#which more often than not are a third secret option

[bolithesenate]

an (in) comprehensive guide of my fics and the nicknames I give them on discord

this is simply for my own amusement, but eh

The Mud of The Covenant Is Thicker Than The Grandmaster’s Stew --> Mud fic

The Manda Provides --> time travelling mandalorian prophet baby

Meanwhile On Mandalore --> cool satine au

I Won’t Hesitate --> serenno au

Solving The Galaxy’s Problems With Swift Violence And A Grave Misunderstanding of How The Force Works --> pspsps fic / my sequels rewrite

The Jaster Mereel School of Cover IDs --> the larp fic

Space Nerds Galore --> the nerdverse / yanjocaster

The War of The... Cilantro? --> cilantro fic

Things Happen, Slightly To The Left --> witcher au

We Didn’t Start The Fire --> i dont talk about that one much so there isn’t one really?

Chancellor Zilobist --> the zillobeast fic

[cavillscurls]

daddy next door | j. miller (three)

❝ trust fall ❞

You’re forced to face Joel following the events of the fair.

tags/warnings: MDNI. age gap (20s/50s). angst. depictions of anxiety. reader is a sensitive gal. foul language. blood in the form of scrapes/cuts (accidental). tending to wounds. joel lifts reader once. insufferably poor communication of feelings. pet names. yearning!!! fluff. sexual tension. impure thoughts. violence. alcohol abuse. VERBAL & BRIEF PHYSICAL ABUSE occurs in the latter half of the chapter and may not be suitable for all readers. you are responsible for the content you consume. reader wears a sundress & rides a bike. reader implied to be shorter than joel, but no other physical descriptions. word count: 5.6k

a/n: smut very soon i promise pls don’t hate me. sorry it took so long pls don’t hate me. as always, thank you to @kiwisbell for beta’ing and being my other hand. and the other side of my brain. and my whole heart.

two | series masterlist | four | playlist | read it on ao3!

These violent delights have violent ends. 

And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,

Which as they kiss, consume. 

— Romeo & Juliet, Act II Scene VI

Three days pass before you summon the courage to leave the house. 

Not for lack of wanting or trying, but out of fear. Fear outside, fear within. It follows you, an unwelcome shadow. 

You start to believe it may be branded into your being; a mutation of DNA, carried, inescapable, and unwanted. And in those three long and lonely days, you experience a range of emotions so vast, it’s as though the Earth has tipped off its axis. 

Unstable. Lost without the guidance of gravity. 

The flicker of light you deemed a threat three nights prior never came to hunt you. You remained cautious, even after the laborious task of sneaking into your own home succeeded. You’d expected to meet a great wrath, look it in its eyes, and accept whatever suffering followed. 

But it never came. He never came. 

And on that following morning, there were no signs of your father or the destruction he carried. He left for the station long before you woke, and returned after you settled in bed. 

In the days that follow, you lose any sense of self; you’re bound by the fear that follows you, and it feasts on rationale. You seem to notice everything around you, like the way the floorboards creak and how they startle you in a way they never had before. You’re glaringly aware of your father's movements, panic seizing you if he’d look too long or speak too often. The skin around your fingernails grows raw from chewing on them. 

You can hardly eat. 

Can’t sleep. 

Not when you have this secret, too hazardous to enjoy despite the fleeting, marvelous thrill it gave you. 

You haven’t allowed yourself the time to dwell on it. 

To dwell on him. 

His name, his eyes, his lips—you put more effort into wiping them from your memory, your fantasies, than you do clinging to the comfort of them. It's the first time in weeks you don’t devote yourself to him and, oddly enough, you feel guilty. 

You’re the one who kissed him. And yet here you are, avoiding the repercussions of your own actions like a child fearful of a scolding. You suppose the rationale isn’t too far-fetched, given your circumstance, but all you’re able to conjure up when you close your eyes is the bewildered look on Joel’s face when you left him standing there in the yard. 

Guilty, guilty, guilty. 

On the third morning, your father acknowledges you only to order the necessary ingredients for a proper dinner to be fetched while he’s away at work. He’d be home at an acceptable time and expects it to be ready on the table when he returns. 

You’ve heard the spiel a dozen times, but still only nod and grab the notepad to prepare your list while he rattles off adequate options. With longer nights at the station, your household expectations often lessen in the summer. A luxury you do not take for granted nor particularly like to push the limits of. Especially now. 

Still, you sit awaiting some anticipated doom—perhaps he’s festering it, waiting for the right moment to attack—but it never comes. And all that’s left once he’s gone is the formidable silence, your erratic thoughts, and a list. 

Lasagne. Easy enough. 

The challenge? 

Getting to the grocery store. 

You’re aware of the inevitable. You have been aware of it for three days now. At some point, one way or another, whether you like it or not, you have to leave the house. Up until now, the risk had substantially outweighed the reward. 

He can’t see you. You can’t see him. Seeing him makes it real. Seeing him means facing demons you’re unable to admit even exist. 

It doesn’t matter that your chest aches at the thought of him. 

It doesn’t matter that the smothered thing inside of you has been scratching at your insides for three days, pleading for a moment of reprieve. 

What matters is completing the task at hand, the impossibility of juggling each fear simultaneously growing burdensome. 

You look out the front window first. Once before tying your sneakers and once after. Your bike is propped up in the garage, and you worry about the time it’ll take between leaving the safety of the window and opening the garage door. 

Speed is your only companion, and so you’re quick, diligent. Darting across the house and towards the laundry room door, making haste in clicking the garage open, and shoving your wallet and the list into the bike’s basket before mounting it. You know you have to ride past his house to get to the market, so you reach for the keypad outside the garage before you can even push the kickstand off. You take another swivel of your head in the direction of his house, no sign of any life, before you skate down the driveway, holding your breath.

The journey is considerably more climactic in your head, and when you make it down the block with not so much as a whiff of being seen, you’re relieved. Perhaps for the first time in days, your shoulders relax, your mind silences, and you find yourself enjoying the mindless task of rummaging through the market aisles. A beauty in simplicity after days of dilemma. 

You’re less inclined to trepidation on the way home, silently unaware, even enjoying the breeze while you ride and the way it kisses your skin, a bit cooler today, the sun toasty, and the sights and sounds of summer in all their beauty surrounding you. A blank slate, a thoughtless mind. Numb. And there’s a comfort in it, regaining parts of yourself in tiny fragments. Believing that, just for a moment, you are allowed to resign yourself to absolution. 

But the daze is a farce, and it has you weak, vulnerable. You’re nearing your house, caution loose and tenuous, to the point where you foolishly miss the glare of a front door opening and the body that emerges from it. 

The sudden sound of your name being called from across the lawn startles you off balance. 

You land on your hands and knees when the bike finally tips. Groceries topple out of the basket, the impact of the concrete radiating a sharp pain through your joints and stinging your eyes with tears. 

“Shit. Shit,” you heave under your breath, hands scrambling every which way to collect the strewn items. 

You make out the shape of a body moving towards you in your periphery, but your mind cautions you to stay focused, to get away as quickly as possible. You can hardly see in front of you, eyes blurred with emerging sobs, when the shape kneels before you.

“Here, let me help you.” The rich timbre of his drawl is a salve over your self-inflicted wounds. Don’t look, don’t look, but hands are reaching out for assistance. 

“No! No, I got it. I got it,” you’re quick to combat, attempting to gather every item before he has a chance to get his hands on them.

But it’s useless. Your shaking fingers can’t find a good grasp, and the pain in your palms and knees increases by the moment, too engorged in your panic to notice the blood staining the concrete and your groceries. 

“But you’re—”

“I need to get everything inside; some of it’ll spoil.” 

And someone could see you. Someone could see both of you, floundering about, too close for comfort. 

“Darlin’, please just—”

“It’s fine, okay? I’ve got it!” you snap, and you don’t mean to sound as harsh as you do. 

He’s silent then, still. Only for a moment. Long enough to notice the way your chin starts to tremble and how tears spill down your cheeks against your better attempts to conceal them. 

“Hey,” he beckons, and you notice the way he tries to tilt his head further into your line of sight. You do your best to avoid him, but, “Hey,” he tries again, and this time, it’s got an edge. Enough to startle you out of your misery-filled stupor. “Look at me.” 

And fuck, you’re so weak. 

He’s a sight for sore eyes. Tousled curls, an old white t-shirt, and his flannel pajama pants are all indications that his morning has just begun. The newspaper he must have been coming out for is abandoned in the grass a few yards back, his attention solely on you. 

You find clarity in the sight of him. 

“You’re hurt. Let me help you,” Joel says calmly, matter of fact. A wounded animal, and he’s guiding you back to safety. 

And you need it more than you care to admit, the guidance. Allowing yourself the pleasure of looking into his wide, worried eyes smothers the anxieties. Silences the panic. Dulls the pain in your chest from days of denying yourself of the remedy you needed most, so when he presents you with an outstretched hand, you take it hastily. 

He helps you to your feet, and when he’s sure you’re stable, stands your bike upright, gathers what he can of the mess of groceries, and tucks them back into the basket. He places one hand on the handlebars, the other steadily finding its way to the small of your back, and your body comes to life. 

You welcome his stability, leaning your weight into the crook of his arm. He guides you and your scuffed bicycle up the lawn, leaning it against the banister of the front porch. You let him lead you up the steps, overbearing and doting in the way he holds you steady at the ribcage, muttering under his breath, c’mon, I’ve got ya. 

You would think you just fell from fifty feet with the way he coddles you, but you don’t care. How could you? Not when your hands and knees sting, your nerves fray weak and exhausted, and your heart and soul and body crave so little outside of the warmth that is Joel. 

Crossing the threshold of his door is sacred. An uncharted, forbidden territory that, up until three nights ago, you had no reason to assume you would ever explore. You wish you were more coherent, that tears weren’t blurring your eyes, and your body wasn’t in a state of panic, so you could properly take in your surroundings. 

You notice a few moving boxes still pushed up in the corners of his living room; other than that, the space is pristine. There’s a wooden, rustic theme that carries across his décor, and he leaves all his blinds open for ample natural light. Bright, warm, inviting. A drastic change of pace from the stale air that always seems to occupy your home. 

He’s leading you into the kitchen, and you're torn from the daze as soon as his hands are on your hips. 

