#i miss playing tabletop games so bad

[heckblade]

there’s this moment early on in the first episode of needle and thread where brennan looks over zehra’s shoulder at something written in her notes, points at it, and they giggle about it together quietly for a moment, and that one little interaction lives rent free in my head 24/7

[markrosewater]

The Nadu Situation

This has become a big topic in the community this week, so I wanted to add my thoughts to the discussion. My focus isn’t on the banning, but on the behind-the-scenes processes that led to it. I’m Head Designer, so I want to focus on the design elements of the situation.

When we make Magic there are a few things we do to try and make it the best it can be. First, we design in what we call an iterative loop. That is, we make something, we playtest it, we get feedback, we make changes on that feedback, and begin the next iteration of the loop. We try to get as many iterative loops in as we can before the set is locked (aka “no more changes”).

No matter where we set that line, there’s a last day to make changes. Moving that line earlier doesn’t change anything other than giving us less iterative loops to improve things. Also, we make lots and lots of last minute changes. The vast majority of them make the game better. I understand there’s more focus on the times we make a mistake, but it represents a truly small percentage of the changes.

Also, whenever we design a card, we ask ourselves, who is this card for? If we’re trying to make game play the best it can be, it helps to understand who will use the card, where they will use it, and what they will do with it. Obviously, in a game as modular as Magic, the players can often zig when we expect them to zag, but in general, this process leads to the best design.

We have two play design teams, one focused on competitive play and one focused on casual play. The competitive play design teams determines which cards they think have a shot at competitive play (remember we’re making predictions as where we think the environment might go,we don’t definitively know; we need to make an environment complex enough as to entertain tens of millions of players). The casual play design team then looks as the cards that don’t play a competitive role to see what casual role they can play.

With that said, let me respond to a few popular lines this week:

“Stop designing for Commander” - The nature of competitive formats is that only so many cards can be relevant. As you start making more competitive relevant cards, they displace the weakest of the existing relevant cards. That’s how a trading card game works. That means that not every card in a set (or even just the rares and mythic rares as the commons and uncommons have a big role making the limited environment work) has a competitive role. As such, we examine how they will play in more casual settings. There’s no reason not to do that. And when you think of casual settings, you are remiss if you don’t consider Commander. It’s the 800-pound gorilla of tabletop play (aka the most played, heavily dominant format). Us considering the casual ramifications of a card that we didn’t feel was competitively viable is not what broke the card. Us missing the interaction with a component of the game we consider broken and have stopped doing (0 cost activations), but still lives on in older formats is the cause.

“Stop making late changes” - Whenever you see an airplane on the news, something bad has happened. It crashed, or caught on fire, or had an emergency landing, or a door fell off. Why do we still make planes? Because planes are pretty useful and what’s being highlighted is the worst element. That focus can lead people to false assumptions. Magic would not be better if we stopped making last changes. A lot *more* broken things would get through (things we caught and changed), and many more cards just wouldn’t be playable. Our process of fixing things up to the last minute does lots and lots of good. Maybe it doesn’t get the focus of the screw ups, but it leads to better design.

“Everything needs to get playtested” - My, and my team’s, job is to take a blank piece of paper and make something that doesn’t exist exist. That’s not an easy thing to do. I believe play design’s job is even harder. They’re trying to make a balanced environment with thousands of moving pieces a year in the future. And if we’re able to solve it on our end, that means the playerbase will crack it in minute one of playing with it. One minute, by the way, is the time it takes the Magic playerbase to play with a set as much as we can. There are tens of millions of you and a handful of us. There simply isn’t time in the day to test everything, so the play design team tests what they think has the highest chance of mattering. They take calculated gambles (based on years of experience) and test the things most likely to cause problems. Will things slip through? There’s no way they can’t. The system is too complex to not miss things.That doesn’t mean we don’t continually improve our processes to lower the chances of mistakes, but nothing we’re going to do can completely eliminate them.

Designing Magic is difficult. Next year is my thirtieth year working on the game, and I think we have the most talented team we’ve ever had. Plus, just as we iterate on the designs in a set, we iterate on design processes of making Magic. How we make Magic today is light years different, and I believe better, than how we made Magic when I started. (”If I have seen further, it’s because I stand on the shoulder of giants.”)

One final thing. I’ve always pushed for transparency in Magic design. No one on the planet has written/spoken about it more than me. I truly believe Magic is better as a game because its players have the insight to understand what we, the people making it, are doing. We do ask for one thing in exchange. Please treat the designers who take the time to share with you the behind-the-scenes workings of Magic design with kindness. We are all human beings with feelings. There’s nothing wrong with feedback, but it can be delivered with common courtesy.

[kiyomitakada]

"This isn't what I meant by 'bonding activities,'" Misa says.

L has his entire arm, up to the elbow, stuffed into the Jenga tower box. Light silently prays for his hand to get stuck. "Did you not say you wanted company, Amane-san?"

"Yeah, but I didn't mean with you," Misa retorts. "I said I was lonely without Light around!"

"Yes, and Light-kun is attached to me," L explains patiently. He successfully withdraws from the box; the missing Jenga piece dangles between his thumb and index finger. Damn it. "Many couples play tabletop games together."

"I don't want to be in a couple with this creep," Misa says. "You don't either, right, Light?"

Light sighs. "Misa, you're a suspect in a murder investigation. It doesn't really matter if you want to or not."

"What?! What about consent?"

Since when have you cared about consent? Light does not say aloud. Instead he says, "Whatever," because he's a nice person. "Let's just get this over with."

"Beh," Misa mumbles, but she settles down on the sofa to peer at the Jenga tower pieces L has dumped onto the table. Light and L sit opposite her; L, with uncharacteristic grace, places the last wood block on top of the pile.

"You know," Light remarks, "I'm pretty sure the pieces are already arranged as a tower when you first buy them. You didn't have to scatter them all out."

"Oops," L says without a hint of remorse.

No one moves. Eventually Light, with another sigh, leans over and starts stacking the tower up himself.

-

Light has played Jenga before, obviously. With friends during recess when it was raining outside, yeah, but more often with Sayu and Mom over the holidays. Mom is brilliant at it; Sayu's alright, but takes too many risks. Light's no strategic master, but he's also never lost, as far as he can remember — he just plays it safe and goes for the loose blocks in the middle.

Suffice it to say that this round is going to kill him.

"This should not be standing," he says in a desperate plea to the rules of physics.

Misa grins. She's only been taking blocks from the left side of the tower (and putting them on the right side, to be fair, but that should not nearly be enough to balance this structure). Even one piece in the base level is gone. "But it is!"

"Ryuzaki," Light says, gesturing at their inadvertent creation of the Leaning Tower of Pisa's inferior cousin, "how is — how?"

"Amane-san is quite a good opponent," L muses, neatly dodging his question. He leans forward with a smile, pressing his thumb into his lip. "I am honored to be playing against her."

Misa brightens. "Hey, Ryuzaki, you're not so bad!"

"I'm here too," Light mutters.

"Hmm." L tilts his head, thumb digging deeper. Light watches the way the strands of his hair fall out of and into place. "Let's see…"

Five seconds pass. Then ten.

Light, all of a sudden, realizes he's been staring at the way L's hair curls just slightly when it brushes against the nape of his neck for far too long. He drops his gaze immediately; it lands on the chain between them instead.

The chain. The chain connected to L's hand. He could end this hell with just one tug —

No, too suspicious. If he cheats at Jenga, L will surely jail him (again) for mass murder.

"Can you hurry up?" Misa crosses her arms, leaning forward. "It's only supposed to take a minute, you know."

"Not all of us have your reality-manipulating powers, Amane-san," L murmurs. His thumb has not left his lip.

"Or maybe I'm just better than you."

L's gaze flickers upward. "Did you often play Jenga in the past?"

"Not really." Misa shrugs. "My friends weren't all that into it."

"Then I find that rather unlikely." L glances back down to the pieces he's considering; Light lets himself exhale.

"No, it just means I'm a natural talent!"

Instead of responding, L reaches and plucks a piece away. It happens so fast Light has no time to blink, exactly the same way L eats sweets.

The tower wobbles and —

No. Still standing.

"Jeez," Light mutters.

"Unhappy I'm winning, Light-kun?" L puts his piece down on the top level. He puts it down vertically. (He's already placed five other pieces this way, packed together in a geometry that is apparently conducive to structural support. Light wishes he could strangle him.)

"Who says you're winning?" Light and Misa say simultaneously.

They blink at each other. Then Misa beams, putting her hand up for a high-five. Light meets it hesitantly.

"I do," L says, unconcerned. He tugs the chain. "It's your turn, Light-kun."

"I know that." Light leans forward, narrowing his eyes. Despite everything, this shouldn't be difficult. All he has to do is find a loose block, and then this tortuous game will continue on as usual.

He briefly considers collapsing the tower on purpose.

No. Light Yagami does not lose. He taps at one of the pieces; nope, load-bearing. Another one. Nope. Another —

Suddenly he's falling — wind whistles in his ears — and then he hits something bony and angular with a thump.

Light stares. He'll deny this later but he stares and stares and stares, until he finally registers that he is lying in the lap of quite possibly the second worst man alive and jolts back upright, pushing him away. "What the fuck, Ryuzaki!"

L's laugh is low and slow and amused. "I only moved my hand a little," he says. "I didn't know Light-kun could tip over so easily."

"You are cheating," Light accuses. "You wanted me to lose!"

"The tower is perfectly intact," L says. "No evidence, no crime."

Light tears his glare away from L to check. Yes, the accursed tower is still standing. Damn it all.

"That's the whole problem, isn't it," L continues. "No evidence…"

Misa slams her hands down on the table, making the tower judder. Light startles; he'd almost forgotten she was there. "You locked us up for two months and didn't even have evidence?!"

"There is plenty of evidence in your case, Amane-san." L turns to look at her. The loss of his gaze feels a bit like a punch, but a mild one that Light is not affected by whatsoever. "And besides, I was referring to Jenga."

"Well, what about my boyfriend? He never—"

"Just drop it, Misa," Light says. "He's not changing his mind."

For a split second, Misa glares at him. Light almost flinches — and then it's gone again, replaced with a pout. "But he's insufferable!"

"You'll only have to suffer me until we catch Kira," L says dryly. "So I suppose we'd best do that as soon as possible."

(Aizawa, muttering from the control room: "Oh, really.")

"Yeah, well, we will," Misa says. "And I bet Light's going to beat you to it, 'cause he's so much smarter than you. Right, Light?"

"It's still my turn," Light says. "If you pull me again, I'll break your nose."

"Hmm. Ten percent."

Light steadies both feet on the ground, clenches his chained hand into a fist, and reaches for the tower again.

He taps. And keeps tapping. With growing horror, he realizes that there are no loose pieces. Every level is made of just the middle block and the right block now, and none of them are pullable. They’re just not enough on their own.

…Wait.

Light takes a long inhale and holds it, just in case a breath would disturb the structure. He squeezes his eyes shut, then open. He reaches for the level 75% of the way up.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Light uses his thumb and index finger to maneuver the middle piece into a diagonal —

There! The right piece slips out easier than butter.

Light does not indulge his first instinct, which is to yell FUCK YES!!!!!. Instead he leans back, exhales, inhales, and then puts the piece back on the top layer.

The tower does not fall.

"Your turn, Misa," Light says, attempting to school his smile from "deranged" to "enthusiastic."

Misa claps in delight. "That was amazing!"

"Interesting," L muses. "Interesting."

"What?"

"I was under the impression that moving a piece other than the one played was a rules violation," L says.

"Wh—" Light nobly does not punch him. He weighs the possibility of claiming he had never done that, but the middle block is indeed at a distinctly unnatural slant now. "That's not true. You made that up."

L leans over the side of the sofa and plucks the manual out, flipping through it carefully. "'Any blocks moved but not played should be replaced'—"

"—'unless doing so would make the tower fall,'" Light reads over his shoulder. "And it would!" The middle piece is clearly the only one holding up the entire layer. "Take that, Ryuzaki!"

L frowns. "You, Light Yagami, are a sore loser."

"I think you're the sore loser here, to be honest," Light says, faintly giddy. He could kiss someone right now.

"Your turn!" Misa says triumphantly.

They both turn to look at her. Misa has removed the other side of the base layer. The tower is now standing entirely on one block, wavering uncertainly in the faint air-con breeze.

"What the fuck," Light manages.

Misa grins. "Good luck, Ryuzaki!"

