously decorated rooms had gotten harder and harder — until he had started to feel physically ill. Bile was rising in his throat, his back and palms of his hands turning clammy. And now, standing in the secret, buried crypt beneath — it felt like the castle above him was pressing down, screaming at him of what a luxury it had been that he was a prisoner up there and not down here. That voice in his head, that ringing, echoing voice. Gods, he wished it would stop. 

And you... you had been so uncommonly quiet. You who had lent him your strength since the moment he met you, you and your presence a steady reassurance that he had come to depend on. But his little moon who was usually so chatty and poetic, was so quiet. Your eyes were wide as you followed him through Cazador’s castle, your steps clumsy and dazed like he wasn't the only one walking through this twisted nightmare. Perhaps it was for you — realizing the realities of what he had been through.

When Astarion's composure had really started to shake, you snapped back to reality and were with him in an instant. Your warm fingers threading through his icy ones. Your voice, your soft, hushed voice using the smallest amount of words to try and put his cruel mind at ease. The words you had used were choice, but powerful. You insisted that all of this was Cazador's cruelty — not his. 

But how could he believe that as he stood in front of the cells filled with people he had brought his master? How could he deny the role he played in all of this when he could stare into the eyes of all of those victims — the stupid, innocent fools who in a fleeting moment fell for him. 

Especially when he realized how fortunate, how damn lucky, it was that he never stumbled on you on the streets of Baldur’s Gate the past year you'd lived in the city. 

Astarion stood before the precipice of Cazador’s ritual room. The grand doors that would lead to these final moments just a few steps away from him.

The fine outfit he picked for himself suddenly felt unbearably tight and itchy. The lacy neck scratching and digging into his skin, his leather shoes too restricting. He had wanted to use the clothes as a symbol to his old master — look how well I’ve done without you, look who I’ve become without you. His hands became fists at his sides, his knuckles white and half moons appearing on the soft skin of his palms as he squeezed tighter and tighter. The only way to stop them from trembling — with both fear and rage. 

“I'm here for you, love.” You whispered gently, your warm fingers ghosting the sides of his wrists as you stepped in beside him. His fists unclenched slightly as he breathed in your familiar scent, as he savored the soft caress of your skin on his. He pushed down the building sob climbing up through his chest, the urgency of the cry growing as he felt your presence surround him. "Just... remember who you are, Astarion." 

Who was he? It felt even blurrier in this sadistic crypt under the castle he used to call home. Though it never was one. A prison, that's what it was. 

And what version of him did you see? Could he really be what you thought you saw? What you thought he could be?

Astarion had left Baldur's Gate against his will — a tormented, violent, broken thing. A puppet. A slave. He thought he had returned to this city anew — a free male, softer around the edges but no longer a thing to be used. His own person.

Yet the second he felt the influence of Cazador's control, the moment he felt that familiar threat he felt as if he was falling backwards. Being backed into a corner, corralled into the cage and slapped into chains that he had rotted away in for two hundred years. 

He would not go back. 

A shudder went through him as he tried to compose himself once more, taking a deep breath that he knew he did not truly need. Looking sideways at you, he gave you a final nod. "I'm ready for this to be over." 

Something flashed in your eyes, but it was gone as fast as it appeared. You nodded, before following him through the grand doors with the rest of your companions trailing behind. 

The descent down those stairs was brutal. Time seemed to drag to such a slow that it was almost like the scene before them was frozen in time. Astarion could recognize the familiar silhouette of his master anywhere. It had haunted him long enough that he had memorized every harsh line and angle. He loosed a breath as he counted six figures bound and hovering by some form of magic — a seventh spot on the top center left open and waiting.

For him. 

"Could it be?!" The voice that plagued his thoughts, his nightmares and memories echoed throughout the large chamber. It sent hundreds of different feelings throughout his body, his flesh getting goosebumps and steps faltering for a moment on the stone stairs.

"Our prodigal son returned to us!" Cazador's voice was jovial, but there was no mistaking why. The final piece to his game had just delivered themselves to him, the sacrificial lamb for slaughter had seemingly come with no ill intent. 

Astarion would make the vampire bastard regret underestimating him.

He could hear you just steps behind him, the pads of your feet, the familiar thrum of your heart increasing as you both stepped closer and closer to Cazador's place on the central dais. He gritted his teeth, his back molars clenching down so hard he swore he heard a crunch in the back of his mouth. He lowered his head, looking up at the monster that had ruined him through his eyebrows. 

