#were the only ones getting any updates out of the region

[skykull]

They didn’t even cancel the Clemson football game. (Which also meant they had to dedicate essential personnel to man the game, when they REALLY ARE NEEDED IN THE RESCUE ABD RELIEF EFFORTS)

Entire towns that have been there for centuries are piles of mud and rubble and people who are already out of food and water because they were dealing with record flooding from another storm a day before the hurricane rolled in. FEMA is having to airdrop in supplies. The roads will take *years* to repair. I don’t even know what they’re going to do for Asheville with all the roads washed off the sides of the mountains and rivers in so many places, I think rebuilding won’t be viable until the roads are fixed.

And the news doesn’t care because they can’t throw it around to get headlines. Just because they don’t have anything flashy that they have the media rights to share yet, so they just aren’t reporting on it beyond mentioning it in the list of places affected before going into Florida’s details again. Raleigh’s local stations are the only ones I’ve seen broadcasting about it, and they’re doing it around the clock! So the other major news outlets could pick up the story and spread the word. They’re just saving it for the next news cycle. Commercialized journalism for profit is beyond frustrating in times like these.

The hurricane has wiped entire towns off the map. Places I’ve lived in have no roads in or out— the entire city of Asheville is only accessible by air. Even the interstates flooded. I’m waiting to hear back from so so many friends who live in this part of the state but most of the cell towers are down.

The thing that really turns my stomach is that there’s so so little news coverage of it. I’ve seen more articles about empty condos and beach houses in Florida than I’ve seen about ENTIRE TOWNS BEING WIPED OFF THE MAP in western North Carolina.

The way Appalachia is overlooked time and time again has probably led to some of the loss of life in the region because the news just… didn’t really talk about the danger of flooding that far inland.

[himbeereule]

Орлёнок (Eaglet)

Орлёнок (Eaglet) is an interactive story set in a country similar to 1910s-1920s Russia. You're a member of the overthrown Imperial Family, shaping the future of the Empire by virtue of arms.

It aims to be equal parts role-playing, dress-up and strategy game, with an emphasis on romance.

Although there will be no explicit nsfw scenes, it does include graphic descriptions of the horrors of war as well as personal tragedies, so please refer to the content warnings at the end of this post.

(as the project is still a wip, this overview is somewhat incomplete and will be gradually updated in tandem with the progress of writing)

DEMO: here (v0.0.2a, 21.06.2024)

Forum post: here

Number Spelling Function (IF writer resource): here

Secondary project: @a-dying-wish-if Tertiary (mini-)project: @perceptron-failure-if Quaternary project: [redacted]

The Empire of Nevetskiya - old, proud, and utterly dilapidated. While the Industrial Revolution has enabled other Monarchies - after a few quickly suppressed workers' uprisings - to become modern colonialist superpowers, exerting their influence all over the world, Nevetskiya is still overwhelmingly agrarian, and barely holding onto its outlying territories acquired in golden times long past.

Your Father Emperor, while ruling with an iron fist and unquestionable authority over the common people, is completely dependent on the shaky loyalty of the High Nobility, who frustrate any attempt to modernize the economy or administration, out of fear upstart merchants might, in time, replace the old Aristocracy.

When a sloppily executed coup d'etat eventually leaves your family dead and you a refugee, it becomes time you grab the reins of your destiny and amass an army to liberate and rebuild the country in the way you envision.

(this is meant to be a concise overview - a more exiting and detailed description of features can be found in the offical Interest Check Thread post)

extensive character customization

extensive army customization - both in a strategy and in a dress-up game sense

focus on story over stats - success is determined on the battlefield, not by your character's personality

five distinct regions with a wide cast of characters

complex personality system - for example, how your character actually feels and what they show to the world are separate things

several ways to rule - will you become a traditional Monarch, a Military Dictator, a democratically elected Head-of-State, or maybe proclaim yourself a Living Saint?

choose how much modernization is needed - will you allow women to bear arms, at the cost of offending the traditionalist nobles? Introduce tanks at the cost of foreign powers gaining influence?

how far will you go for victory? A political police, mass executions and the use of special types of weaponry might give you an edge, but is your vision really worth it?

a total of ten romanceable characters

(this naturally might contain slight spoilers)

The ROs

★ Yakov Tymofiyevich Sokolovskiy / Liliya Tymofiyevna Sokolovskaya ★

The Intelligence Director (gender-selectable)

One of your four original companions. As a member of the High Nobility, you've met them before - maybe you've even been childhood friends?

But even if you know them, it's hard to tell what they're truly like, as they seem to switch personalities effortlessly depending on the situation.

Their work is a mystery to seemingly everyone, but they always get results: as long as you let them act freely, no enemy agent has any chance to harm you or your cause.

Age: mid-20s

★ Semyon Ivanovich Orlov / Selena Ivanovna Orlova ★

The Cavalry Officer (gender-selectable)

One of your four original companions. A war hero and renowned expert when it comes to horses, the only reason they were not yet promoted to a lofty position in the War Ministry is their pragmatic approach to new developments, which hasn't mixed well with the typically very traditionalist views of the old Imperial officer corps.

Possessing a subdued but strong charisma and deeply respected by their soldiers as a wise parent figure, they are a solid pillar of support to you, and will reliably get things done - though some people might consider the cost for that too high sometimes.

Age: early 30s

★ Mikhail Pavlovich Voronin / Marina Pavlovna Voronina ★

The Young Visionary (gender-selectable)

One of your four original companions. They shot up through the ranks by impressing the War Ministry with bold new ideas for utilizing modern technologies and are hailed as a genius by many - though the older officers dismiss them as a dreamer at best and incompetent fool at worst.

With you, they hope to have found someone who'll appreciate their visions for the future - plus, their relative eccentrism has left them in dire need of a friend.

Their technical expertise might just prove to be the key to your success - if you can secure the foreign support needed to get the modern equipment needed to utilize it.

Age: early 20s

★ Leon Isayev / Leah Isayeva ★

The Noble Academic (gender-selectable)

One of your four original companions. Born to wealthy nobles, they graduated the Imperial Officer Academy with perfect grades, and feel honour-bound to your family.

They were the one to gather your initial force of loyalists and act as your primary advisor. But their loyalty is to the Imperial system, with you just a symbolic representative - can you convince them that you and your vision deserve their loyalty beyond that?

Age: late 20s

★ 'Little' Semyon/Selena Shvets ★

The Hero (gender-selectable)

A young cavalry officer and leader of your Southern Forces. A protegé of the "other" Semyon/Selena, they lack their cynical pragmatism, but make up for it with a firm belief in the triumph of a better world.

Some may call their optimism naive, and their personality has been mockingly compared to a Golden Retriever, but they have proven time and time again that underestimating them on the battlefield results in a crushing defeat.

Age: early 20s

★ Nikola ★

The Rebel (nb)

Leading an anti-authoritarian peasant uprising in the West, Nikola is more likely to be your enemy than your ally - but they don't seem to care enough about politics to refrain from flirting with you, so... there might be a basis of mutual understanding there?

Their personality is pretty sweet, at least - if you ignore the fact they'll cheerfully gun down prisoners if they feel like it.

Age: mid-20s

★ Rakhmil/Rakhilya Feldman ★

The Logistician (gender-selectable)

A member of the Western Rebel Army and best friend of Nikola's adoptive sibling, they've poured their soul (and countless nights without any sleep) into somehow maintaining the rebels' supply network in the face of their rapidly swelling numbers.

Unhappy with Nikola's carefree attitude, they might end up aligning with you instead in order to save their cause.

Age: late 20s

★ Arseniy Matveyevich Lebedev / Amaliya Matveyevna Lebedeva ★

The Enemy (gender-selectable)

Grand Duke Lebedev, the main leader of the Aristocrat faction, stood by and watched when your family was executed. Arseniy/Amaliya is their younger sibling, and serves as military commander of his personal forces that aid several warlords in their efforts to establish their own petty kingdoms.

But they're already uncomfortable with their brother's methods, and if you can convince them that you're not actually "an incompetent little puppet who's trying to ruin the country out of arrogant delusions", they might become a very valuable ally.

Age: mid-20s

★ Lyudmila Demyanovna Naumova ★ (f)

A minor noble who reluctantly turned into a Warlord in order to protect her territory and her people. All she wants is peace - but she'll not hesitate to fight if she believes it necessary.

Unfortunately, you can't just ignore her - all must choose a side in this war - but you have options how to deal with her. Will you subdue her by force? Or fall back on the age-old option of political marriage to secure an alliance?