[ @deathnotetober day 21: games ]

[rathayibacter]

been thinking about the parallels between ttrpgs and poetry lately, synthesizing some stuff i've been sitting on with both. i don't remember where i heard this from, but i really like the idea of defining poetry as writing that can't be edited down any more; if you made even one cut, one word replacement, you'd lose something. even the repetitions and redundancies are there to communicate something, because if they weren't they'd be removed. 

its not true, of course, but i don't think it has to be. as a lens to examine poetry i think it's fun, and as a goal when writing poetry it's helped me on more than one occasion. any claim to Fundamental Truth beyond that line doesn't matter much in my opinion. what i like about this isn't that it makes for poetry where you have to read a certain meaning out of every single line to "get it", its actually kinda the opposite! by assuming there's meaning baked into every detail, you can get meaning out of any detail you decide to focus on, and can narrow your focus as much or as little as you like. my favorite poetry is messy, colorful, and dense; you're not gonna get a single clean reading out of it because doing that requires ignoring all the fun little twists and turns, all the intersecting ideas that led it to this point.

and so that brings us to ttrpgs! role-playing games are a fascinating thing because they can really only get us halfway; even the most strict and detailed game has an innate fuzziness that comes from the peculiarities of how we play tabletop games. your mechanics are only airtight if everyone knows, understands, and remembers them, and those are three tall orders for any game, no matter how simple or intuitive it may present as. and that's not even a bad thing! interpretation isn't just "what percentage of the rules are the players getting wrong", its an adaptation of the rules as written to the game as played. even forgotten rules are part of this, cuz anything that's able to be forgotten (and again, that's potentially anything) probably was forgotten cuz it wasn't terribly relevant to the table forgetting it. 

so, as we write games and cast them into the world, fully aware that the thing that'll arrive at people's tables will never match what we had in our heads, what should we do? obviously some of this is just practical; don't bog players down with unnecessary busywork or minute exceptions to memorize, don't build a house of cards that stops working if any one part is missing or changed, you can use stuff like cheat sheets, examples of play, indexes, and asides to make it easier to learn, reference, and remember how to play.

but i promised you poetry, and poetry we shall have! so here's my big guiding principle for writing ttrpgs: only include it if it sings. every part of the game should be special, so that no matter what part or parts of the game a particular table winds up using, the game still shines through. by tangling the spirit of the game up in every line, every rule, every tiny little piece, everyone who engages with it can get tangled up in it too, and can fill in the spaces between in whatever way resonates most with them.

in more practical terms, this is "don't write anything that's less interesting than what the players will make up at the table", ie assume players will fill any missing spaces to the table's preferences, so only close those gaps if you've got something fun to say. don't fill space out of obligation, don't bog yourself down in the stuff that doesn't matter. this doesn't mean never add a polearms list because there's a million polearms lists out there already, but it does mean don't add a polearms list unless you're burning with passion to add it, and excited for people to share in that passion. if you don't, don't worry about it. they can figure it out. the table can always replace your good ideas with ones they like more, and they can always fill in the gaps when they come up, but it's not always easy to recover from a wall of bland filler or an ocean of lifeless cliches.

i wont tell you that if you follow this One Weird Trick then your game will be good. i don't know what a good game is. or rather, i know exactly what i think a good game is, and have no idea what you think it is, and have less than no faith that anyone could ever determine what a Truly Good Game is. but just like the quippy little definition of poetry at the top, universal truth isn't really what i'm after when i employ this. i'm trying to make something that satisfies the little itch in my brain, that sings to me as i make it and keeps singing even after i let it go. moreover, i'm trying to make something that doesn't waste my time as a writer, and doesn't waste yours as a reader or player or fellow designer. 

will this make sure players remember all the rules when they're playing? no, absolutely not. i wouldn't want them to, even if i could force it! but maybe, hopefully, what this does do is lodge one of those little razor-sharp slivers of text in their brains, and it'll sing to them just like it sang to me. not the same song, not the same tune, but just as beautifully.

[shinkai-kaiju]

ive actually been playing games i like. missed out on by not having a computer/any non-nintendo consoles for the longest time, n its been pretty great.

I will also say, some of these games are dogshit and maybe its good i missed them at the time

i am dumb as shit but can i say. terraria is cool

[catt-leya]

request: Hii, please could you make number 1 in smutty may degrading/humiliation - but mainly humiliation? :)

10/05

rick grimes x fem!reader

warnings: humiliation, degrading (whore, cock slut), age gap, darker rick, breeding, spit play, claiming, praise kink and my usual smutty stuff

1. Don't even think about cumming yet.

Rick could be cruel. 

Really cruel.

He wasn't always like that. 

No, he certainly wasn't. 

But the world made him who he is now, and you're not sure it could be undone, or if you even want it to be. Especially since you fell in love with this version of him.

You never met him when he was a clean-shaven suburban dad and had a clean moral compass.

By the time you met him, his beard was gray and his hands were bloodied.

People warned you not to get involved with him, to offer yourself to him, but you literally threw yourself into his arms anyway.

It's not like Rick didn't know it was reprehensible to possess a thing as young as you. But you wouldn't let up, and eventually he gave in.

So much so that you are now his little young thing. 

His property and equipped with a cunt from heaven.

A cunt that he is just up to his balls in and clinging tightly to his cock.

He was out for a few days and could think of nothing else but fucking you into the ground. How your little body feels under his bloody hands and how you would do anything to please him. 

He should probably feel bad about how easily he can bend you to his own liking and how you are desperately trying to fulfill it.

He's so much older than you that he should be the voice of reason, but instead he bends you over and whispers in your ear, "You're such a whore for letting me do this to you so easily. I walk in the door and just say "I want your cunt" and you're lying in front of me with your legs spread wide."

Even after several months of dirty and humiliating sex, you're still so tight that his cock feels too big for your little pussy, and you lie trembling beneath him, "I've missed you, Rick."

"Hmm, I know sugar," is all he says. 

Not 'I missed you too'.

That's just the way he is and you've gotten used to it. 

His way of telling you he likes you is just to fuck you and no one else. 

Only. 

You.

Is that enough for you? 

Not really.

Will you still stay with him? 

Yes.

He pushes his hips back a little before thrusting hard into you again, and you gasp: "Rick..."

The cool tabletop feels nice against your heated skin and you grab the edge of the table to hold on and not be in danger of sliding off the table with each of his thrusts.

With his broad body, he shields you and grabs your chin.

Painfully, his fingers dig into your cheeks, forcing you to open your mouth to his muzzle.

His blue eyes glide over your pretty face and his rough, dirty fingers on your soft skin as his cock twitches inside you and he hisses, "Swallow, whore."

Your eyes get huge because you don't know what to swallow and you don't want to disappoint him for anything in the world.

His cock is already inside you, so he wouldn't ask you to suck him off, but you can't be sure either and don't dare break eye contact.

Not even when he lowers his gaze to your forced open mouth and lets his saliva drip into your mouth.

The way he holds your face makes it harder for you to swallow without choking up and pressing your upper body against his.

There's not much to swallow, but as you struggle, he rolls his hips gently and hums hoarsely, "Good girl. Would do anything for me, right? Any perverted game."

You close your thighs tighter around his waist and make an approving sound, unable to speak properly with his tight grip.

He's right. There's no limit when it comes to what you'd do for him.

No limit when he grabs your hips and presses your breasts to the tabletop and takes his belt to shove it between your teeth.

Behind your head, he pulls it tight so that your mouth is forced to stay open by the two edges of the belt and he can pull your head back by the belt.

Without warning, he pushes his cock back between your labia and pushes into your wet and tight pussy.

He notices your cunt trembling around him and he roughly teases you, "You like that, sugar? Want to be my cock slut? Yes?"

Of course he knows you won't be able to say a word, but your cunt squeezing tightly around him again is answer enough.

Actually, he's not even sure if it's his words that turn you on or just that he's fucking you.

Maybe it's also the fact that he fucks you and sometimes puts a 'my' in front of the words 'whore' or 'slut' and it turns you on that he claims ownership over you.

But in itself, he doesn't care either, as long as you lie willingly under him and he can fuck you as he pleases while you lie drooling on the table.

Yes, drooling.

The pure humiliation of lying defenseless on your stomach and not being able to stop saliva from dripping out of your mouth as he stuffs your hole with his cock over and over again to the hilt makes Rick's whole body quiver and your body tense.

You're so close. 

So close to surrendering to him, trembling, but before you can let go, Rick tugs hard on the belt again and hisses, "Don't even think about cumming yet. I'm not done with you."

Panicked, you try to ignore how good Rick's thick cock feels inside you, because you can still remember exactly what it means to cum without permission.

"You dirty whore. Did I give you permission to cum?" his voice thunders deep inside you and you duck your head in fear, "No, sir."

His cock is still inside you and the aftermath of your orgasm is still twitching through your body as he grabs your throat and squeezes, "Don't look at me with those big innocent eyes, sugar. You brought this on yourself."

With those words, he pulled out of you and didn't even touch you with his pinky finger for two weeks, let alone pay any attention to you at all, no matter how much you begged and pleaded for his forgiveness. 

For two whole weeks.

That's why you wouldn't dare to cum as long as you could stop it.

Forcefully he pushes your head back on the table and with your cheek you land in the small puddle of your saliva.

Like a doll, you lie there will-less, clinging to the last bit of self-control you can muster as Rick fucks you harder and harder.

So hard that you won't be able to walk tomorrow, and you squint your eyes as you think about how much Rick likes it when you wince in pain the next morning. 

It turns him on and not only once did he then fuck you again in the morning, even though your body hurt.

Greedily you try to press your ass further against him, which makes him laugh softly, "You're so fucking needy."

You nod and he leans over you again until his heavy body covers you completely and he growls in your ear, "Stretching your pretty ass out to me so great, sugar. Do you want me to fuck your ass? Do you want me to? I bet your ass is even tighter than your little pussy."

He's never offered it to you before. 

Never talked about it.

But how could you say no?

He'd fuck your ass and stuff your pussy with his fingers, you're sure of it.

So you rub up against him approvingly and again he laughs in your ear, "Oh, pathetic little thing. Need it so bad, huh? But not today."

His cock feels so hard and heavy inside you that you can barely think straight, and the fact that Rick doesn't gets up either and instead stays on top of you while he fucks you brings you so close to your orgasm that holding back brings tears to your eyes and you give a muffled moan of pleasure as he murmurs, "My good girl. Take me so well. So incredibly good. Do you want to cum on me? Come on."

At his words, the knot in your stomach loosens and trembling, you tear open your eyes. 

Your heart hammers in your chest and you notice your cum running down your legs.

The wetness between your legs, only makes it easier for Rick to sink his cock deep into your pulsating cunt and fuck you further into the table.

You don't dare resist the fact that he's about to cum inside you. 

The first time you did it and all you got in response was a rough, "I'll cum where I want, sugar. Don't forget that."

Actually, you're almost embarrassed by how much you like it too when he marks you in the most primitive way there is in the world.

Even now you push your leaking pussy towards him and before his cock starts pumping inside you, you already know he's going to come.

He sinks his teeth firmly into your shoulder and, as he does every single time he cums, reaches for your hand to intertwine his fingers with yours.

You can tell Rick is a rough man, and he's no different when it comes to sex, but this simple gesture of taking your hand in his is more intimate than anything you've ever done with him. More intimate than anything you've ever had him do to you.

In the silence of the big house, you can only hear your heavy breaths and the soft rustling that the belt causes as he pulls it surprisingly gently from your head.

Rick is not a man much given to gentleness and sentiment, but as he gently grabs you and pulls you to your feet with him you can't suppress a flutter in your heart.

"Are you okay, sugar?" he's never asked you that before, and you answer in surprise, "Yes, Rick."

Softly, his hands glide over your torso before he presses a kiss to your cheek and murmurs, "Okay. I'm going to take a quick shower. Are you sleeping over?"

You jerk your head around as he lets go of you and stomps up the stairs without waiting for your answer.

He's never invited you to sleep over before. 

Ever.

So you call out more excitedly than you probably should be, "Yes, yes of course." And run up the stairs after him.

Smutty May Masterlist

Taglist: @hail-yourselves   @bean-is-reading   @chanlvr2   @criminalwalkingsupernatural   @sunshinevirus   @toxic-ink    @kingtwhiddleston    @bloodycherry22    @vane28282    @bamslover    @revesephemeres    @emo-potato-virgil    @mrsashleybarnes18-blog  @starsaroundmyscxrss  @starkstiless  @easystreet07 @darylsonlylove @your-shifting-gurl @strnqer @dreamtofus @lincolnswidow @rickswh0r3 @iluvdixon @sinsandsweetness @beekassyy

[y-rhywbeth2]

Hi. Read you post about the dead three's chosen, and I was wondering about the "We got the threat of sexual exploitation (assuming it didn't happen), there's a subtle undercurrent of incest to some interactions" part. Is this something in the game that I missed? Is it a dnd lore thing?

I also looked through some older posts about Bhaal/Durge stuff, and... Jergal is ruthless and manipulative?! How bad is he? Like, what can a Durge who is free of Bhaal and may be protected by Jergal expect, both in life and afterlife? Are there no good options for Durge (except maybe becoming immortal)?

Also just wanna say thank you for all your dnd lore posts. I've mostly just played in homebrew games, so wotc dnd lore hasn't come up much, and I'm learning so much from your posts!

The good news about Jergal is that he has at least shifted from Lawful Evil to Lawful Neutral, so he's probably somewhat less of a jackass...? We hope. He also tends to prefer subtler manipulation, and seems to let people's own personalities steer them (because they'll take them where he wants them to go naturally); Bane in particular is his unwitting puppet, apparently, but Jergal hasn't directly pulled the strings at all yet, for whatever reason. Jergal's faithful usually 'live' in the City of Judgement on the fugue, or he has them as undead scribes working in his temples on Toril (I imagine it's the same paperwork whichever plane you're on). It's a quiet, but not terribly interesting existence. I doubt he's steal Durge from Bhaal to use as a scribe though. Usually if he needs a servant on the Prime Material plane for some task or other he sends them back as an undead of some kind if/when they die (he likes mummies, usually). He might also be manipulating them into becoming some kind of powerful outsider he can subtly puppet like the Dead Three, or Kelemvor, or Cyric... I really don't know.

(Also I think we're supposed to take Jergal being the 'good guy' at face value in-game.)

Durge could move planes to escape the divine shenanigans. The Dead Three in current times are bound to Toril, and Jergal cannot directly bother you in the city of Sigil at the centre of the universe (which all gods are forbidden to enter on pain of total annihilation courtesy of the Lady of Pain. He can send pawns to bother you, but can't go there or do anything himself.)