You yelp softly as he hoists you onto the countertop, wide, wet eyes finally mustering the courage to meet his gaze. It drops almost immediately to the state of your bloody knees, and he shakes his head, a gruff sort of displeased sound expelling from his chest. 

“Stay put,” he instructs, giving you a stern look before he vanishes around the corner. 

You can’t quite process the world in front of you. Simultaneously heavy and weightless, the internal conflict, the lack of sleep, catching up to you. But when Joel returns a moment later, first aid kit and damp washcloth in hand, you’re grounded. A firm, clear presence of stability that removes all weight, all sense of falling. 

You feel, perhaps for the first time in your life, that someone would catch you. 

He drags one of the bar stools over, settling himself in front of you. He still doesn’t meet your eyes, fiddling open the kit and scouring for materials. You can feel his breath on your thighs, eliciting a warmth in the pit of your stomach. 

Suddenly, the pain of your fall seems minuscule in comparison to the way his proximity sets your body alight. You’re thankful for the shorts below your sundress; intended to give you some decency on your ride to the store, now a barrier between his counter, his watchful eyes, and a part of you that always seems to ache at the sight of him. 

You dig your fingers into the edge of the wood so as to not waver, sniffling back the ceasing tears and clearing your throat. You blink the haze out of your eyes, the ringing in your ears stops, and like magic, his effect makes the world seem clearer. 

“Hold still.” He starts with the washcloth, tenderly cleaning off the dirt and drying blood from your skin, and you shiver when one of his hands lightly dances at the crux of your knee. 

You watch him intently; focused brows, and careful fingers. Your perched position gives you a glorious view of his shoulders, firm and broad, muscles flexing below the thin fabric of his t-shirt. You’re reminded then of the day he moved in and your voyeuristic tendencies, how the sheer breadth of him had enticed you, left you lost to your fantasies long before you even knew him. 

It’s hard to grasp that the same man, worried and attentive to your well-being, sits before you now. 

The sudden cold, sharp sensation of an antiseptic wipe against your skin makes you hiss through your teeth, snapping you back into focus. Finally, he peers up at you through furrowed brows, a sympathetic downturn on his lips. 

“Stings?” he asks, and he’s so gentle. His voice, his touch, his being. 

You shrug, feeling bashful under his gaze. “A little, yeah.” 

He purses his lips and nods solemnly, as if your discomfort causes him a great deal of pain, too. “M’almost done,” he promises, returning to his diligent work. 

The two of you sit in silence while he finishes cleaning your wound, sufficiently less daunting with all the blood removed. The scrapes are hardly deep and you’re certain the bruises will heal in a week’s time. He retrieves two bandages from the kit, one purple and one blue, and drapes them delicately over the scuff of each knee. 

“Hands,” he requests, and you present them to him palms up. He takes each wrist between his fingers, lifting them to his chest in examination. No blood, just the burn of the concrete on the heels of them where you clumsily caught yourself.  “Don’t look too bad; may just be sore for a little while.” 

You’re nodding even though you hardly hear the words that come out of his mouth, too enamored with the way his fingers warm rings around your wrists.  

He catches you staring, and surely now, he’ll send you on your way. Now that he’s done his due diligence, he’ll make up some polite excuse to get you out of his space. He’ll choose avoidance, just as you had, and you’ll be forced to endure the misery of the unknown, to be complicit with a life of no risk and missed opportunities. 

But he surprises you, a frequent trend, when he leans forward and presses two, soft kisses to each battered palm. 

Your breath catches audibly in your throat, and he shoots his eyes back up to you, lips still dangerously close to your skin. His own inner turmoil is so plain, so clear, in the way he studies you that you don’t even try to mask the emotion that creeps back into your eyes. 

“Better?” he whispers, the brush of his breath on your skin raising goosebumps up your exposed arms. 

Untrusting of your voice, you breathe a wavering mmhm, the urge to melt into him overwhelming by the way he looks at you. It’s a familiar look. One you’ve seen before, only once. Three days ago. Dire and conflicted, and god, you want to kiss him again. You think he must lean forward, or maybe it's you, because his breath is on your face now too, and you can see every line of worry that plagues him. 

“Joel…” you whisper, and it’s a question, a plea, a warning all at once. You see his eyes flicker, if only for a moment, your lips and back again, a frown creasing at the edges of them. 

He sighs a despondent sound, abruptly standing, jarring you, losing your hands in the process as he drags the barstool back to its designated spot. Suddenly, he’s got his hands on his hips, and he’s pacing the modest kitchen space, eyes and thoughts amiss. It may be the first time you see him as anything other than the picture of composure, save for the fateful moment three nights prior where the same eyes and thoughts screamed retribution for Trevor rather than strife for you. 

“Listen,” he finally breathes, and it’s painful, “we needa talk about what happened.” 

And there it is. The unavoidable. 

“O-okay.” Your voice wavers and your stomach drops, and you suddenly feel like a child under scrutiny. The first words that come to mind tumble out in an attempt to lessen the tension. “I’m… I'm sorry, Joel. Really, I am—”

He rapidly shakes his head. “Stop. Stop. I’m not askin’ you to apologize, alright? I’m the—” he stops cold, and you stiffen. You can’t read his mind, but you know his eyes, and they speak words you’d rather not hear. 

I’m the grown-up here. 

I’m the older one. 

I’m the responsible one. 

You cringe at the plausible fill-in-the-blanks, conscious of their validity, and you think he does too. 

He expels a heavy, tired sort of sigh. “I’m the one that shoulda put a stop to it,” he settles on. 

You consider what he says for a long while, unsure of whether to scream, or laugh, or cry, or all three at once; unsure if his confession soothes you or crushes you from the inside out. You know you should be grateful for the apology, thankful that he willingly takes the burden of fault off of you. But in seeking forgiveness, he makes another notion, a far more painful one, abundantly clear. 

Regret. 

“And I understand if you want me to leave ya alone from now on,” he continues, and you can’t help but feel like the spiel is rehearsed. As if he spent hours talking to himself in the mirror, debating the right things to say. Questioning, now that the line has been thoroughly crossed, what is even right or wrong. “But I couldn’t do that without talkin’ to ya first. Settin’ things right.”

“I don’t want you to leave me alone.” You jump on top of his words, and Joel’s brows shoot up on his forehead. He stops pacing. 

You curse your eagerness, eyes falling to your hands in your lap where you aimlessly pick at the skin around your nails. “I mean… I’m not–I’m not mad. I’m not mad at you for what happened, I just”—you look back to him, uncertain—“want things to go back to normal.” 

As if there is such a thing. As if one taste of him hadn’t changed the world as you know it. As if there is any version of you, then and now, that wouldn’t want him. 

You know nothing as familiar as wanting him. 

The silence that follows is torturous. He takes you in, unreadable, for what seems like eternity. You see a boundless bounty of emotion in his eyes—eyes that have become familiar, comforting in the way that the thought of losing them seems too grand to endure, even if you never have them in the capacity you long for. 

He’s nibbling on his bottom lip, tapping his foot, and his hands fall from his hips to fold his arms across his chest. “Well, then I think we oughta just… go on s’if nothin’ happened. Put it behind us.”

And still, a dagger in the heart would have been less painful. 

You wait, staring at him for a long while with the false hope that he would go back on his words. That he didn’t want to forget, and you search for it desperately. The truth behind his eyes and his words, that you assume he imagines will protect you, protect the both of you. 

Sensing no form of retraction, you take a deep breath hoping the excess oxygen will calm your racing heart, and straighten yourself up on the counter. 

“Alright.” His mind has already been made up; arguing would make you a desperate fool. Still, you find yourself adding: “If that’s what you think is best.” 

Surprise flashes across his face, and you watch the way his mouth falls open only to shut rapidly. He presses his lips into a thin line and his nostrils flare. There’s a beat of adrenaline, challenge. And the caged thing inside of you, something you have recognized as the sliver of hope you still carry for your life, comes to life. A bright sensation, wondering if she’s succeeded in breaking down the final choice of savior. 

“Yeah,” Joel mutters, and the light goes out. “Yeah, I think it is.” 

Rejection. 

Don’t cry, don’t cry. 

You try your hardest to feign acceptance. 

“Okay. Well”—you’re sliding off the counter, blood rushing to your head when you land on your feet—“thank you for um, for taking care of me.” 

You think he knows you well enough by now to hear the familiar warbling in your voice, but if he does, he doesn’t say anything. You keep your eyes fixed on your feet so he doesn’t see the way they gloss over. 

You wonder if life's circumstances had always been the root of your downfall, or if it really is hope herself. 

He offers you the option to stay a while longer, give yourself a chance to regroup, but you politely decline. The air in his home is suddenly suffocating. You mumble something about needing to get the groceries inside as you shuffle towards his door, hoping he won’t follow, but alas, he’s walking you to it, stepping around you to reach for the handle himself. 

“You’re sure you don’t, uh… you don’t need anythin’ else?” he asks again, hand steady on the door but making no effort to open it, arching his brow over his shoulder at you. 

Please, don’t make this harder than it already is. 

You give him a trained, tight-lipped smile. Polite. The same one you give everyone in town, lackluster. “No.” And it’s a lie. You need everything from him. “No, thank you. I’ll be alright.” 

If he’s unconvinced, he doesn’t say so, and there’s another pang of hurt in your belly. 

When he finally turns the handle, Joel peeks out the door first before allowing you to pass. Good, you think. At least he’s just as aware of the risk of you being here. A minor thing to cling to, but you take what you can get. 

You shuffle past him silently, reaching for the handles of your bicycle still tucked safely beside the door. You do a quick scan to make sure you have everything, but really, you’re stalling. Attempting to let the past hour marinate so you can form some sort of cohesive thought, say something of substance, something true. 

When you look back, he’s still in the doorway. You give him a once over, taking your missed opportunity to admire him. Comfortable, poised, a little disheveled from the morning in the best of ways. 

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and you snap your eyes back to his. His lips part, and there’s a rush of it again, that hope deep inside of you. But again, he clenches them shut without a word, and disappointment regains its leverage. 

You don’t look at him after that. 

“I’ll see you around, Mr. Miller,” is the last thing you say to him before hoisting your bike off the porch stairs and carefully rolling it down the driveway. 