Age: late 20s

★ Jan/Jana Novotný ★ (gender-selectable, under certain circumstances)

A member of your Personal Guard who has distinguished themself and eventually rises to become its commander. Others might betray or doubt you, but Novotný only cares about one thing - your continued, unharmed existence.

And they will go to any lengths to guarantee it.

Age: mid-20s

CONTENT WARNINGS

...will be added as they become relevant in the demo.

[oqmemphis]

i MUST hear more about this very normal and completely functional minecraft server. please spill more details

Before the last world reset, there was a region a few hundred blocks across which was permanently lit as though it were noon 24 hours a day, because one of the admins replaced every air block with an invisible level 15 light block. Directly next to this was a former ocean that got turned into a vast plain of packed ice stretching in every direction; you could stand in the middle of it and it would be indistinguishable from superflat.

On that old world, the market next to spawn had about a 50% chance of completely locking up my game any time I went there, and the only way to fix it was to go into Task Manager and force-crash Minecraft. Nobody else ever had this issue, and to this day I do not know what caused it.

There was an entirely separate world containing a single castle, which you could only get to if the owner of the castle teleported you in there. The castle was supposed to be surrounded by an inescapable dome of barrier blocks, but I managed to get out and explore the rest of the world. At 0,0 there was a village that had generated in a massive pit, a hundred blocks across and stretching nearly to bedrock. Immediately next to this pit was a frozen river bearing the shatter pattern of some kind of large explosion, set off by forces unknown.

Someone built an outpost one million blocks away from spawn. Those chunks got culled at some point, and when the player who built it went back there they found a completely different landscape generated in its place. There was never an update that changed terrain generation during that world's run.

Recently, the functionality of rails got completely inverted. Unpowered rails would accelerate a minecart, while powered ones would stop it in its tracks. This, at least, was just an issue with one plugin being configured wrong. Sometimes there are issues where multiple plugins exist alongside each other fight for dominance.

We have one plugin that allows some players to fly and resist all fall damage without elytra or equipment, and another plugin that (until recently) was configured to block the first plugin from functioning whenever you were in another player's land claim. This led to situations where you could fly into an invisible claim region and instantly drop out of the sky and die. I have died seven times on this world, and all of them were because of this.

There is an obsidian sphere about a hundred blocks across, mostly submerged in the ocean; elsewhere, there is an island of comparable size which is covered entirely in basalt; and elsewhere still, there is a region of forest that has been fully replaced with sculk. I know this because I am currently making a map of the server covering around 12000x12000 blocks, and all those places just show up as mysterious, cursed splotches of black.

There is a lot of lore and roleplaying. The Queen is both fae and vampiric; my queries as to how precisely a diet of blood is reconciled with an iron allergy have gone largely unanswered. She has also canonically destroyed and remade the entire world on two separate occasions. The server has only undergone one world reset.

Immediately before said reset, I wrote a 70-page book filled with footnote labyrinths, in which my character briefly goes on an anti-capitalist rant before discussing the architectural styling of his home and the impending obliteration thereof. It serves as a spiritual sequel to a 100-page book which is ostensibly a user manual for installing an item sorter, but which also contains the lyrics to Mr Blue Sky and mentions something called the "City of Ouranos Department for Bibliographical Metaphysics and Chilled Legumes" (which is a reference to a different server I used to play on, in which a "Cool Bean War" was instigated with the help of a book that would crash your game if you tried to read past the first page).

The item sorter that the aforementioned user manual is for is a colossal assemblage of redstone components that click and flash for several minutes every time you put anything into it. I never actually built this on the server, because I ended up making a much simpler design using a custom plugin called SlimeFun (which tries to emulate the functionality of a tech mod without actually being one). This plugin's cargo management system does not contain a priority allocation mechanism, so I ended up implementing one by forcing the lower-priority route through a very long cargo pipe that eventually loops back on itself and ends at an overflow chest a few blocks from the starting point, thereby tricking SlimeFun's pathfinding algorithm into only sending items through it if every other option has been exhausted.

A reincarnation of Herb the Herbalist, the bizarre glitchy NPC entity that @the-unseelie-court-official has discussed at length, now resides in a hole directly under world spawn, repeating the same six lines of dialogue on a loop for all eternity:

I once was free, you know? There was a time when the Queen almost came toppling around me. Like a puppet with no strings I could not move nor speak, but I was free. It was stripped from me. Even now I dance her tune, only speaking of this past because she lets me. I crave nothing more than death. Please, unjust unmerciful God who would leave me to survive.

So, y'know, they're doing fine.

[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. 

[trashcanwithsprinkles]

hi! I wanted to ask questions about how you proceed to write:

Do you have a general idea with plot twits and such figured out? like general guidelines and then go crazy and write these amazing fics or you just go with the flow?

How do you establish world building? Like, all the fics I've read from you (which are more than great) got lots of info in the world building though strangely enough (in a good way) I wasn't lost on it? Like Cyanide Narwhal has crazy lore to it with lots of characters and stuff going on but as you read you get what happens even though hundreds of stuff happen at once. HOW DO YOU DO IT :0

How do you write so smooth also? Like going from one scene to another makes total sense without there being a cut? (idk if i make any sense sorry ^^').

Finally, how do you explain feelings so well? Well not explaining directly but making us FEEL *looking at cyanide narwhal and i think you're so good (and i'm nothing like you)*. I think that the description of them interacting helps w it (like the way Zhongli looks at Ajax (i am melting please thats so cute-) but even the interaction between Ajax and the kids (big brother behavior)

oh god

i do always have a general idea on how the story is going to go, like what plotbeats i want to hit and what i want to happen. but since it's not a good idea to marry to one path, the details for how things happen or how we get from point a to point b specifically i usually come up with on-the-go, and i do leave room for modifications. like i have a million fic ideas and scenes i want to write but i never actually write any if i cannot picture two things: 1, what the point of it is (the main climax, the main mystery, etc), and 2, how it ends. (the reason why most wips don't make it past a couple chapters is bc i struggle to picture the ending accurately, or how to get there)

i genuinely have no idea how to explain the world building, i'm sorry lmao. if i really had to think about it, no joke, i think i'd say this was stardew valley's fault. yes you read that correctly. more specifically, the earmuffs item. now- it might not be evident as it is rn w the way i write, since it's been a while since i've started doing my worldbuilding like this and obviously it's evolved and gotten more complex w time, but- for those unaware, stardew isn't a game you play for the worldbuilding per se. for the deep world lore. especially pre-ginger island update (1.6?). but there IS worldbuilding, it's just you don't really see it, it's not the point of the game. you're there to grow crops tend to animals suffer in the mines and get a partner. that's it. but you know there's more outside the town and the valley. you know the biggest city nearby is called zuzu, you know what the sea is called, you know there is a war going on in the background, you know there is an empire involved, you know lewis might be the mayor of the town but he's still under the governor of the region. you know there's witches and spirits and elemental beings and aliens n shit. the fucking earmuffs were sort of like my epiphany years back bc their description says they're lined w artisanal velvet from castle village. what the fuck is castle village?? were you ever going to tell me about it outside of those fucking earmuffs? does it even matter? no. it doesn't matter. but just because it doesn't matter doesn't mean the earmuffs stop being an artisanal item from castle village. just because it doesn't matter what the sea is called doesn't stop it from being the gem sea specifically. the fact that you only care, gameplay-wise, about your farm and pelican town- it doesn't stop your country from being at war, from being called the ferngill republic. the world of the game exists outside of what matters to you for the plot. and so even if you're never going to find out some of these things if you don't look, they're going to be there anyway.

i don't know if that makes any sense. it probably doesn't LMAO a probably better way to explain it is like- write stuff the same way you hear our own world being talked about irl. does it matter for the 'plot' of your day if your mother says she's going to one specific supermarket? no. does she still call it by name? most likely. that's just how it works. you know it exists because this is the world you live in, regardless as to how much it matters to the actual 'plot'. it's not there exclusively to serve the purpose of aiding the plot, but because it's a part of your world and therefore must be connected to the world beyond you. the world will only read like it's lived in if the characters speak about it like they actually live in it.

i'm not actually sure that answers the question now that i think about it. it's just- i trully don't know how to answer it. i don't know what i'm doing that makes it interesting and not a complete mess to read even if it IS a complete mess. the only explanation i can think of is that: that i write the characters interacting with their world as though they actually live there. the plot is just something that happens to an already existing, already established world.