No problem. (Unsurprising; homebrew is much easier to manage. I can't imagine how people who are obsessed with the lore of multiple DnD settings cope.)

-

And Durge's other 'duty' as Bhaal's Chosen, and their extremely normal relationship with their father is going under a cut.

There's nothing in tabletop lore, past a disturbing Bhaalist spell ('attraction') that can cause love/lust in targets, which is built into Bhaal's avatars and manifestations; some gods having a tendency to sleep with their followers; and a comment from Ed Greenwood that many clergy encourage people to have kids (more people raised from birth within the church = more souls and power for the deity). Also apparently having a tattoo of a god's holy symbol is often a turn on for that god's priests... for some reason...

This stuff mostly comes from the BG3:

The exploitation:

Durge is expected to provide more Bhaalspawn for Bhaal's plans, and always has been. It's most obvious in the feral ending, where Bhaal destroys their mind and puppets them directly, but it's still on their to-do list if they keep his 'love' and become his Chosen:

Sarevok Anchev: 'You failed to bring forth issue while you helmed our cult. It is a mortal sin for a Chosen. I even hoped you and my daughter might one day create a new blood-lamb for us, but it is not to be...'

Durge: 'When I bring ruin to the world, will Bhaal allow me to spare my beloved?' Sceleritas: 'Of course Master! We will always need to sire more Bhaalspawn! Although if they are not up to the task we may need to find you a breeding-mate. Or ten.'

As with anything else in Durge's life, they have no say in Bhaal's intentions for them. They start that conversation off by asking permission to keep their lover and don't even get to respond to being told that they're expected to be breeding stock, probably with a wider range of 'partners'. Just silent acceptance.

The incest:

As ever I could be reading into this, but I'm not the only person who picked up on it so maybe not.

The most overt instances of this implication crops up in the original feral ending and the current, where Bhaal is subjecting Durge to constant rape by inflicting sexual hyperarousal on them and forcing them to have sex in order to breed an army of Bhaalspawn by cross-breeding them with various monsters... which they don't actually remember, because it's not the monsters they're thinking of during the act, where it's implied that Bhaal is forcing them to think of him:

*Your memory of last night's act is absent. In the moment of mounting, your mind emptied itself, and you could think only of Bhaal. The gnoll's rump seemed to become his Temple's graven altar where you once led worship.*

"Father, I love you. I'm a good spawn. A good little spawn."*

Alternatively: "a good boy/girl."

And in one of the Bhaalist religious texts you can find in game that describes how Bhaal basically gives his followers orgasms when they murder:

"Once Bhaal's favour has quickened within one oh his beloved murderers, the bliss of his love is nigh-indescribable. For he blesses his loyal with a new sensation: a mindless, instinctual, primal sensation that comes within the bowels, an erotic spasm that washes over the killer, in the moment of murder. It is said that in that instant, his Divine Essence can almost be tasted. Forsake all other hedonisms, acolytes, for nothing can compare. Until the true ecstasies of murder wash over you, initiates, this scroll contains a prayer, you may say after a kill, calling for the Lord's disgrace to find its course in your body."

The Urge - which is Bhaal as much as it's Durge- does/can cause sexual arousal, which indicates that Bhaal does do this to them or is at least inflicting his own 'pleasure' on them by experiencing the kills through them.

*Your body feels aroused imagining a broken twisted neck, and a thrill thinking of a trailing intestine.*

'I feel the most intense pleasure [when killing]. Arousal, even.'

*The masterful painting [Minthara] depicts of the massacre awakens you hungrily.* Durge: 'Stop! I'm growing aroused!' or Durge: 'How delightful, I'm very eager to begin.' Nightwarden Minthara: 'Control yourself - you are as uncouth as the goblins.'

Notably Minthara responds the same even if Durge doesn't flat out say it, so I'd assume they're having the same response to that 'hunger' regardless.

In the same area you find that text, if you become the 'Chosen' of the Redcap masquerading as Bhaal to the kuo-toa, you get this:

*Mad guilt swills in your swooning, sick body. Today you became the tart of a false God, and your evil pride revolts.*

'Tart' being the polite way of saying 'whore', which on its own might just be a poetic way of calling them unfaithful to their religion, but with the extra context is beginning to form a potential pattern. I don't know whether Durge is referring to themselves, or if it's Bhaal calling them that. Or which is worse.

Similarly, the dream where Bhaal summons you to the duel with Orin to become his Chosen is labelled 'BloodWedding'. Again, wedding has more than one meaning, but it's most common usage is of the marital kind, and *gestures at the context of the fuckery above helplessly*

And if you go through with the whole thing and accept Bhaal, Sceleritas will tell you this:

'You and the Urge are wedded, now. One body, one mind.'

Oh, and if you have a love interest they're your 'false bride.' Let's not ask who the real one is.

Also this is a possible dialogue option if you sleep with the drow guy at Sharess' Caress and is meant to be humorous, but apparently Durge does take their daddy issues into the bedroom:

Player: 'I'm a disappointment to my father. Maybe we can work with that.'

I feel like I've forgotten some parts, but that's the gist of it.

[maddstermind]

Hey there, howdy, hello! Welcome to my writeblr that I am going to try real hard to be active on!

I'm Madd, they/them, and while I might not post it all here, I am a very active writer hoping for publication in the near future! I'm hoping to become part of the community, so feel free to tag me in things/shoot me asks/anything of the sort!! I'd love more writer friends :>

(Also, this is a sideblog! My main is warriorblood1, so if you get random follows/likes from that account, that's me!)

Want to know more details? Keep reading!

What do you write? I write all kinds of things! I have ideas in honestly too many genres and whatnot at this point, and I hope to someday write them all!

Right now, however, I have two main focuses: spooky short stories, and a novel series! (Though I do have a couple other novel things.)

Tell me about the short stories. My short stories tend to be 3k to 5k on average, and most wind up being horror or horror-adjacent. I tend to describe them as being "Twilight Zone-esque," but most would fit as being called gothic horror.

I have previously published some short stories, but my full legal name is on them so I hesitate to link them here. Regardless, I hope to publish a collection sometime soon!

Tell me about the novel series. Auberon Academy is a four-novel series told through a rotating POV of four main characters. It is a fantasy setting (though a bit more modern fantasy; more or less 1950s tech-wise), but the plot is more of a mystery/thriller.

I'm querying the first novel and have the first draft of the second one finished, and am now starting to draft the third book! You can learn more about the first book, Manifestations and the Missing, here in this funny slideshow I made. Update: Here's a slideshow for book two, In Pursuit of Knowledge!

What do you do besides writing? Not much. Just kidding.

I'm bad at video games, but I love to play them. A favorite hobby of mine is tabletop role-playing games, my favorites being Call of Cthulhu, Blackbirds, Dungeons & Dragons, and Vampire: The Masquerade! I also love to draw, and several of my story ideas are actually comics!

But lets be honest. Torturing my characters (canonically or otherwise) is my favorite thing to do. What kind of writer would I be if I said anything different?

How do you tag things?

General writing: #madd writing

Prompts: #prompt response

Tag games: #tag game

Ask games: #ask game

Asks: #questions

Resources: #holding

Short story work: #short story

Novel work: #novel work

Auberon Academy-specifc: #boberon

Soulbearer-specific: #sogbog

DIIE-specific: #DIIE

Cináed-specific: #dragondad

My art: #madd doodles

Other writeblr-related things: #writeblr stuff

Also, this post has the list of character tags for Auberon!

I'll also try to tag anything that feels like it should warrant a trigger warning!

Anything else to note? I'm very nervous about posting my work to Tumblr (fear of theft really gets to you), but I'm trying to overcome it. That being said, you might not see too terribly much of it here - if you're really interested, please reach out to me! I'd most likely be happy to share more on a more private level.

Also, I have ADHD! I tend to hyperfixate on my own work (which is a nightmare but also useful), but if you're ever confused by something. That's probably why.

Thanks for being here, y'all!

[whopperflower-will]

Never Miss the Details | Clorinde x Navia

VERY short first post (530 words)

Navia accidentally makes a roleplay script for the Tabletop Troupe a bit too personal…

Written by Windblumez (@whopperflower-will)

“A new script?” Clorinde asked, thumbing through the pages of the booklet Navia had handed her with a bright smile that felt like summertime sunshine.

“Mhm,” Navia nodded, leaning forward in her seat and watching the script. Her eyes fluttered from page to page. “I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about being the game master for this one but I knew you definitely wouldn’t want to be a player.”

Clorinde’s strict focus then shifted to stare at Navia, who quickly received Clorinde’s gaze with her own eyes. Setting down the script on the tea table, Clorinde asked, “why? Why wouldn’t I want to be a player? Does it have something to do with my occupation?”

Navia chuckled nervously, pulling a piece of hair away from her mouth. Since she was leaning over her sat-down friend, her hair kept falling into her face, losing the natural, perfect frame it usually kept around her cheeks. “Well… kind of.”

“Kind of?” One of Clorinde’s eyebrows quirked up comically, forming an expression one doesn’t normally see on such a stoic face.

“I know you usually don’t like to play any characters that are written to be intimidating. About how you don’t want to scare off the other players or whatever…”

Clorinde picked back up the script to continue looking through it. “From what I gathered… it’s a classic fantasy story. The type you’d see in Inazuman light novels. Save the princess, stop the bad guy… oh.”

She realized there was another character written into the scripts: a mysterious figure who kept frequently to the shadows and upheld the justice of Fontaine.

“…Having romantic sentiments towards the princess? This really does read like an Inazuman light novel. Well, Hubel’s shop did recently get a bunch of new releases after all, so I suppose it makes sense…” Clorinde muttered to herself in contemplation while Navia’s cheeks started turning beet red.

“Uhm…” Navia chuckled nervously, reaching out to close the script in Clorinde’s hands. “I forgot I added that very minor detail in there. I must’ve written some of it while sleep-deprived. That was my first draft after all.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, let’s just…” Navia tried to pull the booklet out of Clorinde’s hands, but the Champion Duelist stayed put.

“No, it’s well-written and beautifully thought-out. I would be honored to be the game master for such a script. I’ll find a suitable group to play it with,” Clorinde explained, pulling the booklet away from Navia’s small attempts to grab at it.

And so the next week when Clorinde met up with Navia for tea, Navia had to control her blush as Clorinde went on and on about the detailed actions that occurred in the roleplay. She had clearly not expected Clorinde to take it all that far…

“Yes, and so the roleplayers all found the idea of the relationship quite cute. They set them up on dates at tea parties, not far different from the ones we have now.”

“Oh! Well… uh… that’s great, Clorinde! Uhm…”

Navia would have to ask later whether or not Clorinde thought this was a date or not. It was simply tough luck that Clorinde was such a hard person to read.

[ghostofacrow]

Crow plays Gubat Banwa Pt 2: The first Violence

I'll have to write this one in two parts because I briefly want to go over my setup, but I don't have time for the battle itself today, especially because I'm sure it'll take longer since I still don't know what I'm doing.

So here it is! The moon is bright tonight, watching over the Kadungganan trying to escape the forest's demon infestation. Unfortunately, they have been cornered by a riverbend - the bridge leading back to the coast has been destroyed, so now the only way out is for these three strangers to beat back the demon hoard advancing on them.

I don't normally like using Tabletop Simulator for roleplaying games - the physics can be a bit wonky and it's really bad for sheet management, but it was the easiest way I could think of to make 3D terrain. The rulebook suggests using colors for terrain height, which is very good (and actually how I do it normally for other games) but having a map in actual 3D, even if it's digital, does look pretty nice.

It helps that I'm playing alone, so sharing sheets isn't nearly as important, and that we're still at legend 0, so there isn't that much information I even need to have at hand. I also realized at this point that all the discipline information you need for a legend 0 character is contained on one page, which is very handy. So I just had to import that single page per character and their prowesses.

I probably should have at least given the drawings a flat color tint so they're easier to tell apart but I didn't think of that until later. The balancing advice in the book suggests to use the number of Kadungganan + 2 as a base, which would be 5 in this case. I settled on six - I didn't know what enemies to use so I just picked the first one in each style and added the demon warrior from the demon's unique units. This also means they're pretty easy to color coordinate since the styles already have associated colors, except for the extra demon warrior

Behold, the meeple I stole from a different game gruesome visage of the terrifying demon warrior. Finally I looked through all of the status effects I was actually going to need and made little tokens for them, and added a bowl of go pieces to use for counting things. That's the setup done so far, I think. I probably missed something, but I'll see that when the time comes. There was one other reason I decided to use tabletop simulator for this, and it's that the design feels (and I mean this as a compliment) boardgamey. The abilities generally have straightforward effects, and status effects are a binary affair - either you are poisoned, or you're not, so they're easy to track with tokens, and most of the abilities have straight forward effects like "push the enemy 1 tile" or "if the enemy is aflame, deal 1d4 extra damage". These secondary effects have no saving throw-like mechanic either, unless the enemy evades the attack outright or is immune to the effect, it's going to happen, which should make most of the effects here very easy to track visually. Last last pregame observation - I notice while writing this that demons are immune to aflame and resistant to fire attacks and uuuhm

This makes the Baril Witch situation even worse then I was worried about initially because it makes half of their abilities and their thunderbolt gain condition either not work or very bad. It's not that big of a deal since I'm playing every character, but if this was a normal game with one character per person, I'd be a bit disappointed as Nasirakna's player. It happens, not everyone is good in every fight, but that does mean I'll have to vary up the enemy factions going forward.