On the walk back over to your house—damn near a sprint despite the searing in your knees—you think the duality of your relationship with Joel Miller may finally drive you to insanity. 

On the one hand, your agreed-upon boundaries are nothing short of practical. Safe, sustainable with minor difficulty, and realistic. 

On the other, you’re unable to count the number of times you’ve experienced the urge to break every rule, practical or otherwise. And worse, how easy it’s become to convince yourself he feels it, too. There shouldn’t be such an assuredness in it, but it lives. Feeding and festering and waiting for one of you to bend. 

Only this time, you’re certain you would break. 

Once inside, you mindlessly shove the groceries into their respective spaces and drag yourself up the stairs. You’re tired. Physically, mentally, emotionally, every ounce of you drained. And it’s welcomed, the exhaustion. It’s the first time in three days you feel unburdened enough to even entertain the idea of settling. And you’d like to chalk it up to handling your own bullshit, but you know it’s because of him. 

Even if the outcome would leave you solemn for days to come, seeing him, feeling him, it eased you. There is a lingering feeling of closure. It would take time to accept, but is far better than the alternative of sitting with your unanswered thoughts. 

He doesn’t hate you. 

He isn’t shutting you out. 

He’s still there if you need him. 

You’re nearly certain of it. 

You flop your body onto the center of your bed, nestling your head into the pillows. Your limbs feel like weights melting into the mattress, and it’s not long before your eyes feel the same heaviness. 

You let yourself drift off, clinging to all that is nearly certain. 

The window is already dark when you wake, and you're roused by the sound of banging and grunting. Despite the commotion, your eyes don’t open at first—your body’s subconscious attempt at protection from the horrors in front of you. But as you gradually blink awake, the sight before you leaves you scrambling up in your sheets.

Pages coat your bedroom floor, toppling from the bookshelf in the corner of the room. Your father stands before it, clumsily tearing out row by row of your most prized possessions. 

“What are you…?” The terror doesn’t register, not until the sound of ripped paper and cracked bindings become loud, thunderous, in your ears. 

“No, stop. Stop!” Pleadingly, you cry out to him, twisting the sheets off of you and darting across the wooden panes. You hadn’t meant to sleep this long. “Stop, please! Please!” you screech, foolishly grasping for his shoulders as you trip over the growing pile of tarnished literature. 

He shrugs you off, a mere nuisance in his pursuit of destruction. “If you’re gonna be so damn distracted you can’t get somethin’ as simple as dinner done, I’m gonna get rid of the distractions,” he seethes, a vow he intends to keep, and you’re tugging on the back of his shirt, grabbing at his hands and trying desperately to pull them away from the shelves. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! It won’t happen again, I swear it! Please just–ugh!” 

The wind escapes your lungs when he whips around and a firm hand presses to your throat, your back making sharp contact with the wall adjacent to the bookshelf. 

Liquor and tobacco, his breath is hot against your face. His eyes are void of all feeling, and you struggle for air against the stronghold on your neck. Your sinuses burn, your eyes fill with tears, and there’s a moment, brief, where you wonder how long it would take your heart to stop. How much oxygen would need to be deprived to slip into blissful mindlessness. 

You know he wouldn’t be so forgiving. 

“Don’t you ever put your hands on me like that again, girl, you hear me?” he barks, slamming his unoccupied hand against the wall beside your head. “Do you hear me?!” 

Your mouth gapes open, and you try to speak but nothing comes. The salty taste of tears coats your lips, and in an act of desperation, you dare to claw at his wrists, mustering up the strength to nod as well as you can. When he still does not release you, the fight or flight kicks in, and the blur that washes over your vision and the dizziness in your head fills you with fear. Genuine and unadulterated, how easy it would be for him to make nothing out of you. 

“Yes,” you croak, and the sound of your own voice startles you. “Y-yes, sir!” 

He lets you go, and your knees give out. You slide your back down the wall, heaping over on yourself. You hug your knees close to your chest, gasping breaths and wet, watchful eyes as he prowls across the room. 

The final blow is the most devastating, and you think you may actually be sick to your stomach. As he steps over the debris towards the door, he picks up what you assume to him is only a random book. But you catch the title, fine calligraphy sprawled, Romeo & Juliet, just before he mercilessly tears the spine in half, letting the pages fall amongst the wreckage. 

No sound comes out of your open mouth. No feeling reaches your fingers or toes, and you wonder if your state of shock has allowed you to finally leave your own body. Teleport somewhere else, somewhere far away, to not endure another moment of a pain you cannot decipher what you ever did to deserve. 

It is, was, your only copy of the play. 

And it belongs, belonged, to your mother. One of the few things you pulled out of the sparse pile of her tucked away deep in the attic. One of the only pieces of your life that confirmed she was ever even real, that your memories were real. 

And much like her, it’s gone in an instant. 

“Clean this up,” is the last thing he slurs before your bedroom door slams shut. 

You sit there, unmoving, for what seems like an eternity. You’re hollow, and yet, the space you inhabit isn’t yours to fill anymore. Succumbing to the numbness has always been easier, but there is an overwhelming bough of raw anguish that lingers in you now. 

It’s moments like these, disappointing in their frequency, where you wonder what you truly are to the man called kin. Burdensome. A lingering reminder of all that he once had and lost. 

 A matter of circumstance. Something disposable. And with that realization, you feel the impending need to get out. 

You wait until you’re certain he’s asleep before you plot your escape. You won’t get far, but luckily, you don’t have to. 

You move on autopilot, numb to anything other than putting as much distance between you and this house. This room, once a sanctuary, now tainted. The tears fall steadily, but no sounds escape you. You wouldn’t provoke him, nor give him the satisfaction of hearing your defeat. 

Echoes of thunder rumble in the distance, a summer storm upon a somber evening. And when the sun sets and the world sleeps, bolts of lightning illuminate your path to refuge. 

You find an old zip-up sweater left out of winter storage, pulling it over the clothes you had no energy to change, and shielding your damp face with the hood. You take the back door; there would be less suspicion in leaving it unlocked. Scattered drops fall from the darkened sky, and the grass tickles your bare feet as they carry you to the only place you know you’ll be welcomed. The only place you seek. 

When he first opens the door, Joel looks confused. The street lights reflect off the panes of his glasses, and you wish you had more time to appreciate the gentle reminisce of sleep in his eyes. But when the sob finally tears through your throat, confusion makes way for concern, and he’s blinking away the fatigue. 

“What’s wrong? What happened?” he demands, pushing the whole of himself through the doorway until he’s standing toe-to-toe with you on the porch. 

You peer up at him, trembling, the picture of desperation. “Can I stay here tonight?” you beg, and there’s little care for how feeble you look. “Please, can I stay?” 

Joel shakes his head, disbelief, looking you over with such uneasiness as if you would shatter before his very eyes. 

“Christ,” he sighs, and maybe you are breaking. Maybe you’re finally falling apart piece by piece, and he is to be the sole witness. “C’mere.” 

But the part of you inside, shriveled and forlorn, still seeks reprieve, and she knows where to find it. His voice is a beacon, a promise. 

The anchor of his arms when you rear forward is the only thing that keeps your body from sinking to the ground. You bury your face into his chest, hands clinging to his shirt, while tears stain his skin. He shushes you, raking his palms up your spine in soothing sweeps, keeping you snug against him. 

“‘Course you can stay. You can always stay.”

There are no questions or explanations necessary. No price to pay for the gift of solace. You take it at face value—much like the last time you cried to him, three days prior, when he told you to never be sorry for feeling the way you felt—and allow him to pull you back into the house. 

You cross the threshold, still sacred, still uncharted, yet wildly more freeing. 

A great weight leaves your shoulders as soon as he shuts the door. 

His face is in your hair when he whispers, and you think the scent of him alone could heal you. 

“Always.”

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Ao3 | Kofi

[randomshyperson]

Do I Wanna Know - Wanda Maximoff Kinktober #05

Summary: Taking advantage of the fact that the Avengers are going through a divorce, you decide to visit your (not-so-secret) girlfriend in the compound. While they fight, you entertain Wanda and present her with a third option besides staying in the tower or fighting Steve Rogers: to run away with you.

Warnings: (+18), shapeshifting reader, some talking of gender identity, implied gender neutral but use of female pronouns, established and secret (ish) relationship, canon-divergence, bottom!Wanda, making out, unprotected sex, creampie, intimate teasing, praising, general fluff.  | Words: 4.131k

This work was turned into a series. Check the masterlist here.

General Masterlist | Kinktober Collection | AO3 | Wattpad

-&-

It got more dangerous every time it happened. But getting caught, and all the consequences that would come with it, were distant ideas, possibilities that didn't cross Wanda's mind, especially when she was at your place.

She didn't think about the team, the country, what anyone else might think and judge about the relationship - if she could call it that - between the two of you.

All Wanda could focus on when she was around you was undeniably you.

It became a secret routine, a hidden part of her life that she looked forward to almost all the time. Between tiring and dangerous missions, a new excitement among the gray corners of the private life of what many would call the most powerful Avenger.

Nobody knew about you, not the way she did anyway. What the others saw was the smuggler with no loyalty - the thief who stole and would steal from anyone in her path, for the best price. And could also take anything she was paid to take. From a diamond necklace to an infinity stone, from the most exclusive party of the world's elite to the secret country in the middle of the African continent. 

Sometimes, Wanda would trace Wakanda's scar on your skin while you slept, and wonder if the person you were at that moment was the same person that King T'Challa wanted behind bars for a few pieces of metal.

The moral part didn't bother her much - if she was honest, Wanda understood impressions and what really mattered very well. Coming from a country exploited by the United States, which praised a man in blue who was very reminiscent of the captains who marched to the corners of the world to massacre cities, to one who wore iron armor and produced the same bombs that took the lives not only of her parents, but of the vast majority of the children she grew up with, Wanda understood hypocrisy like no one else. Despite everything that had happened to her, she shared a roof with the man indirectly responsible for her parents' deaths. No one could judge her so easily, but Wanda was sure that if your relationship went public, it would happen in the blink of an eye.

So when she was fleeing, for hours between one mission and another, one meeting and another, she tried to enjoy you as much as possible.