"Do not slouch before me, boy! Have you no respect for yourself?" Cazador snapped, waving his hand dismissively at him. "Look at you, crawling back after abandoning your family. You should be begging for our forgiveness."

"I will do no crawling, nor begging." Astarion snarled, baring his teeth slightly. "And forgiveness? Really? You have never forgiven anything. Every mistake, every slip was punished."

The bastard had the audacity to roll his red eyes, "I strove for perfection in all things — even those as imperfect as you. A pity you amounted to so little, despite my efforts." 

"No!!" He roared, stepping forward once more as he pointed his finger. "No, fuck you and fuck everything you've ever done to me!" 

Cazador raised a single dark brow before letting out a humorless laugh, "You stupid, little boy."

"You son of a bitch!" Astarion couldn't stop the explosion of anger that coursed through him and he charged forward. His pale hand formed a fist as he launched himself at Cazador but a flare of red magic suddenly froze him in place. His body stopped completely, caught mid-lunge with his fingers still curled in a punch. 

He heard a strangled whimper from behind him. It was you, the sound one he had rarely heard — one of you paralyzed from fear. 

But the master mercifully ignored you, only having eyes for his spawn. He smirked as he surveyed Astarion trapped in the swell of magic, "Tut, tut." He clicked his tongue, "Did you think it would be that easy?" 

Astarion let out a groan of pain as he tried to resist the red binding power that started to form around him. Tears began to prickle in the corners of his eyes as they began to squeeze and cut into his skin, seeping into him slowly like a dreadful poison. 

"Astarion!!" His name ripped out of you at his pained cries, stepping forward onto the dais to intervene. The agony in your voice was more unbearable then what he was currently suffering. 

He was a fool to bring you here, to ask you to help him. He had served them all to Cazador on a silver platter.  

“Oh?" The ancient vampire's voice had a hint of wicked glee in it as he turned on his heel and set his eyes on you, with the rest of your companions lingering just behind you. Like he had just finally bothered to notice your presence. "And who do we have here? Your little pet, Astarion?” 

You froze in place, but stood up slightly taller. He watched as you jutted your chin forward, setting your shoulders back as you refused to cower in front of him. Even if he could scent your fear from here.  Then the old master slinked around you, his chest almost brushing your back as he inspected you head to toe. Your jaw set as he circled behind you where you could not see, but you did your best to keep your face neutral.  “And what’s this?” Cazador asked with a flicker of false humor. 

Astarion hissed as the vampire stepped even closer, bending down to eye his puncture marks that had scarred on your neck. “You finally gained enough courage to feed from a being capable of thought? Congratulations, spawn.” Then he took in a large inhale, “And quite an appetizing pick too, they smell absolutely delicious."

His glowing red eyes snapped back to Astarion as he remained behind you, looming over your shoulder. He was gauging every reaction from both of you, he knew.

Studying. Calculating. Deducing. 

Like any manipulative vampire would.

"But it seems my dear boy, you’ve been double dipping with this one haven’t you?” He made to grab your silver hair and Astarion felt his mind go berserk.  “DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH THEM!” He roared, pulling hard enough on the magical red tethers around him that they flared and flickered for a moment. 

An evil grin contorted his master's fingers as he still put his long fingers through your hair and pushed it behind your ear. The action revealed even more of your neck so he pressed his prominent nose against your pulse point, inhaling deeply. “Your scent is all over them.” You shuddered involuntarily, your face wincing and flinching away at his cold touch.

Astarion growled, his fangs barring and snapping at his old master. “Oh, so upset. They are your favorite little pet aren’t they?" A long finger nail dragged down your jaw. Astarion's eyes were glued to yours, your body seemingly immobilized from fear — for both yourself and him. Cazador cocked his head as he watched the pair of you before letting out a scoff. "You fool, you fell for your snack instead. What a pity... for once I was almost proud of you.”

He finally let you go, wiping the fingers that touched you off on his jacket like you were a worm he had picked up from the dirt. He licked his lips as he approached his spawn again, still frozen with his scarlet magic that buzzed and echoed with authority throughout the entire chamber.  “Well, I can give you one last comfort, since I am such a generous master." He whispered into Astarion's ear, both of their eyes locked onto your worried expression. "Once you and all your siblings are nothing but pulp... I’ll treat your special love extra carefully. I’ll be so lonely since the rest of you will all be gone. But this one… they will make for a delectable companion."

Another growl escaped from deep in his chest, but the sound was caught as Cazador wrapped his long fingers around his pale throat. “It’s a pity I have to lose you. So much work, so much time... gone. But my new companion will do a much better job than you, with a pretty face like that no one would resist? I mean, even you didn’t.” He hissed in his ear. 

