#Paragon Pain Management

[blainenavarro]

Understanding Disk Extrusion Treatment at Paragon Health Group

Dealing with a disk extrusion can be a painful and disruptive experience. At Paragon Health Group, established in Newport Beach and Bakersfield, Dr. Eckermann and his team offer a comprehensive approach to disk extrusion treatment, aiming to alleviate pain, restore function, and improve your quality of life.

A disk extrusion occurs when the soft, inner core of a spinal disc pushes through the outer layer, potentially compressing nearby nerves. This can lead to significant back or neck pain, radiating pain into the arms or legs (sciatica), numbness, tingling, and weakness. Recognizing the severity of these symptoms, Paragon Health Group prioritizes accurate diagnosis and effective management of disk extrusions.

The initial approach to disk extrusion treatment at Paragon Health Group often involves non-surgical methods. As Dr. Eckermann emphasizes, a thorough examination of patient’s condition is key to developing the right plan. Conservative treatments may include physical therapy to strengthen supporting muscles and improve spinal mechanics, anti-inflammatory medications to reduce pain and swelling, and targeted epidural steroid injections to provide pain relief directly at the affected area. The goal of these therapies is to reduce nerve compression and allow the body's natural healing processes to take effect.

However, when non-surgical options don't provide sufficient relief, or if neurological symptoms like significant weakness worsen, surgical intervention may be considered for disk extrusion treatment. Paragon Health Group specializes in utilizing minimally invasive surgical techniques. Procedures like microdiscectomy, a common and effective way to address a disk extrusion, involve carefully removing only the portion of the disk that is pressing on the nerve. Similarly, endoscopic spine surgery offers the advantage of even smaller incisions and potentially faster recovery.

Throughout your disk extrusion treatment journey, Dr. Eckermann and the team at Paragon Health Group maintain open and transparent communication. They will thoroughly explain your diagnosis, discuss all available treatment options, and help you understand what to expect during and after any recommended procedure. Realistic expectations regarding pain relief and recovery are crucial, and the team will work closely with you to optimize your outcome.

Paragon Health Group is dedicated to providing personalized care tailored to your unique needs. If you are experiencing symptoms of a disk extrusion and are seeking expert guidance and effective treatment options, contact Paragon Health Group today to learn how they can help you find relief and get back to a more active and pain-free life.

Connect With Us For More Information:-https://paragonhealthgroup.com/blog/understanding-disk-extrusion-treatment-at-paragon-health-group/

[healthparagongroup]

Why To Choose Paragon Pain Management For Effective Treatment

Chronic pain can keep you from living life to the fullest. It doesn't have to be that way though. At Paragon Health Group, we offer advanced Paragon pain management options and a compassionate team of experts who focus on you as an individual.

If you had a heart problem, you’d see a cardiologist. If you’re in pain, you should see a specialty-trained pain management physician.

Most pain management doctors devote their time and expertise to helping chronic pain patients whose needs can sometimes be hard to diagnose and take months or years to treat using multiple therapies. Whether your pain is chronic or acute, our Paragon pain management team conducts an in-depth examination to determine the source.

We most often see patients with pain in the low back, knee, head, hip, and neck. Common conditions treated by our physicians include: Arthritis, Fibromyalgia, Migraines, Sciatica, Herniated Disc, Osteoporosis, Spine Trauma, Pinched Nerve, and more.

We often use a wide range of nonsurgical, interventional treatments – along with complementary therapies – as a way of reducing the amount of medication you need to take or to avoid the need for surgery. These may include massage, a weight loss regimen, exercise, meditation, physical therapy, dietary changes, or chiropractic care.

We may also prescribe pain-killing medications such as nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drugs (NSAIDs), muscle relaxants, or antidepressants. Depending on the severity of your specific condition, we may also recommend epidural steroid injections, nerve blocks, joint injections, radiofrequency ablation, spinal cord stimulation, or neuromodulation. If none of these methods are effective in alleviating your pain, surgery may be an option of last resort.

A painful back condition or any pain should be taken seriously. Though the spine plays an important role in most movements, it is also subject to numerous medical issues because of its structure. There is no reason to live with pain when a physician can help.

With a devotion to excellence, professionalism, and individualized care, Dr. Eckermann pledges to do everything possible to help his patients regain control of their lives through the latest in Paragon pain management techniques.

Know more about how we combine the latest interventional & minimally invasive pain management procedures with a holistic, multidisciplinary approach to effectively treat pain.

Read More

[makenziegraham]

Where To Find The Best Herniated Disc Treatment New Port?

The multidisciplinary team at Paragon Health Group offers all available evidence-based Herniated Disc Treatment New Port, including nonsurgical options. Dr. Eckermann, neurosurgeon, and his team at Paragon Health Group can diagnose and recommend Herniated Disc Treatment New Port that’s tailored to your symptoms and designed to relieve pain and restore function. We at Paragon Health Group partner with you to explore nonsurgical treatments before considering surgery. Surgery may be useful if non-surgical treatments have not provided adequate pain relief from a herniated disc. Dr. Eckermann and Paragon Health Group can diagnose and provide the right Herniated Disc Treatment New Port. Call us at 949-514-7456 to schedule an appointment today. For more information, visit: https://paragonhealthgroup.com/blog/where-to-find-the-best-herniated-disc-treatment-new-port/

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One Two Three Four

“What?” Steve’s on edge, he doesn’t mean to snap, it just comes out that way. Eddie’s gone from never looking at him to...always looking at him. And the scrutiny is...it’s so fucking judgemental. Eddie has a horrible little smirk on his face as he fucking stares, eyeballing the drink Steve is pouring for himself, Steve is on the edge of just...screaming at him, or something.

Eddie huffs, rolls his eyes, but still doesn’t say anything.

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose, takes a deep calming breath, and reminds himself that absolutely none of this is Eddie’s fault. They’re alone for the first time in a while, so Steve takes his chance, “I’m really sorry, about what I said, okay? I’m sorry I...tricked you. It was wrong, it was absolutely a dick move, I had no right to know, and I’m sorry.”

Eddie does look away then, deflating a little, Steve’s apology seems to have knocked the wind out of his sails, or something. Diluted the anger a little, at least.

“It’s…” Eddie shrugs, staring the shit out of the kitchen floor, “my Steve didn’t drink.”

Steve scrunches his nose up, surprised, “what, at all?”

Eddie shrugs, “glass of wine with dinner maybe, if we went somewhere just the two of us but...no. Not really,” he keeps picking the label off his own beer.

“But why?” Steve asks, so incredulous at the revelation that he forgets to be pissed off.

Eddie won’t look at him now, though, tinking a ring against the glass bottle. The moments long enough that Steve knows Eddie’s debating if he should tell him at all, but eventually Eddie sighs, “when Ronnie was tiny, she got a cough. She was like...fine, we didn’t think anything of it, just thought she was being grizzly or whatever. And Steve had a drink, and I hadn’t, so it was fine but, I checked on her, and she was fast asleep but like had a raging temperature. And it didn’t matter, we had baby meds in the house, we were prepared but...Steve got so worried. He was like but what if we’d run out of meds or...or they didn’t bring her temperature down and she needed urgent care or whatever. I mean, she was absolutely fine, we changed her out of her footie jammies and the medicine worked just fine so...literally nothing happened but...Steve still got so worried about it. So he decided he needed to always be able to drive just in case and he just...stopped. Drinking.”

Steve wants to open his mouth and dispute it. Wants to tell Eddie he’d never fucking do that, that he isn’t the paragon of perfection Eddie dreamed up while his body was busy beating the crap out of every one. That he can’t possibly compare...but he can see it. He wouldn’t miss it, he knows he wouldn’t, and it’s the logical way to make sure his kid is fine then...yeah. Steve would, the thinks. He thinks he would do that.

“He sounds like a good guy,” Steve answers softly.

And Eddie, Eddie smiles before biting his lips together. He closes his eyes and swallows, thick and slow, his voice breaking when he speaks, and Steve knows that Eddie’s fighting a loosing battle against the tears, “he was.”

“Do you want…” Steve holds his arms out, and Eddie all but falls into them, “I know I’m not him, okay, I know that, but I’m here, if you want me to be here.”