And sometimes, when you were apart for too long, and she worried that she was beginning to forget the features of your face, Wanda could prepare a surprise.

She could lie, taking advantage of her magic or not, to prolong everything from your time together to the sensations you shared in bed. She could haunt you - and you would use that term because, without her around, the feeling of lack was very similar to that of loss.  - Wanda would invade your dreams, like a sigh in the night never to leave your mind.

But more often than not, she would simply mark you with hickeys and scratches on everything hidden beneath your uniform, and you might leave a path of purple through the valley of her breasts that would be the only proof of the hours she had spent enjoying your company.

The Avengers were on a thin line now - Accords, fights, and old friends, and neither you nor Wanda knew it, but soon, the world would see you two the same way. 

Criminals on the run.

But the future hasn't arrived yet - And Wanda, unbeknownst to you, was locked away in a tower like an ancient princess, and you, against the advice of your own safety, went to visit a damsel who wasn't so much defenseless but would definitely be distress to see you there.

"You can't be here." The warning came against your lips, pressed into hers half a second after your arrival into the room - you could only kiss back, smiling at the tug on your leather jacket that fell to the floor behind your feet. 

"I missed you too princess." That's what you said back, your hand wrapped around her waist as your tongue slid into hers. 

Wanda sighed, her body yearning for your touch and presence just as much as her heart for the last few weeks without seeing you. Despite pushing you around the room, until you were sitting on the bed, Wanda interrupted the motions, her frown of concern and her out-of-rhythm breathing escaping through her swollen, ajar lips.

"I'm serious." She begins a hand on your shoulder to keep you in place. "They can't see you here-"

"The Avengers aren't home, I was told." You justify quickly, your gaze wandering to look her up and down. Wanda always looked so beautiful, it was almost unfair. "United Nations meeting, everyone's talking about it."

One of your hands plays with the folds of her skirt, pulling it up, but Wanda pushes them away.

"Most of them, yes, but I'm not alone." She murmurs, looking around and undeniably using magic to check the floor. "Vision is keeping me company."

"Which one is Vision anyway?" You retort casually, not caring about the last gesture, moving your hands under her clothes and biting back a smile at the way her thigh muscles quiver with your touch. 

Wanda rests her other hand on your shoulder, her gaze serious. "The one with the damn magical stone you once stole from Hydra." She retorts, sighing softly as she feels your fingers playing with the laces of her panties. "Please, detka. Vision... would kill you if he found you here."

You click your tongue. “I could disguise myself…” But Wanda shakes her head.

“The stone can see beyond.” She retorts with a certainty that makes you assume this information came directly from her team's study of the Stone. But instead of answering right away, you pull her by the thighs onto your lap, smiling mischievously at the surprised yelp that you muffle on your lips. Wanda tries to listen to reason, but it's too faint compared to the pounding of her own heart. 

"Don't make a sound and he'll never know." You whisper your last request before kissing her intently, your bold hands teasing inside her blouse. It doesn't take long for Wanda to be restless in your lap, panting against your tongue exploring her mouth so hungrily, sweating with the precise stimulation of her nipples as your hands pull down her dark bra. But despite a mind almost completely clouded with arousal, she bites at your lower lip and breaks the kiss.

"I missed you." Wanda likes you to know these things because sometimes, you have less than an hour together and it feels like one of those times. She hasn't seen you for weeks, and God knows when she'll get another chance now that the team seems on the verge of collapse. 

You give her a teasing smile, your hands wrapped around her. "You're so sweet, Wanda. My beautiful, darling, princess." Your compliments were accompanied by chaste kisses against her jaw, and it always works to leave her a mess, melting into you and at your beck and call. 

In the safety of your embrace, Wanda risked being vulnerable:

"Did you miss me too?"

You're not so good at these things - It comes from your past, so different from her happy childhood although later overshadowed by the height of a civil war as a teenager, but definitely different from growing up in Tony Stark's mansions and summer houses, or surrounded by family lunches like Bruce Banner or Thor. If anything, your childhood was closer to that of a Black Widow, with training and punishments whenever the expectations were not achieved. 

Still, Wanda warmed her way into your heart, and you tried to give back as best you could.

"I don't really think about you when I'm away." Her expression drops immediately, but before she can conclude anything, you move one of your hands to grab hers, and bring it back inside your blouse. Your intense gaze is the only thing stopping her from pulling away. And when Wanda can feel a new scar near your abdomen, she swallows dryly. "Or rather, I just have to force myself not to do anymore. What you're feeling happened in Berlin. An MK2 hidden in the belt of an arms dealer who asked me... how much I was enjoying America." You narrate, and Wanda frowns, being able to visualize the memory fresh in your mind. You swallowed and looked down at your lap. "I don't know how much he knew, but he said your name, and I just... flinched. I was blinded by rage and he took advantage of it. So, no, Wanda. I can't afford to let you cross my mind when I'm away, because you become a weakness. And I wasn't trained to have weaknesses."

Despite the way her body warms to the confession, Wanda gives you a playful look.

"Should I apologize, you know, for making a romantic out of the grumpy assassin?" she teases, and you chuckle, spinning her around in a tug to drop her on her back on the bed, you on top. 

With your body pressed into hers, one hand on her waist and the other adjusting her hair away from her eyes, you nuzzle your noses together. "Don't ever apologize for making me feel this way." You whisper, and Wanda closes her eyes in anticipation, her cheeks burning. "You have me in a way that no one ever could, Wanda Maximoff."

The next kiss is intense and charged with meaning. It makes Wanda shudder and gasp into your mouth. You smile, secretly proud of the effect you have on her, while your hands move down to pull her thighs up and make her wrap herself around you, ankles locked behind your knees.

The position elicits a deep moan from the girl beneath you, and when you adjust yourself to press your pelvis against her, Wanda chokes in surprise, opening her eyes.

"Is that...?"

Without losing your relaxed posture, you offer her a little smile full of the worst intentions. "I thought I'd play differently today." You reply, grinding gently against her and making Wanda bite her lips. The movement leaves you equally affected, but you let her know: "I can always change back..."

Wanda tightens the grip of her legs around you, shaking her head. Her cheeks turn pink. "N-no! I like... I like you either way." She manages to whisper, and you smile warmly, kissing her softly. 

One of your hands comes down to invade her blouse, starting an intense making-out session between you, enough to mess up your hair and the bed sheets and leave you hard against her thigh.

When Wanda stops to breathe again, there's a wet spot on the thigh she's spent the last few minutes grinding against - and you take the opportunity to plant kisses on her collarbone. Your hands go down to unbutton your pants.

Between kisses, you warn her: "I have to be careful... I think it works like a real one. Speaking of biological functions, you know. "

She uses magic to force your pants down to your ankles, aroused enough that the delay was driving her to the brink of insanity. Still, she manages to gasp between kisses: "You think?"

You hum, distracted by the sensation of your cock rubbing against her covered intimacy - body shuddering with arousal. "Y-yes... I've never... used it for sex before... Just for the job, you know? While in disguise."

The information made Wanda need to ignore the liquid arousal and press trembling hands onto your shoulders, gently pushing you away and attracting your attention.

After a sigh, she asked: "Are you comfortable, darling? With this of course... I don't know the exact feel of your powers, but I don't want you to think you need to change a single thing about yourself for me. Who you are is incredible and enough."

You break into a loving sigh and attack her face with kisses that make Wanda giggle shyly. "You're too sweet on me, Maximoff." You tease, and wrap your arms around her on the bed, hugging her tightly. Wanda bites her lips, still well aware of your lust brushing her, but trying to ignore the sensation in case you change your mind. After all, just your presence after so many weeks away was what she really wanted. Sex was just a bonus. 

Somehow, she ends up on top again, your foreheads touching. 

"It's different because of my powers, everything they do for me, changing my body as needed, you know? But still, I feel that even without these abilities, these details wouldn't make any difference to me." You confess with a sigh, one of your hands stroking behind her back. "Whether my body resembles of a boy or a girl, I say. In my head, I'm always in the middle, or outside of it. I can't explain it very well, and I’m still trying to understand it better but… I know for a certain that I want to make you feel good. In any of the ways I’m able to."

Wanda absorbs your words for a moment, her heart pounding and her chest warm with tenderness. She doesn't know exactly when she fell for you - whether it was from the first second your eyes met, or whether it was over time, between flirtations and arguments, until finally, she had the courage to act on those feelings and was lucky that you held on to them as much as she did.

Instead of answering with words, she kisses your skin. Your cheeks, your jaw, and your lips, while her hands touch wherever they can. It takes you by surprise, the familiar sensation of her magic on your clothes until you're both skin to skin on the mattress. Wanda sighs deeply, still with her eyes closed, as she adjusts herself on your lap, but looks up at you again before shifting to fit into you.

"Are you ready, love?" You whisper against her lips, one hand on her waist, the other lining up at her warm entrance. Wanda welcomes you with breathtaking heat - you slide in easily, yet she gasps until she gets used to the sensation of being filled, her hands firmly on your shoulders. You sigh too, trying not to get lost in the sensation as you ask: "Can I move?"

"Y-yes, please." She practically meows impatiently, her forehead falling against your shoulder as your hips move upwards, gently thrusting inside her. But Wanda clenches inside, hot and eager, and you grunt, trying to hold in your own pleasure. She grinds down against your hips, the sound of her wet arousal echoing between you. Your hands tighten on her hips, and you gradually increase the speed, making Wanda gasp between moans against your ear. "Dorogoy... that feels so good..."

You manage to gasp back, nodding softly in agreement: "You have no idea how amazing you feel, baby... so fucking wonderful... God..." It takes you by surprise, the first reach of your climax. You try to hold back, but Wanda bites your skin hard as she feels the warm shot on her walls, and your grunt turns into a heavy moan as you spill inside her. Wanda wraps her arms around your shoulders, grinding gently as you throb out the last drops, which soon run down her thighs.  A moment later, your voice hoarse, you whisper: "I'm sorry, babe. I didn’t... know it would be so hard to hold it..."

She giggles shyly, kissing your skin before looking at you again. A mischievous gaze. "Do you need a break, or perhaps that was the highlight of the night...?" She teases, but you snort in fake indignation, fixing your grip on her waist to flip her onto the bed. The gasp of surprise turns into a muffled whimper as you thrust inside her powerfully, hard again as if you hadn't just come. Her hands move to your waist, and her nails dig into your hips with each thrust.