also i think you might be merging lore and worldbuilding with plot. yes, the worldbuilding and lore in my fics are absurd, but that alone i don't think would be hard to keep up with. it's the plot also being absurd what makes it seem like there's a lot going on at once (there is, just- in two different fronts). like there's not a million things happening at once in the worldbuilding - there's a million things happening at once in the plot. you're finding out a lot of stuff about the world at the same time, is the thing. anyway,

scene transition without the cuts being smooth i also am not sure how to explain. that's probably on me for not following scene structures properly tbh. so uh- no clue here chief, i'm sorry. i don't even have a guess as with the worldbuilding.

with the writing feelings i do have somewhat of a guess- it genuinely might be some undiagnosed brain fuckery i have. kinda like how the inside joke of asexuals being shockingly good at writing sex scenes goes. if you have a different-than-intended perspective on the stuff, it would probably lead to a different approach to writing it. but other than that i also am not sure

i think the main takeaway is i don't know shit LMAOOOOO

[youwouldntdownloadapizza]

The Gates of Jackson | Joel Miller x F!Reader | Chapter 6 - The Lodge

masterlist | ao3 | follow @youwouldntdownloadapizza and turn on notifications for updates

You showed up at the gates of Jackson with hands covered in blood and no memory of how you got there. That was two years ago. Since then, you've become Maria's right-hand woman and the person in charge of Jackson's logistical backend. Patrol schedules, inventory—all your purview. When a patrol gone wrong forces you to get to know Joel, memories of your past begin resurfacing—along with their consequences.

previous | next

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

rating: 18+, minors DNI

word count: 1.1k

tags: no use of y/n, eventual smut, no beta we die like sarah, jackson era, other additional tags to be added, slow burn, ellie needs a hug, joel lives, good parent joel, reader-insert, reader insert, forced proximity, only one bed trope, nightmares, childbirth, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, soft joel, cuddling & snuggling, fluff, masturbation, pining, joel falls first, possibly demisexual reader (tbd), ptsd, ptsd flashbacks, panic attacks, amnesia, sexual braiding

Chapter 6 - The Lodge

A light rain had begun to fall by the time you reached the lodge. The dirt trail quickly turned to mud, and the horses’ hooves squelched with every step. You braced yourself, sliding off Bailey’s back and landing in the stuff with a resolute plop . 

Though you’d had the foresight to waterproof your boots, water and mud were two very different beasts. You’d probably be scrubbing dirt out of your laces for a good long while once you got home. Which at this rate felt like it may not happen until well after you died of old age.

Sodden and starving, you tethered Bailey to a post and approached the front porch.

“More breaking and entering?” Joel asked as you crouched to a squat before the door.

“Nope.” You flipped up the corner of the doormat to reveal a hidden key. “Consider us lodge-sitters.”

“Aren’t you worried about break-ins?” Joel asked.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Joel, but this region isn’t exactly overflowing with people. And if any do find this place…” You trailed off as you slid the key in the lock, glancing up to meet his eyes. “Well, has a locked door ever stopped you?”

Before he could answer, you pushed through the door and stepped into the mercifully well-insulated structure.

The place was pretty bare-bones, with empty storage shelves built into one wall and a threadbare couch pushed up against another. The worn-down dregs of what had once been carpet covered the concrete subfloor here and there.

Despite it all, the sofa beckoned. You sank into it, backpack sandwiched between you and the rear cushions, and sighed.

Then Joel had the audacity to block your light.

“Can I help you?” you asked, opening one eye to glare up at him.

“What’s the plan?”

“Logbook. Linner. Leave.” You counted out the steps of your incredibly thorough plan on frozen fingertips.

“Linner?”

“We’re well past lunchtime. Not quite to dinner. It’s linner, the brunch of the afternoon.”

“That is so goddamn stupid.”

Even with your eyes closed, you could hear the smile in his voice. That is so goddamn adorable .

Joel trailed off towards the only other thing in the room, an old podium atop which rested the dusty, leather-bound logbook. A clicky pen sat nestled between the pages, bearing words he’d never expected to read again, let alone here:

Dr. Neil Henry, DDS - Austin Community Dentistry

He laughed, holding up the pen to show you.

“You know this used to be my dentist, back in Austin?”

“Did it now?” You smirked.

“Dr. Henry. Always used to nag me about flossin’,” he reminisced.

“Did it work?”

“No,” he chuckled. “Not ‘till after the outbreak, anyhow. No one’s around to give you a root canal nowadays. I’d rather not need one.”

“Fair point,” you said, well aware of the hypocrisy as you gnawed on an extraordinarily tough chunk of jerky. 

Your eyes swept the stunning vista visible through the lodge’s massive windows. They reminded you of the ones in your office, and in the lookout tower. There was something about them that put you at ease, which made no sense whatsoever. They were glass, and not even particularly thick glass at that. Much like life before the outbreak, they were an illusion of security at best.

But still, you liked them.

Joel followed your gaze, and his breath caught in his throat at the view. It was beautiful. Not quite as magnificent as this morning’s sunrise had been, but still breathtaking.

“Wow,” he whispered.

“Pretty, huh?” you answered without looking back.

“It’s like a screensaver. Or a wallpaper or somethin’.” Joel mused, eyes wide in awe.

“Hmm,” you mused. “Mine used to be a picture of the Great Wall of China.”

“Why’s that?”

“It was the default,” you sighed, picking out the raisins from your trail mix. “But also I’ve always thought ruins were cool as shit.”

“Plenty of those to be had nowadays,” he said.

“Too many, if you ask me.”

You both chewed in silence for a minute, watching the birds coming home from their winter vacations.

“You know Eugene leaves jokes in here?” Joel broke the silence.

“I did.”

“You hear his latest?”

“Hit me with it.”

“Alright,” Joel turned to face you, smile wide. “What do we want? Low-flying planes! When do we want ‘em? Nyeowwww.” He mimed a plane diving with his finger, eliciting a chuckle from you.

“That’s one of his better jokes.”

“Yeah, the man’s no Will Livingston.”

You smiled. You were intimately familiar with Livingston’s work, ever since Ellie decided to thank you for her new light-up sneakers with a selection of the punster’s greatest hits.

There was no need for a security sweep after you’d finished eating. The whole place was only a couple of rooms, and you’d already checked the perimeter before entering.

“Go get the horses ready,” you instructed. “I’ll finish up here.”

You scribbled your report in the logbook and tucked away the remnants of linner, swinging your pack over your shoulders before taking one last look at the view.

It was golden hour, and the sun hit the clouds in a way that transcended any screensaver comparison. It was as if you’d been granted a glimpse of heaven itself.

* * *

You watched from the porch as Joel took a drink from his canteen. The way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, the chiseled scruff of his jawline–from an objective standpoint, the man certainly had a rugged charm to him. But he was far from the only cowboy type in Jackson. And this was far from your first rodeo.

As Joel tucked the canteen away, he remembered the outside pocket of his pack. It held loose bullets and some of Ellie’s hair ties, but most importantly, it held a ballpoint pen.

As he heard you turn the key in the lock, he called out. 

“Hang on! I forgot something.”

Unlocking the door once more, you ushered Joel inside.

He jogged over to the logbook with his offering, swiftly swapping it out for the one with a touch of home. He was halfway to the door when his brain caught up with his eyes and he turned on the spot to inspect your logbook entry.

All clear, no signs of raiders or infected.

It wasn’t the description that jarred him. It was the names. His, of course, was transcribed in loopy cursive, the standard, un-misspell-able ‘Joel Miller’. Beside it was a nickname–no, a last name –preceded by a first name that brought everything into focus:

Jane Doe.

previous | next

chapter notes:

New chapter! Yay!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sorry for the long gap between updates, life has been cray.

Big Jane Doe reveal oooh!!! I would never blatantly rip off Yearling like that don't worry!!!!!!!!!! @justagalwhowrites BIG FAN THO

Curious to hear everyone's thoughts on this chapter and what's coming next, I legit have been planning out this whole fic with a very elaborate color-coded notecards-on-corkboard setup (I am, in fact, a virgo). So more fun stuff coming hopefully sooner rather than later.

Comments make me type faster!

Love you all so much, and thank you for reading! I got really creatively blocked during the writers' strike and getting back into fanfic writing has been incredibly healing. Grateful for you all.

taglist: @aspecialgreenie

[matan4il]

I don’t know if you or anyone can really answer this accurately, but are GoFundMes for people living in Gaza trustworthy at all? or even trustworthy on a case by case basis? a musician I like (Maisie Peters) shared several today, with “help (these families) move out of Rafah,” and it gave me pause because I wholly believe in helping people who need it, but how can we possibly know if that contribution will go to the worthwhile places and families who need it? so much aid is being stolen by Hamas and UNRWA even still, and I have no idea how well researched any of those individual fundraisers are. I’m sure people mean well but it seems like there must be a more reliable option?