Steve thinks he feels Eddie nod, as he sobs against Steve’s chest, curled up so Steve can hold all of him. And Steve cries too. He can't keep the tears inside. Eddie’s pain is palpable, and this isn’t about Steve, not really, Eddie’s Steve was real to Eddie but...the details. The details of Eddie’s story are gutting to listen to. He had a child, and she grew up, and Eddie...he remembers all these little details of their lives.

“Why are you crying?” Eddie chokes out through a sob.

“The footie pajamas,” Steve manages through his own tears, “you had a little girl Eds, you had a little girl and you-” Steve can’t finish it, it’s just so horrible. So unbelievably cruel. Steve can’t even imagine, not really, “I’m so so sorry you went through this. It’s my fault, if I’d taken you with us, if I’d gotten you out, I didn’t know Eddie I swear I didn’t know-”

“I know. I know. Stop it. I probably...I’d be dead now, if you- although I don’t know if that would be better.”

“Jesus,” Steve drags him close drags him into a rib crushing hug, tries to press Eddie inside him, “don’t say that. Jesus Christ, please don’t say that.”

“I...okay.”

Eddie becomes his shadow, which is...kind of weird but also not. Steve doesn’t mind Eddie being there, not at all. He keeps feeling...strangely guilty, about the whole thing. Like it’s, at least, in some way, Steve’s fault, no matter what Eddie might say. Logically Steve knows Eddie’s right, and isn’t that ridiculous, that Eddie has been reassuring Steve? But Eddie is right, Steve couldn’t have known what would happen, no one could, and...Eddie was dead. There was absolutely no way to predict what could have happened but...Steve wears it anyway.

Not to mention the fact that Vecna must have chosen Steve to be Eddie’s imaginary husband for a reason...he must have...liked Steve, for that to work right? Before everything, it must have been realistic to Eddie’s mind that Steve was the one. At least, the thought must have been present enough for that to...take root. Steve doesn’t know, not really, but it haunts him anyway, a loose tooth that, although is painful, he can’t help fiddling with. Even though it’s nothing to do with him, not really.

Eddie stops drinking. He has his last beer, he in fact makes a point of telling Steve that it’s his last one, and not to buy more. So Steve gets one too, they chink them together, and drink them. Then, without speaking, Steve gathers the remaining seven beers out of the fridge and they stand side by side, shoulder to shoulder, pouring them away. It feels kind of poignant, and a little ceremonial. It feels like an important moment, one Steve will look back on, “you still could have had them,” Eddie points out quietly.

“Nah.” And then that’s...kind of it.

Steve can tell when Eddie really wants a drink. He gets antsy, the kind of restlessness that comes out as destruction, and Eddie gets snappy and bitchy and...hard work, to be around. Sometimes. He swears a lot, gets angry over nothing. There’s a lot of slammed doors and angry clanking and music played loud enough that Steve winces and leaves the house for a while, not really caring what the neighbors think.

Steve lets it wash over him, or at least, does his best to, at first. But finding Eddie shredding the pages of a note book, one at a time, and then getting shouted at for simply asking, “you okay?” Steve starts to figure this isn’t sustainable.

He honestly feels like he’d be taking his life into his hands if he dared suggest Eddie go to some sort of therapy – and who could he talk to, anyway? How could Eddie tell someone on the outside that he’s lived a full life, that he’s lost an adult child and been married for like, thirty years by the age of twenty one?

Steve ducks the notebook as it wings passed his head, watching as Eddie stomps out the back door, slamming it behind him.

“Am I...uhm, gonna’ get anything thrown at me?” Steve doesn’t come too close, just in case. A torn up notebook cover might not have hurt, but the beer bottle still stands out in Steve’s memory. He wonders vaguely if he should have called one of the girls to do this, but it feels cowardly.

Eddie shakes his head, gesturing vaguely with his burnt out cigarette. There’s a neat little row of butts and a scrunched up packet next to Eddie’s boot. Steve pulls up a lawn chair next to him, “sorry,” Eddie says quietly, pointedly not looking at him.

“Yeah, it’s okay-”

“No it isn’t.”

“No...probably not but...I get that you’re hurting, is what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says again, vaguely, “sometimes something just…” Eddie sighs, and after a few minutes Steve realizes he’s given up and isn’t going to say anymore.

“Reminds you?” Steve tries.

“Yeah,” Eddie gestures again vaguely, running his hand through his hair. It’s looking a little greasy, but Steve knows that at least Eddie stood under the water this morning so he will take what he can get. His clothes are clean today, at least, and that’s a little win considering can go days with no interest whatsoever in his own personal hygiene.

“Do you...want to tell me?”

Eddie sighs a big sigh, “I wrote a song for Steve, for like, our seventh anniversary. Something like that. I wrote it out, to check I still remember. I do.”

“Oh. That sounds...really nice.” That is...very romantic. It makes something flutter a little, inside Steve, because no ones ever done anything like that for him, put in work. It doesn’t take much for Steve to see that Eddie is absolutely that kind of guy. The all in kind of guy, “I bet he really appreciated that. I bet he loved it.” Steve knows he would.

“Yeah,” Eddie rasps, “yeah he did.”

Part Six

[lexsssu]

Half (Neuvillette)

TAGS: Neuvillette/Dragoness!Reader, smut, oneshot, drabble, heats, mating, knotting, breeding Ao3 ver.

“Are you sure it’s alright for me to stay here, Mr. Neuvillette? I wouldn’t want to impose, especially when you’ve already done so much for me…”

He shook his head, not a single hair falling out of place no matter how much he moved. Despite having stayed in Neuvillette’s home for several days already and spending every moment with him once his duties were done for the day, you never got used to how he always seemed so…dignified.

He practically embodied the calm, deep waters of Fontaine.

Oh, if only you knew the utterly depraved thoughts he had of you from the moment he found you washed up on shore. 

How his blood roared with the need to have you pressed down on the ground as he slid both his aching cocks into your dripping hole, the ridges along his length scraping against your gooey insides before filling you up with his virile seed. 

How the image of you glowing with motherhood, with the proof of his claim was perpetually stuck at the back of his head. It taunted him to make it a reality lest you be snatched up by some other unworthy male.

“You are a most welcome guest in my abode. I assure you that there will never be a time when you’ll become a burden to me,” his hand swiftly clutched yours, lifting it and pressing his lips to the back of it.

You swear you could hear your own heart beating thanks to Neuvillette’s burning gaze alone.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

“I-I don’t know why I’m feeling this way…! Everything’s…too hot and i-itchy right now…!”

Blood pounded in his ears and his eyes dilated, nostrils flaring as the scent of your heat flooded all of his senses. His eyes feasted on the sight of you writhing and clawing off your clothes, revealing your supple skin bit by bit to his ravenous gaze.

If Neuvillette was truly the gentleman and paragon of justice that he tried to be every single, then he might have already left and called Sigewinne to brew a calming concoction for you.

But he always knew deep down that he was still a slave to his own baser instincts. An enlightened beast will always be a beast, no matter how many times he hid this fact…even from himself.

“Shhhh…No need for any more tears, ma moitié.”

He loomed over your form as he reached your bed in what seemed to be the blink of an eye, gloved hand cupping your chin as one long finger wiped a stray tear away.

“I am here.”

Perhaps it’s your addled senses or your own hidden affections for the Iudex that make you lean into his touch even as heat wracked your entire body.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

When he ruts his hips into you and buries the entire length of one of his cocks inside your weeping cunt, your hazy world becomes clear as you feel his tip probing at the entrance to your womb.

The feeling of Neuvillette’s second cock slapping against the softness of your belly with each thrust makes you feel sorry for the unattended organ. 

Despite burying your face against the feather-soft pillows while he mounted you from behind, you manage to turn your head enough to be able to voice out your thoughts.

You almost weep when he pulls out and his movements cease, wondering if he found you too lascivious for his tastes.

But when you feel two tips pressing against your stretched pussy, you all but sigh in relief as he sinks himself home. Despite the initial burn as you’re stretched to almost your limit, being stuffed so full made you forget about any pain you might’ve initially felt.

As the base of his cocks inflate and lock him inside of you, all the heat that ravaged you earlier is replaced with contentment as his seed pumps straight into your womb with no chance of escape. 

You allow yourself to fall asleep against his chest when he flips you both over to lay you on top of him. Your consciousness fades as you’re lulled by his heartbeat.

[invalidstories]

would you be willing to write a story about a hero who asks the villain for help, and even though the villain hates them they start to feel concerned despite themselves, because hero is in such a state?