"You were saying?" You challenge softly, panting against her lips. Wanda chuckles under her breath, one of her legs tucking behind yours, increasing your reach deep inside her. With each thrust in, she shuddered and gasped on the bed, closer and closer to the edge. You lowered yourself completely, pinning her to the mattress and burying yourself inside her as you felt her become impossibly tight. Wanda came in a high-pitched whimper, her nails digging into your lower back just enough to make a mark. You kissed her jaw, rocking gently as she still rode the waves of her own climax.

When you suddenly pulled out, cumming against her soaked and abused pussy, she mewed in protest, her leg trying to pull down and back inside of her. You chuckled hoarsely.

"Baby, I shouldn't have come inside the first time." You whispered, kissing her cheek. "I have to be careful, it's not replication, I transform truly. Let's get you a pill after this, all right? And we'll need some condoms for next-."

"Problems for later." Wanda cuts in good-naturedly, pulling your face back to hers and kissing you intently, effectively silencing any rational thought in your head.

It's honestly the best you've felt in a long time - as it usually is when you're around Wanda Maximoff.

It shouldn't surprise you that much when a few hours of rolling around in bed together, the moment is interrupted by knocks on the door.

Wanda, naked and panting, is sitting on your hips, and you're inside her still, ready to come again when she practically jumps away, and you have to muffle the grumble of frustration against her pillow.

"Y-yeah?" she manages to ask the visitor, sitting on shaky knees on the bed, one hand pulling the covers over her body. 

It takes a moment, but the male voice answers: "Sorry to disturb you, Wanda, but I made dinner. Won't you join me?"

She pushes the fingers you threaten to drag between her legs away, a smile playing on her lips.

"I'm not hungry, Vision, thank you."

There's another pause, in which Wanda throws you warning glances to stop trying to touch her before the robot speaks again, more seriously than before.

"Wanda, can we talk? Please."

She frowns, and exchanges a look with you, who sigh, rolling your eyes and looking away, your chest burning with a strange sensation. Using magic to bring one of the robes to her after muttering "One second", Wanda stumbles to the bedroom door, which she leaves with only a small gap to the corridor.

"Vis, it's not a good time-

"She shouldn't be here, Wanda." Vis cuts in, and you tense up on the bed. But he makes no mention of entering the room, and Wanda comes out wrapped in her robe, covering the ajar door with her body as a dry laugh escapes her.

"That's none of your business."

The man shakes his head in disbelief, and his tone of voice, although restrained, can be heard by you inside the room.

"Wanda, please be rational." He insists seriously. "At such a delicate moment for the Avengers, to bring... a criminal into the tower..."

"Vision, go away."

He sighs, hesitantly. "I should report this." He mutters, and although you can't see Wanda's face, you can see the way her shoulders tense and you can imagine the hardness of her expression.

"Do as you wish, but know, I will never speak to you again if anything happens to her."

Vision shakes his head. "And where do you think their choices will lead? If it's not the Avengers, it'll be the police who capture her. Interpol, or whichever organization finds her first. What they're doing, Wanda, has no future and you know it." He says, sighing in disapproval. "Send her away now, or I'll warn the others." Vision announces at last.

"Maybe I'll just go with her." Wanda retorts, but Vision chuckles dryly.

"You have no idea what's happening outside those walls, Wanda." He retorts seriously. "The fine line we're on. Mr. Stark is trying to keep everyone out of danger, and after everything we caused in Lagos,  wandering around without signing the Accords is out of the question."

Wanda chokes in surprise. "What... Am I not allowed to leave the tower?"

Vision clears his throat, nodding. "It's for the safety of the civilians." He retorts coldly. "Although I believe your intentions are good now, your record as a Hydra terrorist and recent events are not in your favor. It's best, for everyone, that you stay here until things settle down and all the signatures are counted."

Wanda is speechless at the absurdity, but in the meantime, you're already dressed and she jumps softly when your hand opens the rest of the door. Vision's eyes go wide, but you just give him a forced smile.

"Hey, microwave, long time no see." You greet sarcastically, and the man adjusts himself.

"Unfortunately not long enough." He retorts coldly. 

"Jeez, someone's rusty." You grumble, but he looks at you seriously.

"Don't abuse my patience, Miss. You have fifteen minutes to leave this tower, or I'll call National Security with your location."

You rest your arm on Wanda's shoulder, a smile playing on your lips. "Wow, am I that important?"

Vision takes a hard step forward, but Wanda's magic pushes him back with a jolt. You laugh at his indignant expression.

"That's enough, Vision. She's leaving soon, and you're leaving now." Wanda warns, at last, her irises bright red. The synthesizer begrudgingly gives you one last threatening look and leaves the corridor. 

You wrap your arms around Wanda again to kiss her hard as you close the door with your foot, but she doesn't match the intensity, and soon, her hands are on your shoulders, gently pushing you away and stopping the kiss. 

At your confused expression, she swallows dryly. "You should go." She whispers, fear in her eyes. "I know he meant it. And I don't want to ruin this night with you getting shot by some federal agent."

You hesitate, but end up nodding, kissing her on the cheek before walking away to get your shoes.

But as you put them on, and Wanda hugs her own body, you take a chance:

"You know you don't have to stay here, right?" You begin a little upset. "You could do like that archer guy and ask for a retirement. Or have your friends forgotten that you've already saved the world once and therefore, you don’t owe any of them shit?"

Despite the childish stubbornness in your tone, Wanda smiles sadly before retorting. "I don't think they've forgotten, but things are more complicated than before. And I'm not like Clint Barton, darling." She retorts, swallowing dryly. "I don't have a family to go back to."

You frown, absorbing the words in silence as you finish tying your sneakers. And then, as if it wasn't the sweetest thoughtful thing you've ever said to her, you declare:

"I could be family, Wanda."

She looks away for a moment because she doesn't want to cry in front of you. She has the impression that you won't leave - and she needs you to go so that you can be safe - if you notice the tears. 

Sniffling softly, and wiping her face before you notice, Wanda asks. "Do you really mean that?"

You stand up, moving closer to her to hold her cheeks. "Every word." You assure her with a smile. "We could travel the world, and have lunch and dinner in different places every day. We would buy all the most expensive and tacky things just because we can..."

Wanda giggles shyly at the fantasy, allowing herself to believe it for just half a second. She holds your hands cupped around her face afterward and sighs.

"It's a beautiful dream, darling."

You swallow dryly, staring at her. "Just a dream, isn't it?" You sigh sadly, and she nods just as upset.

Her tone is very low, like a secret. "They'll find you eventually. And I... God knows how much my power will grow. I can't trust myself outside of here, without the help of training. Stark's containment plans. And I know it's horrible, but I don't want to hurt anyone. Ever again. And if I went with you, with this life you lead, eventually, I would."

You swallow dry, sighing in understanding. This time, it's you who sniffles.

“I’m always one call away, Wanda Maximoff. Whenever you need me, just pick up the phone.” Wanda feels her chest warm at your words, but all she does is smile tenderly against the kiss you place on her lips. 

Unknown to both of you, it won’t take long for her to call. With really unexpected big news.

Two of them precisely.

-&-

This work was turned into a series. Check the masterlist here.

[anim-ttrpgs]

Why So Much Combat in an Investigation Game?

Just about every time someone picks up this rulebook, we get asked “There’s more pages dedicated to combat than investigation. If this game is about investigation, why are there so many pages dedicated to combat?”

There are two answers, which are really two explanations of one answer.

The first is verisimilitude. Eureka wants the players to have a very believable and grounded experience with combat in the game, which is not something that most players and Narrators are able to consistently improvise off the top of their heads, so the rulebook provides detailed guidelines for this in the form of its combat rules. Combat in real life is also very dangerous and deadly, and survival of it often has less to do with an individual’s skill at throwing punches and more to do with their preparedness and knowledge to just not get into a disadvantageous position in the first place.

The second reason is Eureka is a game, and it's a game about investigation. Eureka wants the investigators to be investigating, not punching and shooting their way through all their obstacles. To this end, Eureka has to make punching and shooting into something very dangerous to the survival of the investigators, to discourage it as a solution in all but the most desperate circumstances. However, if combat is to be deadly, it also needs to have a lot of depth and strategic possibility, or else it wouldn’t be fun–and as a game, Eureka is meant to be fun. Rolling a couple dice that you and your character have little control over the outcome of, then finding out that they are just dead for a (believable) post-hoc reason, isn’t very satisfying.

Eureka wants the party’s skill in investigation to determine their survival in combat as much as if not more so their Firearm or CQC skills. This is how these two philosophies on combat rules writing come together. The depth and realism of Eureka’s combat rewards preparedness with survival more than it rewards raw stats, and the emphasis on investigation creates preparedness.

It is the investigation that tells the investigators that the building next to the warehouse where the gangsters are hiding out has a fire escape they could use to jump across to the warehouse roof, and from that they can sneak to a loft that will put them directly above the villains—and it is the intricacy and extensiveness of the combat rules that dictate that by being on the loft when they attack, which they got to by investigating, they have a huge advantage, but still no guarantee of survival.

They have the element of surprise which will allow them to attack first and also opportunity to make a Stealth Attack, and then once that is over, they still have cover while the gangsters have none.

The reason Eureka dedicates so many pages to combat despite being an investigation game primarily is to elevate and supplement the investigation gameplay by providing a real sense of danger as well as providing the Narrator a wide range of game mechanic tools to raise the stakes and provide obstacles, and provide the investigators and their players a wide range of game mechanic tools which they can use to cleverly overcome those obstacles.

We have provided a simplified set of “Basic Combat” rules, but these are an optional rule, with the default and intended way to play being to use every mechanic afforded to investigators and NPCs to the fullest degree.

[There is also a secret third reason why Eureka dedicates so many more pages to combat than to investigation, and it's because at the time of writing this, the chapters covering investigation have been copy-edited, while the chapters covering combat have not yet been. The copy-editing process reduced the page count of the investigation sections by about 25%, and will do the same to the combat sections when we get around to it. By the way,(You can also get the latest PDF for FREE for a limited time by joining the A.N.I.M. TTRPG Book Club!]