Hi Nonnie!

You're so right to be doubtful. Every humanitarian crisis brings with it a bunch of scams, but when we talk about a situation where there can be terrorists getting the aid, I think being cautious with people asking for money is extra justified. I'm glad you already know about the theft of humanitarian aid in Gaza, and are being careful.

First, I will say that the ones setting money to get people out of Gaza completely are very suspect to me. Especially now. Egypt has not only been extremely reluctant to take in refugees from Gaza, even on a temporary basis (for historic reason I won't get into, and which have little to do with "preventing ethnic cleansing"), they've doubled down on closing their border with Gaza to the point of not even allowing humanitarian aid in through their border anymore. Even before this recent development, they were only allowing in medical cases. We do know some people, related to Hamas, got out of Gaza, likely by pretending to be a medical case. This would suggest that maybe, up until the recent Egyptian crackdown, there was a way to bribe some Egyptian personnel to look the other way, and pretend regular people were medical cases, but it would take substantial amounts of money, and would be limited in how many could actually get through that way. In essence, you had no way of knowing who legitimately would take your money and use it to get out of Gaza, and who would just take your money, and do with it God only knows what. At best, just keep it to themselves, at worst use it for terrorist purposes. There is NO WAY for people outside the region to be able to check how the money will be used, or if any of the claims made by a campaign runner are legit, so anyone telling you, "This is safe, it's been vetted!" is either fooling you, or is being fooled themselves.

Inside Gaza, people don't actually need money to get out of Rafah. They can just... move out. Israel has already set up an improvised shelter city within walking distance from Rafah, it also already allows evacuation to other safe parts of south Gaza, and we know that hundreds of thousands of Palestinians have already moved out of Rafah and away from the zones designated for military action. And this costs nothing. Especially with humanitarian aid being poured non-stop into Gaza, including temporary shelters. Are those great? No. But if the goal is to get out of Rafah, it's possible to do that without paying a dime.

Bottom line, I'm not saying every fundraising campaign is untrustworthy, I'm saying that there is no way to know which one is and which one isn't, and that I personally wouldn't donate to any, because I wouldn't want my money to go to terrorist activities no matter what, and when I know that people do have alternatives and can get by, even if they don't get my donations, I'd rather be safe than sorry, meaning having to live with the possibility that my money directly got someone murdered.

I hope this helps! Take care! xoxox

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

[batfambrainrotbeloved]

Hey so you know how you made Dick speak sanskrit in your fic? lives in my head rent free.

Why did he not speak romanian. how far back in the historical timeline was his clan(??? idk how to translate the word im thinking of into english but its “ନକ୍ଷ୍ୟତ୍ର”/ “ଗୋତ୍ର”) separated from the rest? How was it not prakrit? Were his parents just trying to reconnect to their roots? Did he learn it from his parents or was it learned while trying to connect with his roots? Does he ever realise that any songs and texts are all religious? Is HE religious with how many words in sanskrit straight up reference god?Does he feel alienated with how his culture is romani but his language is indian? Does he ever realise theres only one village in the world that speaks sanskrit as a native language and its over 13,000 km away? Does it get lonely realising that even damian’s knowledge of languages cant cover it?

Im sorry for ranting but my struggle to reconnect w my culture has me projecting HARD 😭

OH BOY- I have been avoiding some asks (because I haven't had the mental strength to give each the time and love response they deserves I swear im getting to yall) But THIS one was just far too good to pass (and im bored as hell in class)

I would say I do dive a little more into my headcanon culture stuff involving Dick and even Damien in Mama Bird (which again I REALLY NEED TO UPDATE)

BUT Let the rambling begin <33

Why does he speak Sanskrit in the fic vs any other language? Simply it was the closest language I could trace similar roots to Romani ancestery too that was easily acsessible dictionary/translator that I could use in my writings.

Canonically he probably WOULD speak a dilect of Romani or Prakrit etc, but in my desperate trying to look into the language and culture half of the resources I came upon were incredibly racist even for someone who had no idea about the culture before then.

How far back in the historical timeline was his clan??? (Clan/Tribe/Family are good english translation's) Im not familiar enough with Romanian clans to assign a specific one (Though from my understanding of research, The Grayson family would be desenced from Romani people lineages that used to reside in the Indus Valley region- yet another reason for the use of Sanskrit)

Were his parents just trying to reconnect to their roots? Did he learn it from his parents or was it learned while trying to connect with his roots? I havent thought into this TOO much, but i'll say as a headcanon that his family felt a great pride in their culture as some of the lucky few who could maintain their nomadic lifestyle with the circus. His Mother was probably less connected (only knowing from her grandparents sort of thing) and rediscovered her roots after meeting his Father who was VERY in tune with his culture.

And as such tried their best to reclaim those roots and share them with Dick. So yes he learned from his parents- but they were still fully connecting themselves.

Does he ever realise that any songs and texts are all religious? Is HE religious with how many words in sanskrit straight up reference god? This is more projection but as someone who grew up in the bible belt, (Translation- American southern region nicknamed "The bible belt" because of how ingrained the Christian Faith is in both religious practice and general culture) Dick is less belief religious and more culturally religious- he will use religious phrasing, have some habits/beliefs FROM religious background without being fully invested, and even some things he doesn't realize are heavily religious until pointed out.

Aka religious pratices in the way of how your mother would teach you to put knifes in the dishwasher upside down (so they wouldnt be as much of a hazard) but something you do because its how you were told instead of thinking about the WHY as much.

Does he feel alienated with how his culture is romani but his language is indian? Does he ever realise theres only one village in the world that speaks sanskrit as a native language and its over 13,000 km away?

Now this is more complicated, I don't know much about circus life (though I do actually have a friend I can ask so might change this later) But from what I know its a VERY mixed enviornment so Dick was both entrenched in his cultural lifestyle as a nomad with his parents proudly sharing their roots, while also being exposed to dozens of other cultures that were also "his".

Aka- Dick is an amalgamation of culture to the point he both belongs in more ways than most people could ever have, and yet feels completely isolated as a result since no one else understands why he gets upset when people wish him Happy Birthday early, why he always dumps the first steep of tea, why he "pays respects" to his bike and tools, why he sets aside food just to be thrown out, etc etc

Its nice, to be able to connect with people over so much, but at the same time it sucks when his family points out "weird habits" that he hadnt even realized were strange. (Thankfully after a few long talks, people stopped commenting on Dicks habits, anyone who does faces the wrath of the Batclan and just about every Hero from Metropolis to the edge of the Milky way)

Does it get lonely realising that even damian’s knowledge of languages cant cover it?

Actually Batfam DOES know some Sanskrit just by exposure of living with Dick. The one who knows the most is probably Alfred since he was the one dealing with the rambunctious kid who would get frustrated with instructions he didnt understand (and that frustration only getting worse for English being like 5th or so language)

None of them are anywhere near fluent though, but I like to think Dick has a pen pal/friends he practices with. Also because he's terrified of losing his proficency and in turn, losing another part of his culture his parents tried so hard to give to him.

And No need to apologize! Like I said, im an outsider looking in from a very different culture but I loved reading (what little good sources I could find) about this topic. Of course if you have any insights/comments/crituqes I would love to hear about them and thank you for the ask!!

[botgal]

CA Internet Bills Status as of 7/17/2024

I had wanted to wait to make this post until all of the bills updated texts had been uploaded to the usual sites, but it appears what whoever's supposed to be updating AB 3080 has been lagging, so I'll just go with what I have for now. It'll be long as I'll be looking at their statuses and analyzing their updated texts so I'll put it under a cut for now.

A reminder that California's legislature is currently on recess and will be until August 5th. So no immediately imminent bills at this exact moments. But please read below the cut to get more information on the deadlines coming up.

When I last posted, all three of the bills had gone into review in their respective committees and sadly all of them passed out.

AB 3080: 11 Aye - 0 Nay

AB 1949: 11 Aye - 0 Nay

SB 976: 7 Aye - 4 No Vote

All three bills have been amended during their time in committees.