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

I'm back a day later, time to actually start now! Everything below this is a play by play of the first resound of combat - the next post after this one will be the after action report, if you want to skip to my general observations (this part is might be annoying to read and hard to understand, I honestly can't tell). I already rolled the divination dice when I did the setup earlier and got 1, 5, 8, 7 - the odds outnumber the evens, so the enemies go first. I'll keep the victory and defeat conditions simple for this one, the Kadungganan win if they defeat all enemies and loose if all three of them get defeated.

For some reason, the figures clip into the tiles, but only on some of the tiles. I don't know why this happens other then tabletop simulators janky physics but I also don't care. Everything is set up now, the enemy sentinel moves first.

The enemy types have these tables to determine what they do on their turn if you play without a GM/Umalagad, here's the one from the Demon Guard, the enemy sentinel (the blue enemy on the map here):

This is the first time I've seen pseudo-AI like this in a tactics ttrpg and I'm honestly a bit skeptical of how well it's going to work, but the idea is so good that I really hope I'm wrong here and it functions well. One of the benefits of this being a tabletop game is that, if you roll something silly here, you can always just ignore it and do something that makes more sense or is more fun, and the rulebook is open about this too.

I got a 6 so Rush + Shield Charge + Inflict Violence and it turns out I am proven wrong immediately because this is a solid turn (I'll put the exact riff breakdowns in the alt text)

Yes the wide open token is a door, this is because I couldn't think of something less stupid looking yesterday.

Nasirakna gets to deal 1d4 (4) Damage to the Guard from her Overwatch Aura ("While you have Thunderbolts, you have an Overwatch Aura 3. Any enemy that moves into or leaves a tile in this aura you may deal d4 DMG against, once per enemy per Riff.")

Dranreb goes next and moves around the enemy like this, allowing him to flank and ram into them from the side using his "Shield Charge" Inflict Violence, pushing the enemy one tile away and moving after them.

I get to roll 2 violence dice and pick the highest one because of the flanking here, and I got a 1 and 2, which is a dogshit result, but very useful here for demonstration purposes. The damage of my attack here is 2 (from the die) + 3 (Dranreb's Ferocity) and this gets reduced by 5 (the Demon Guard's Parry). 2+3-5 is normally 0, but damage can't fall below 1, this means the secondary effect (pushing the enemy) still happens anyway. The secondary effects are only avoided if the enemy dodges the attack completely, which usually only happens if you roll a 1. For reasons that you can probably figure out by looking at the map here, the push is more important to me in this situation then the actual damage. I really appreciate the lack of a saving throw-like mechanic here, non-damaging effects like applying poison or moving the enemies around is what you need for combos or to set up cool plays by your friends, so just letting them happen avoids a lot of frustration. You also gain a thunderbolt if your attack gets evaded or deals minimum damage, so being one point off from snakeeyes was maybe ... good? actually?? in this specific situation.

Dranreb has 1 more Beat left, and originally I was going to use his Shield Bash Inflict Violence, which also pushes the target 1 tile (and would push the enemy into the river here) and would give Dranreb d6 Block. Unfortunately, its violence die is a d6 and because this would be my second attack in this riff, I'd have to make it at 2 demerit - roll 3d6 keep the lowest one. If I land a 1 on ANY of the 3d6 here, it means the attack fails, and that's a bigger risk then I'm willing to take. Thankfully, Shove (push an adjacent fighter 1 tile) is also a basic technique that everyone has access to and doesn't require to roll anything, so I can just push the enemy into the river anyway.

Goodbye. The Guard has jump 1, so he can only move one terrain height up at a time, which means they can't get back up here and has to walk all the way around. They also take 2d6 (4+4) damage from the fall. Really fun and cool move! In retrospect, it would have been smarter to move the enemy to the tile below Haraw to make pushing them off like this slightly harder, but I genuinely didn't think about that until I started planning Dranreb's turn. The decision to combine to hit and damage rolls into one removes a lot of the more annoying randomness in tabletop games (well, in D&D and its children specifically), but I don't know how I feel about attacks with lower damage potential also having a higher chance to miss completely, especially when the attack is already at demerit. It's only a difference of about 12% at 2 demerit between d6s and d8s, which isn't that much, but worth keeping in mind if you're attacking more then once. The demon Raider (a Lancer) is going to go next and I got Rush + Inflict Violence + Rush on the Gambit table. This is pretty straight forward so I'm not going to break it down in detail, they're just going to move in and attack Haraw, who is the closest to them, and then retreat back up the hill. Nothing too complicated except

Rolling the maximum value on a melee attack means it combos and gets rolled again and added together. They also gain an extra 1d6 bonus damage to their next attack after rushing their full speed, which puts us at a whopping 8+4+1+FER(7) = 20(!) damage. Haraw's PAR is 3 so that's 17. This early and she's already at 9/30 POS.

Haraw is also going to go next and she's still taunted by the Guard that fell into the river, which means all her attacks against enemies other then the Guard suffer demerit. Thankfully, she has other options!

Not an attack, so it doesn't count towards the number of attacks per Riff, and nothing to roll here. Dropping the raider enemy into the river is going to be less effective - their jump is 2, so they could get back up easily and wouldn't take fall damage. But the map does have a dangerous terrain spike growth, so I'm going to knock him in there instead. The description for dangerous terrain says that it deals 2 damage every time you enter it. I'm not sure if multiple connected tiles of the same type of dangerous terrain count as entering it once, or if it means every tile you enter, but I'm interpreting it as the latter because it works in my favor here it makes more sense to me that continuing to move through a spiky undergrowth would keep dealing damage repeatedly.

The Corpseflower Curse is the most interesting part - its violence die is a d4, which means the chance to miss is pretty high, especially since Haraw is still taunted by the Guard and has demerit from it. But sliding the enemy down into the bramble first means Haraw is at a higher elevation now, her ranged attacks gain merit against this demon. So at least I'm rolling the d4 normally, get a 3, and put down the field. Flower Balyans gain a thunderbolt from putting down one of the flower fields, which I immediately spend on

...and end her riff. Ending a riff cleanses Wide Open too, and I'm just noticing now that I didn't remove it from Dranreb after his riff. The annoying thing about writing this down as it's happening is that I'm immortalising all the small mistakes I normally wouldn't catch or quietly fix later. The enemy Witch goes next, rushes (through the dangerous terrain) and dazes Dranreb and Nasirakna. Daze gives all of your attacks demerit and all attacks against you merit, but this could have been worse.

Nasirakna is up next and uhm. She doesn't have a lot of options here due to the enemies all being resistant to Fire and immune to the Aflame status effect

They're weak to Soul at least but that still means the ideal strategy is to get into a high position and snipe repeatedly. He's going to spend 1 beat to climb up into the tree next to him, and then use Bala Osuwang on the Raider - the height advantage nullifies the demerit from dazed. Aaand I rolled a 1. The next attack would be at 2 demerit, but at least I can spend 1 thunderbolt on Joss Reloads (see above) so my chance to hit looks slightly less bad....aaaaand I got another 1. This does at least mean I get the thunderbolt back and can use Joss Reloads again to gain 1 Merit for their next riff. I was really hoping I might be able to finish the Raider off but it wasn't meant to be.

The enemy archer gets into a tree of their own and shoots at Dranreb twice (and unlike some fighters here, hits both times). The Warrior Demon rushes twice, taking 8 damage from the dangerous terrain, and attacks Haraw, which is enough to defeat her, and also inflicts bleeding. This doesn't mean she's out of the battle, she's just debuffed until she recovered, Kadungganan don't risk death until they get 5 wounds, and you get one every time you take damage while at 0 POS. Getting knocked out and having to sit on the sidelines for half the fight sucks ass, so I appreciate not making characters drop unconscious. They only get 2 beats so their action economy is still being taxed, but they still get to do stuff, which is the important part.

I might have bitten more off more then I can chew with the enemies here, but what I've played so far already looks really promising. The random enemy behavior works surprisingly well, and the player abilities are very fun, but if I want to finish this battle in a reasonable amount of time, I'll have to stop writing down every move. The next post is going to be a highlight reel and my overall thoughts on how this battle went. It's not looking good!

[polutrope]

Beleria New Year's Eve Special!

For the modern AU holiday prompts. Seven prompts combined into one big New Year's bash.

Relationships: Daeron/Maglor, Fingon/Maedhros, Aegnor/Andreth, Edhellos/Angrod, Celeborn/Galadriel, Feanor & Fingolfin Characters: All of the above and Nerdanel, Finarfin, Earwen, Anaire, Rumil, Orodreth. Rating: T Warnings: Swearing, sexual content, recreational drinking and drunkenness Words: ~5.6k

On AO3. Beleria Cast of Characters

Maglor propped his elbows on his knees and leaned over the board. If he moved the bishop to take Daeron’s pawn, he’d expose his rook in three moves; but no, that would expose his other bishop first.

“Oh my god just make a move already,” Daeron complained. He threw himself dramatically over the arm of his chair.

“Shh,” said Maglor. “I’m thinking.”

“You think too long. Just make a move.”

“Fine.” Maglor took the pawn. Two seconds later, Daeron took his bishop with a knight.

“Goddammit!” said Maglor. “I’m so bad at this.”

“You’re not going to win,” Daeron said without mockery.

“Maybe not, but I’m still seeing it through to the bitter end.”

Daeron sighed loudly. “I think one of your New Year’s resolutions should be knowing when to quit.”

“Yeah? Are we writing each other’s resolutions now? Fine.” Maglor withdrew his attention from the game and considered. “I think you should resolve to have more fun.”

“What? I have plenty of fun. We’re playing a game right now. Games are fun, aren’t they?”

“We’re playing chess, on New Year’s Eve when everyone is out getting drunk and kissing people they shouldn’t.”

“Is that what you want to be doing? Kissing people you shouldn’t?” Daeron pouted.

“No.” Maglor grinned. “Just you, Dae-bae.”

Daeron rolled his eyes at this, and just as Maglor was considering leaning over the coffee table to grab him and demonstrate the veracity of his statement, his phone buzzed against the tabletop.

Maedhros SOS. Dad’s at the party. Sunday, Dec 31 • 8:05 p.m.

“Oh shit,” Maglor said aloud. He began typing a reply.

“What is it?” Daeron asked.

“It’s my brother.” Maglor glanced up from his phone. “Maedhros,” he clarified. “Remember I told you he and Fingon were going to that big New Year’s party hosted by Hithlum Properties at the Lómin Hotel?”

“Yes…”

“Well apparently my dad went.”

“Oh,” said Daeron.

Though Maglor tried his best to guard his boyfriend from the family feud disguised as a property development war between his father — the adopted, but elder, child — and grandpa Finwë’s biological firstborn, Daeron was, after a year of living together and six months in a relationship, well-aware of the significance and danger of Fëanor and Fingolfin being in the same room.

“Why??” Daeron asked.

“I have no idea, just asking my brother now.”

Maedhros Rúmil talked him it. Something about networking and a promising investor for the app. I dont know. But he’s here with mom talked him into it*

Maglor chuckled, recognising in the missing punctuation and typos the signs that Maedhros was approaching a state of inebriation.

Maglor Shit. how’s it going?

Maedhros they haven’t spoke to each other yet. spoken* we’re gonna get out here before it gets bad out of*

Maglor Gonna bail on the big party hey? Where?

Maedhros Finarfin and Eärwen;s place Angrod and co are having a party there

Maglor You’re gonna go to a house party with a bunch of 20 year olds?

Maedhros Shut up. Maybe I’ll forget about my rapid aceleration towards death Acceleration*

Maglor More likely you’ll be made acutely aware of it

Maedhros Come pick us up.

Maglor huffed and shook his head.

“What’s going on?” Daeron asked.

“One sec,” said Maglor.

Unappeased, Daeron stood and came round to plop himself at Maglor’s right and read over his shoulder.

“No, we are absolutely not picking them up,” he said.

Maglor No way. Take a cab. Daeron and I are having a quiet New Year’s in.

Maedhros Come on its like a 50km drive

“I’m not going,” Daeron said decisively.

Maglor pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before typing his reply.

Maglor And how do you intend for us to get home? If I’m gonna go to a house party with a bunch of estranged cousins ten plus years younger than me then no way am I not drinking.

Maedhros Angrod says everyone’s staying over. Finarfin and Eärwen are here at the hotel, they won’t be there til tomorrow. House is ours.

Maglor lowered the phone and folded one leg onto the couch, pivoting his body to face Daeron, who was frowning deeply.

“Okay,” said Maglor, setting both hands on Daeron’s thighs and affecting his most alluring puppy-dog eyes. “Before you say no — again — hear me out.”

*

When he spotted Rúmil at the coat check, Fëanor waved off a passing caterer and strode confidently towards his friend.

“There you are,” he said, forcing his way into the pleasantries Rúmil was presently exchanging with some young man in an obviously-rented suit.

“Ah, Fëanáro!” Rúmil exclaimed, his eyes alight beneath the droop of his wrinkled lids. He had always looked old, even back when they had met in university, but he wore his age well, appearing more wizened than weary. “You came! I suppose I owe thanks to your lovely wife?”

“You two always did enjoy uniting against me,” Fëanor said jovially, then drew his mouth back into a line. “So where is this investor?”

“Oh, he’s here.” Rúmil winked as he handed his coat to the clerk. Then he took Fëanor’s arm just above the elbow and guided him towards the centre of the hall.