"ENOUGH!” You barked, stepping forward closer to him with your mouth and brow set in a hardline. "Release him, Cazador, at once."

The bastard only smirked and snapped around to meet you, "Ha. Or what?"

"This all ends here. You end here." You did not stutter or stumble. Your voice was strong and carried across the chamber. Your companions stepped up behind you, hands moving at their sides as they readied their weapons and spells at your word. 

"Is that so? You are willing to risk death for him? A wasted, mistake of a spawn? A stupid, little boy?"

Your nostrils flared, your eyes shining with familiar power that was now coming off of you in waves, "I would do anything for him."

"Stupid mortal." Cazador barked, his lips curling in disgust. "I forgot how foolish you can be when you fall in "love". But not to worry... I'll train that right out of you." He twirled back around dramatically, looking at Astarion as he held onto his staff tighter. The red magic swirled and brightened around Astarion, squeezing him so tightly he felt as if may be crushed from the inside out. "You truly forgot my power, Astarion. You truly thought our bond as creator and creation was all that stopped you from killing me. You are weak, my child. You are a small, pathetic little boy who never amounted to anything. But today, you will finally do something worthwhile. You will burn, and I will ascend."

The vampire master flicked his wrist, and Astarion was soaring across the room — completing the final spot in the ritual circle. The entire chamber room suddenly lit up with the red light, a enormous sigils swirling underneath Astarion and the rest of his siblings as they hovered in mid air. Their tops suddenly shredded from the force of the spell as their naked, scared torsos were revealed — the scars littered across them glowing the same scarlet as the patterns beneath them.  

"ASTARION!" His name was a roar from your lips again as you surged forward, hands outstretched for him across the ritual floor.  

"Witness the birth of the Vampire Ascendant! Ecce dominus!" Cazador's staff slammed down onto the marked stone floor. 

And pain like nothing Astarion had ever felt went through every part of him. 

Read the next chapter: here

[tortoisebore]

any tips for new writers?

(btw i am literally in love with hey, sharpshooter it had me up all night reading it <3)

**disclaimer that i am by no means a person that has any actual real education/experience in writing or character work or world building & i can only give you what has worked for me & the things i’ve kept in mind while writing my little gay fanfiction 💞👯‍♀️

my main big picture tips are not backed up in research, they’re just what’s worked for me:

1. make a deeply detailed outline. spending a lot of time writing a very long, detailed outline at the beginning helped me a lot when i felt stuck in the back half of the fic. the outline changed a lot from when i started it, and i added little notes and ideas for scenes or dialogues or character traits along the way, but all of my big idea generation happened there and it helped me a lot with pacing the plot and building the characters and their relationship gradually. also** it was not some sort of technically perfect, structured outline—this is what it looked like:

fr just get all of your ideas down on a page in whatever way works for you. this is the place to word-dump to your heart’s content!!

2. make the first draft bad. fr just get it in the page. if you’re not feeling it or don’t have any specific word choices in your head when you’re writing the first draft, don’t worry about the dialogue being realistic or having perfect flowery metaphors or beautiful descriptive world building. literally just get it on the page in whatever way you can.

3. connect the dots between the type of writing you like to read and what you like to write. i loveee books with flowery prose and metaphors and natural dialogue, and i found that i really enjoyed writing those things, so they were the goals i focused on while i was doing all my editing/second draft writing. on the flip side, if you like to read extensive world-building but find yourself struggling to find motivation/inspiration to write it, don’t. try to write how you want to write, but put more emphasis on writing how you like to write.

4. don’t force it. this has been crucial to me bc i work a 9-5 in the art/design industry and i only have so much creative energy to go around, so i have to ration it carefully. if you try to force yourself to write when you’re really not feeling it, or when you’re out of motivation and frustrated and tired, it will 100% show in your writing.