When the Hero Falls

Thank you for the ask anon, I really enjoyed writing this. Kind of ashamed of how long this took, hope you like it though. Warning: injuries, blood, wounds The rain fell in sheets, drenching the city in a cold, unrelenting downpour. The hero stood at the edge of the abandoned warehouse, their silhouette trembling against the flickering streetlight. Blood dripped from their side, staining the puddles beneath their boots a faint crimson. They shouldn’t have come here. They knew they shouldn’t have. But desperation had a way of making even the unthinkable seem reasonable.

Inside, the villain sat at a makeshift desk, fingers steepled, their sharp features illuminated by the glow of a single monitor. They didn’t look up when the door creaked open, though their lips curled into a sneer. “Well, well. To what do I owe the honor of this intrusion?” Their voice was dripping with sarcasm, but it faltered when they finally glanced up.

The hero was a mess. Their uniform was torn, their face pale and drawn, and their breathing shallow. They leaned heavily against the doorframe, one hand clutching their side. “I… need your help,” they rasped, their voice barely audible over the storm.

The villain froze. For a moment, the air between them crackled with tension. Then they laughed—a cold, bitter sound. “You’ve got to be joking. You, the paragon of justice, coming to me for help? What’s next? Asking me to hold your hand and sing lullabies?”

The hero didn’t respond. Instead, their legs buckled, and they collapsed to their knees, a pained gasp escaping their lips. The villain’s smirk vanished. They stood abruptly, chair scraping against the concrete floor. “Oh, for—really? You’re not even going to try to make this convincing?”

But the hero didn’t move. Their head bowed, rainwater dripping from their hair, their shoulders shaking with the effort of staying upright. The villain hesitated. They took a step forward, then another until they were crouching in front of the hero, their gloved hand tilting the hero’s chin up.

The sight made their stomach twist. The hero’s eyes were glassy, their skin clammy. This wasn’t an act. This wasn’t some elaborate trap. This was… real.

“Who did this to you?” the villain demanded, their voice sharper than intended. They hated the concern that crept into their tone, hated the way their chest tightened at the sight of their nemesis brought so low.

The hero managed a weak smile, though it didn’t reach their eyes. “Does it matter? You’ve always said you wanted to see me fall.”

The villain’s jaw clenched. “I wanted to be the one to do it,” they snapped. “Not… this.” They stood, pulling the hero to their feet with surprising gentleness. “You’re lucky I hate wasting resources. Come on. Let’s get you patched up before you bleed out on my floor.”

As they half-carried the hero to the back room, the villain couldn’t shake the unease settling in their chest. This was wrong. All of it. They weren’t supposed to care. They weren’t supposed to feel this… whatever it was. But as they laid the hero down and began cleaning the wound, they couldn’t help but wonder what could have driven their fearless hero to seek help from the one person who despised them most.

And, more troublingly, why they couldn’t bring themselves to turn them away.

Masterlist

[moonjunio]

Fitchivalry has Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria, part 2! (Part one here)

Okay, so I’m not going to further dissect the Quarrel, tempting as that is. I’m more interested about some of the other effects of RSD in Fitzy’s life. Disclaimer: this is how I’m learning about RSD, so I might get stuff wrong. It helps me understand my husband better if I realize that much like Fitz, he may not make sense to me sometimes, but he’s doing his best with the overactive nervous system he was given.

Ok exhibit A: People pleasing to the point of self erasure

This is Chade comforting Fitz. But as we know, Chade is entirely comfortable withdrawing affection until Fitz does what he wants. Shrewd’s interest in Fitz is similar, only more distant. Burrich also has unattainable standards for approval. The message of Fitz’s childhood is “be someone else (or at least pretend), or you’re back out in the cold.”

additudemag.com quote:

One thing I don’t understand yet about RSD is whether it’s actually an inborn disorder, or maybe it’s so highly associated with ADHD because of pattern recognition? If you can only be loved by changing your basic way of being, it only makes sense that you’d become hypervigilant about rejection.

Exhibit B: valuing his utility to others over his literal life

Above - Galen 😡 Remember this sadistic POS almost convinced Fitz he was worthless? While Skill suggestion definitely played a big part, Fitz’s desperate need for approval is what made him put up with the “training” in the first place. Being “good for” something is core to his survival strategy, which paradoxically puts him in life threatening situations over and over and over.

Until he completely burns out and goes off the grid for years, in total isolation. Losing Molly and Burrich is too much, so once he’s fulfilled his duty, he figures everyone is better off without him.

Exhibit C: all or nothing thinking

As Amber says much later, Fitz is a “man of many talents.” Maybe that’s why he manages to do both of these options.

Kettricken understands Fitz as a noble leader, becoming a paragon (heh) of self-sacrifice. But the cost is extreme indeed.

Kettricken may serve as a useful example of how cultural conditioning is not the same as RSD. The latter produces incapacitating emotional pain, to be avoided at all costs. I doubt that Kettricken suffers in the same way. Serving is not always joyful for her, but she does appear to operate from a place of fairly serene duty.

This last bit is crucial to getting some sense of the intense suffering produced by RSD. While typical people certainly know the pain of rejection, it’s easy to dismiss the RSD person as “just too sensitive,” “irrational,” and “just need to get over it.”

While it could be considered a form of extreme sensitivity, it’s not a choice and nobody wants to hurt more. For the RSD individual, this emotional pain can be so extreme that they can only cope by avoiding the triggers altogether.

Side note: my husband hated the ending of book 3 and never read past the first trilogy. Too relatable? Is it not heroic enough, to give up on getting your life back? 🤷🏻‍♀️ He’d probably tell Fitz to suck it up and get back to work (like he does).

Everyone else flys back to deliver the cavalry of stone dragons, but Fitz won’t leave Nighteyes, the only companion he can always count on.

Of course, until the Fool pulls him out of early retirement. Let’s take a moment to pretend they got to live their best cottagecore life together instead. 🛖🌳🐺🥰

[ETA: the illustrations by the stunning Magali Villeneuve are from the Illustrated Edition of the first trilogy, the ISBN for Assassin’s Apprentice is 978-1-9848-1785-3 if you can still find it! Best edition IMHO]

[fazedlight]

Burn

Over. And over. And over again.

Kara stared at the screen as she watched the simulation of Argo’s destruction - the dancing lights of the wave erasing the small asteroid - as she relived the familiar sensation of becoming the last daughter of Krypton.

Kara swiped at the simulation, shifting to Earth-38. Her adopted planet, a culture that she had once found alien and strange. Her younger self could never have imagined the love she would have for this green and blue marble, for the people of the new strange city who would each become lights. Lights that had been extinguished.

For a second time, she watched as her home was wiped from stars.

The simulation showed again how Earth had been scattered into stardust, and she thought about her loved ones who had managed to survive, stuck on one of the multitude of ships in a haphazard fleet around her above Earth-1. She was desperate to get them all on the Waverider, to give Alex a hug, to beg Lena’s forgiveness, even to hear an encouraging word from Cat… if they had made it.

Paragon of Hope, she thought, ripping off her glasses to watch the simulation again. I’m not the paragon of anything.

“An entire universe wiped from existence,” came a familiar voice behind her, sending chills up her spine, “Distilled down to a computer graphic…”

Kara spun on her heel, eyes wide in disbelief. But the bald, smirking man in front of her was real - and amused. “Gotta say,” he said, “Missing that wow factor.”

“Lena killed you,” Kara growled, feeling the rush of adrenaline in her veins. She killed you and she lost me, Kara’s mind screamed. She killed you for me and now she can never forgive me.

“Only for a little while,” Lex winked back.

There were lines she didn’t cross on Earth. No death if she could help it, and certainly no cold-blooded murder. But as she marched forward - eyes burning red and still carrying the shredded pain of grief in her chest - her only thought was I lost Lena for you. The planets of both her Houses were gone, Lena despised her if she had even survived, and there was nothing left but incoherent rage. Lena killed you, Kara thought, and I will keep it that way.

“Everyone has a part to play,” came the fractured voice of the Monitor, like a cold wave washing her back from the edge. “Even Lex Luthor.” Kara halted, dimming her eyes. And though she argued back, feeling her distrust bubble over with rage of the unsaved humans and Oliver and the destruction that was yet to come, she also wrestled numbly. Both with what the Monitor had done…

And what she had been prepared to do.