Rúmil paused along the way, shaking hands with every other cluster of people they passed. He was a good business partner, Fëanor admitted. Frankly he was the only person alive Fëanor could still tolerate collaborating with, besides Nerdanel. But Rúmil, whom Fëanor had met as an undergraduate during his brief flirtation with the humanities, was an Ideas Man. Not particularly driven towards results and the perfection of those ideas (which was why he’d retired last year without ever making full professor). Results, then, were Fëanor’s role in the development of the app — a highly intelligent business communications translation tool — that they had been working on for the past year. For his efforts, it was agreed that seventy percent of all profits would go to Fëanor. Income he greatly needed if Ambar Metta was to claw out of its legal debts.

Catching sight of his son across the room, Fëanor frowned. Maedhros had been one of those people he’d tolerated collaborating with, when he’d been the company’s chief legal officer. Then the young man presently clasping Maedhros’ shoulder and doubling over with uninhibited laughter had stuffed his head full of values. The only value a corporation needed to uphold, in Fëanor’s opinion, was the cash value of its bottom line.

Well. He supposed he was glad Maedhros had not altogether turned against him: he was doing good work building community relationships for the company now. Fëanor just hoped it wouldn’t come at too high a cost.

And, as baffling as it was to Fëanor that a spawn of Fingolfin Noldoran could make a pleasant conversation partner, never mind a satisfactory domestic partner (or whatever new-fangled thing they called one another) Fingon still seemed to make Maedhros happy after all these years. And Maedhros’ happiness was, Fëanor admitted, also a valuable thing. He’d come to accept the change.

Turning his gaze from his son and smiling to himself, Fëanor sipped from his champagne flute. As he lowered it, his eyes landed on someone his heart would never, so long as he lived, be moved to accept.

The evening’s gracious host smugly grinning down at him.

“Fingolfin,” Fëanor said coldly.

Before Fëanor could react, Fingolfin had seized his hand and was giving it a firm shake. Fëanor drew back as if he had been burned.

Fingolfin’s expression betrayed no acknowledgement of the slight. “Brother,” he said. (The audacity!) “I am so glad you came!”

“Please do not call me that,” Fëanor whispered through clenched teeth. “I’ve never had a brother.”

He felt Rúmil’s long fingers curl around his shoulder and was aware at the same time of Nerdanel’s auburn head making its way through the crowd towards them. She flanked his other side.

“So, I suppose Rúmil told you?” Fingolfin said.

Told him what? Fëanor wondered, beetling his brows. But Fingolfin did not wait for answer.

“As a lifelong admirer of your business acumen, I am needless to say thrilled that we will finally be working together. Mr. Finvesen.” Fingolfin winked and an image of his champagne breaking over those chiselled cheekbones flashed across Fëanor’s mind.

“What do you mean?” asked Fëanor. “Is this some kind of joke? I have no intention of working with Hithlum Properties.”

Fingolfin laughed but looked nervous. “No! On the app! Rúmil,” he finally released Fëanor’s eyes to look at the other man, “don’t tell me you failed to mention my name.”

Fëanor had lurched to the obvious and odious conclusion before Fingolfin had finished speaking. “You are the investor?” He jerked out of Rúmil’s grasp and cut a glance at Nerdanel. “And you both knew this?” Nerdanel opened her mouth to speak but Fëanor cut her short (that would cost him dearly but his blood boiled too hot to care). “No,” he said, raising a hand to silence them all. “I will not abide this indignity. I do not need your charity, Noldoran.”

“Charity!” Fingolfin chuckled, a little too shrilly. “Is it charity to invest in a brilliant concept?”

“I don’t need your flattery, either,” Fëanor snarled. “What is your game here, Fingolfin? You think Finwë’s restless ghost is waiting for our reconciliation? Hm? Leave it be already. He’s a corpse in the ground on the other side of the world.” Fingolfin’s lips and the skin around his eyes twitched, betraying his distress. Good: That had been Fëanor’s intent.

“Unhand me!” he said to Rúmil and Nerdanel, though neither of them had a hand on him. “I will not do business with this man.” He jabbed a finger in Fingolfin’s direction. “I don’t care how much money he lays out in front of us like a greasy block of cheese, as though we were some mangy rats he wants to entrap in his network of ‘friends’. I am not his friend and I never will be.”

With that, Fëanor spun on his heels and stormed out of the hall and did not stop until he was standing outside the hotel in the dark drizzly night without a coat.

*

In the passenger seat of Maglor’s hatchback, Daeron impatiently bonked the headrest with the back of his skull and slumped lower in the chair.

“Where are they?” he complained.

He needed to get to a place with wine as soon as possible, and that place was still an hour’s drive away. An hour that he would spend tying himself in knots speculating on every possible social misstep he could make that evening among dozens of people he’d never met before. He could not believe he was doing this. But ultimately it had been impossible to refuse a whole week without having to prepare a single meal — plus certain… other favours he had negotiated.

Maglor frowned and pressed his palms into the steering wheel. “I don’t know. Maybe I should go in and find them…”

“Yes,” Daeron agreed. “Do that.”

“But if anyone sees me—”

“Put your hood up,” Daeron said, and did for Maglor as he’d suggested. Then he pulled sunglasses from the ceiling compartment. “And wear these.”

“Ow—” said Maglor, as an arm of the sunglasses nearly struck his eye. “I’m not wearing these,” he said, pushing Daeron’s hand away. “Fine, I’ll go in. But I’m warning you — it could be a while if anyone spots me.”

“Fine. I’ll be taking a nap,” said Daeron. He reclined his seat and put the sunglasses on his own face. Maglor sighed, then the door thumped shut behind him.

No more than two minutes could have passed when his heart nearly launched itself from his chest at the sound of fingers tapping at the window.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, and sat bolt upright. The shadow of a face obscured most of the driver’s side window. Daeron yanked the sunglasses off.

“Yes?” he said, affecting as much calm as he could. “Can I help you?”

The stranger mouthed some unintelligible words and pointed at the seat. Then the door swung open.

Daeron recoiled. “Get out!” he screamed.

“Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” the stranger said in a polished, level voice. “I’m Fëanor.” A long hand plunged out of the dark and into Daeron’s personal space. “And you must be Daeron. Pleased to finally meet you.”

“Uh, hi,” said Daeron, and not knowing what else to do accepted Fëanor’s handshake.

Fëanor gave an approving grunt. “A solid handshake, that’s a good sign.”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind,” Fëanor laughed. “I apologise for barging in on you like this. I assumed it was my son when I saw his car and had to find out what he was doing out here— he came with you I assume? Where is he?” Daeron opened his mouth to answer but Fëanor forged ahead. “But when I saw you there, well easy enough to put together who you were, and I have been dying to meet you. I was beginning to wonder if Cáno had made you up to get us all to stop trying to set him up with someone. We just wanted him to stop moping around! Which is why I knew he hadn’t made you up, because he stopped moping. As much.”

Fëanor chuckled. Daeron did not. He decided not to remind Fëanor that they had, in fact, met already — the day Daeron signed the lease to rent the room in Maglor’s place. But then he was just a tenant, not his son’s boyfriend.

“Yep,” Daeron said, “believe it not, I’m really dating your mopey son.”

Fëanor let loose a peal of laughter.

“A solid handshake and a dry wit! I like you already, Daeron. Isn’t it funny, though, that my two eldest sons are dating the sons of the two men in Beleria who cause me the most grief? By the way,” Fëanor pivoted towards him, “why didn’t your father come to this soirée of Fingolfin’s?” Fëanor smiled smugly as if this pleased him. “I suppose the Mayor of Beleria is in high demand on a night like this, though. Did Elu have somewhere better to be?”

“Uh, no, actually,” said Daeron. “He’s at home.”

“I see,” Fëanor said, and smoothed his tie. “Not giving any special speeches for the people or anything?”

“Nope,” said Daeron.

“Interesting. Elu is usually into that sort of thing, isn’t he? Pandering to the masses?”

Daeron scowled.

Fëanor laughed again. “Good, good. I like people who wear their feelings plainly. You’re a very transparent person, I can see why Cáno likes you.”

“Thanks?” Daeron said, half-sincere. No one had ever remarked on this trait of his positively before.

“He’s rather transparent, too, you know. That could be a problem between you.” He puckered his lips thoughtfully and looked Daeron up and down. “Just make sure you remain your own people. Separate entities, don’t bleed into each other. That’s what happened with his ex-husband. He was a musician, too, as I am sure Cáno has told you.” Maglor had told Daeron, at more length than Daeron thought necessary. He was not keen on hearing about it again from his father. “They were in the same band — don’t start a band with him!”

“Oh, there’s no risk of that,” said Daeron. “I only do solo work.”

“Good! I am an individual competitor myself. Everyone tells you you have to be a ‘team player’ to do well in life.” Fëanor wagged a finger. “Wrong. You have to be a strong leader. You have to know your ideals and stick to them. Actually, before I came out here for a breath of fresh air, I was put in a very unpleasant situation by a fellow I am ‘collaborating’ on something with—”

“Dad??” The driver’s door swung open to reveal Maglor, mouth gaping in an expression of horror and concern. “What are you doing in my car?”

“Oh, hello, Cáno,” Fëanor said cheerfully. “I was just getting to know your boyfriend you’ve refused to introduce me to.”

Maglor’s protest was cut off by Fingon, then Maedhros, piling into the backseat, laughing.

“Hello!” said Fëanor, craning his neck to look at them. “Are you two leaving already?”

Daeron could not see, but he could feel the despair settle into the sudden silence behind him.

“Don’t look so horrified, Nelyo,” Fëanor said. “I wish I could leave this damn party! All right, all right, I know when I’m not wanted!” He swung one leg out of the car and turned his body back to shake Daeron’s hand. “Very nice to meet you, Daeron. We’ll have to continue this conversation again soon. Good night! Good night, Cáno,” he said as he stood and gave Maglor, still stunned, a quick embrace. “Good night Nelyo, Fingon, happy New Year!”

He trotted back into the hotel, arms swinging at his sides but visibly shivering.

“I’m so sorry,” Maglor said. He was pale with panic. “Are you okay? What did he say to you?”

“It’s fine,” said Daeron, and chuckled. “He seems like an interesting guy. I think we’ll get along well, actually.”

Maglor’s eyes widened while his mouth contracted into a tight ball. He looked deeply perturbed by this idea.

“Come on!” Fingon shouted from the backseat. “Let’s go!”

*

“They really need to build a bridge here,” said Orodreth. He huffed impatiently. The tunnel was backed up for kilometres, bumper-to-bumper traffic crawling down the Sirion Expressway. He just wanted to be home. Well, his parents’ home, which was the only permanent home he had.

The drive from the base at Minas Tirith had been a nightmare. Having already missed Yule after his deployment was extended by a week, he and Lorneth had then been stuck at the base for two days due to a blizzard. When they finally got out, there’d been a road closure on the Sirion that had them zig-zagging through the countryside for three hours longer than it should have taken them. And, of course, entering Beleria and nine p.m. on New Year’s eve meant going through three DUI checkpoints. (“No, officer, we don’t drink. Just going home, sir. Asleep before midnight if we can manage it, sir.”)

No, Orodreth was not ‘fun’, and that was how he liked it.

Thirty minutes later, they rounded the bend toward the cul-de-sac where Finarfin and Eärwen had the sprawling beach home he and his siblings had grown up in.

“Someone must be having a party,” Lorneth said. “Look at all these cars parked.”

Orodreth grunted. “Hopefully not one of the neighbours.”

But as they drew nearer to the house, a feeling of dread took root in his stomach.

Lorneth voiced his fear. “No, not a neighbour. Looks like it’s at… your place.”

Indeed, rolling slowly past the packed driveway, the house pumped so loudly with music he could feel it through the car’s metal casing.

“Fucking hell,” he said.

*

Aegnor slumped further into the Adirondack chair on the deck and tugged his wool coat across his chest. It was a beautifully clear night. Thanks to the shot of whisky Fingon had insisted they take to inaugurate the auspicious arrival of a “former party king, out of retirement for one night only!”, the stars glittering over the dark ocean swam in and out of focus. It reminded Aegnor of a painting. Straining to hear the slow rise and retreat of waves against the shore, he was almost able to tune out Angrod and Fingon’s karaoke rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody as it deteriorated into chaotic screaming.

“Mind if I join you?”

Aegnor startled and looked towards the voice. It was the cute brunette he’d been stealing glances at all evening. Words congealed on his tongue.

“Yeah, sure,” he managed.

Stay cool, he thought to himself. Unlike his siblings, Aegnor was terrible with girls. He knew he was, objectively, attractive enough, but he was entirely lacking the charisma that came so naturally to everyone in his family. Well, except Orodreth: but Orodreth had found himself a marine as boring as he was to marry and that was that.

“I’m Andreth,” the woman said, slanting him a smile.

“Aegnor,” said Aegnor.

“Yeah, I know.”

“You do?” Aegnor sat upright.

Andreth shrugged and took a moderate sip from her red plastic cup. “Edhellos gave me everyone’s names.”

“Oh. Are you friends with my sister?”

“I have a class with Galadriel, yeah. But I mostly know Edhellos. She wanted me at the party as her wingman. But seems she’s doing fine without me.”

That was when Aegnor noticed a woman’s voice had replaced Fingon’s on the mic. There was more giggling than singing on her part.

“Yeah,” said Aegnor, and smiled. “If it’s my brother she’s after she won’t have any trouble with that.”

Andreth’s laughter wasn’t like most girls’ Aegnor’s age — all high and airy. It was genuine, a little wry, a soft low roll of amusement. He felt like a helplessly flopping fish being reeled into her orbit. Realising that half his torso was, in fact, reaching towards her, he pulled back sheepishly.