Ab 3080

AB 3080 was amended and passed from committee as amended, it is now available for a floor vote. This is the only one of the three bills where its amended text hasn't been posted anywhere I can find. However, in the analysis of the July 3rd meeting, there were acknowledgements made that not only is there no effective and safe way to verify age to view online content, but also that the existence of VPNs can circumvent any attempts to region lock sites designated as "adult" (the definition as it stands still appears to be limited to commercial websites where more than 1/3 of their content annually is sexually explicit). And that the methods to implement such a thing on commercial and non-commercial websites alike can be prohibitively expensive. So the author of the bill agreed to amendments in the bill as such according to the analysis:

"In response to the concerns of opposition, the author has agreed to amendments that allow a less restrictive means to suffice in meeting the obligation of the bill, mitigating the impact on protected speech and expression. The amendments provide that “reasonable steps” includes the business implementing a system that includes metadata or response headers identifying the product as sexually explicit to parental control software, embedded hardware applications, and other similar services designed to block, filter, monitor or otherwise prevent a minor’s access to inappropriate online content, or that blocks users designated as minors by the operating system of the device used to access the website. It also limits enforcement of this new cause of action to the Attorney General and requires the Attorney General to promulgate regulations to provide better direction for reasonable steps to verify age in addition to those listed."

So it appears that the bill may allow more websites instead to mark themselves or certain portions of their content as adult in order to be properly vetted by in-device content filters and parental controls that can be set by the device operators (or their parents in the case of minors), rather than a method that would require users to provide identification.

It's eased up quite a bit since its initial incarnation. But it's still better safe than sorry with this kind of bill, so Californians let's still push the state senators to veto this bill completely.

Organizations in support of this bill:

Organizations in opposition to this bill:

AB 1949

AB 1949 was amended and passed from committee as amended, and is currently referred to the Senate Appropriations Committee.

This one has also seen some fairly positive changes during this committee analysis as can be seen in the latest version of the bill. The latest version has removed any indications towards age verification. As well as it having changed several of its details. The bill only comes into effect and prevents the sale of data if the website has actual knowledge of the users' age, and that there shall be an option for the user to transmit a signal that they are under 18 for this purpose. Which again should help the argument against strict age verification barriers due to advertising purposes.

"a business shall not use or disclose the personal information of a consumer if the business has actual knowledge that the consumer is less than 18 years of age, unless the consumer, in the case of a consumer at least 13 years of age and less than 18 years of age, or the consumer’s parent or guardian, in the case of a consumer less than 13 years of age, has affirmatively authorized the use or disclosure of the consumer’s personal information."

"A business shall treat a consumer as under 18 years of age if the consumer, through a platform, technology, or mechanism, transmits a signal indicating that the consumer is less than 18 years of age."

But, once again, it is best to still work against this bill and prevent its passing at all in case it there's push to use it as a stepping stone for any bills which may further push an age verification agenda.

Organizations in support of this bill:

Organizations in opposition of this bill:

SB 976

This bill passed with amendments and is currently referred to the California Assembly Appropriations Committee. Unfortunately no major changes have been made. Only an amendment clarifying that any parental controls are only meant to limit access to "addictive feeds" and limit access to school hours, not any of the content. As this function still requires a "verified adult parent to a minor", this still holds open the door to potential future age verification dangers. As it still states that an application may choose to withhold services to minors altogether, and explicitly leaves open the possibility to allow provisions for age "assurance". So we definitely want to strike this one down if we can.

Organizations in support of this bill:

Organizations in opposition to this bill:

As of this moment, the California Legislature is out on recess until August 5.

The Senate Appropriations Committee (AB 1949) is set to meet on August 5, no word on whether it will be heard that day or on the next set hearing, August 12. So if you wish to send a position letter to the committee it would be best to do so a week before that date, so by July 29. Just to be safe.

No word on when the Assembly Appropriations Committee is set to meet, but the deadline for fiscal committees to pass bills through is August 16, so I expect that SB 976 will be heard before that day at least.

And AB 3080 is set to go to the senate floor rather than be seen by another committee before being read. No word on when the next bill readings will be on the assembly floor after it's reconvened August 5th, but I'll keep an ear to the ground for that.

The last day for each house to pass their bills for the year will be August 31st. So any bills we can stop before then are halted for good for the year.

And for any bills that do slip through, the last day for the governor to sign, let pass without signing, or veto bills is September 30th. So even if the bills pass from the floor to his desk, there's still time to send him messages to urge him to oppose any that slip through.

Thank you for your time, both in reading this and in taking the time to help us fight these bills.

[luckycharm1]

Il Capitano being a single father for his little daughter

A/N: I am writing this right after finishing 5.0 archon quest, so these are based on the little information I have on the character right now. However, if any major changes for his character will occur in the future, I might make an updated version for this. Also, this is my very first work and English is not my first language, so I already want apologise in advance if the quality of this post will not satisfy the readers.

Warnings: A somewhat absent father lol

When it comes to work, Capitano likes to keep it professional. Long distance trips to Mondstad or Natlan or any other region can be very tiring for a grown adult, let alone for a small child who can get easily bored by sitting in one place for long periods of time. His Harbinger duties not only include diplomatic meetings, but can also be related to something way more dangerous that can turn a quick simple meeting into a deadly battle zone. So do not expect him to bring his kid to missions, that is off the limits.

At first Capitano would leave his daughter at his Snezhnaya residence, where he would entrust experienced midwives to take care of her while he would be gone. However, as time goes on, his daughter eventually would grow into her toddler phase, which meant that now she wanted to explore the world around her and has become way more interested in her father, who frequently would leave for days or, at certain times, even weeks.

Capitano would keep his dedication and loyalty to the Tsaritsa the same level as it was before his daughters birth, even if it meant that he had to make his work a priority during the crucial early stages of his daughters life. However it does not mean that he never intended to fulfil his parental duties. Even when Capitano's workload increased, he tried his best to finish everything quickly and when he finally had the free time to spend it at home, he focused on giving all the attention to his little girl as much as he could.

Actually, Capitano would end up putting in lots of work to learn how to change her diapers, pick the right clothes, put her down for naps and even help her out when it came to exploring the outside area of their home. He completely understood the fact that his daughter would never be able to grow up with a mother, so he tried his best to focus on becoming a good father.

Eventually, his daughter would reach the age, where she refused to just stay curious about the work trips her father had, but she wanted to join them too. Although, all of her requests were quick to be denied, she never intended to give up on joining at least one of the missions Capitano had. That is when she started to try sneaking out the house to follow him to work. Of course, Capitano would immediately notice her and send her back home before she could manage to get herself in some type of danger.

As his daughters sneaky behavior continued, Capitano came to an understanding that the best way to keep her out of his work, would be to show her how dangerous it could get. To scare her. To make her not want to involve herself with this sort of danger again. Of course, he knew that with his strength alone he would be able to protect her with ease, yet it was his daughters excitement to join his missions and be able to fight together with him that he wished to be gone. He knew it was selfish, but he already had lost the person he loved the most before, he did not want to lose her in the future too.

Finally, the day he was waiting for had come. Capitano quickly noticed his daughter trailing behind his group of Fatui soldiers that were following him to a small patrol mission outside the city. Everyone, except her, were aware of that days mission, so as they reached the treasure hunter base and a heated discussion had begun, it was only a surprise for her when everything quickly escalated into a fight.

To Capitano the result of this battle was obvious, The Fatui would win, yet he extended the fight for a bit longer than usual so the event he was waiting for would certainly go in motion. After a mere minute a small scream came from behind him, it was his daughters. Only five seconds had passed before the treasure hunter, that managed to get a hold of his little girl, was laying on the ground, completely unconscious. He smiled to himself, however since he was wearing his mask she was not able to see it. But the reason why he was smiling was because he already had practiced the lecture he was ready to give her any second now, Capitano finally picked her up and came to face her and only to realise that....

His plan had failed. The result Capitano hoped for quickly turned into a complete opposite of what he had expected, as his daughter stared back at him with the most happiest face he had ever seen her have. Her eyes sparkled brighter than the goddamn Tevyat sky and her smile was wider than the Tartaglia's who usually got very excited when he got to walk next to him. It was now all clear to him. She would definitely not let him leave her alone anymore.

After that day she started to follow her father everywhere around the house. It took a while of her pleading to finally get her a wooden sword and start teaching her the beginning stages of swordsmanship. Although, he knew that she was his real daughter, Capitano was somewhat surprised when she would be able to learn everything so quickly. Additionally her strength surpassed the boys who were two or three years older than her. Finally, it was the moment when he realised that she had inherited his talent and the crazy passion for swordsmanship he had within him too.

When his daughter finally reached the age where he felt confident in her progress, Capitano introduced her to the Knave. He knew that, by leaving his daughter in Fontaine, she would be able to slowly get introduced to the Fatui and improve her fighting abilities by gaining her own experience in less dangerous environment than his missions were.