------- If you want a different take on Crisis, I also wrote a supercorp version a while ago.

[youngerfrankenstein]

Frare’s “So you want to play Baldur’s Gate 1 (EE)” Tips

- Skip the tutorial. I’m serious. While there is some helpful info in there (memorizing spells, thieving) the whole thing is kind of poorly explained and information overload so you’re best just looking up things as you find you need to know them.

- Save twice as much as you think you need to. Hell, make it three times. Any time you uncover a bunch of the map or before speaking to an NPC in the wilderness or after taking down a tough mob. Trust me on this. SAVE OFTEN. And don’t be afraid to have a bunch of save files per game. There is an autosave feature before each map change which does help quite a bit.

- You add more places to your map by exiting from different sides of the current area you’re exploring.

- You will be long resting a LOT. For one thing travelling takes a long time in game and your characters get fatigued. But you also can’t rely on this to heal you. It will reload all of your spells but it does very little in the way of hit point restoration. Also, while you’ll be fine resting at inns, resting in the wilderness or dungeons will sometimes spawn enemies instead.

- And speaking of hit points! You will not have many. Managing them, ESPECIALLY in long dungeons, is something you’ll have to get the hang of. You NEED a healer, there are a limited number of healing potions in the game. And while there’s a decent amount you cannot be relying solely on them. Also, BUY ANTIDOTES. While there aren’t that many enemies who use poison it IS op as hell and can wipe out a character fast. You can also pay for healing at any church.

- Even if you never use Neera, recruit her, take her Gem Bag and then you can kick her out. Also make sure to give Firebead in Beregost the book he’s looking for for a Scroll Case and buy the Potion Bag in High Hedge. These three items will make inventory management a hundred times easier and it can be a PAIN in this game.

- You have a LOT of possible companions scattered around the game world. (25 from the original release and 4 added in 2012’s EE) Which does leave you a lot of wiggle room for how you want to build your party. A couple of notes; Alignment is a thing in this game and it mostly applies to the companions. In general if you are a paragon of virtue your Evil companions will eventually ditch you and if you’re a murderhobo your Good and Neutral ones will. (Also if you’re a good person things cost less at shops. If only it worked like that in real life.) Look Reputation up for more info.

- Second note, you will basically always want a beefy front-line fighter, a thief and a HEALER. The rest is a little more malleable.

- A few companions only come as part of a packaged deal. (Khalid and Jaheira, Xzar and Montaron, Minsc and Dynaheir, Eldoth and Skie)

- LOWER ARMOUR CLASS IS GENERALLY BETTER! I know it feels super counter-intuitive but it’s true.

- In terms of ammo, arrows can be found on enemies pretty easily. Bullets and bolts cannot, buy more. More than that.

- Items with a blue outline are unidentified. You can pay 100 gold at a store or church to get them identified, use the identify spell... or in most cases just put it in the inventory of a character with fairly high Lore and right click on it. (I wasted so much gold...) Also best to not try things on without identifying them as some of the items are cursed.

- Don’t worry too much about trying to uncover every single thing, just enjoy the ride. You’ll do fine. (Unless that’s how you have fun, in which case go nuts I guess)

- HAVE FUN! The experience is definitely dated and frustrating at times, but there is a lot the game has to offer. And remember that if you’re really not enjoying yourself there’s no shame in dropping a game. And maybe it just doesn’t sound like your thing. But I’d recommend you give it a shot if you’re interested.

Keep in mind not all of these will be helpful in the original BG1 if you somehow have it, like the inventory management items. But most are still accurate!

[dragonologist-phd]

Introducing: Marja Aeducan

In Summary:

Grey Warden, Commander of the Grey, Arlessa of Amaranthine, Paragon

Noble Dwarf

Warrior (Champion/Berserker)

Main Weapon: Two-Handed Battleaxe

Commanding; Decisive; Perfectionist; Honorable

Relevant Fic: Of Diamonds And Dust, Shapes in the Silence

more rambling:

Origin:

Endrin's golden child with open ambitions for the throne

She earned the respect and admiration of many through her skill with both military and diplomatic strategies. Despite this, she had few real friends; Gorim and Bhelen were the only people she truly trusted

Her main hindrance was that she does deeply believe in Orzammar's values and system of honor. She considers breaking that honor to be an action borne of weakness and a betrayal of the Ancestors, and holds herself to high standards even when others don't

As such, she refused to kill Trian and was devastated that everyone was so quick to believe she did. She vowed to return, reveal the truth, and take her rightful place as queen

She became a Warden alongside Darvis Brosca, who was recruited by Duncan at the same time

Major Choices:

Negotiated peace with Dalish and werewolves

Allowed Isolde to sacrifice herself for the good of Redcliffe

Saved the mages at the Circle

Defiled the Ashes of Andraste (long story)

Destroyed the Anvil and, after much strife, crowned Bhelen king of Orzammar (again, long story)

Allowed Alistair to duel and kill Loghain at the Landsmeet. Placed Anora on the throne alone

Would have sacrificed herself to the archdemon, had Darvis not performed the Dark Ritual with Morrigan

Party Dynamics:

Best friends with Alistair. They clicked immediately; he was relieved and reassured to have someone so decisive take the lead after Ostagar, and she was endeared (and occasionally baffled) by his sincere support and friendship

Grew fond of Sten over time. They got off on the wrong foot, but eventually learned to communicate better and realized they had a lot in common

Thinks Shale is the coolest and peppered it constantly with questions it couldn't remember the answers to. Shale was annoyed occasionally, but also flattered

Her friendship with Oghren can be complicated, but he understands her conflicting feelings toward Orzammar like few can. They've both been betrayed by their Caste, they both feel indebted to their society despite that, and they both resist talking about those feelings and end up drinking together about them instead

If I talk about Darvis we'll be here all day but suffice to say they hated each other at first, then with time and growth on both their parts formed a very strong bond. They're narrative foils; they're reluctant friends; they're ride-or-die comrades; they're in-laws. They're everything to me

Romance:

Has a genuinely sweet romance with Leliana, whose own complicated past with politics and court life gives her insight to Marja's conflict; Marja, in turn, finds Leliana's ability to find beauty in the world inspiring

Unfortunately, some of the beliefs they hold can't be reconciled, and eventually put strain on their relationship. When Marja's desecration of the ashes at Haven is revealed, they break up for good

Despite resolutions to forgo romance afterwards, she finds herself charmed by Sigrun's cheerful pragmatism and determination, and the two begin an informal relationship

Epilogue:

She survives her encounter with the archdemon, but is left with aftereffects; these mainly manifest as chronic pain and a heightened sensitivity to the Blight. Due to her chronic pain and the resulting exhaustion on her body, she takes to using a cane to get around

Becomes Arlessa of Amaranthine and commands the Fereldan Wardens from a strategic role, while Solenne Kader is sent from Orlais to act as commander in the field

Her Calling begins early, and she begins making arrangements for her last mission. Alistair and Sigrun manage to convince her to quest for a cure instead. She and Sigrun leave together on this quest, and haven't been seen since

Misc:

She acquires an interest in herbalism while on the surface, and keeps a book of dried flowers and plants she's collected

Despite being raised in luxury, she'll choose practicality over fashion every time, and doesn't really miss the jewels and trinkets she acquired as a Noble. What she does miss are the luxurious hot baths powered by the lava pools of Orzammar

While she always kind of knew she was a lesbian, she never acted on it due to the social pressures in Orzammar over having children. Her time on the surface during the Blight was the first time she was really able to explore her sexuality and general gender presentation, and it was a lot to wrap her head around

Although she doesn't have or want children of her own, she is the Cool Aunt to no less than four kids (Kieran, Gorim's kid, Oghren's kid, and Baby Endrin)

The game mabari imprinted on Darvis rather than her; howeever, during the Awakening era, Anora gifts her a mabari puppy which she names Astyth

Shortly after her reunion with Gorim in Denerim, she has an identity crisis and indulged in one of my favorite tropes, the Dramatic Character Moment Haircut (before and after pictured below)

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[alchemistc]

goon | bucktommy | chapter six

check out the hockey glossary here (updated through chapter six)

Prologue | Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five

read Chapter Six on ao3

Tommy nearly hadn’t made it here.

Not in terms of mortality — four years ago, he’d blocked a shot with his skate, and felt the twinge of it for the rest of the game, but it wasn’t until he’d taken his skate off and seen his foot swell to three times it’s normal size that the adrenaline had worn off.