5. don’t think about posting your work. for 99% of us, this is a hobby. posting your work is not a hobby, creating it is!! rn we exist in a world where people view creativity and art solely as content to be consumed, and i encourage you to place more emphasis on actually enjoying and finding peace and meaning in the journey of making something rather than the idea of other people consuming it. what it does for you and how it makes you feel is far more important than what it does for the people pressuring you for an update you’re not ready to give them.

and then here are a couple technical/grammatical tips that i learned way back in like 6th grade english or picked up on by reading a million books over the years & still think of constantly:

1. vary your sentence structure!! i am sometimes bad at this and i don’t really pay attention to it in my first drafts, but when i go back and edit i make sure to vary my sentences by length, compound vs. simple, breaking up with semicolons or hyphens, etc. a story that’s written with strong, varied sentence types will read much more naturally and flow better than one that doesn’t

2. be intentional about starting your sentences with different words. again, when i’m writing my first drafts i don’t pay much attention to things like this, but when i’m editing i’m really anal about making sure that my sentences don’t all start with “he” or “[insert name here]” or “it” or whatever. sometimes you can’t work around it, but my goal is to never have two consecutive sentences start with the same word, and i really really try to make sure that two consecutive paragraphs don’t start with the same word

3. say your dialogue out loud. i had the hardest time trying to make my dialogue feel natural at the start but honest to god saying it out loud with all the cadence and emphases you’re writing it with can really help you find ways to make it feel like actual people talking. also, don’t be afraid to use ellipses and hyphens and break up a string of dialogue with an action, like a character sighing or biting the inside of their cheek or moving their hands. people don’t talk in perfectly-structured sentences. we run-on and don’t use punctuation and we restart or hesitate in the middle of a sentence—include that!!

[cardentist]

I'm updated my tma playlist to include tmagp ! I made it in the first place because rusty quill's own playlists always seem to lag behind releases or just outright not be in order, and they've kept up the tradition (their tmag playlist has ! two videos.)

plus ! for the tma portion of the playlist I've added in fan uploads of the trailers that the official youtube is missing (rusty quill only uploaded the trailer for season 5), aaaand a few select fan creations where they should be viewed (I'm sure we're all familiar with "a distortion's trial" for one). (and with any luck, I'll be able to do the same for tmagp)

so ! if you've been interested in "the magnus archives" but never took the plunge or you want to keep up with "the magnus protocol" without having to deal with rusty quill's Interesting playlist making techniques then consider this a good option !

oh and, I link them in the playlist description, but there are unofficial transcripts for both tma [Link] and tmagp [Link]

[trashboatprince]

Here's a little one-shot based on this recent drawing I did for Fourteen and Donna, involving a flip phone. It's gonna have different dialogue, but that's alright.

As always, I write Fourteen with they/them pronouns.

On with the fic!

--

"You have got to be kidding me..." Donna growled as she stared at the alien sitting in a chair before her. They looked a bit roughed up and was grinning, but that kind of grin that meant that they knew damn well that they were in trouble.

"Hi, Donna!" The Doctor gave a little wave. "Finally tracked you down, this building is huge! How do you even get around in here without constantly getting lost?"

"What are you doing here?" Donna asked, crossing her arms. It's not that she didn't mind being visited by her family while at work at UNIT, but it was bad enough that Rose worked here twice a week for some extra cash, now her adopted-alien sibling was breaking and entering instead of just calling her! She didn't need to keep an eye on two troublemakers while she had to deal with aliens and paperwork!

The Doctor looked away, toying with their tie instead of making eye contact. "Well... I was bored."

"You were bored."

"Yeah. Shaun's off at work, Sylvia has her book or cooking club, can't remember which one she said she was going to, and Wilf was busy with his friends, leaving me alone." The Doctor shrugged. "Andyoustillhavethetardiskey." They quickly added, pouting.

"For a damn good reason, spaceman." She huffed. "So, why come here?"

"To help! Or see if I can get back into the Black Archives. They changed up the security system the last time I was there, and I know that they have some stuff in there I really want. Like the copy of this one movie with Peter Cushing in it based on one of my old adventures! It's an excellent movie, it's even got Bernard Cribbins in it! Remember, he's that lovely chap who was..."

They trailed off under Donna's heated stare and they swallowed. "Also, I miss hanging out with you, and talking with you, and just spending time with my best friend. You're always so busy with work!"

Donna sighed loudly, rubbing at her eyes. "Doctor, it's sweet that you miss me, but this is my new job, and I'd really like to keep it for longer than a few months. I know you miss hanging out with me and going on adventures, I can't deny that I miss it too. But you are retired, and Kate says you are not allowed to help with UNIT stuff unless if it's an extreme emergency and we can't get in contact with your other half."

"I'm sure I could be of great help here, I'll even put up with the scientific advisor job again!"

"No." She held up a hand. "Look, just... go home, relax, and break the TV or something. It'll entertain you for a few hours as you try to, I dunno, update it to get channels from Planet Blue."

"Oh, you don't want channels from there, they are just the worst, all public access, but not the fun kind with the puppets or the people in costumes. Those are good ones."