Elegantly designed and thoroughly playtested, Eureka represents the culmination of three years of near-daily work from our team, as well as a lot of our own money. If you’re just now reading this and learning about Eureka for the first time, you missed the crowdfunding window unfortunately, but our Kickstarter page is still the best place to learn more about what Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy actually is, as that is where we have all the fancy art assets, the animated trailer, links to video reviews by podcasts and youtubers, and where we post regular updates on the status of our progress finishing the game and getting it ready for final release.

Beta Copies through the Patreon

If you want more than just status updates, going forward you can download regularly updated playable beta versions of Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy and it’s adventure modules by subscribing to our Patreon at the $5 tier or higher. Subscribing to our patreon also grants you access to our patreon discord server where you can talk to us directly and offer valuable feedback on our progress and projects.

The A.N.I.M. TTRPG Book Club

If you would like to meet the A.N.I.M. team and even have a chance to play Eureka with us, you can join the A.N.I.M. TTRPG Book Club discord server. It’s also just a great place to talk and discuss TTRPGs, so there is no schedule obligation, but the main purpose of it is to nominate, vote on, then read, discuss, and play different indie TTRPGs. We put playgroups together based on scheduling compatibility, so it’s all extremely flexible. This is a free discord server, separate from our patreon exclusive one. https://discord.gg/7jdP8FBPes

Other Stuff

We also have a ko-fi and merchandise if you just wanna give us more money for any reason.

We hope to see you there, and that you will help our dreams come true and launch our careers as indie TTRPG developers with a bang by getting us to our base goal and blowing those stretch goals out of the water, and fight back against WotC's monopoly on the entire hobby. Wish us luck.

[safetycar-restart]

KINKTOBER DAY 8: FEMINISATION [MAX VERSTAPPEN X READER]

NOTE: This is an NSFW fic with sub!max and dom!reader. If you're under 18 or uninterested in this, just scroll right past. If you like what you see, then check out the rest of my blog :))

This fic is part of my kinktober series where I discuss a different kinky concept with a different motorsports athlete every day. I also answer asks about the different concepts and discuss them more on my blog so if this gives you any ideas, feel free to stop by!

(AKA: Max won a third world championship and I think that warrants a new pair of panties)

You've had them picked out for weeks already, the perfect soft pink colour that would make max blush at the sight of them. They're soft and lacy, and there's no way they'll hold his cock without it looking absolutely indecent, which is exactly the point.

It's no secret how much adores getting gifted lingerie and skirts and little babydoll nightgowns. It's not something he allows himself to indulge in too often, but when he does he enters subspace so deep that he's still in it the next morning, still happy and soft in your arms and wanting to wear his pretty clothes a little longer.

If you had it your way, you'd shower max in gifts at every possible opportunity, but he doesnt allow that. He doesn't want you spending too much money on him, and he doesn't like to be given things if he feels he hasn't earned them, even if he so clearly had.

So once it was clear he'd be winning the championship, you went about searching for the perfect scandalous gift for him. You considered a navy blue lingerie set, to match red bull's main colours, but then you thought about how max has always been drawn to the softer, more feminine colours and so decided against it.

Eventually you find exactly what you're looking for: a pair of baby pink lace panties with a cute little bow on the front. They're soft and so feminine and the perfect shade of light pink. You know max will blush so much when he sees them, and that they will become favourites (assuming they don't get ruined the first time round, but you save the link to them in case you need to buy another pair).

You have it wrapped up and waiting in his driver's room. When he sees it, he blushes because he knows it's from you and he knows it'll be something indecent.

He waits until it's just you and him in the room and unboxes them.

"For me?" he asks, like there's any other option. You nod, telling him that he's gonna look so pretty in them and he smiles, asking if you guys can head back to the hotel.

He has to race the next day, so he can't go out partying. But this? He can do this. He can absolutely do this.

You take him back to the hotel room, instructing him to shower and change into his new panties, wearing nothing else. He does as you ask, of course.

Praising him as he walks out makes him blush all the way down his chest, looking down because he can't meet your eyes. You can see how his cock starts to harden at your words.

You treat him softly, because that wrecks max far more than any harsh treatment ever would. He can take spanking without any reaction, but if you praise him and softly stroke his hair he'll break down crying.

You start off by making him kneel for you and just talking to him. He has to kneel there with his arms behind his back and keep his posture while you speak, and you tell him all about how proud you are of him and how lucky you are to have him as your sub.

By the time you're finished speaking, his cock is leaking in his pretty panties and tears are running down his cheeks. You've barely touched him and he's already right where you want him.

Then you sit him across your lap, stroking him through his panties until he's sobbing and begging for relief.

[theother-victoria]

LOVE IS CONCOCTED FROM ESTERS AND KETONES- CH. 00: PROLOGUE

NOTES: I hope this chapter gives you an idea of the setting and what's to come!

TAGLIST: @tragedy-of-commons, @mitsvriii, @harque, @nariism, @vxnuslogy, @akutasoda , @flowery-jazz , @gabile18 , @khoncore

Somewhere within the heart of the universe lies a perfumery on an unremarkable planet, its simplicity belittling its fame. From its exterior, it looks like any other shop on the street. Simple, with a cute sign and clean exterior. They’re closed on Mondays but for the rest of the week, they open at ten am on the weekdays and close at six pm with extended hours on the weekends. 

The inside, however, tells a different story. It’s far more spacious than the outside would lead one to believe. The poor, overworked air purifiers can be heard running 24/7 to prevent the air from becoming suffocating. The shelves go as far back as the eye can see and are stocked with bottles of different colors, sizes, and designs- each of them hefty and works of art in their own right. Each of them have different scent profiles and all of them are handcrafted by the enigmatic owner who formulates and tests each scent in the lab located behind the shop. 

… The test subjects just happen to be the two shop assistants who are more than happy to be their boss’ guinea pigs. 

The shop itself is split into three sections- male, female, and unisex. Perfumes are arranged based on the fragrance family- fresh, floral, woodsy- before being further arranged by notes- green, fruity, gourmand- since people often walk in wanting to smell like a specific note, which the owner and shop assistants are happy to work with. However, there’s a rumor that you’ll get the best results when you come in with an idea, a concept, in mind. 

“I want to smell like worn, old, musty jewelry that’s probably tangled.” There’s a scent for that.

“Do you have anything that smells like a day at the fair as a kid?” Yes, there is.

“How about a warm rock?” Second display case in the unisex section, fifth shelf down, third bottle from the left, the green one. 

There’s also the option to get a custom-made fragrance, although it’ll carry a heftier price tag than the already-pricy wares. But for many, it’s a small price to pay for something that’s uniquely personal to them. 

All of this has led to celebrities, politicians, and other rich and famous people from across the galaxy to flock to this store, which has been the biggest reason for the store’s meteoric rise to fame. It started off as the name being shared among circles and it gradually rippled out from there until it reached the level of renown it has today. Celebrities often quote a bottle from the store as their signature and/or favorite scent in interviews and the paparazzi always snap a bunch of photos whenever a particularly high-profile person leaves the store with a bag in hand. 

Rumor has it that the advertising benefits for the shop are top-tier too, which is why they practically jump at the chance to promote the newest scents. 

But while the shop’s fame is undeniable, there isn’t much known about the owner. They’ve dodged the media’s questions ever since the shop’s popularity exploded and even the two assistants don’t know much besides what’s publicly available. It seems as if they intend for things to stay that way as well. 

Not only do you want to keep your secrets close, but you also want to preserve that sense of monotony that comes with running a business for as long you have. Wake up, get ready, open the store for business, and handle the various customers that come into the shop until closing.

But unbeknownst to you, there’s a wave of new customers coming, each with their peculiarities that you’ve never quite had to deal with before, and they’re interested in more than just your wares.

Keeping your inventory stocked and your heart guarded is your modus operandi for running your business. But between running your business, staying on top of orders, and dealing with these new customers… this may be a difficult task to follow for the foreseeable future. 

the taglist is open for this series and the rest of my works!

@ theother-victoria, do not copy, repost, modify, translate, or feed to ai

[m3dieval]

If one was looking for armor, not just for the look, but for jousting and fighting. How would someone go around and do that? You seem to be more knowledgeable than most about these things and I’m lost on what to get. I’ve foolishly gotten pieces that were really for decoration rather than practicality.

This is going to depend on what sports/activities you plan in doing with your suit. Buhurt and balsa jousting for example will have different requirements. But the main things to look for are: material and fit.

Spring steel (properly tempered) tends to be the gold standard for combat sports. But mild steel (for more historical) and titanium are also used. Some groups/leagues have specifics on minimum thicknesses of material based on what it is and where it's protecting.

Stainless steel is generally not recommended if you plan on doing anything with metal weapons, but I have seen it used in some older jousting suits.

Chainmail is the one easy answer I have: if you want it to hold up to any of the armoured combat sports you need riveted mail. No butted mail!

For buhurt armour, which has a reputation of being made of good material but having a questionable fit, Buhurt Tech and Medieval Extreme are the shops that come to mind. One of the reasons I think buhurt is popular, is because they've made armour relatively affordable. You can get a full suit for as little as $3000 USD at Medieval Extreme and it will hold up to buhurt hits. If buhurt is popular in your area, you might also be able to buy some secondhand pieces.

Buhurt style suits are generally teased by the historical community for the fit. They're made to be more heavily padded, so they usually fit a little too big. They're made to be easier to fit, so often there is basically no shape at the waist. And there are other sport-specific adaptations that aren't based on history. But that's okay, most people in buhurt aren't trying to pass themselves off as reenactors. When looking at armour it is helpful to be able to spot the difference (look at the fit and proportions):

For historical armour used in jousting, harness fencing, and reenactment battles: either find a reputable armourer or buy a secondhand suit. Finding an armourer can be challenging. If you're part of a group (jousting, medieval society, etc), ask around about where people got their stuff. The United League of Armourers on facebook might be able to help you locate someone (even just reading the discussions there can be educational).

Sometimes there's a decent local armourer who you doesn't have an online presence (usually they are found though said group). This unknown hobbyist armourer is going to be significantly more affordable than a well established armourer who's getting international clients (and their waitlist should be a lot shorter) but there is a bit of a gamble on quality. If you find one, make sure you see what they've already made first.