“So what class are you taking with my sister?” he asked, for the sake of saying something, but also because he was bursting with the desire to know everything he could about this person.

“Existentialism,” she said.

“Wow,” said Aegnor, then idiotically added, “you’re really smart.”

Andreth laughed again but didn’t deny it. “What do you do?”

“I, uh…” I’m a dumb jock, Aegnor thought. Definitely not good enough for you. “I play volleyball.” He didn’t mention it was for the varsity team. People tended to judge when they found out their athletic fees went towards your tuition.

“Cool,” she said, and the clenching beneath Aegnor’s ribs loosened when she didn’t scowl in distaste. “Your family is pretty athletic, huh?”

“Yeah, they are. Except Finrod. My oldest brother. He’s not here. I think you’d like him. He’s into deep shit, too.”

Then Andreth did scowl. A charming sort of scowl. “I don’t know, I find most philosopher types pretty annoying. Besides, what’s the point of filling your life with people who are just the same as you?”

Aegnor stared at her, seeing his own reflection in her big round glasses. His hair hung in his face, and he had a stupid grin plastered across it, but the openness, the warmth of Andreth’s expression put him entirely at ease.

She sipped her drink again without breaking eye contact, then licked a dribble of red wine from her lips. “Wanna go for a walk?” she asked.

Aegnor leapt up from his seat, and his head spun with the suddenness of the motion. “Yes, definitely!”

*

Fingolfin found his brother on the balcony, his forearms resting casually on the railing as he contemplated the street below.

“I don’t know why you bother with him,” Finarfin said, straightening. His bright green eyes caught the glow of the city light.

“You saw, eh?” Fingolfin sipped his champagne.

“Heard more than saw,” said Finarfin. “What was it about this time?”

“I extend my hand for him to take!” Fingolfin replied, exasperated. “I offer my help, and he hates me even more.”

“What did you do?”

Fingolfin sighed. “I offered to invest in his project. His translation app.”

“Oof.” Finarfin shook his head. “What were you thinking?”

“What do you mean? I thought to show my admiration of his ideas, I thought to build a relationship with him around something that wasn’t real estate-related.”

“You insulted him,” Finarfin said.

“How?!”

“Come, don’t be so naive. You think he wants your charity?”

“Charity. That’s what he said.”

“You know,” said Finarfin, “if you’re looking to dispose of money you have a brother whose always in need of producers.”

“I’ve told you before I’m glad to support your ideas, any of them.”

“Good! Because I was thinking of making a short documentary about the housing crisis in Beleria…”

Fingolfin glared down at him, and Finarfin grinned.

“I’m kidding, of course. I have no interest in getting involved in any issues, least of all yours. Nope. I’ll stick to the important stuff: staying behind the camera making romantic comedies to keep the masses distracted while my brothers pull at the edges of a fraying society.”

“Arvo…”

“I know, I know. You’re different.”

“I am,” Fingolfin asserted, as much for himself as for his brother. “In fact, I have been thinking of resolutions.”

“Have you?”

“Yes — and I think in the New Year I am going to conduct a company review. See if we can afford to do what I’ve always wanted, since the beginning. Affordable housing.”

“Really? That’s what you’ve always wanted?”

“Yes. And — I was thinking of mentoring one of my senior staff as a replacement and making a transition to politics. Elu has hinted that he intends to retire after his current term. I’d like to run for Mayor.”

“Huh,” said Finarfin. “That sounds like a great way to butt heads with Fëanor ten times more often than you already do.”

“Maybe I could inspire him to change, push him towards a more benevolent—”

Finarfin laughed, loudly.

“What’s so funny?” said a new voice.

Behind them, Fëanor loomed, arms crossed over his chest.

“Oh hello, Fëanáro!” said Finarfin. “We were just talking about you.”

Fingolfin shot him a look. “We were not. Finarfin is drunk.”

“I wish,” Finarfin muttered, and frowned into his empty glass.

“Never mind, I don’t care,” said Fëanor, and flicked a dismissive hand in Finarfin’s direction. “I’d like to talk to you about your investment offer,” he said to Fingolfin, jutting his jaw forward proudly.

Fingolfin nearly dropped his drink. “Oh?”

“Yes. I’ve had a moment to consider.” (He’d spoken to Nerdanel, Fingolfin guessed, and had to bite his cheeks to keep from smiling.) “And I think it might be a sensible…” he squinted, as if the next word pained him— “partnership.”

*

Even though Celeborn had come to this party expressly to talk to Galadriel, it had taken him two hours to work up the courage to do so.

“Hey,” he said, coming to stand beside her. “I saw your drink was empty, and I uh, got you another one.”

He held out the cup for her to take. Vodka soda, right?” he confirmed, even though he’d conducted thorough research beforehand.

“Do I know you?” she asked, looking him up and down.

A lump of dismay lodged in Celeborn’s throat. But of course, why would she remember him? He might have been thinking of her for weeks, he might have contrived to find himself at this party for the sole purpose of crossing paths with her again, but she was… well, way out of his league, like Galathil had said. He wished he could sink through the floor.

“Yeah,” he managed to squeak. “We met at the Nordic spa, a few weeks ago. It was your birthday, I think.”

“Oh!” Recognition lit up her face and she accepted the drink. “Right, I remember. Tel-something, right?”

“Celeborn,” he said, and heaved a sigh of relief. “Yeah.”

“Nice to see you again, Celeborn. How’ve you been?”

*

“I don’t do karaoke,” Daeron had said, when Maglor had tried, shortly after their arrival, to drag him to the stage set up in the corner of one large room.

Some time later (who knew how long, time had blurred about half-way through the third beer), Daeron bounced beside him, belting, “Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy! But here’s my number, so call me maybe?” while Maglor’s attempts at harmonising were increasingly marred by fits of laughter. The alcohol helped, certainly, but Daeron was no less immune to the thrilling effects of an approving audience than Maglor.

After Angrod had disappeared with that vapid redhead and Fingon had escorted his sloshed redhead away from the festivities (Maglor had not seen Maedhros let loose like that for years and was happy both that his brother was having fun and that he would be Fingon’s problem in the morning), no one had contested Maglor and Daeron’s monopoly of the karaoke equipment. Which was good, because Maglor had no intention of ceding the spotlight to anyone else — besides, of course, Daeron.

*

“I’m worried,” Anairë said, then scraped an olive from her martini stick with her teeth. She chewed it thoughtfully.

“Oh, forget about them, girl!” Eärwen gave her a light smack. “Arvo will keep them under control.”

“I don’t know, they seem to be completely unaware of your husband’s existence,” Nerdanel said to Eärwen.

“Poor Arvo,” said Eärwen. “Maybe I should rescue him…”

“No.” Nerdanel extended one long braceleted arm to stop the other woman from stepping forward. “You’re right. He’s a tempering influence, even if they are ignoring him.”

“I can’t tell if they’re arguing or aggressively agreeing,” said Anairë, squinting. “The latter seems extremely unlikely, but…”

“One can hope,” said Nerdanel.

*

“Eeee!” Edhellos squealed, and stamped her feet excitedly.

“What was that about?” Angrod smirked at the delightfully rosy-cheeked girl he’d just pinned against the back of his bedroom door.

“I can’t believe it’s happening!” she gushed.

“What?” Angrod asked, though he had some idea. He nuzzled at her neck to bury his smug expression.

“You’re gonna be my midnight kiss!”

“I plan to be doing more than kissing you by then,” said Angrod, and dropped to his knees. His hands lingered over the curve of her ass. “God, you’re so hot.”

*

Across the bay, a single firework boomed and burst into a hundred golden rays.

“Must be almost midnight,” said Andreth. It was the first thing they’d said to each other in a while — ever since their hands had somehow found each other on the log between them.

“Mmhmm,” said Aegnor. He thought about checking the time on his phone but was too scared to move and break the spell of the moment.

“You wanna go back to the party for the countdown?” Andreth asked.

“I don’t think we’d have time,” Aegnor said.

“No, probably not,” said Andreth, and shuffled closer to him so their shoulders brushed.

Aegnor held his breath.

*

“Ger ready, folks! One minute to midnight!” a musician announced from the small stage at the front of the hall.

Anairë tutted. “This is his party, Fingolfin should be leading the countdown.”

“Shh. Leave them,” said Nerdanel, attention rapt on their husbands still locked in conversation.

*

“Well,” said Finarfin, pocketing his phone. “It’s almost midnight, I’m gonna go kiss my wife.”

Fëanor and Fingolfin were far too intent on each other to notice him leave.

*

“Hey guys! Twenty seconds to midnight!” someone screamed over the music.

“Shit!” said Maglor, abruptly interrupting a very entertaining rendition of Single Ladies.

“Someone dim the lights!” Daeron shouted.

“Ten, nine, eight…” Maglor yelled into the mic, a few seconds off.

*

“Do you hear that?” Angrod asked between gasps. “I think it’s midnight.”

Edhellos bent over him and shoved her tongue down his throat.

*

“… seven, six…”

Celeborn stared ahead, his cheeks bright pink.

“You okay?” said Galadriel.

“Hm?” he said as she tugged on his hand.

“…five, four…”

Not bothering to wait out the last three seconds, Galadriel grabbed his face between her hands and kissed him, drawing a surprised squeak from his throat that quickly slid into an adoring sigh as his hand found her waist.

*

“… three, two…”

“Why is everyone shouting?” Maedhros groaned, blearily blinking awake to see Fingon sprawled beside him on a strange bed. “Shit, did I fall asleep?”

“You did.” Fingon handed him a glass of water. Rivulets dribbled down Maedhros’ neck as he poured it back.

“Ugh. I really can’t do this anymore.”

“No. But I love you any way.” Fingon kissed his mouth, which must have tasted awful. “Happy new year, babe.”

“…one.”

*

A bouquet of fireworks exploded over the lights of Beleria in the distance, and nothing had ever seemed more natural to Aegnor than leaning in to push his fingers into Andreth’s dark hair and capturing her lips in a kiss.

*

“Happy New Year!!” chorused a hundred voices.

“My god, is it midnight already?” said Fëanor, pressing a hand to Fingolfin’s chest in his surprise. He had not realised they were standing so close.

“Guess so.” Fingolfin laughed.

“Well, brother,” said Fëanor, holding out a hand, “shall we seal our deal with a midnight handshake?”

A reckless, wicked smile, one he had never before seen, now leapt to life on Fingolfin’s face. “Am I not good enough for a kiss?” he said, and before Fëanor could protest Fingolfin had him in both arms, swooping him low and planting a firm kiss to his lips.

*

“Oh my god,” said Anairë. “Are you seeing—”

But she didn’t finish because Nerdanel’s lips had sealed off her throat.

*

It had been sloppy and broken up by giggles, but Maglor could not remember a more exhilarating kiss in his life.

He stared at Daeron. Daeron stared back. It was strange: they’d lived together a year, been sleeping together half that time, and yet, perhaps because of the haste and ease with which they’d fallen into a domestic rhythm, they’d neglected many of the customary milestones of a new romance.

Maglor said it first. “I love you.”

“Really?”

Maglor laughed. “Yes, really. Obviously.”

When Daeron continued to stare, Maglor nudged him. “Well? Are you gonna say you love me?”

“Yeah. Just… kiss me again first.”

“Gladly,” said Maglor, and did so, longer and less messily this time. Someone in the crowd whooped.

“Happy New Year,” Daeron said when they pulled apart. “I love you.”

The prompts for this were: Daeron/Maglor + Board games from @searchingforserendipity25 and same + Enduring the in-laws from @melestasflight (who also requested Russingon hooking up), Orodreth/His Partner + Winter driving from @acretosorien, Feanor & Fingolfin + Kissing at midnight (it's platonic) and Fingolfin & Siblings + Reflections and resolutions from @ettelene, and Aegnor/Andreth + Kissing at midnight from @emyn-arnens. I also included some bonus follow-up on this fill for Celeborn/Galadriel and Angrod/Edhellos. Whew!

[thenightling]

The Satanic Panic (the unwelcome 80s throw-back)

Everything from the 1980s has made a come back. From LP records replacing CDs, to films like Beetlejuice and Ghostbusters. And literature like The Vampire Lestat (published in 1985) and Neil Gaiman's The Sandman (1988). And Broadway musicals based on 80s movies. Even skinny jeans for men made a come back. And late 80 Goth fashion. These are all great, fun, Nostalgic things. But... something else made a come back. The infamous Satanic Panic. If you're unfamiliar with the 80s Satanic Panic it wasn't all about thinking there were Satanists everywhere. It was sort of a blanket term for a rise in anti-semitism, anti-witchcraft, homophobia, and a weird surge in ped0pheila paranoia. When you think of the 80s Satanic Panic you think of the religious zealots burning Dungeons & Dragons tabletop role playing game manuals or thinking they hear Satanic messages in Heavy Metal albums or the extremely ignorant claiming that non-Abrahmic religions (or even Judaism) are actually worshipping Satan. I saw this make a disturbing comeback just yesterday when someone joined my The Sandman Facebook group with the rant that The Star of David is actually a Satanic symbol and has nothing to do with David. If you didn't grow up during The Satanic Panic you may have entirely missed the Ped0phelia aspect of it, which may have been worse than the claims that Satanists were / are secretly everywhere. It was a leap in logic that the Satanists are up to evil, and what is more evil than the sexual abuse and exploitation of children? So people started to imagine there were ped0philes everywhere, running daycare centres, or eccentric ex-boyfriends. Or LGBTQAI+ teenagers who came out of the closet were suddenly suspected of being a ped0 because if the person isn't straight, a very ignorant "friend" or family member might suddenly decide that the gay person is attracted to everyone of their gender, including children. The impact of the 80s Satanic Panic can still be felt. Innocent people, including Day Care Center owners, were convicted and couldn't get their verdicts over turned for decades. A bad breakup and a few whispers in her ear could lead to a mother believing the worst about her ex-husband without any evidence. There were cases of children being coached without the coachers even realizing that's what they were doing because the adults asked the children so many times in so many ways about sexual abuse that they were sure must have happened, that the kids just started saying what they thought their parents or grandparents wanted to hear. This was the era of "Stranger Danger." And it never quite stopped.