Of course his daughter was still a child and did not have the happiest reaction when she realised he would just start leaving her in a different nation and continue on with his own work without her, but with a simple explanation and some time, she held no resentment against her father. She knew that he would still keep on visiting her and check on her progress and maybe, just maybe, one day, he would finally see her reach the point from which she would finally be able to join him on his missions.

However Capitano knew that, as the first Fatui Harbinger, his missions were often the most difficult ones, so if his daughter wished to join him one day, she would have to keep working hard for many years. But as her father, he was ready to keep on supporting her, all the way throughout the path his daughter decided to follow, even if it meant that he would have to be absent for certain moments of it.

[sunsetsimon]

hi an update after my appointment,

I DO NOT HAVE CANCER!!!!!!

holy shit i can’t even explain how good it feels to be able to say that. after wrestling with this for months i finally have the answer.

without getting too specific about it, in my last experience, i had lumps in my right breast in february 2022 that my doctor was concerned about and wanted me to get checked. my scans came back clear of malignant lumps, but there definitely were cysts in my breast tissue that were causing me pain. because of my symptoms they didn’t feel it was necessary to remove them and they eventually went away.

november 2023, right as i’m moving apartments, i notice that i have another painful lump in my right breast. i figured it must be the same cyst situation from before, so i decided to wait on it before starting to freak out. the pain continued to grow, expanding into my armpit region and i was experiencing a lot of soreness and shooting pains. i already don’t wear bra’s, but it became extremely uncomfortable and i had to move up in size to be able to continue to wear them.

one day months later as i was about to shower, i noticed that my nipple looked really weird. like, you know how as they harden they shrink and become perkier? (those with puffy nipples like me - you get it). only half of my right nipple was hard, and it looked oddly shriveled and wrinkled. this is when i started to realize that this could actually be something serious.

so i got my referral from my primary and just had my screenings today. NO CANCER. but there is abnormal tissue growth, nothing serious but it will still continue to cause me pain and soreness. (apparently this is a common thing for people with breasts)

she said it could be hormonal, as she noticed some of the same on my left breast. we’re not sure what happened with my nipple as i haven’t really experienced that again, but i’ll continue to keep an eye on everything for any changes.

i feel good knowing that as of now, it’s nothing. but with the history of my aunt, grandma, and great aunt all developing breast cancer, i should still always be on pretty high alert, especially since im not in the best health.

so yeah, trust yourself when you think something isn’t right about your body.

thank you so so so much to all who sent me kind words and thoughts, kept me in your prayers and good wishes. i am so grateful to have people who care about my wellbeing. you gave me the strength to stop being so consumed by fear and push through. i’ve even been able to write a tiny bit! i love and appreciate you all so much, seriously. and i miss you all too!

now that i’m able to have this major weight off of my shoulders i feel like i can take a deep breath again.

i hope you’ve been taking care 💗 i should have a new post for simon out soon!!

[noxi3xe]

Sepperate post for this

Dangerous Entanglement

Chapters & their synopsis

I decided to lay out all of the chapters in this post to make it more.. clean? If that makes sense

Otherwise my other post’s gonna get too long. I’ll keep updating this one with each new chapter I release. Might do the same for any future works (:

Current chapters:

-Fateful revelations: Introduction and world development, we find out basic information.

-Secret and Allies: we make friends with Hu Tao, who holds our secret and helps us find out more about our soulmates.

-A Perilous Celebration: Our 22nd birthday! It’s all going well and smooth till we notice a little something in the distance.

-Hilltop Hazard: What’s a celebration without sneaking into a fatui camp and almost getting caught?

-Caught and Almost Cornered: But of course how can you end a birthday party without getting chased?

-A Fateful Encounter: The bank’s always busy, you never know who you’ll meet there. Could be one of your soulmates.

-Mountain Mysteries and New Friends: A little scare in the mail to start out your day strong, but new friends fix all worries.

-Heartfelt Goodbyes: saying goodbye to our new friends to head back to the city and continue our *boring* life (which is about to get interesting)

-Ball Gown Secrets: What’s better than waking up to your best friend arguing with your father, winning the argument then taking you shopping? Nothing!

-Voyage to Snezhnaya: The trip to Snezhnaya finally arrives! I wonder whatever we might talk about on the trip, hopefully not something that’ll change our entire life!

-City Sights and Palace Nights: We had arrived to Snezhnaya! Time to look around and get used to the place, the sights are lovely and the people even lovelier.

-Draped in Pearls: Finally the night we’ve been awaiting, and how else could it start off other than with a staring match?

-Snatched by the 9th: Perhaps coming to Snezhnaya wasn't such a good Idea after all. If only we could clear our mind witnout a certain somebody chasing us down..

-First Official Meeting: Face to face finally with those we're supposed to spend our life with, at least that's what the universe has planned for us. They don't seem that bad after all, perhaps we were over exaggerating

-Enforcing Rules: It's time to sit down for a talk and end the evening with what else than being forced into a bath, there's nothing better!

-Getting Comfortable: A chill day, nothing on our mind other than laying back a little.

-Office Works: Well running errands for Pantalone sure did not end as one would expect, thankfully nothing worse than a bit of bullying happened, right?

-Errand Runs: Gone Wrong: Yesterday was confusing and exhausting, but today was something different. Why was luck not on our side and why did it seem as if the whole region had something against us? TW: Minor Violence and Angst (A little bit of it, at least).

-Laboratory shenanigans: We've had enough of everybody, enough of getting pushed around and perhaps we took it out on the right person!

-Promotions and Experimentation: First official day at the lab, I wonder what The Doctor has planned as our first experiment! TW: NSFW

-Stormy nights: Passing out randomly lead to waking up hours later and that lead to bonding.. if you could call it bonding even, more like eventual bickering!

-'First' official day off: Looks like a certain somebody has fallen sick! And what's a better way to rest and take the day slow than to read a book and cuddle under the blankets? TW: Gore and horror aspects (We Read a book)

-Promises: It sure is sweet when a story ends happily, isn't it? That's what we had always thought but never really knew we would once experience our happy ending as well. TW: NSFW

+ bonus chapter [sheep] There's a lil secret I gotta tell you that I definitely haven't told anybody (Author's note and a thank you)

__________

DottoreEnjoyer69 on AO3

Link to the fic here

[dicesmasher]

The Long Dark Rant - Cougars

It has just come to my knowledge that Hinterland Studios has just temporarily removed the cougar from The Long Dark after massive backlash after it was added a few days ago. Good riddance! I only hope they'll learn from this and re-implement it in a way that is actually good game design and fits in with the game's established framework. My problems with the cougar are multi-fold and shared with much of the rest of the TLD community.

I think I can speak for much of the community when I say I was very excited for the cougar. New wildlife is a rare event in TLD updates and for good reason. Everything has a reason to be here, and I appreciate the game is careful not to bloat itself with half-baked features. The cougar would provide a unique, exciting threat a cut above the usual wolves, timberwolves, bears and occasional moose. The idea of being stalked by a silent predator fit right in with the dark, pseudo-horror theme of TLD. But when the cougar finally arrived after years of waiting, many of us were emotionally (and sometimes physically) gutted with what we were given.

I will start with a problem I don't hear many people talking about, as the main discourse is about the behaviour of the cougar itself. One of my biggest problems is the immersion-breaking and hand-holding way in which the cougar is telegraphed.

Firstly, based on your difficulty level, you can know exactly how many days it takes for the cougar to arrive in your area. For Voyageur and Stalker, it's 30 days, which by the way, is frankly way too forgiving. A whole month! Most survival runs don't even last that long. Animals shouldn't work like that, especially in a video game where uncertainty is part of the design. There should be a random range of days, say 7-15 on Stalker, that it should take for the cougar to encroach.

Secondly, you get divine insight from God or something, and the game straight-up TELLS you the cougar is approaching. Now you could argue this is for the sake of fairness, as you are now presented with the decision to stay and face the cougar, or leave the region before it starts properly stalking you. But what next, should I get a notification that a blizzard is on the way tomorrow? Or that the bear I killed a while ago has respawned? Should I be told exactly how many timberwolf packs are in my region? The game should give you precise information on things that relate directly to the survivor - your hunger, thirst, etc. levels, carry weight, the condition of your clothes. It shouldn't do this for external factors that you shouldn't have any way of knowing.