Donna just stared at the Doctor, who smiled. She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "What can keep you occupied while I'm at work?"

They shrugged. "I dunno. I just... wanna hang out with you in some way while you're at work."

"What about a phone?"

They looked bothered, even offended, at this suggestion. "A phone? Donna, I hate phones."

"Your home is a phonebox!"

"Not really, she just likes to look like one. And besides, I don't like all the... apps and options, and the fact that it's just a shitty computer and not really a phone anymore. Also, Kate gave me one, remember?"

Donna scoffed. "Yes, and it 'accidentally' ended up buried in the garden."

"That was the ghosts who did that."

"No, they didn't."

"Yeah, they didn't." They sighed, pouting. "Don't wanna smartphone, don't need one. Never had a need for one, and the only reason I even had a phone back when you traveled with the younger version of this pretty face was cause Martha wanted me to have it."

"And I want you to have one." Donna pointed out, poking them in the chest. "If Martha can convince you to have one, then I should be able to as well."

The Doctor groaned, rolling their head back before slumping in their seat. "Fine, I'll use a phone."

Donna grinned. "Good, I'll find you a good one."

--

"A flip phone?" The Doctor asked when Donna arrived home that evening, staring at the little device in her hand.

"It's better suited for you, no apps, just takes and makes calls, and does a bit of texting. It's a phone. And one that I know you're not going to just conveniently lose." Donna stated. "I made sure of that."

"Really?" The Doctor blinked, taking it. "How so?"

"Got a tracker on it, so if you try to lose it, I'll find it. And if you try to have the TARDIS lose it, she'll just give it to me, cause she loves me."

They glanced at the window, glaring at the big, blue box that stood out on the back porch. Yeah, she did love Donna, and would so rat the Doctor out in a heartbeat. "Fine! I'll keep it on me!"

"Good. And, now that you have one, if I lose you in public, which is bound to happen because it always does, I can easily find you with a single call!" Donna said with a smile.

The Doctor sighed, staring at the dark blue and silver flip phone, opening it up and seeing the most basic of backgrounds on the screen. First things first, they were changing that, and maybe getting custom ringtones. They might not like phones, there were easier ways to communicate, and more fun, like writing letters on psychic paper and having them show up throughout time and space, but they were going to make this work in their own way.

"And Rose helped me pick it out." Donna spoke as she moved to the kitchen. "She said it's the kind that can have a little phone charm hang from it, she'll help you find one, or she'll make you one."

This instantly got the Doctor's attention, and they perked up. "Oh? Ooh, I love a little charm! Adds a bit of, well, charm, to something!"

"Yeah, I figured you'd approve of that." Donna said before vanishing into the other room.

After a week with the blasted device, now loaded down in photos and every one of their contacts having custom ringtones, and several charms hooked to the thing, the phone seemed to be a good compromise to keep the Doctor from pestering Donna at work.

At least in person.

However, calling was quite often, and Donna was now regretting ever getting them the damn thing.

At least she finally got them to use it for once.

--

The Doctor is the kinda person who would love phone charms.

Also, the reference to the Peter Cushing Doctor Who movies is a canon fact from the novelization of Day of the Doctor, Ten and Eleven found the movie in the archives and were obsessing over it.

Also, the letters on psychic paper are from a Ten and River audio adventure. I can see Fourteen doing this too, but I think they and Fifteen would do it to keep in communication.

[frownyalfred]

Hi, Res! Glad you're back! I love your writing (and your posting in general) and missed it. I hope everything good for you and your family!

I was wondering how you come up with fic ideas? That are so natural and realistic yet never came into my mind, like "let the light in" or "end of line" or "come morning light" or–

And also also!!! How you're able to write while you post (like post the first chapter and not have the rest completely planned) and not lose yourself on the plot/details?

Sorry if that's annoying in any way! I I just love love love your writing and I look up to you a lot!

Thanks 🥰🥰🥰

Hi! Not annoying at all, I appreciate you asking. For those fics, they kind of just came to me in slice of life moments? Maybe I can explain below a little better:

let the light in - this came to me while I was thinking about shoulder injuries (my parents both had rotator cuff injuries and PT afterward) and how it must feel very vulnerable for the human members of the League. Especially Ollie who would never want to appear weak because of his stubborn pride. Bruce as a foil/complement made sense as soon as I tried thinking it out. I knew I wanted to write a scene where Bruce inevitably confronts/witnesses Ollie's weakness, and the dialogue kind of spun out from there.