Armourers whose work I've seen in person and can vouch for the quality (just looking at their portfolios should give you an idea of what quality looks like):

Jeffrey Wasson:

Eric Dubé:

TBH I usually forget to ask who made someone suit 😅 But if you're on the market for armour it's a good habit to get into asking that.

My helmet is made by Jeffery Hedgecock (he makes the armour at Historic Enterprises). My suit is made by Marc Hamel (he doesn't take online commissions). These were both bought secondhand from a jouster I met when I was working as ground crew years ago (it was over $600 CAN just to get it shipped from Quebec to Alberta).

My gauntlets are the worst part of my suit, they're these hourglass ones from Armstreet. They don't fit will enough for jousting, but they have protected my hands for sparring with synthetic swords. I am looking to replace them soon.

Armstreet is hit or miss. Definitely do your own research before you go browsing there.

The secret third option is to do a massive amount of research, get some mild steel and tools, then make your own armour. I'd start with watching videos about this (I recommend Greenleaf Workshop). Some armourers also sell classes, like Eric Dubé.

And we haven't even gotten around to discussing arming garments! We'll save that for another post.

Long story short: I probably can't make better recommendations than whatever group you join to participate in the activity you are requiring armour for (there are many types of jousting, there are many types of foot combat). But hopefully these resources give you somewhere to start looking.

[couldpolyamorysavethem]

ELIZABETH BURKE, PETER BURKE, and NEAL CAFFREY from WHITE COLLAR

Justification:

"okay listen this might already be in the queue but i sincerely believe the last three seasons of the show would've gone in a completely different direction if peter got that last little push away from his bullshit cop behaviour by neal pulling some grand romantic gesture for him + el. like, come on man, you've already come to peace with legality not being the same as morality after you ran all those cons and let neal cut and run, but he's so convinced the ONLY way to do good in the world is being an fbi agent that he like, actively makes things worse for neal (AND HIMSELF? AND ELIZABETH?) over and over again just so he can preserve the status quo of neal being his CI + while peter's an active field agent. would kissing about his devotion to their dynamic and neal's rehabilitation and peter's complicity in neal's dehumanisation by the state solve that? maybe not! but considering the alternative is neal fucking dying (he got better) about it i think we should give it a shot!

that previous paragraph was more or less me preaching to the choir wrt this relationship but still here's my pitch:

neal is essentially already the third in elizabeth + peter's marriage, with how much he lives in peter's brain during pre-series sequences, how INVESTED he is in their relationship (reminding peter of anniversaries), and then IN the actual series that only increases when he's coming around to their place all the time

each pair within this trio have supporting but distinct relationships w one another that they all benefit from (and they often need the support of all three dynamics to get through Issues™)

that one episode where peter ends up on the run w another fbi agent and neal gets paired up with that guy's CI, and there's just an unbelievable amount of parallels between the two pairs and their relationship, even after its established that those two are in a romantic relationship and peter and neal 'aren't'. like peter says he'd go to neal first if he was ever in trouble LIKEEE

fucking everything about the run up to the finale of season 2 where we hear over and over again that the only two ways conmen end up are with 'one last score' (which inevitably leads to the next, because they can't help themselves), or going to prison. OR, the 'true love' option, where an ex-conman is able to genuinely settle down and go straight (more or less). this 'secret third option' is literally even spelled out to us IN an episode about a trio of thieves (byron june and ford) who meant the world to each other!

neal uses the engagement ring he was GOING to give to his TEXTUAL 'true love' in order to pay for peter's ransom that one time and isn't even cut up about it??

also like the episode before that neal and peter switch identities (very well) and neal acts like elizabeth's wife, and the only issue peter (or anyone) has with it is that he's also committing the crime of impersonating a federal agent.

season three finale where peter asks why neal didn't run when he just got the score of his life and the first thing he says is 'you, elizabeth', before listing literally anything else. INCLUDING HIS CURRENT ROMANTIC INTEREST?

also the scene before that where neal immediately folds from his season long cat and mouse game with peter and hiding the treasure because elizabeth's in danger! and peter only believes he's not lying abt any of it bc it's elizabeth!

that one shot in the pilot where neal and elizabeth look up at peter and you can so clearly see he has a type.

literally everything about elizabeth + neal's interactions in s1. get you a girl who sneaks you into her house past dozens of fbi agents so you can talk to your handler personally about being framed for a crime that she has no reason to suspect you didn't do other than believe in your and her husband's relationship!

im losing track of my argument at this point. anyway can someone please knock peter upside the head with some kind of bi awakening for the love of god this homoerotic 'partners' situation has an unbelievably high body count not to mention all the violation of civil liberties and frankly you could've all moved to paris and started a detective agency YEARS ago and this show would become slice of life" - @time-is-restored

[morelikeravenbore]

✨ Hogwarts Legacy fluffy masterlist.

In the interest of ✨aesthetics✨, I'm compiling all my 🍭 fluffy oneshots, drabbles and HL au's together to link back to my masterlist.

Content warnings (if any) will be listed to the best of my awareness on each post. All stories crossposted to wattpad & AO3.

✨ Here Comes The Sun | 1.4k words

Sebastian Sallow had landed himself in a predicament so dire that despite applying every ounce of his impressive mental facilities to finding a solution, only two viable options were clear to him: he could fake an illness and flee back to Scotland, or he could throw himself off the cliff he was presently stood atop and drown in the Mediterranean Sea below.

✨ Noctilucent | [mature themes and sexual references, reader discretion advised!]

Aurélie allowed herself a little indulgent peek of the wide-eyed, sleep-deprived maniac she was straddling: toned stomach and Quidditch-defined shoulders; golden-warm skin bathed in blue light from the jar of bluebell flames she kept by the bed; a novae of new freckles enhanced by the summer sun — he was noctilucent beneath her, like something borne of a dream, surely too unreal to belong to her.

✨Croissants & Comfort | 1.1k words | husband!Sebastian/domestic!Sebaura

Sebastian Sallow absolutely, resolutely, with every fibre of his being and inch of his damaged soul, hates cats.

While others, perhaps those more trusting than he, might coo over bright eyes and bushy tails, fluffy paws and little pink noses, Sebastian sees only the sharp claws and pointy teeth of a predator. So when one of them shows up on his doorstep meowing for his soul (or for food, who can tell when it comes to cats?), he closes the door in its little demon face and pretends he never saw it.

✨ Don't Tell Ominis | 1.9k words

Accidentally conjuring a dragon with Ancient Magic wasn't exactly what most would consider a stroke of luck, but as the secret entrance to the Undercroft slammed shut behind her, Aurélie thought herself very lucky on several accounts: first, that the dragon had been small, as far as dragons go; second, that Sebastian hadn't been there to witness her embarrassing blunder (because, as enthusiastic as he was about her practising her magic, she felt certain even he would draw the line at conjuring fire-breathing demon-lizards in a school); and third, that she'd managed to escape said demon-lizard without so much as a singed hair (hers, not the dragons.)

✨Cicatrix | 1.3k words

Much to the chagrin of his peers, excelling in his studies was, to put it mildly, downright bloody easy, and though his natural proclivity towards excellence often put him on the receiving end of bitter remarks and jealous taunts, Sebastian took pride in the fact that despite everything that had been taken from him, his intelligence remained unfaltering. That is, until he fell in love.

✨ Toast & Tribulation | 1.4k words | A crackfic AU in which Aurélie is a Slytherin and she & Ominis rule Hogwarts Mean Girls style.

When Ominis Gaunt had first introduced himself outside the Undercroft by threatening to have her expelled, Aurélie swore right then and there to hate him for the rest of her life. And for most of her debut year at Hogwarts, she did just that — vehemently.

Mini prompts and short drabbles:

✨ Aurélie hates quests.

✨ "Thebastian Thallow".

✨ Sebastian is jealous.

✨ Sebastian is jealous again.

✨ Sebastian has lost his bloody mind.

[wondercourse]

i'm making this its own post actually because it's really important to me. pardon an anecdote.

i am someone who leaning hard into solely being parts did not work for. i was pushed into it, and while in some aspects it helped and parts of it reflect how i see myself, pushing it SO HARD made things worse. in fact, quite ironically considering its push as the SOLE "pro-recovery" option, it led to me starting to see "unfavorable" parts of me as separate human beings from me and the "good" parts. as in, they were not part of my whole, they were not part of my body. i was experiencing the kind of dissociation that the isstd says to prevent.

this will not happen to everyone. this isn't meant to be a horror story to push you away from parts language (which i still use) or a parts of a whole view of yourself. the whole point is to tell you to do what works for you—and to explain what didn't work for me, and why it might not work for everyone.

that said, as you can imagine, this experience means i am sick to DEATH of people pushing One True Recovery Path™.

seeing my parts as the in-between of parts and people IS seeing them as parts of a whole. it has allowed for integration. it has allowed for healing. it has allowed for me to feel more like one person more than ever.

it seems contradictory, doesn't it? that being people makes me feel like one person. but it works for me. they are me and i am them, that is true—but in the sense that we, as people and parts, are what "i" am.

you do not get to define someone's path to recovery in their stead. you do not get to tell someone you don't know what works for them. what works for you may not work for everyone. again, if solely seeing yourself in terms of parts works for you, that's amazing. not being facetious. i'm glad you've found what works for you.

you do not get to push that onto everyone. period.

i've made a post like this before, but this one is more personal because i wanted to give an example of "alters are never people" not helping everyone.

as with everything in syscourse and systemhood and life, there is nuance.

sigh. i honestly hope the people who need to see this—the ones pushing the One True Recovery Path™ rhetoric—see this. i feel that the likelihood of that happening is low, but still. i need them to see that what they're pushing does not always work. and is also not with the ISSTD meant when talking about parts being "a singular human being".

let people view their subjective experience as they need to in order to move forward. parts, people, both, neither, nebulous in-between, secret third thing, whatever. it is not your place to define a subjective and often deeply personal thing. i keep saying it because i cannot emphasize it enough.

stop trying to tell people what their experiences "should" be. stop telling them they're faking or wrong or bad because they don't fall under that. this doesn't even just apply to the parts and people shit, actually, because this just happens a lot. it's frustrating. immensely so.

god i'm so tired.