Leading on from this, if you stay in the rgion, the game once again TELLS you the cougar is in the region and actively stalking you, with an icon that sticks to the left of your screen and stares at you menacingly. And only NOW do you start getting in-world signs that the cougar is here, namely in the form of distant yowling, and bloody carcasses of small animals, and of course, a distinct cougar theme that plays when you step outside for the first time.

If you decide to leave at this point, once again the game TELLS you EXACTLY how many days you need to be out of the region before the cougar leaves you alone. It's all so predictable that I don't know what the devs were thinking. Is the cougar a good idea or not, considering you felt the need to give the player ALL the information needed to avoid it?

The only point where the cougar becomes unpredictable is exactly when it will jump you. And this brings us to the next problem, and the one that most of the TLD community is clamouring about. The cougar DOESN'T EXIST in the world like any other animal. At some random time while you're being 'stalked' and being outdoors, you'll get an UNAVOIDABLE jumpscare cutscene as the cougar pounces you, destroys your clothes and gives you heavy lacerations and multiple infection risks, and cuts down a large chunk of your condition.

I have no problem with the brutality of the struggle - the cougar is supposed to be the most dangerous animal in the game. The problem is there is literally no way to defend yourself before the struggle like with any other animal, because the cougar doesn't exist until the struggle happens! The only way to kill the cougar (which is something the game incentivises you to do) is to let yourself get mauled by it!!! Then you have a chance to shoot it as it walks away from you.

This would be fine if there was no incentive to kill the cougar, but there is!!! The cougar claw knife is incredible for wolf defence, and the cougar skin headwrap is a valuable piece of gear. The rewards for killing the cougar means the game is essentially enticing you to try it, but this isn't a game of skill, other than aiming your gun at it in slow motion after the struggle cutscene. It's not a risk-reward situation. 'Risk' implies that with enough skill you could get it done unscathed, but there's no risk here, it's a predictable, guaranteed punishment, a tax, essentially, of your equipment and health before you have the opportunity to kill the cougar. This is not what TLD is about, and the game has never had anything like this before! With respect to how TLD is supposed to be designed, this is bad game design!

Nobody is saying killing the cougar should be easy, nobody wants that. But give us an opportunity to defend ourselves, even if there's a window of only a few seconds. Most of the problem would be fixed if the cougar just spawns in 10 metres behind you and starts running towards you, giving you a moment to turn around, aim your gun and kill it or drive it off.

Additionally, the cougar should be unpredictable, and constantly on my mind. Don't tell me the cougar is encroaching, just make me hear the distant yowls. Then, give me 2 or 3 days to get out of the region before I start hearing breaking twigs and closer vocalisations that signify it is stalking me, and start seeing freshly dead animals in the morning. Don't give me any icons, just environmental cues - that'll be enough to make me paranoid. Then, at some random time, spawn the cougar a little ways behind me or otherwise out of sight, and give me a test of skill as I try to shoot it before it reaches me.

I understand that coding an AI for the cougar that would make something that constantly exists in the world with such complex and evasive behaviour would be extremely hard. That's why a compromise of having it spawn a short distance from you is something I think will be perfectly doable and make the cougar a valued game mechanic that feels more like part of the ecosystem.

Rant over. I don't get the impression that Tumblr has a big TLD community but this is the best place for me to write rants.

[mariacallous]

Having lived in Britain for 12 years, I returned to my native Moldova in 2022 because I was worried that Russia’s war in Ukraine would spill into my country. Thanks to the Ukrainian resistance, the skies are still clear in Moldova. But in the past weeks leading up to the presidential runoff between the pro-European incumbent Maia Sandu and the Russian-supported former prosecutor general Alexandr Stoianoglo, I felt as if I might lose my country once again.

The scale of interference in these Moldovan elections has been unprecedented. As reported by excellent independent journalists in the country, our law enforcement agencies alleged the existence of a large-scale, vote-buying scheme in the first round, run by Ilan Shor – a Russian-backed fugitive oligarch, who denies any wrongdoing.

Before the second round, journalists and others reportedly received death threats in broken Romanian, pretending to be on behalf of Sandu’s team. On election day, the most popular polling stations across Europe for overseas Moldovans had their vote disrupted by bomb threats. The servers of the Central Electoral Commission experienced a temporary cyberattack. The police said they had “reasonable evidence” of illegal organised voter transportation in Russia, Belarus, Azerbaijan and Turkey; people from Transnistria, the region to the east of the country, bordering Ukraine and controlled by Russia, admitted to being transported.

In addition to the alleged rigging, the internet, especially TikTok, was flooded with anti-Europe disinformation before the EU referendum on 20 October.

Despite all this, Sandu won. “They cannot steal as much as we can vote” was one of the informal slogans of this campaign. In the run-up to the second vote, the police updated the country daily about their arrests and seizures of cash related to the vote-buying scheme. This helped some people realise that receiving payment for votes was illegal and not just a way of getting free money. It also helped mobilise 380,000 people in the capital city Chișinău – more than in 2020 – and an unprecedented 330,000 Moldovans in the diaspora, who amounted to almost 20% of the total number of voters, to come out and vote. Both electorates largely voted for Sandu.

The pro-Russian Socialist party (PSRM), which supported Stoianoglo, said that it did not recognise the election results and that Sandu would only be the “president of the diaspora”. Yet 70% of the votes she received came from within the country.

While I lived in the UK, I queued for hours in order to vote in Moldovan elections at the various polling stations the state opened across London. In 2016, when Sandu first ran against PSRM leader Igor Dodon and lost to him, with thousands of other fellow citizens, I was not able to cast my vote because the polling station ran out of ballot papers. Some people had come from hundreds of miles away in order to vote.

Moldova’s diaspora is relatively new and porous. People first started leaving in large numbers in the 2000s, when President Vladimir Voronin ruled the country with many leading members of the PSRM. Their first destinations were Russia, Italy or Portugal, where they did difficult jobs in construction or care, in order to provide for their families. (My history teacher went to look after the dogs of an Italian star in order to pay for her son’s university fees.) Since then, as many people’s parents and grandparents had been born when Moldova was part of Romania, about a million Moldovans obtained Romanian citizenship – including the two presidential candidates, Sandu and Stoianoglo.

EU passports opened the way for Moldovans such as myself to benefit from better study and work opportunities across Europe, sending vital remittances back home. At the moment, about 1 million Moldovans live abroad and 2.8 million live in the country. Everyone has family members working abroad.

Like me, a number of people have also returned from the diaspora to open their own businesses or join existing private or non-governmental organisations, as well as state institutions. Sandu did this in 2012, leaving her much better paid position at the World Bank in order to become minister of education. Natalia Gavrilița, whom I first met in 2018 in a Moldovan activist group called FreeMoldova in London, left development work to become minister of finance and then prime minister. The list goes on.

Since the full-scale invasion of Ukraine, many Moldovans from the diaspora in Russia have returned home. In the more Russian-speaking regions of Gagauzia and Transnistria, people have started emigrating to Poland and the Czech Republic. As I was travelling on the Chișinău-Prague bus to the small Romanian town of Sibiu last week, in front of me a man was listening to Russian propaganda. The second driver, meanwhile, put on a speech by Sandu while resting. Social media have polarised Moldovan society – just like the entire world. Russian propaganda is good at enhancing these cleavages.

Moldova has shown resilience in the recent EU referendum and this presidential vote. But given the country is a parliamentary republic, the great battle will be next year in parliamentary elections. Until then, law enforcement has to get on top of vote-buying schemes. There must be better regulation of social media. And pro-European Moldovans have to collaborate and communicate better than the Russian propagandists.

[idollandhero]

I think in a year we'll look back at our time with Idol Land and think of it like a weird dream. A time when there wasn't a Pretty Series show announced and everything was in limbo. A time where King of Prism was a dead franchise. A time when songs were performed at Pretty Series live shows that wouldn't premier in the anime for years. The game teaser in every single Pretty Series announcement only for it to be delayed again. The YEARS long gap between episodes 2 and 3. The DISASTROUS launch. When we realized it was just a reskinned version of the switch game. Or when we discovered that it was mostly made by some unrelated dev who had only made one failed mobile otome game before Idol Land.

The Pretty Series' pivot to focusing on AiPri & KinPri instead of Idol Land & DanPri makes the past few years of Idol Land content, and the past less than a year of Idol Land actually being out, feel like an illusion.

It's frustrating because the concept of a PriPara mobile game sounds fantastic! When I play games like SIF2 or Idolish7 or whatever I think about what could have been. Was it money problems? or time problems? Or some combination of both. Regardless I can't help but yearn for a game with a budget that this franchise deserves.