The force of the puck had broken his foot in three places.

He’d spent almost a year rehabbing that injury, and there’d been a month or so there when the numbness of the pain meds they’d prescribed him had been preferable to thinking about the trajectory of his career — getting into junior leagues far too old to really make waves, paying for travel teams off the pity of his aunt; the scholarship that had barely covered his tuition as he worked his way through a degree, sleeping three hours a night and housing enough coffee to keep a South American country’s economy alive, mornings and evenings devoted to a hockey team that hadn’t made a D1 playoff appearance in years and days spent reading and rereading his lecture notes like if he somehow stayed a good student, the scholarship might cover his meals by the time he was a senior; drafted by Toronto in the fifth round sort of as a throwaway, and spending the next two years bouncing from AHL to ECHL teams without even a glimpse of a shot at the show; a trade to an on-the-rise Pittsburg and an injured Penguin who no one else on the farm team had enough knowledge of both defensive and forward positions to fill his spot; a year and a half riding the bench with the brightest fucking star this league had seen since Gretzky, and realizing that for all that he and Sidney Crosby had had incredibly different life experiences, at the end of the day they were cut from the same cloth; ten more years of bouncing from team to team, mentoring every mentally ill first round draft pick that latched on to him day one, learning half the leagues dirty laundry without ever once airing his own.

The day he’d rolled out of bed and popped three oxy before he’d been awake enough to assess his pain levels, he’d spent six hours researching therapists and flushed the rest of the pills down the drain.

Therapy had taught him plenty. About himself, about the world at large, about how to manage every Big Feeling he’d ever repressed just to make it through the next few hours.

He wouldn’t call himself a paragon of mental health. He’s still never said the words aloud to Harold, even though they’ve danced around that issue as much as they possibly can. He’s subsisted on hookups and beards for most of his life, and he’s never let himself imagine a world where the things he desires most want him back.

It’s a lonely way to live, according to Harold, and sometimes he wonders if the people in his life who know pity him for it.

Buck brushes past him into his hotel room, and Tommy takes five steadying breaths, presses his heels into the floor, and turns to stare at the back of Buck’s head while he stares around the room like he’s not set up in a carbon copy of it, six doors down.

Tommy shuts the door, and doesn’t let himself think about who might have been poking their head out at just the right time to see Tommy let him in.

(It’s a ridiculous thought. They’re friends. They play on the same team together. Maybe Buck is just here to lay into him the way Bobby hadn’t about how fucking stupid a risk it was to get himself thrown in the box with ten minutes left in a game.)

Buck makes a move towards the bed, then seems to second guess it. There is a painting on the wall that is likely an exact match for the one in every room on this floor, three uneven black lines splashed across a background of ocean-blue. A television taking up the entire length of the chest of drawers, a desk with an ergonomic chair tucked into a little alcove, and two uncomfortable looking chairs around a tiny table, cast in the orange glow of the city below them, framed by curtains Tommy hasn’t even been here long enough to close.

No distractions. No trinkets, nothing to draw the eye that Buck hasn’t seen a million times before, unless Buck is suddenly extremely interested in the airport bodice ripper cracked open and balanced on the pillow next to where Tommy had been lounging, before the knock.

Buck eyes it for a moment, shockingly blank faced, before he turns to Tommy and takes a deep, steadying breath.

Tommy doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“I need to apologize,” Buck begins, once the air in his lungs has been blown back out, and Tommy’s eyes snap to his. Pockets. He has pockets.

Christ, he’s in the most threadbare sweatpants he owns, the pockets were a bad idea.

“You don’t have anything to apologize for, Buck.” Not to him, anyway.

“Evan,” Buck interrupts, and time stills. He feels like they’re threading a needle, frayed edges that refuse to line up, but if they just snip off the ends... “When we met, I told you to call me Evan, but you never did.”

His smile is wry, and he wrings his hands, nerves on full display as he takes yet another weighted breath. In contrast, Tommy feels like a marionette who’s master has pulled all his strings tight and wandered off to parts unknown.

“I do need to apologize,” he continues. “I’ve been — I haven’t been fair to you, or Eddie, but right now I’m... I just want you to know that I’m sorry. I’ve been a dick, and it’s not your fault.”

“Everyone has bad days.” And why is Tommy crossing his arms, now? What astronomically horrible thing is Buck about to say to him that he feels the need to guard himself from it? Sorry, I hope we can be friends.

“It’s been, like, weeks, man, you don’t have to sugarcoat it. Not my proudest moment. Series, of moments.”

Something loosens, in his core, a slow unravelling as Buck stares at him imploringly, and Tommy feels one side of his mouth tilting up. Buck’s gaze follows the little twitch, head tilting (always the fucking head tilt, with him) his own serious expression melting, just a little. “Noted.”

“Did I ever tell you my sister used to take me to Bears games, every year?”

The non sequitur throws him for a loop. Tommy rolls his lips in, bites at the flesh of his lower one and raises a brow, not bothering to pretend he has any idea where this is going.

“Travel leagues always made it difficult, but — every year we’d find a way to make it to the the teddy bear toss. We’d go with, like, ten stuffed animals a piece, and she’d always get the good seats — close enough to the glass that during that first toss, we’d get buried under all the ones that didn’t get thrown far enough to make it to the ice, so I’d spend twenty minutes getting all mine over the glass, and then all the ones that didn’t make it.”

Tommy remembers his time in Hershey fondly. He’d been down with the flu, for the first charity game, and halfway out the door for the second, but when that goal buzzer sounded and the stuffed animals rained down, he’d done the same thing as every other player on the ice, a time honored tradition of diving at the piles of them like kids jumping into freshly raked leaves.

“The last time she took me, I was fifteen. Too cool for school, by then, and I spent the whole game kind of hating her for making me go.”

Tommy blinks, doing the math while Buck’s smile goes a little wide.

“There was this player, though, that I hadn’t seen the year before. I was so scrawny, back then, and just, like, obsessed with goons. Just the idea of them. Big tough guys, whose only real job was to make sure if someone messed with their teammates they’d pay for it.”

Tommy’d played that game with three bruised ribs he’d re-injured jumping into a pile of kids toys.

Buck’s head tilts from one side to the other. “When that first goal got scored, and everyone started throwing bears, I was — I was up almost up against the glass, pouting about it, arguing with Maddie, trying to hand her all the ones she’d brought for me to throw. And this guy — this guy I’d nearly lost my voice cheering for every time he laid a filthy hit, right? He skated right up to the glass and started giving me shit for not helping my neighbors clear out all the stuffed animals stuck on the wrong side of the boards.”

Tommy doesn’t know when he’d let his arms fall loose at his sides again, or when they’d started to drift closer, but he’s close enough to smell the pomade in Buck’s hair when the memory surfaces.

“I had to barter my fucking stick to get you to start throwing bears.”

Buck’s laugh is quiet, soft and bright while his cheeks dance up. “I still have it,” he admits, eyes dipping to the floor, like he’s nervous. “Your rookie card, too. I mean, I have, like, hundreds of rookie cards, but when I found out we were trading for you I had Maddie pull that box out of storage, and for three months now I’ve been trying to figure out why.”

Tommy swallows, shifts his weight. Harold is gonna have a fucking field day, trying to help Tommy unpack all of this. Buck is smiling, wide, eyes catching the light as he chases Tommy’s gaze.

“My sister says there are better ways to get someone’s attention than maiming my best friend about it.”

Tommy has spent twenty years being overly cautious. The first and only time he’d attempted to hold down a relationship, the guy had decided to surprise him by buying tickets behind the bench for an away game three thousand miles away, and rather than enjoy the win and whisk him off to his hotel room before the rest of the team realized he’d left dinner early, he’d refused to look beyond the glass all game, and sent him a confirmation for a return flight, hiding in the bathroom between the second and the third.

Tommy wants to kiss him.

Say fuck it to the last twenty years, throw it down the drain, ignore every precaution he’s ever taken for the silver-blue shine in Evan Buckley’s eyes as he says too much and not enough at the same time.

He has great fucking lips. Pink and plump with a nasty habit of going a little pouty, when he’s at rest, and Tommy doesn’t need to look down at them to confirm, but he does anyway, and follows the line of his jaw, the stretch of tendons in his neck as he swallows. He can just make out the silvery line of the scar tucked next to the bunched up fabric of the hoodie he’s wearing.