The ped0phelia paranoia is particularly strange. Do NOT take this to mean I am claiming Ped0phelia doesn't happen or isn't a real threat or that victims who come forward should be ignored. No. However, Q-anon revived this paranoia with things like "All Democrats are secretly ped0philes." "Hillary Clinton leads a Ped0phile ring." "The ped0philes in Washington and Hollywood are using the blood of children to unnaturally retain their youth. As far fetched as that sounds, people believe it. There was even that one guy who was so convinced that there was a secret dungeon under a pizza parlor that he showed up heavily armed and when he found out there was no basement he surrendered himself to police. Former rock star turned Hollywood composer, Danny Elfman, was recently accused of decades old sexual harassment but because of "catchy" headlines lots of people seemed to think he must have r8ped someone. Some people even dusted off his old Oingo Boingo song, "Little Girls" as proof of his perversion even though the song was actually intended to shame and call out Hollywood executives who would take advantage of underage girls. It wasn't the smoking gun they seemed to think it was. It was an anti-sexual abuse song. Much like how in the 1980s Pat Benatar's "Hell is for Children" (an anti-child abuse anthem) was mistaken as Satanist / pro-child abuse somehow... (Lyric comprehension / media literacy is haaaard). For over thirty-years we have lived in the comfortable myth of "Ha, people were silly in the past!" and then it started to happen again. People saw Satanists and ped0philes everywhere again in a strange spike in social paranoia, perhaps as a subconscious (and very bigoted) rebellion against the social changes happening such as more LGBTQAI+ rights and openness. You might think you're immune because you're a democrat with an open mind and statistically usually the people who fall for these things are... well... Qanon... But you are not immune. Anyone can fall for these sort of things. If you ever decided someone "looks like a pervert" because of how they dress, or you have started to humor the gossip and rumors about your "creepy neighbor"... maybe stop and remember it was "Normal" and "reasonable people" who took part in the Salem witch Hunts.

If you know someone who sees Satanism everywhere that isn't pious Christianity or a smaller non-Abrahamic religion, than know that it's not that big of a leap in logic for them to start making sexual (particularly ped0phile) accusations. I dare say this is even tied to the conservative anti-trans movement sprinkled with accusations of "grooming." This is one 80s fad I wish would die... again.

[crystal-overdrive]

15 questions

I was tagged by @fangbangerghoul!

1. Are you named after anyone? My first name is from a dream my Mam had where she had twin babies, a giant boy with no name and a tiny girl with my name, she went into premature labor a couple of days after that dream. My middle name is for my great grandmother.

2. When was the last time you cried? I genuinely can't remember. Not sure if that suggests I'm happy, or callous. Or both. It's probably both.

3. Do you have kids? No, and no plans to have any.

4. What sports do you play/have you played? I'm training for a 5k right now but it's not going very well...shin splints...kill me. I used to play badminton with my friends but only one of us knew the rules so we called it Yu-Gi-Oh because we were convinced he just made them up as he went. When I was a kid I did horse riding and figure skating.

5. Do you use sarcasm? Putting a sarcastic answer here would be too obvious. I do but I'm also pretty bad at reading it in others which can be awkward.

6. What’s the first thing you notice about people? Their manners, especially if it's a highly coded situation. Politeness is important to me. In more informal situations probably patterns of speech?

7. What’s your eye color? Brown, sometimes green in summer.

8. Scary movies or happy endings? Scary movies 100%. Love a tragedy, love horror.

9. Any talents? I belive in hard work more than talent, but I guess I'm fairly good at putting in the work?

10. Where were you born? That's a security question, mate. No way.

11. What are your hobbies? Video games, tabletop rpgs, going to the theatre, reading. I write both professionally and as a hobby so that's kind of a strange blurred line.

12. Do you have any pets? The beautiful Miss Loonie.

13. How tall are you? Fucking tiny. Five foot. That's it.

14. Favourite subject in school? In high school? Drama. In university? My favourite post-grad class has probably been worldbuilding which focused on writing for science-fiction, fantasy and horror.

15. Dream job? I was having an interesting conversation about this the other day. I don't have a dream job anymore, no allusions to a title or a place on the ladder. I just want to make lots of cool stuff, and get it out in front of an audience. I want to work in a bunch of different forms and try things out. So I guess the dream job is being a prolific enough writer that people will give me the chance to take on that sort of portfolio career? I tag @doxieandthedead, @nyda-the-tav, @brave-little-avocado-toaster if yous are up for it!

[lunarbard]

After a 6 hour download due to bad internet, I finally got around to playing the Baldur's Gate 3 epilogue. And it feels like yet another piece of a game that fails to be more than the sum of its parts.

I'm a fan of Larian studios - DOS2 is one of my favorite games - and I appreciate how much work went into Baldur's Gate 3. I also ran seven playthroughs in that first release month; I've probably run through that game more than 90% of its players today, let alone given the timeframe. But BG3 had already been the biggest push for me to move away from D&D 5e in my tabletop games just from the Early Access, and I went into the release knowing I would find the combat rather insufferable (especially after a month or so of playing Wildermyth, which probably has my favorite simple tactical combat in a crpg I've played). And the application of skills in general. But honestly the cinematics / story delivery (and promise of consequences later) in EA had me wanting to see the rest of the game.

And the game does have its moments: Karlach's monologue & Dark Urge refusing their blood are fantastic. But those are all that really stood out in their entirety,

I stopped playing the game because the seventh playthrough was my tactician run for the last achievement at the time, and ironically it was the first time I actually got Dark Urge's special good ending (my four other Dark Urge runs I went to Avernus with Karlach). And the game gives this little somber note of reflection for Dark Urge, and it's an incredible moment that gives more closure for the whole game than the default endings and epilogue combined.

Then it's rather strangled the moment you reflect on the rest of the game, because the game doesn't allow itself much space to breathe. And it's all the tadpoles' fault.

If there's one thing missing from BG3 (which is being generous), it's adventure. The tadpoles have a lot of game design uses, but perhaps their largest impact is how they allow the game to yoink you on a single track towards its conclusion. So exploration is limited, and typically just rewards you with the equivalent of a pile of necrotic needles & a blighted shambling mound digesting you (all with a 30 perception check required to not be surprised, mind you). Or you accidentally skip half an act because you wandered into a tomb.

But I digress on why Act 2 is a wad of melting glue desperately trying to bridge the gap between the two actual halves of the game.

DOS2 and BG3 are both built out of wide area maps set in linear chains. There seems to be this philosophy that single, completely interconnected maps are just better than traveling between smaller areas via a world map even when those maps make the story make less sense, like the goblin camp being a ~10 minute walk from the grove down a straight road.

I want you to imagine what Act 1` might look like if the map was instead properly split up into distinct locations across an overworld map:

Your arrival in the grove is timed with the goblins attacking Waukeen's Rest; if you look through the telescope, you see their banners marching in that direction.

That gives you a marker on your world map to travel to, which takes a few hours overland and you find the place burning after the raid and can help the people there.

Here you could get two leads: the Zhentarim sending you down the road to the toll post to check on their shipment (with the flind & gnolls being a set encounter when trying to reach there) and tracks that lead to the blighted village.

In the blighted village you encounter some goblins, get the location of the goblin camp (likely from a dead or alive goblin), and head to that marker to find the warband returned from the inn and celebrating. (or maybe you find information on the Selunites here, and follow the indications of a Selunite temple in hopes of finding a healer, only to find it ruined with goblins in it).

Area divisions - whether short loading zones in old Monster Hunter or a dotted line for travel across a world map - give a ton of space to state or imply time & distance without needing to accurately render them. Pathfinder: Kingmaker did a great job of also throwing in some party banter for companions when you rested, which, with a good budget, could do wonders for providing those little companion interactions a good chunk of bg3 players appear to crave.

Those are some of the breathing moments the game needed. Little bits of connection, reflection, and companionship. I want more small moments for Dark Urge where you get to have them think on their affliction - really think! not "kick cat: Yes / no / normal dialogue." I want more urges that are actually urges and you have to resist, or actively save someone, and build this narrative anywhere other than your head because the game treats the Dark Urge as "here's a really evil option. You're good for not picking it."

Which sums up 95% of the game's "moral" choices too.

The one thing BG3 does better than any crpg I've played is its graphics, cinematics, and letting you make an explicitly trans character.

And I think that's why the epilogue felt so flat to me. You walk around and talk to people, then watch everyone give a toast. For all I've come to dread the thought of playing this game, I would pay a good amount to get an epilogue that's like DOS2, but with cinematics instead of character art.

[lutethebodies]

LTB Tav Tuesdays: Olinitza Cuel, the Silent Sentinel

My fourth Tav is one of two rangers, and a fave among faves in both 5e and BG3. Olini is my current tabletop character, stomping all over my brother's unique homebrew game (Magic as deteriorated AI! Perma-storms hiding secret islands! Mad underground bioengineers! Dragons on the moon!) as a half-drow planar-warrior-wielding Horizon Walker ranger who was (unwittingly at first) working for a patron that once helped cause an apocalypse.

Her name is a very loose translation of (as I understand it) "she who moves quickly" from Nahuatl. In 5e she has the Investigator background, and was sent by her superiors in the big city to investigate war crimes (and their cover-up) committed by commanders of the same unit she used to scout for in the wilderness. Discovered, she was run off the frontier as a traitor and, at the game's start, was back in the city taking up the righteous yet thankless task of petitioning bureaucratic authority for justice.

Olini is a natural explorer annoyed by civilization's limits and rules, driven to seek justice on her own terms, and will push any boundary to do so. Her ideals are 1) freedom; she relishes her self-appointed role as the spear-tip protecting innocents from abuses of authority; and 2) people; she respects like-minded friends more than powerful titles. When not seeking righteous retribution against the war criminals who cast her out, she is sentimentally attached to her spyglass and scimitar, mementos of her childhood and long-lost ranger father.

Her flaw is an insufficient patience with nuance or the gray realities of life; she is quick to react and judge if it confirms her priors. This can curdle into selfish denial if unchecked, and earned her the ironic moniker of "silent" after frequent outbursts as she raged against incessantly-postponed audiences with corrupt power brokers. That temper caught her future patron's attention, who promised her help in exchange for temporary silence and other vague "services yet to be named." Eager to clear her name, Olini readily agreed.

In BG3 Olini is translated to a Gloom Stalker with the Soldier background, which in addition to being insanely overpowered, fits a bit better with her backstory and half-drow lineage. An ex-Fist who witnessed first-hand that unit's incompetence in Chult, she was in Baldur's Gate seeking an audience with Ulder Ravengard, but missed him by a few days when the Grand Duke left for Elturel (and his subsequent fate). Put off by Blaze Portyr and ignored by Gortash, she was back in the wilderness seeking Ravengard's party when captured by the Nautiloid.

I've played her for years as a belligerent force of chaotic good, with many sources of inspiration but most recently the character of Evangeline Navarro from True Detective 4. Navarro fits Olini to a T, complete with the "haunted by her dead mother" bit. She fights hard (she nearly killed Absolutist-Minthara on the spot for calling her "half-breed") and loves harder, which got awkward with Karlach (who's unrequitedly down bad for her) and got her into bed with Shadowheart (who did indeed become her romance).

Metagame tidbit 1: I haven't explored their romance yet beyond superficial commonalities (shadow magic, caring for animals, half-elven lineage), but I like the idea of Olini learning subtlety and tact from Shadowheart, and our favorite cleric learning self-assurance by example from someone like Olini, who's so comfortable in her own skin. Metagame tidbit 2: Olini is also the first character for whom I've kept track of long rests; she defeated the goblins and hit Level 5 within 8 in-game days (which has pretty much become my standard for subsequent runs).

Tune in next week for another ranger-ific Tav!

[marypsue]

Anyway. Who here likes evil cheerleaders, melodramatic teenage goths, homoerotic loathing, Christopher Pike and Fear Street books, the Satanic Panic, and cheesy horror-comedy? Who here would like an exclusive sneak peek at the first chapter of Fearleading Squad?

Well, tough luck, because you're getting one anyway.

...

Bad Moon Rising

Steve was the first to go missing.

He had a last name, probably, but Avery didn’t know it. She was just used to seeing his lanky, zitty self, limp greasy hair and facial piercings and ill-fitting black clothes, reading a comic book with his feet up behind the counter of the Movie Gallery. Or seeing the rusted-out camper van he was rumoured to live in parked in the gravel lot behind the tourist information centre, where he sold shitty weed with about as much enthusiasm and entrepreneurial spirit as he brought to the video store gig. He was a fixture around town, as much a part of the landscape as the sign on the highway advertising the annual rodeo or the grain elevator by the train tracks. Something you saw so often that you stopped seeing it at all.

Until he wasn’t.

It was the van Avery noticed missing first. It took her a while to register that it was even gone. Steve was in the tourist info lot some days, and wasn’t on others. Avery never really paid attention, unless she wanted shitty weed, which wasn’t often.

So the camper van had been gone for a week or more before it really registered.