And the web anime was great! But only 12 episodes, and its own budget problems, plus the games delay keeping it finished and in limbo for 2 years! (+ the lack of any western fansubs picking it up, seriously how is do we still only have subs for up to episode 6) meant that it never got the place in the spotlight it deserved. Some people speculated that it was meant to air on TV because the episodes are formatted as such, but with AiPri starting in that slot the same month the show is ending that doesn't seem to be true.

It's hard to say where PriPara is going from here. It's the series 10th anniversary and the arcade game is being shuttered to push players towards AiPri Verse instead. Idol Land's anime finale is going to air to little applause because it's stuck on an app with less than 20,000 active users, and in the same month as the launch of the new series that's slated to be a real PreCure competitor.

Idol Land's EOS hasn't been announced yet, but the missing Nino birthday coord, the April monthly update with entirely rerun coords, and the fact that Idol Land is getting very VERY close to running out of content from the switch game. Well, if not EOS I expect this game to go into maintenance mode pretty soon.

Yeah idk what my point here was exactly, but man Idol Land really was a blur. Sometimes I think we understate exactly how inexperienced the devs really were. The game doesn't have any type of Google Play integration, and when the game launched the account recovery only lasted 15 minutes. I have a newer phone and the game isn't compatible with my hole punch front camera. There's just a black bar there. I only have this problem with older games, anything made in the last 4 years doesn't have this problem except for Idol Land. I honestly think the lack of region locking is because the dev doesn't know how to turn it on. Someone on discord reported that they've been buying gold, and then contacting Google and asking for a Play Store refund. It's worked multiple times and they are not banned. How is a ban for chargebacks not something they implemented day one. Also this game doesn't have any deals or discounts, ever. It's hard to believe that, like every game I've ever played has a buy two and get 50% off the second one bundle. But it's like the devs don't know how to implement anything past basic gacha mechanics. I could also ramble about how expensive the prices are, but I've done it before I won't do it again. Also the photo room, it's implemented pretty badly. You upload a photo for the background and it crops it weird and squishes it and makes it blurry. I didn't know this at launch because it was a paid feature for like six months. The pass itself was a horrible value unless you were buying it specifically to get the episodes early, you got exactly how the amount of gold you paid for. Why not just buy the gold then. But they either realized that, or were preparing for end of service; because they took it down. I'm rambling about things the devs messed up but I haven't even mentioned the first three months of the game. There's been so many points in this game's history where playing a promise was borderline impossible for one reason or another. This game didn't feel finished until that November update that included immediate promises. God there's so much more. The photo competitions just being about editing for some reason. Also they went away, so clearly those didn't work. The amount of coords they've implemented that were broken in some way. Sometimes it was the wrong coord entirely, sometimes the cylume didn't work. It's like the dev team is so small that there's no QA people. Also on that note, Open Dream Land was just fixed in the mid March update. The game went more than 6 months where one of its two unique charts was off sync. Also remember the voice bug, that lasted forever.

I'm sorry I just started rambling lmao. This is the problem when I write posts with speech to text, I say way too much. Ultimately I enjoyed my time with Idol Land, but it's existence feels surreal. Especially because 80% of the features from this game I can turn on my switch after end of service and play, and it's free because I already paid once and never have to pay again. I even have Waku Waku O'Clock on Switch. One day, probably soon from the way things are going, I'm going to wake up and not be able to play Idol Land on my phone ever again. But instead of reminiscing of this game, I will think about the game that could have been if Idol Land got as much love as Prism Rush did.

KASHIKOMA ✌️

[shitty-fallout-art]

only a single portrait because you don't need to see more right now :)

-Currently residing within the bowels of the Slop Shop hideout, Cait is an unwilling captive acting as Jared's current prophet.

-Not much could initially be said about Cait, given that she had nobody with which to share her story with. Once she was sold to the Combat Arena, she figured she would spend the rest of her life within its walls without a hope of ever being freed from them; and technically, she was correct.

-For years her routine had been a murky cycle of violence, the days blending together so that she lived perpetually within the chaotic fights of the arena. Between the chems that both gave her spirit and dulled her mind, and Tommy not being one to keep her updated with matters that, frankly, didn't interest her, the world seemed to pas by her with little trouble, until its troubles grew too great for her to be ignorant of.

-The numbers always fluctuated, raiders coming and going at all intervals depending on circumstance alone. Raider nests often got liberated or stolen, their proximity to Diamond City was often a liability risk, and prime targets in the southern regions were often too good to pass up. No matter what the combat arena promised in terms of excitement or caps, the unpredictable world of the commonwealth outside meant that business could go from busy to slow, and there was nothing that could be done about it.

-It wasn't until the numbers drastically went up that she figured something must have been driving everyone up north.

-At first it was a great boom for business, and despite the increase in her performances, she was also allotted time for herself to make room for other, fresher acts. Though unable to leave and very restricted in what she was allowed to do, Cait was able to make the most of her time with chem usage and general distractions, and second-hand she learned of pretty strange things happening outside the Combat Arena.

-The arrival of the Brotherhood got quite a laugh out of a lot of people, as did the rise of the minutemen, though such opinions were tinged with embitterment and anger towards their rapid success and rock-hard defenses. Nothing had squashed their spirits yet, but it was obvious that most raiders saw both groups as a challenge, and held mixed feelings of excitement and worry at a confrontation. Any further politics surrounding them had slipped her mind. Her addiction had grown heavier, and her actions while under usage became extreme and frightening.

-For months the Combat Arena flourished, then came a steady decline in profits, yet the number of patrons never went down. People were still showing up, and weirdly enough, staying there for long periods of time, though it appeared as though there just wasn't enough to indulge in freely. Chems were still easy to get hold of, but food started to become a bit harder to come by, and it wasn't for lack of effort on the raiders part. Cait's position kept her well fed, but fights often broke out amongst the freeloaders.

-Tommy was gradually loosing control of his business. It was hard to throw out the people who couldn't pay, but as they grew in number they overwhelmed him and eventually made themselves at home. Everything was running dry but they had no means with which to replace it. The Brotherhood was putting pressure on nearby areas and if they caught wind of the place then the Combat Arena was doomed.

-He grew desperate, and though he had promised to take Cait with him, he tried to sell her contract in the end for a little extra cash.

-The man who bought it, a Raider named Rust, was a strange one. He often talked about the failings of Ortega and bought large quantities of chems whenever he could, though rarely seemed to take them himself. When the Brotherhood came knocking down their down, he took Cait and fled towards the northeast. Cait hated him, but he supplied her with chems and kept her ignorant of the fallout outside, so she didn't complain much.

-She spent most of her days traveling and most of her nights swimming underneath intoxication, and it was one of these nights that the pair had met Jared.

-At a raider's den in Green Trailer Estates, Cait scourged for any chems they had available, becoming wild and uncontrollable with its influence. This had often brought her negative attention, but for Jared it was a sign of something great.

-She thought his questions were weird, most didn't make sense, but he seemed to like the nonsensical answer she gave, and when he promised her more chems for more answers she simply couldn't refuse.

-She didn't find out until after Rust and Jared formed a partnership that she had dug herself into her own grave.

-Her chem usage had increased substantially, but even when she tried to take a break they kept giving them to her. In moments of coherency she started to realize that the answers she was expected to give Jared were wholly unbelievable and impossible for her to know, but he insisted that she had some kind of ability to answer them.

-Cait grew confused and worried, but also weaker and sicker as time went on. Jared acted accordingly, giving her time off the chems and trying to keep her as healthy as possible, but it was during these sick episodes that she came to learn just how crazy he really was and how shitty she felt all the time.

-In was simply out of question for her to quit, they wouldn't allow her, and the feelings she so once enjoyed as a means of escape became painful and impossible to tolerate.

-Over the course of many years she hung on the brink of death, only to be kept alive for the sole purpose of acting as a seer. Even when malnourishment ruined all of them, even when her urine grew black and painful, even when her heart could not beat on its own and she could not even lift her own head; Jared simply refused to part with his ticket to greatness.

-But he still realized the toll this was taking on her, and that was when the experiential abductions began. From her bed she watched many chem users come and go, unable to provide the proof Jared sought and often dying from the effects of whatever cocktail Jared's boy's had concocted.

-It's a hard and painful life that she's grown sick of, having abandoned all hope of ever getting better, though she asks for a swift, painful death instead of slowly rotting away. It seems inevitable that she will eventually meet her end, no matter how hard Doctor Carrington tries to keep her alive, but those chems they keep administering are starting to have strange effects on her body, and she isn't sure what to make of that.