“I don’t have your rookie card,” Tommy admits between breaths, and Buck’s laugh catches and falters just before he leans in and captures Tommy’s lips between his own.

It’s quiet, at first.

Tommy’s hand, with a mind of it’s own, slides up, two fingers pressing to the meaty underside of Buck’s jaw to improve the angle. Lips against lips, and the quiet breath that escapes Buck when Tommy is satisfied with the tilt of Buck’s head and drops his hand to Buck’s waist, fingers just ghosting over the fabric there before he presses his palm in.

Buck takes that for a green fucking light, surging in with a tilt of his head, nose pressed to Tommy’s cheek as his tongue slides along the seam of Tommy’s lips, half a step closer as one hand comes up to cradle Tommy’s jaw, the other smoothing over the fabric at Tommy’s shoulder, fingers digging in to the meat of his muscle for the span of a moment before he slides the hand down to cup his elbow.

Tommy gasps into his mouth, and Buck just dives right in.

When Tommy was twelve, one of the kids on the cul de sac, Terry Waters, had spent an hour complaining about his mom while they all practiced The Michigan, oblivious to Tommy seething in silence, barely keeping a lid on the urge to remind them all that at least they had moms. The only one of them who’d gotten close to nailing it was an eight year old girl on her pastel-pink roller skates, and Tommy can still remember the way she’d looked, for all of a moment, with the whiffle ball tucked against the blade of a stick half-a-foot too tall for her, right before Terry Waters had knocked a knee against her stick and dislodged the ball.

Two years later, he’d kissed Terry Waters under the bleachers in the gym of their high school, and when they’d broken apart Terry had wiped his whole forearm across the lower half of his face and threatened to tell Tommy’s dad if he ever told another soul what they’d just done.

Buck’s thumb slides across his jaw, tucks itself neatly into his cleft and presses down, just enough pressure to force Tommy’s mouth a little wider.

Tommy needs a minute. They both need a minute.

They both need to get a fucking grip, is what they need to do.

Tommy exerts some forward momentum on the hand that is currently fisted in the fabric of Buck’s hoodie, bunching it at the waist, and Buck whines, high and reedy, lips twisting up against Tommy’s, and though his torso follows the direction of Tommy’s hand, his head and neck don’t move.

“Buck,” Tommy murmurs across his lips, and doesn’t fight the feeling of Buck’s hand curling around the side of his neck, or the way Buck uses the fulcrum of his gentle shove to swing his hips and press his weight right back into Tommy, and — fuck, they need to think about this, they need to talk about this, they need to get further away from the bed that is right behind Buck.

Buck nips at Tommy’s lower lip and Tommy groans, desperately searching his mind for anything that could derail this without sending Buck running out the door.

“Evan,” Tommy says, and Buck stills against him, breath coming in heavy pants as he pulls just far enough away to catch Tommy’s eye. There’s a rosy tint to his cheeks, and a heavy look in his eye, mouth still open and an obscene little curl to his lower lip. Buck blinks, gaze taking a leisurely little stroll from holding Tommy’s gaze, down over the slope of his nose, right back to Tommy’s lips, and when he sways back in Tommy lets him, for just a moment.

Unfurling his fingers from the fabric of Buck’s shirt, he straightens his palm and tucks it up against Buck’s ribs, which earns him a breathy sigh and a squeeze at his elbow, followed closely by a groan of protest when Tommy presses, gently pushing him back half a step.

He blinks, again, a second before the grin begins to overtake his expression once more. “Tommy,” he intones, slightly mocking, and Tommy can’t quite hide the twitch of his lips as he tries desperately to keep a straight face. “Say it again.”

They need to talk about this. Tommy still has an apology of his own, fully scripted with contingencies for whatever reactions he’d anticipated Buck having. This hadn’t factored in to a single one of his scenarios. Tommy takes a moment to straighten out the bunched fabric of his hoody. “It,” he quips, shifting just his eyes up, staring through his lashes as Buck purses his lips in faux-irritation. Buck shifts his weight back, and Tommy nearly loses his balance without Buck’s hand to steady him. “Evan.”

He laughs, bright and happy in this sensibly decorated hotel room, with the lights of Boston casting the side of his face in an orange glow that makes the shadows of his laugh lines stand out starkly against his skin. “Yeah, I know why I introduced myself like that, now.”

Tommy would like to point out the utter insanity of the last ten minutes. Maybe see what he remembers of the Microsoft Office suite, set up a PowerPoint presentation with clipart and horrible transitions for each slide. Write a paper on how fucking batshit this is.

Buck slides his hand around Tommy’s hip, thumb rolling neatly and eagerly under the hem of Tommy’s shirt to shift against bare skin, and he looks a little smug when Tommy’s breath catches. Tommy attempts a stern expression, but he’s pretty sure all he manages is fond. “I am not sleeping with you tonight, Evan Buckley.”

“Presumptuous,” Buck murmurs, sliding back into Tommy’s space, two fingers in the pocket of Tommy’s sweats and the meat of his cheek sucked between his teeth. “I am gonna kiss you again, though,” he warns, and Tommy decides they’ll have plenty of time to talk, later.

---

Buck hitches a leg up over Tommy’s thigh, as the sun tips out over the horizon.

Somewhere between frantic make-outs number three and four, they’d stumbled their way over to the bed, and despite the hundreds of sirens and bells and gongs going off in his head, he’d let himself be tugged down over Buck, tongue sliding to the roof of his mouth while Buck snuck a grab at handfuls of his ass.

But he hadn’t pushed it any further.

It was only when their jaws had started to ache that he’d wheedled an invitation to stay out of Tommy, puppy-eyed pleading out in full force as he rolled his head against a pillow, glowering at the paperback in his way (how they hadn’t disturbed it, Tommy has no fucking clue) before tucking the thumb he’d had in Tommy’s mouth five minutes earlier in between the pages to hold his place while he scrambled up on his stupid long legs to grab a spare piece of paper from the notepad on the desk to use as a bookmark.

“I’ll keep my hands to myself and everything,” he’d promised, which had been a flagrant lie.

But he hadn’t pushed — fingers tracing the hills and valleys of Tommy’s abs while he admitted he’d had himself a nice long fit over how much Sidney Crosby seemed to know about him, lips ghosting over the arm of Tommy’s t-shirt as he told him about the enlightening conversation he’d had with Maddie, two days earlier, palm a steady weight against Tommy’s ribcage as he confessed to wanting to slew-foot his best friend for monopolizing all of Tommy’s attention, the last few weeks.

Buck’s half-hard, against the seam of Tommy’s sweats, but even as he readjusts the angle of the leg he’s thrown over Tommy’s, there’s no effort to ramp things back up. He’s been yawning between rambles for a good hour, now, and Tommy’s been too caught up in trying to memorize the exact color and shape of his birthmark to call him out on it. But his words have begun to slow, his eyelashes shifting against Tommy’s shoulder as he keeps trying to blink himself awake, and despite no longer having any plans for this morning, they’re both going to regret staying up so late when they have a game in a day and a half. “We should sleep,” Tommy says, and Buck digs his nose into Tommy’s shoulder in protest, shaking his head while he yawns into the meat of Tommy’s bicep.

“I’m — not even —.” His breath blows out hot against Tommy’s arm. “Not even tired,” he promises, fingers stretching out over Tommy’s ribcage.

Tommy’s hand makes a pass through the close-cropped hair on the back of Buck’s head and his lashes flutter closed. “Well, as you so deftly pointed out earlier, I’ve got almost a decade on you. Old man bones need rest.”

Buck snorts into Tommy’s armpit. “Thought we weren’t talking about your old man bone, tonight.”

There’s something achy and warm blooming beneath Tommy’s ribs that he absolutely refuses to acknowledge until they’ve both slept on this. He grabs the spare pillow from behind his head and whacks Buck’s thigh, instead. “Weak, three out of ten, I know you can do better.”

“Guess I need to rest and recuperate my flirting skills.”

Tommy hums, and lets his eyes tip closed as Buck fluffs up pillows and rearranges his limbs. He’s asleep before Buck’s even fully settled.

---

Tommy scrambles out of bed at the knock on his door, blinking sleep out of his eyes as his hand slides across the opposite side of the bed, which is rumpled and cool.