Once Avery’d noticed that the van was gone, though, it was impossible to miss. Steve was never at the Movie Gallery anymore, and when Avery asked the manager, Trish made a face and said he’d been a no-show for all his shifts for the last week and a half. “He might at least have had the decency to let me know he quit,” she grumbled, passing Trick or Treat under the scanner and accepting Avery’s handful of change. “Asshole threw off my entire shift schedule. I had to rework the whole thing from scratch.”

“Is that…like him?” Avery asked, and got a shrug and an eyeroll in return.

Even Arlon didn’t know, when Avery cornered him at the library to ask. Arlon Thwaite, who swore blind that his middle name, Wizzard, was an old family name and only by fortunate coincidence a Terry Pratchett reference, was one of maybe three people in the world Avery considered friends. He was also the most insufferable person she knew. But then, Avery was the most insufferable person a lot of people in town knew. Maybe that was part of the reason why they were friends.

“Yeah, he’s flaked on our last two Pathfinder sessions,” Arlon offered casually, in between reshelving Danielle Steel novels. “But he’s always flaking out on us for one reason or another. I didn’t really think anything of it.” He paused to look over at Avery, his eyes growing brighter behind the thick lenses of his aviator-style glasses as he offered, or maybe threatened, “If you wanted a seat at the table -”

“Over your dead body.”

“Don’t you mean, ‘over my dead body’?”

“No, because I’d kill you and desecrate your corpse before I’d play a tabletop game with that crowd of wastoids you call friends.”

A middle-aged woman with a truly impressive feathered bouffant, sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs by the window, looked sharply up from the Agatha Christie she was nose-deep in to frown at Avery. Avery threw the horns in her direction, and snickered when her frown got deeper and more alarmed.

“People in this town,” Avery sighed as she turned back to Arlon, who nodded agreement.

“She can act all innocent and scandalised. But she and her ilk are the biggest borrowers of these bodice-rippers.” He paused, holding up the copy of Fine Things he was tucking back onto the shelf. “And you know I once found pubes stuck in between the pages of one of these? I don’t even want to know what kind of horrors our patrons are committing against these poor, innocent former trees.”

Avery barely managed to stifle a horrified burst of laughter.

Arlon shrugged, and went back to reshelving romance. “Hope Steve didn’t skip town. He’s still got my copy of Neuromancer. And I don’t think he even started to read it.”

…

School started again three days later, and Avery mostly forgot about Steve and his mysterious disappearance. She had other things to worry about. Ms. Feldman, and her one-woman crusade against nose rings. The idiot jocks in shop class.

And the new girl in her homeroom.

“Why would any sane person move from LA to here?” Avery grumbled to Courtney, over her clingwrapped tuna sandwich. “What could we possibly have to offer that LA doesn’t?”

“Manure?” Courtney suggested. “Tornadoes?”

Avery had to stop herself from snorting chocolate milk out her nose.

“Tiffany Bright,” she said, once the coughing had subsided. The words seemed to warp her mouth into a sneer around them. “What kind of a name even is that? Might as well just call yourself Barbie Hollywood.”

Courtney took a sip of her Tab before cautiously offering, “She’s really not so bad. Seems nice. We’ve got tryouts for the cheer squad tonight, and she said she’d be there.”

“My condolences,” Avery said, and Courtney snorted.

…

Avery wasn’t obsessed.

There was just…something off about Tiffany. Something too fake about her perfectly coordinated outfits, her perfectly combed, perfectly curled perky blonde ponytail, her big, perfectly blue eyes with their fan of thick dark lashes, her perfect pearly smile, never too narrow or too wide. Something about how everything she said came out sounding faintly mocking. Something about how she looked at you, like she knew something you didn’t. Like she could see toilet paper stuck to your shoe or something stuck in your teeth, and she’d decided it’d be funnier not to tell you about it.

She got onto the cheer team. Of course.

“I just don’t like that bitch,” Avery grumbled to her beat-up black boots, behind the gym, where she was sneaking a cigarette and Mallory was trying to avoid breathing in her smoke. By the way Mallory was coughing into the pin-studded lapel of her hand-me-down denim jacket, it wasn’t working. Mallory’s dad worked in demolition, and she had seven older brothers and sisters. Avery didn’t think she’d ever owned a brand-new anything. “She’s such a kiss-up, acts like she makes sugar taste sour. But we don’t know anything about her. For all we know, she killed Steve. Shit, I’ll bet you five bucks she did kill Steve.”

“Oh, yeah,” Mallory agreed sarcastically. “For some kind of Satanic ritual, probably. Really seems like her style. Bet she ate him, too. I hear human tastes kind of like chicken.”

“Pork,” Arlon corrected her, and Mallory shot him a glare. “Human’s the other other white meat.”

“What is he even doing here,” Mallory demanded of Avery, darting a sidelong glare at Arlon, who’d gone back to ignoring her. “Don’t you have freshmen to try to corrupt to the dark side?”

“I don’t play with freshmen anymore,” Arlon said haughtily, giving his ginger ponytail a dismissive flick back over his shoulder. “After that last little shithead spent three whole sessions constantly yelling ‘I cast fireball!’ and trying to seduce everything with tits, I’ve sworn them off. They can get themselves corrupted by the dark forces behind tabletop gaming without my help. The only person I’m interested in corrupting is this one.” He nudged Avery with one shoulder, and she rolled her eyes.

“You’re never getting me to join one of your stupid games.”

“Maybe not,” Arlon admitted, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Maybe not. But you will listen to Rush.”

“How many times do I have to tell you -”

Mallory thwacked Avery square across the chest with the back of one arm, interrupting her. “Hey. That’s her, isn’t it?”

Avery looked.

It was, indeed, Tiffany fucking Bright making her way across the football field, unmistakeable and unmissable in her bright red nylon shorts and perfectly fitted pale pink tee shirt. The way her perfectly-curled ponytail bounced – and her perfectly-proportionate bust didn’t – as she jogged up to the brick wall beside the dumpsters where Avery was smoking seemed vaguely unnatural. So did the way the little gold cross she wore on a fine gold chain around her neck winked and flashed with each bouncing step, but never tangled, never twisted, never worked its way around to the back. The scrunchie tying back Tiffany’s ponytail perfectly matched the red of her shorts. And the stripe along the top of the slouchy white socks peeking out above her pristine white sneakers. Her smile was almost as white as the sneakers.

God, Avery hated her.

If Tiffany felt the same, she was hiding it well. “Hey. It’s Avery, right? Avery DiAngelo? You’re in Mr. Dancy’s homeroom?”

“Yeah.” Avery took a long, exaggerated drag on her cigarette, and puffed the smoke out toward Tiffany’s face. Tiffany, unfortunately, did not evaporate in the puff. She also didn’t start to look at all uncomfortable. Only vaguely annoyed. “What do you want.”

Tiffany gave her head a little toss, making her ponytail flick back and forth behind her like its namesake. “I was wondering why you didn’t try out for the cheer team. We’ve got a vacancy, and Courtney said she used to do gymnastics with you. That you were really good.”

On the list of things Avery might have expected Tiffany to say to her, that was at the very bottom. She had no idea what to say.

Thankfully, her friends had her covered.

Mallory took a step forward, putting herself halfway between Tiffany and Avery. Beside Tiffany’s wheat-gold curls, Mallory’s brassy box-dye blonde looked especially loud and cheap and fake, her mousy roots dark in the crisp September sunlight. “Who died and made you head cheerleader?”

The little smile that quirked up the corners of Tiffany’s perfect lipgloss-glistening rosebud mouth was, as usual, too knowing. Like something about what Mallory had said was funny, and not for any reason Mallory knew.

“Nobody,” she said, with that constant mocking edge and a flash of blinding teeth, eyes darting past Mallory to meet Avery’s. “Yet.”

God, Avery hated her.

She also kind of hated Arlon for snorting, like he actually thought Tiffany’s bullshit was funny. Honestly. Boys. Let a perky blonde say two words in front of them, and even the most determined nonconformist completely loses his mind and starts thinking maybe he’s got a chance.

A quick elbow to the ribs seemed to momentarily cure Arlon of that disease, though. He coughed into a fist, before hastily agreeing, “Avery’s not part of your juvenile cult of physical attractiveness. And doesn’t want to be.”

Tiffany smiled, a slow, spreading grin that showed off the blinding white of her teeth. Like she’d also caught that bit about ‘physical attractiveness’.

Avery applied another elbow to Arlon’s ribs.

She took one last, long drag on her cigarette, before giving the butt a flick. It landed on the crumbling asphalt right between Tiffany’s pristine white sneakers. Tiffany looked down at it, and then back up at Avery, with something other than sneering fake-friendliness for the first time since she’d come over.

“What are you still doing here,” Avery suggested, into Tiffany’s laser-blue stare.

Tiffany blinked those blue eyes shut, for a second, giving her hair a toss as she fixed a smile back onto her face. This one was…not quite perfectly even, not like every other smile Avery’s ever seen her wear. Avery couldn’t look away, trying to figure out what it was that the smile was slipping away to reveal. “Avery hasn’t given me an answer yet. Have you, Avery.”

Her eyes bored into Avery’s. “Unless you always make your friends do all your dirty work.”

God, Avery hated her.

“If Courtney told you we used to be in gymnastics together,” she said, after a moment’s consideration, “then she also told you she’s tried a million times to get me to try out for cheer. What makes you think I’d do it for you if I wouldn’t do it for my actual friend?”

Tiffany’s eyes narrowed like a cat who’d just spotted a mouse.

“Nothing in particular,” she said, the bubble back in her voice. Along with that mocking, knowing edge that made Avery want to grind her teeth. “Fine. I’ll let it go. For now.”

She started to turn, ponytail bobbing, but stopped to glance back at Avery. This time, the smile was seamless. “But you’re going to find out. I can be very persuasive.”

The heel of her sneaker crushed Avery’s cigarette butt into the asphalt as she started to jog away.

…

“Hey, did you – stop screaming, it’s me – did you tell that Tiffany girl I was in gymnastics?”

“Avery!” Courtney slammed her bedroom door behind her, her Jack Russell terrier slipping through behind her with a shimmying little wiggle right before the door met the crisp white trim of the frame. “You have got to stop coming in that window without warning me first. Aw, Grady, how many times! Not on the bed.”

Grady looked up at Courtney from the pile of pillows at the head of her bed with his long, pink tongue lolling out of a wide, guileless doggy smile, and wagged his tail.

Avery reached out and gave Grady a scratch behind the ears, and his eyes sank shut in obvious bliss. Courtney rolled her eyes before she bounced down onto the tattersall-checked comforter, sending a pillow shaped like a stubby pencil crayon tumbling to the floor. “You’re the reason he thinks he can be up here,” she scolded Avery mildly, reaching out to give Grady an absent stroke herself. “You keep rewarding him for doing what I tell him not to.”

“Oh, like I’m the only one scratching his ears right now,” Avery teased back.

“You started it.” Courtney gave Grady one more good pat on the rump, before scooting back on the bed, grabbing another brightly-coloured pillow and hugging it to her chest. “And it might have come up that we did tumbling together as kids. Why?”

“Because your new best friend sniffed me out during gym class to ask me to fill a vacant spot on the cheer team.” Avery gave one of Grady’s ears a gentle tug. “What do you think, boy? Should I finally toss your mama a bone and join her silly pompom-waving airhead club?”

Grady barked, as if on cue, at the word ‘bone’. Avery stifled a laugh.

When she looked up, though, Courtney wasn’t smiling.

For a second, Avery thought she’d gone too far with the airhead comment. But Courtney didn’t even seem to have noticed. She’d drawn her knees up to her chest, ankles crossed, and she’d gone from hugging the pillow to gripping it like a life preserver. “Courtney?”

Courtney gave her head a little shake, her permed chestnut curls bouncing with the movement. The smile she forced looked wan and unconvincing. “Nothing. Just – I’m kind of glad right now that you always say no, whenever I try to get you to join. It’s just so not you. And now that we’re going into senior year…honestly, I don’t even know if I’m going to have time for the team.”

Avery stopped moving with her hand resting between Grady’s shoulderblades, his fur silky-soft and so warm under her fingers. “What? You live and breathe cheerleading.”

Courtney grimaced. She didn’t say anything more.

Avery sat up on the bed, Grady whimpering a little at the loss of her scritches. “Is that bitch making trouble for you? Because you’re still the head cheerleader, you know. Kick her ass out.” When Courtney only hugged her pillow a little tighter, burying the bottom half of her face in its poof, Avery added, “If you don’t wanna do it, I’d be more than happy to. I’ll take her up on her offer, and then you and I can -”

“Don’t.”

The force behind the single word surprised Avery into silence.

Courtney sighed, and leaned back against the white-painted iron frame that curved up along the long side of her bed like the back of a couch, where it was pushed up against the wall. “I can handle Tiffany, okay? She’s not the first new recruit who came in with a twisted idea of what being part of the cheer squad is all about. I just really don’t want you getting caught up in the middle of it. That wouldn’t be any good for either of us.”

Avery wasn’t sure why that stung the way it did. It wasn’t like she’d wanted to join the cheer team, anyway.

“Okay,” she said, uncrossing her legs and pushing herself up off the bed. “But then actually leave me out of it, okay? No more hot gossip about how I used to be able to touch my toes to the back of my head. I don’t really feel like being a pawn in you and Tiffany’s power play, either.”

Courtney shot her a tight-lipped smile. She didn’t look happy.

But all she said was, “Okay.”

…

A week later, Mallory turned up to school in a brand-new cheerleading uniform.