end of line - this fic bloomed into existence because I was pondering what would happen if you full-force punched Clark in the face. If you punch a normal person you can break bones, so what happens when you clock Superman? Again, this was another fic where the dialogue just kind of led the story forward. I knew I wanted it to be outsider!POV for added angst, and swiftly realized I could add in Bruce as Clark's "fixer" for even more hilarity.

come morning light - this one came from me pondering Clark's anxiety at his own near-immortality. I was trying to come up with the best scene to showcase that fear/anxiety, and the morning of his wedding made sense. It also allowed Bruce's careful adjustments and reassurance to shine through in contrast. I also wanted to challenge myself to write something with them both that was purely platonic, which I think I somewhat achieved (mixed reviews LOL).

so I guess a lot of these fics tend to come from "what if" moments, usually prompted by irl events.

As for being able to post a WIP and not know where the story is going, that might be because I am a "feel" writer. I don't think that's a good thing but I digress. I "feel" like I know where the story is going, but I don't know exactly what will happen between point A and point B until I'm writing dialogue. Usually it leads me to the right place, so I know if I post the first chapter without a solid plan for the next 3-4, I can still "feel" I'm on the right path.

Diving in to update is probably the easiest and hardest part of this method. I find that if I re-read the entire fic, my brain generally knows where it wants to go next and the story just naturally continues as I write. However, with borderline that meant I was rereading a 60k fic every few days and definitely wasn't efficient. Plotting the final act of stories generally requires me to abandon this method and reach out to my lovely beta, who is a mensch.

I'm not sure if that was very helpful, but that's kind of an overview of how my brain works while writing. It might not work for you, and that's okay! Try out some different methods and just keep writing! Do it as often as you can, even if it's stupid or never shared or only a few snippets here and there.

<3

[natalieleif]

UPDATE: I finally got stuck and went on Youtube beat Undertale Yellow! All in all, I really liked it! It's infested that part of my brain where things go that are fun enough to invest time in, but also have enough scattered potential for some really good fanfic/art.

I do agree with a lot of the critiques, and I'm glad to see a lot of stuff added in Version 1.1 to make life easier (bug fixes, Easy Mode, recovery items, etc). I'm hoping there's a 1.2 version later that adds even more quality-of-life. That said, a lot of the critiques aren't... really... things that seem feasible for a patch update. ("Make the character art more monstrous!" You mean, redraw every sprite in the game!?!)

So with that in mind, here are some things I'd love to see in 1.2 that are maybe (hopefully!) easier for a freelance dev team. Spoilers below!

Adjusted mechanics/dialogue for bosses that have no reason to kill you. This is most obvious with Starlo and Martlet's Pacifist fights--both are friendly and reluctant towards murder, so their Pacifist fights ending in death or defeat feels... odd? Compare to Toriel or Papyrus: one will adjust her attacks to never hit if you take too much damage, and another will cut his battle entirely if you hit 1 hp. A similar form of 1-hp cutoff or "Oops, that was an accident!" Game Over dialogue would match their motivations a lot better.

Related to the above, offer a Skip option for any battle the player's lost 3+ times. This is a common video game handicap, and one I always support in story-heavy games like this. A lot of feedback I've seen is from people who want to love the story but struggled with Sir Slither's ACT pattern or Axis's breakout puzzle, so this is an easy way to get most people to finish the game.

Have Dalv gift you any items you missed in the Ruins as a "thank you" for Clover's support. This patch would solve two immediate concerns: that Dalv doesn't have a larger role, and that many players will miss items like the Golden Pear. Sure, Dalv sends a letter to Clover, but the incentive to go back to Snowdin at that point is low. Having some sort of item reward makes it an active part of an average game run and lets more players see Dalv post-Ruins.

Call the Sunnyside Farm a Ranch like it's called in the files. Okay, this one's just for me, but it being a Ranch makes way more thematic sense for the cowboy area.

Let Ace run the card game at least once in the Wild East. Seriously, it's kinda weird that he doesn't. I understand why he can't while he's napping, but the other times??

Edit Ceroba's post-Starlo Pacifist fight dialogue to make it more clear that she's taking you on the fastest shortcut to Asgore. The main critique with the third act to Pacifist route is that it very quickly becomes Ceroba's plot about finding Kanako. And because it's framed as a hunt for Kanako, the dialogue becomes a rush of info about who Kanako is and why this side-plot should matter to you, the player. But at this point we've already done a side-plot, and most players are antsy to get to the end game. Yet the Steamworks really is the only route to Hotland in that area! Having Ceroba guide the player through what they think is a spooky shortcut to the End Boss fits the story, braces the player for the finale, and lets the TALK dialogue with Ceroba build up naturally through the lab, so her betrayal about Kanako has more time to build up and hurts more as a final boss fight.