He takes a beat to wonder exactly how much of the previous night he’s going to regret, when a cursory glance around the room reveals no signs of Buck.

The knocking starts up again, and Tommy runs a hand over his face, checks the time.

9:45

Four hours of sleep, and still the latest he’s slept in in about ten years.

A third round of knocking interrupts his muddy thoughts, and he levers himself up out of bed with a groan, fully prepared to slam the door back in whoever’s face once he’s given them a cursory greeting and the stink eye, but when he swings the door open he’s met with the smiling face of Eddie, who is holding up a take-out bag with a raised brow.

Christ.

He hadn’t even looked in the mirror before he’d opened the door. He wonders how likely it is that Eddie will believe him if he plays off the hickey he knows Buck had been aiming to mark into the side of his neck as a bruise from Johnston’s chokehold, yesterday afternoon.

“Hey,” he says, and freezes a moment later when the toilet flushes in the bathroom.

Eddie tips his head from side to side. “So I guess you and Buck made up, too.”

(Teeth sliding along his lower lip, a hand around the back of his neck, Buck smiling bashfully against Tommy’s lips as he told him he’d apologized to Eddie before knocking on Tommy’s door.)

“Mm, yeah. We talked.”

Eddie squints at him. “Clearly.”

Tommy has no idea what the fuck that means, and he’s terrified to ask. They hadn’t talked about shit last night. (They’d talked about a million things, actually, the same shit they did with walls between them and phones tucked to their ears, but not this. Not exactly what either one of them were willing to let anyone else know.)

He’s saved the burden of responding by the bathroom door swinging open. Buck’s in the same jeans he’d worn the previous night, but he’s wearing one of Tommy’s t-shirts, and Tommy spends thirty seconds waffling between full-blown panic and a steady thrum of lust.

Buck snags the bag from Eddie’s outstretched fingers, and Eddie reels back, a practiced look of offense on his face.

Tommy is suddenly remembering the rumpled sheets and the indent on the pillow that is fully visible to Eddie from his position in the doorway. He doesn’t seem to notice, too busy staring at the bag Buck has cradled carefully to his chest. “What’s up?”

“Josh asked me to tell Tommy to, and I quote, ‘answer his goddamn texts and stop pretending to be a dinosaur, I know he knows how to use his phone’. End quote.”

“Well, you’ve told him.” Buck nods, and Eddie’s lips purse.

“Are you punishing me right now?”

“No.”

“Because it feels like you’ve made up with Tommy and now you’re trying to even out the time I spent with him solo by sharing our favorite food in this city with only Tommy.”

Which explains exactly why he’d been completely unsurprised to see Buck wandering out of Tommy’s bathroom at a completely reasonable hour of the day to find a teammate in another teammates room.

“If I give you half my sandwich, will you go back to running errands for Josh and leave me alone?”

Eddie rolls his tongue over his teeth, and tips his head side to side. “I want a full sandwich. I know you ordered an extra one.”

They have an intense little staring contest, right there in the doorway. Buck gives in with a dramatic sigh. “Fine.”

“And a pickle, just for the implication that I do anything for Russo of my own free will.”

Buck’s already tearing into the bag, reaching in to grab what Tommy assumes is the aforementioned sandwich, wrapped up in crisp white paper, which he slaps into Eddie’s hands before digging back in, in search of the pickles, most likely.

Tommy just stands there, head spinning, hyper aware of every muscle in his body while Buck piles more paper-wrapped items on top of the sandwich.

“Go away, now,” Buck says, shooing Eddie back away from the door, out into the hallway. “Let Tommy enjoy his apology sandwich in peace.”

“With you in the room? What sort of peace is he gonna get that way?”

“Goodbye.”

Tommy gets a last good look of Eddie’s bemused expression, right before Buck slams the door in his face.

A beat of silence. Then another, as Tommy listens to Eddie’s footsteps drift off down the hallway.

“Hi,” Buck says, and leans in for a kiss.

Tommy catches his jaw before it lands, and tries desperately to calm the swirling thoughts and not get distracted by the gleam in Buck’s eyes, or the subtle roll of his lower lip as it begins to jut out, pre-pout.

“I’m not out,” is the first thing Tommy can think to say, and Buck’s expression softens.

“Okay.”

“That — with Eddie —.”

“Tommy,” Buck says, voice low, the hand not holding the food curling over Tommy’s forearm. Tommy breathes, and wonders if this is how it’s always going to be. First sign of something good, and Tommy’s booking a one way ticket to the other side of the country. “Okay. That’s fine. I haven’t said anything. I - I wouldn’t.”

Tommy shoves his hands into his pockets and aims a glance at the bag. He’s fine. He can bury it. Let this all settle, and figure it out from there.

He should have sent Buck back to his room, last night, the moment he’d said his name.

“I’m — do you — should I go?”

You seem to do fine with relationships, right up until they feel real to you, Harold had told him, eight months in, after Tommy admitted he preferred it when Harold was a bit of an asshole getting his point across. Lets explore that.

Buck, who’d just spent two weeks quietly seething that his best friend was taking up all of Tommy’s time, looks back at Tommy with nothing but vague concern in his eyes, and Tommy spends a long, long moment reminding himself that he’d spent a good fucking year working his way up to admitting that he’d internalized a lifetime of keeping his feelings to himself and wrapped that up in a romanticized little bow he first time he’d watched Andrew Lincoln scramble to stop Keira Knightley from seeing her wedding film.

It’s self-preservation, he’d quoted to Harold, while Harold jotted something down in his notebook. Tommy liked to think he just kept a running list of all the stupid movie quotes he heard in their sessions.

“I don’t want you to go, Evan,” Tommy admits, and for once in his fucking life just lets himself enjoy the wide smile that brims across Buck’s face a moment before he leans in to press his lips to Tommy’s.

[makenziegraham]

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[lyledebeast]

Dirty Fighting and Slanted Storytelling

I would venture to say that one of the most aggravating things about The Patriot for Jason Isaacs fans is the narrative's refusal to acknowledge what we can all see: Tavington is objectively the best fighter in the story. He just is. He defeats every foe who crosses his path in the river scene, including the one who shoots him. He beats Benjamin Martin to his knees after being wounded by him numerous times. Martin only wins because he's the hero (and because he is nearly pelted with helpful props!)

It's especially grating when the heroes are held up as martial paragons in spite of their conduct. It seems the audience is meant to judge their combat tactics by their morality even when those tactics are dirty. During the fight in the woods after the British take Gabriel, Martin knocks a British soldier down and tomahawks him in the face while he's trying to get up. After he stabs Tavington's horse out from under him, he fires a shot at him while he's disoriented and empty-handed. But when Tavington sucker-punches him during hand to hand combat, the camera moves in on Martin's pained expression, inviting the audience to sympathize with him. Poor man. Who could've guessed that choosing violence would put him on the receiving end of it?

A particularly good example of this reading is the river scene in Stephen Molstad's novelization, which is as much an interpretation of the film as this meta. He describes Tavington as being so rattled that the priest is reloading his weapon as fast as he is that he spills his powder and later fleeing on his horse in terror after he stabs Gabriel, looking over his shoulder in expectation of being pursued. And yet between the moments so described we have Tavington, wounded in the side, lying perfectly still with his back to his assailant waiting for him to approach so he can flip over--from the ground, mind!--and stab him, like this is something a jumpy coward could manage. Tavington has balls of steel to match the buns the camera so lovingly frames in these shots.

Of course, Molstad does not write this scene from Tavington's perspective. He describes this part in third person as follows:

Tavington suddenly flipped himself over and drove the point of a sword into Gabriel’s gut, stabbing upward toward the heart. It happened so suddenly, the young man never had a chance to defend himself.

This sentence immediately follows a paragraph from Gabriel's perspective where he contemplates whether he should butcher Tavington alive the way his father did the Cherokees and French at Fort Wilderness. He briefly considers that he may be "too good a man" for this, but when he considers what his wife must have felt perishing in a burning church with her family and community, he decides he's justified. This scene not only frames Gabriel's choice as Tavington's fault but suggests that blame for Martin's gruesome actions also lay with his victims. That Tavington is framed as the aggressor for defending himself from such a fate is the cherry on top of the reality-averse sundae.

Gabriel and Tavington's deaths are often connected by people who see the second as making a right out of the wrong the first represents, but what we see on screen indicates that Tavington wins both of these fights by being stronger and more resilient than his opponents. But that does not matter because he's a bad man. That Martin regularly brutalizes men who cannot defend themselves, and Gabriel attempts to follow in his footsteps, is treated as equally irrelevant to their status as good men.

What this reading fails to account for is how satisfying it is to see Martin's dirty tactics fail. When we compare his first fight to his last one, Martin looks less like the noble hero and father and more like a high school bully who has been beating up seventh graders to take their lunch money and now has to fight the captain of the boxing team. It is euphoric!

[magic-is-something-we-create]

- 2024 Writing Roundup -

I don't think I usually do this but I decided it would be a fun thing to do each year to remind myself of how much progress I've made when it comes to creations of all kinds, so...

- THINGS I DID THIS YEAR -

Scrapped the second attempt at Goddess-Touched... and after reconfiguring the end of Echoseers, completed a full first draft of the third attempt, from start to finish!

Began drafting book 4, which is tentatively named Fateweavers (though i am thinking about calling it Paragon(s) instead for Lore Reasons)!

Made another full editing pass of Echoseers, (potentially 2, i can't remember for sure) to the point where it'll be given to beta readers who finished Firebreathers to help me debug it some time next year.

This is also the year I gave Whispers to beta readers! And while that happened at a time where many of them couldn't finish, I did get lots of really valuable feedback on the book as a whole!

I launched a whole webcomic! And as you're reading this, Chapter Two is now out for the public! The Lost has been a particularly interesting thing to work on, because of the blend of visuals and writing, and I can't wait to do more and explore where the story is headed!

Also related to art: I took a bunch of commissions, one of which was a series of promotional bookmarks for A Sharper, More Lasting Pain by Alex Harvey-Rivas @authoralexharvey which was my absolute favorite to work on this year, and not just because that book absolutely obliterated me emotionally. The entire illustration process was the coolest thing ever to do with Alex, and I'll forever be grateful to them for choosing me to do it <3

- MY NUMBERS THIS YEAR -

Because I myself sometimes get caught up in numbers in a Bad Way, this section's going to be behind the read more - I'm really proud of what I managed this year, though!

If you want to skip past the numbers, there will be another bolded section for my hopes/plans for next year, too!

So, for some context: Back in early September (I believe it was specifically on September 6th) I looked at my word count for the year on my habit tracker and realized I had written just under 80,000 words.

And then I did some math. And made the biggest commitment of consistency of my life.

Because I realized that if I consistently wrote just under 1k a day for the rest of the year, I would hit 200,000 words by new years eve.

I ended up hitting 200k on December 14th, and this year's total word count (as of the morning of December 30th, when I'm finishing up this post and filling in all the blanks), ended up being 213,000 words!

Some other fun numbers from this year:

I read a total of 16 books, and started 7 more (some of which are on pause due to not scratching my brain right)

I drew a total of 300 panels for The Lost (give or take about ten, depending on how you define panels), 186 of which were in chapter one, and 114 in chapter 2! In total, The Lost is now 40 pages long (25 and 15, respectively)!

The total word count for Goddess-Touched ended up being 126,000 words (or ~500 pages)

As of writing, Fateweavers is at just over 34,000 words so far

The rest of the remaining words were split between some personal projects, the script for The Lost, and some experimental things that ended up being cut from drafts as I went (but the words still got counted and still exist on my hard drive!)

I streamed for my Patrons 32 times this year, despite getting sick a few times and getting absolutely obliterated by the holiday season.

- MY HOPES/PLANS FOR 2025 -

I want to write the same amount I did in 2024 (which will be easier, knowing the goal from day one instead of day 249)

I also want to decide, once and for all, whether I want to go self pub, indie pub, or trad pub. If I go trad pub, I want to get at least one round of query letters out into the world by October, and if I go self pub, I want to have hired an editor by the end of the year to go through whichever book I decide to publish first.

I want to read at least the same amount of books, too! Ideally, I want to read 4 more, which is the goal I set for myself last year, but considering how tough it's been to consistently have time for reading my main goal is to just keep up the pace, because right now my TBR is actually shrinking a bit!

I also want to get to making youtube videos again! It's been a long time, and I doubt I'll have a consistent schedule, but I have a really cool idea for something I can do that might be fresh and fun for the niche I want to fill. I'll definitely keep everyone updated on that front as I get closer to making it a reality!

I want to make more time for personal art, because that fell by the wayside in favor of The Lost, this year. I can feel the art bug itching at me in a way that the comic isn't fulfilling, and I have to get it out somehow.

Overall, despite the State of the World being what it is, I'm hopeful and excited for my personal goals and life in the upcoming year!!

[non-cannon]

I may have come up with the saddest House of Anubis AU. It's based on the ancient Egyptian concept of a name having power and being part of someone's soul. And loosing your name and being forgotten was a bad thing (which is why so many pharaohs tried to literately erase the names of the pharaohs that came before them).

While I believe this was mostly in regards to the afterlife, what if you lost your name while still alive? What if Nina lost her name while she was alive? What if some demon stole her name the summer before season three, and everyone forgot her?

One day over the summer Nina gets into a fight with this demon, and loses. And the demon takes her name. Now she still remembers that her name is Nina Martin, so she doesn't really understand what it did to her until she gets home, and her gran doesn't recognize her. Her gran looks at her and sees a stranger. Nina tries to explain, but her gran insists that she never had a granddaughter, that her son and daughter-in-law tragically died before they could have kids.

Nina keeps trying, but every time she says her name, Evelyn forgets her all over again. Nina eventually gives up, and steals her stuff. Which is easy because every time Evelyn stops looking at the stuff she forgets it's existence.

Every email and message Nina tries to send her friends goes unread and only sometimes deleted because they don't know anyone with that name, and forget about the message the moment they stop looking. Every phone call goes to voicemail, on suspicion of being spam.

Nina tries to go to England directly in hopes that Sibuna could still help, and she is able to get her passport, but gets arrested for having a fake id. She walks out when they forget her. Her attempt to book a flight fail as the airline forgets her reservation.

For Sibuna's part they know something happened the last two years, but the details don't quite line up if they think about it too hard, but they never do. They still get involved in the mystery, though. Eddie can remember that a paragon/chosen one exists, but nothing else beyond that. And when the Osirian dies, he forgets that too. KT has too move Nina's stuff out of her room herself because she's the only one who can even remember the stuff exists after looking away. She asks about it, but no one understands.

Eventually Nina learns that she can use a fake name, and people will remember it and her. And after a couple of years she even manages to get a job and an apartment, but it's been a painful lonely struggle. She was only able to get the apartment with a roommate. Just to make it worse later, let's say the roommate is KT.

KT doesn't talk about Sibuna, and Nina doesn't talk about herself at all. Even with all the secrecy they fall in love anyway. KT knows Nina is hiding things from her, and isn't happy, but knows she would be a hypocrite to say anything, and lets it go. Or she does until KT meets up with some friends from high school (Sibuna) and Nina freaks out.

KT demands answers. Nina tells KT that she will forget if Nina explains. KT insists that she won't forget, and even if she forgets Nina's true name she won't forget everything that they had with the fake name. KT also insists that she and Sibuna can help. Nina breaks down crying, and whispers her names.

KT stares at her blinking for a couple of seconds, and then starts screaming, demanding to know why a strange woman is crying next to her on her couch. A heart broken Nina apologizes, and leaves, and gives KT her name again as she closes the door behind her. A confused KT doesn't remember standing up, or having anyone in her apartment at all.

A few more years later, Sibuna has reunited, and find themselves trying to solve a mystery involving the demon that took Nina's name. Nina is there, trying to get her name back. She only introduces herself as the Paragon to them. And does everything she can to not get close, to not let them know that while she's a stranger them, they're not strangers to her. It hurts though. It's not easy.

Eventually they come to the final confrontation. Nina realizes the only way to take down the demon would kill her too. And at she's fine with this, death would be better than being forgotten alive. But she doesn't want the others to be there, lest they try to stop it or get hurt. So she calls out her name, and then tells the others to run. And they don't know where they are, or how they got there, but this stranger just told them to run, so they do.

But they return, because they're Sibuna, of course they do. And they find Nina's body. And they remember her, and they remember forgetting her. They remember because the demon knew it was over and decided to do the cruelest thing it could think as its last action. It gave Nina her name back. It let her loved ones remember her, just in time to morn her.