That's all I got! Thanks for reading, and feel free to reblog with your own wants for a 1.2 patch!

[zerothejackal]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

well, normally I'd say:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Every Interrogation section unfolds as follows:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SILENCE! TO THE DUNGEON WITH THIS FOOL!

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

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

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

(especially the italicized and bolded bits)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

terrible example but, look at Forces.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And talking about supernatural awareness...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So anything goes, I suppose

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

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

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

[thecomicsnexus]

TMNT ADVENTURES: THE FOREVER WAR (kind of FAN MADE)

April 2024

By Steve Murphy, Chris Allan, Andrew Modeen, Artem Tsarkov, Arseniy Dubakov, Egor Prutov , Jon D'Agostino, Dmitry Bobrovnik, Yuri Kochin, and Jim Lawson.

The Shredder finally succeeds at erasing the Turtles from history and conquering the world. But the Turtles and Splinter will try to defeat him and ensure their existence in this conclusion of the iconic Archie series.

SCORE: 8

You'll have to forgive the lack of images, but it is very hard to scan this book (I'll see what I can do for the video review, but I may need to work with photos of it). In any case, this is another of those fan projects by Arseniy Dubakov and Andrew Modeen... but with some interesting twists in its genesis.

You probably remember that this saga was announced in 1995 before the Archie adventures were canceled, and fans have been speculating forever about how the story ended.

In 2009 we almost got the conclusion by the original team (Steve Murphy and Chris Allan), but the turtles were sold to Viacom and the plans never materialized. In any case, Murphy couldn't remember where he was going with the story, so it would be fair to say that it was never going to be the same arc.

More recently, Chris Allan met Arseniy and the two got together to make this project happen. The first chapter (which was made public at some point in the past few years), was mostly recovered from 1995, but it had been colored and edited by the new team.

As far as I know, the second chapter was plotted by Steve Murphy, and I can say that the two first chapters feel the most like the original book... with some annoying differences.

After that, the book does its job, and the story works very well. The project was promoted as "closing all open plots" of the original series, but fortunately, it only tried to solve a time paradox that has always been a problem in that book. I applaud the restrain of the writers from bringing up every single plot point just to let readers know they read the book (as is usually the case with these projects).

The art is probably the most spectacular aspect of the book. It's an updated look for the Archie adventures that for the most part, looks like a continuation of the story. There are some stylistic differences when it comes to inking after chapter one, but you get used to them after a while.

The book comes with two back-up stories. One penciled by Jim Lawson that tries to make sense of the convoluted Archie timeline (specifically about which Shredder you were looking at in each adventure). The second backup is some sort of epilogue to Forever War that will leave you with more questions than answers.

For me, the weakest point of the book is the "overwriting" from Andrew.

It's hard to explain, but Andrew goes into these long narrations directed at the reader that just feel overproduced and underproduced at the same time. There is an overuse of "Modeen" expressions that can be said by any character at any time. Perhaps because he is not doing the writing/plotting alone, this is his best story yet. We know Andrew is a fan, an we know he can write. But it would be nice if he could work on his dialogues and... I'm going to call it now... think twice before adding an unnecessary celebrity quote at the beginning of each chapter.

I am not sure if this was in the original plot, but some elements in this story were even darker than the original series (like slashing a classic character in two). I get that we all grew up and we can take it, but this should be a continuation of that book, and I feel that it wasn't this bloody (most of the time).

But again, this story worked for me, it didn't bring up characters and plots just for the sake of it, and the turtles were front and center.

Should we consider this an ending for the Archie series? Well, just like it happened with Volume 3 before Urban Legends came out, this is all we can get. It's technically just the story, and not a proper ending, so you could still consider "Year of the Turtle" the final story (I assume that it not being referenced was intentional). There is one reference to "TMNT: Odyssey" (because for some reason, all these projects need to share the same multiverse), but it can be easily ignored... I think.

Maybe one day IDW will decide to do their own version of Forever War, but I don't think Chris Allan would go through this ordeal again... I think it could be published as is (fourth-wall monologuing included). Perhaps censoring some of the blood, to keep it consistent with Archie guidelines.

Now, let's take a look at those spoilers after the break...

You guessed it, most of the chapters take place in an alternate timeline. This allows for familiar characters to return even if they were already dead. And also introduces Carter to the Archie universe... and he may be British... I don't know.

Most characters show up to die... which isn't unusual on alternate timeline stories, but feels like a waste. Carter and Claire had very little time to do anything, and Claire being April's sister is an interesting twist... but I wonder what caused it? It is implied that they may have been separated at some point, but the existence of the same photograph without her suggests there wee further alterations to that timeline.

The Mutanimals play the bad guys... probably for the better. I wonder if the reason they didn't undo their deaths, or brought back Cherubae, was so that it could all tie into "TMNT: Odyssey"? Whatever the reason was, I appreciate it.

Perhaps the biggest reveal was that Chet was the Rat King. While this is a fun twist, some things are a bit too convenient. Why did he choose the H'antaan name? And why didn't he ever mentioned this to anyone in the original timeline? (Apart from the flashback in this book).

Overall, Shredder's plan makes sense (for once), although he somehow recreated all the mutants from the original series, even the ones that weren't mutants (like Katmandu)... perhaps he and Al'Falqa simply joined the cause.

There isn't much characterization for the turtles, but I think is in line with the original book as well. And to be fair, the main focus is the story.

The Jim Lawson back-up also introduces another problem, a Shredder that finally remember everything (this may be the one in "Year of the Turtle"). Mr. Null decides to share all of this, searching for the Turnstone (a "TMNT: Odyssey" plot). I don't like these fan-projects being all connected, but I appreciate the long explanation of the Shredder paradox in the Archie adventures. It also officialized that Armaggon created the Archie universe.

I would have appreciated a Mr. Null origin story... but I guess that would have clashed with "Odyssey" (and this is why I don't like them being connected).

I may sound negative, but my nitpicks only took two points from the overall score. I am happy with the results, and I think we can now stop wondering what it could have been.

Although... can you imagine what it could have been in 1995?

That my friends... is the forever war.

[Include some super serious celebrity quote here]

[harcove]

in your opinion what are the chances of the devs adding more halsin romance content if ppl ask for it? bc I held out just for him and…….the lack of content is so disappointing to me :/

Honestly? I'm not sure- but I wouldn't get my hopes up.

It's a completed game, and adding in more content for Halsin (or any other romance for that matter) would mean having to motion capture his actor for those scenes, do more voice lines, etc. and update it into the game. That's not a simple thing to do; and with a game that is finished? Yeah, no, I doubt we're going to get anymore content for him in that sense.

Unless they did some sort of DLC, like Dragon Age Inquisition did for Trespasser- which added an ending/epilogue to that game with a few more romantic bits included (mainly just dialogue), then I don't think we're getting anything.

Larian has been known to listen to fans though, so it never ever hurts to try asking and expressing it.

[cut-content-contest]

Security Breach

They're mostly finished levels of the monty golf mini game that were likely cut due to security breach being rushed

Unused animations for the Moon character roaming in non-preset locations. Parts of the map organically connecting to each other in underground tunnels (which in-game dialogue still hints towards). An entire version of the bowling alley where you could actually bowl. Dozens of lines of dialogue. Extras menu. Survival mode. The second half of the mini golf minigame. Chica's Feeding Frenzy arcade game. Go kart boss battle. Vanessa being a good guy and maybe even playable. For Pete's sake, BOTH of the main villains of the game were meant to have actual screentime. I just skipped a BUNCH of stuff, but I think you get the gist.

showing a bunch of the scrapped content: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YqRU15lr1ng

coconut

There was a meme going around of "the coconut that if you delete it destroys TF2" but actually it's just a replacement for coffee beans in a taunt that was never released.

Okay ok ok SO. the TF2 coconut jpeg has such an interesting history. coconut.vtf, or coconut jpg file, is an unused image of a coconut found under a texture file in the game. you have to actually convert the file type to view it, but sure enough it's literally just a jpg of a coconut. here's where things get interesting. someone found the file after it was added in a 2014 update and posted it on reddit. From that post, someone made a joke comment saying "I have no fucking idea who put this here, but when I deleted it the game wouldn’t start. Words cannot describe my fucking confusion", which was then missatributed to be an actual comment from a developer at valve. This snowballed into many people actually believing to this day that this coconut file crashes tf2 if deleted. The coconut does not actually hold the game together, and of the 4 files you need to run tf2 it is not one of them. you can delete it at anytime with no issue. in reality it was an effect for an unused taunt that never got implemented into the game. but it's history of misinformation is so interesting to me. btw one of the file you ACTUALLY need to run tf2 is the 2fort cow, which isn't cut content I just think that's fun.

talking about the misconception: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WLx_3bON0Mw