[mooncalfe-art]

Weird question, please bear with me.

So I was in the turtle group chat talking about different methods of turtle shell repair, as one does, and then I remembered Donnie's Terrible, Rotten, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day and his metal shell.

Seeing as a turtle's shell IS their spine and a significant portion of their ribcage, does Donnie now also have a prosthetic metal spine and ribs? and all the Important Stuff that's in the spinal column - the nerves and the fluids and the like... I'm not really asking for you to explain the Deep Biology of mutant turtle skeletal structures, but I AM asking what is up with their spines - are the fused, separate, some secret third thing? inquiring minds want to know.

I think about this same thing every so often, haha. Most artists (even Peter and Kevin back in the day) draw the Turtles with a flexible plastron unlike real turtles, which you can either chalk up to artistic license and cartooning, or you can take it more literally to mean that the Turtles have a more human-type skeleton and their plastron and shell are more spongy sort of armor plating rather than bone like real-life turtles. If I was the only one working on TMNT I'd probably delve more into the biology of it and have it at the outset that the carapace is part of their skeleton and is rigid like real turtles, but it's impossible to set that kind of thing up in a series with a ton of people working on it and expect it to remain the same across the board, so I usually just don't worry about it. I'm also kind of boxed in a bit by Donatello losing his shell and, thanks to the ooze, somehow receiving a new one that Fugitoid I guess just sticks onto Don's back and he's good to go. There's a panel in that particular issue (I forget which one it was) where Don is about to be operated on and he's lying on his back on the medical bed, but I always wondered what's under his shell, then? If he has no shell I'm guessing it was a huge exposed wound, and if so why is he lying ON the giant gaping wound?! Haha. And then it's like if the Turtles' carapace is flexible in IDW TMNT, that must mean it's NOT part of their skeletal system and in that case why would Don even need a new shell? Clearly thinking too deeply about it, haha.

In any case, since I took over as writer, I've tried to go by those rules that Tom set up as much as I can, like when I had Don's old broken shell (which Tom never accounted for, where did it go after Fugitoid removed it??? So I decided to draw the old shell having been tossed into a dumpster, lol) be attached to Venus, like if the surgeon has a healing agent like ooze or the Dragon scales the way Fugitoid and Dr. Barlow did, it seems like they can just graft components (whether organic or inorganic) onto anyone however they like regardless of what the internal mutant biology is. In Venus's flashback in my Alliance #4 issue, I did draw her spinal column visible when the shell is being grafted on though, sort of as a nod to the skeletal system thing but not explicitly solidifying the biology of it.

Another way I think about it is that mutants haven't undergone any sort of evolution as a species, their biology doesn't have to "make sense" or be useful in a natural selection evolutionary way. The mutagen kinda removes all the specialized traits from an animal, so the Turtles' carapaces have lost whatever traits gave rise to regular turtles' shells over millions of years. Mutants are outside the evolutionary process, so the Turtles' shells don't have to be biologically useful or advantageous or even really have anything in common with normal turtles. The mutagen reconfigures an animal into humanoid form and it'll recode their DNA to any extent to acheive that end result, so maybe it built the Turtles' a new skeletal system and their shells are purely vestigial.

I feel like I'm getting way too deep here and it only makes it more confusing, lol. So to answer your question, if I had to pick one of the options you listed, I would pick "secret third thing." ;)

[a-little-unsteddie]

🔀 steve & argyle <3333

hhgkfkfjh hi!! <3

After..everything, Steve is left with crippling anxiety about leaving the house. He wouldn’t say he has agoraphobia, but he also wouldn’t say he doesn’t have agoraphobia, instead a secret, third option in that he still leaves every day but he gets panic attacks much more frequently now. It seems like anything is triggering them, so eventually, he rarely leaves the house. He goes to the same four different places (work, Robin’s, Dustin’s and the grocery store) but otherwise he doesn’t like going out.

Argyle notices that Steve is absent more than he isn’t and starts asking after him, which isn’t strange in the way that it is strange and kind of unexpected, but he is genuinely worried for Steve. Whenever Jonathan is busy, he finds his way to Steve’s and just. Hangs out. Sometimes Jonathan joins, but more often it’s just him and Argyle. Especially during weeks where Robin’s parents have decided she needs to be home for a while, and Steve locks himself away. Argyle turns up.

Eventually, Argyle realizes that Steve is a bit anxious whenever they go somewhere together—it isn’t often, as usually Argyle just hangs out around Steve’s house, but on the occasion they do go out, Argyle sees the way Steve is constantly looking over his shoulder, checking their surroundings, jumping at any small noise. To him, the solution is obvious. Hold hands! Whenever he holds hands with someone, it always makes being in public better, as he’s no stranger to anxiety.

The first time he does it, Steve nearly cries. Because yes, that’s all he needed. Someone to hold his hand and assure him that he’s not alone. So it becomes a regular thing that Steve and Argyle do, hold hands when they’re in public together. No one really thinks anything of it, because they treat it so casually. Eventually it becomes the norm.

Steve has never breathed easier outside his home than when he and Argyle are holding hands.

Send me a 🔀 and a pairing, and I’ll write a little AU with the first song that comes on!

[darklordazalin]

Azalin Reviews: Darklord Jacqueline Renier

Domain: Richemulot Domain Formation:  694 BC Power Level: 💀💀💀⚫⚫ Sources: Ravenloft (3e), Secrets of the Dread Realms (3e), Domains and Denizens (2e), Realm of Terror (2e), Domains of Dread (2e), Gazetteer III (3e).

Most Darklords are pulled into the Mists and “gifted” a land to rule (that is also designed to torment them) after committing an act of so-called evil. Others gain such titles through the act of killing another Darklord. Why one would want eternal torment, I cannot say. Self hate? Inability to recognize where they truly are? Oh and if you are thinking of doing the same, this ploy doesn't always work. Most Darklords simply come back after they are “destroyed” as even our tormentors will not let death free us from them.

Before Jacqueline Renier became the Darklord of Richemulot, her grandfather Claude Renier was Darklord. The Renier family was chased into the Mists by a group of monster hunters and their hounds when Jacqueline was a child. Most Darklords rarely remember much, if anything, of the land they came from, our tormentors erase such things from their minds. One must not believe a lying rat when they state they remember something when all evidence points to the contrary. 

The Reniers fled into the sewers and given the choice between death and a vault filled with a mysterious Mist, they chose the Mist and Falkovnia. Death may have been the kinder option than dealing with Drakov...The Reniers lived in the sewers of Silbervas in Falkovnia for a number of years before Vlad grew tired of their antics and ran them out of his Domain and into the Mists once more. This indicates that Vlad was successful in defeating the Reniers. Now that is a family history I’m sure Lady Jacqueline doesn't wish you to know of.

The Mists created Richemulot, which is mostly made of river valleys and untamed forests with the majority of its populace living in the three large cities. There is no known history of what happened in Richemulot prior to the Reniers settling there. The cities themselves were said to be empty when they arrived and like true scavengers, instead of questioning this oddity, the people merely accepted it and took up whatever residence they wished. To this day, only about a third of the buildings in each city are occupied by humanity, the rest lie abandoned and given over to decay and the infestation of rats.

Claude ruled through fear and manipulation, bidding his rivals and relatives (often these were the same) against one another. Jacqueline and her twin sister, Louise, were his protegees and he was always encouraging competition between the two for his affection and praise. That is until Jacqueline had enough of it and had a servant send him a drink laced with lye. Each wererat in Richemulot has their own unique 'allergin' and lye was Claude's. Not that I would advise anyone to consume lye in the first place... 

Jacqueline ensured she was there as her grandfather drank the poison so she could gloat as he died. But the poison wasn’t enough for her and she also pushed him through a window where he fell through the roof of the family kennel and was half-consumed by hounds before his body was retrieved. Considering the poison killed him before he hit the ground, this was quite unnecessary and makes it far more obvious to even the casual observer who was responsible for Claude’s death.

Jacqueline is just as manipulative and cunning as her grandfather was, ruling the land through secrets and bringing down her opposition through rumors and misinformation. It is said the nobility trade more in secrets than coin in Richemulot and that a commoner may gain status by simply hearing the right rumor and knowing how to weld it. 

Instead of pitting her family against one another, Jacqueline encourages them to work together, though she herself kills anyone that appears to be working against her. Only her twin sister is the exception to this. Curious. Does Jacqueline have some form of misguided affection for her sister? Is this why she has all of Louise’s lovers and friends killed? Regardless of the reasoning, it is abundantly clear that Jacqueline does not take competition for her affections well.

She is patriotic and wishes to bring prosperity to her Domain. Of course, the prosperity she strives for would result in the end of humanity, but she does try.  Though there’s no formal militia in Richemulot, she expects all of her people to take up arms to defend the realm. So, her defense is the equivalent of untrained peasants with pitchforks. Drakov’s ever-failing attempts at conquering her Domain must be particularly crushing for the little mercenary. Still, he seems to have created enough stir in Richemulot to encourage Jacqueline to sign the Treaty of Four Towers with Borca, Dementlieu, and Mordent in defence against the war-hungry, impaling-loving idiot. 

Jacqueline’s curse is to only appear in her rat form to those she loves. A fact she discovered when she fell in love with the nobleman Henri DuBois. She attempted to inflict him with her lycanthropy but he managed to not only escape that fate, but Richemulot as well. Jacqueline, a word to the wise, if one cannot accept you in your rat form, are they really worth all this pinning and crippling monophobia?

Jacqueline is a formidable combatant, but only when she is surrounded by her allies. She can speak with rats, take mist form like a vampire, and climb along almost any surface. However, when she is alone, her monophobia cripples her to a point where she can easily be defeated.

Considering the majority of her people do not know of her wererat affliction, her mastery of manipulation and control, and easy defeat of Claude; Jacqueline is not a Darklord to be underestimated. Though, if one learns her fears she can be easily taken out by a well-placed assassin. I will grant her three skulls.

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

Domain: Richemulot Domain Formation:  Unspecified (694 BC older editions) Power Level: 💀💀⚫⚫⚫ Sources: Van Richten’s Guide to Ravenloft (5e)

The “good” Doctor’s new guide indicates that Jacqueline is not a natural born wererat, but was inflicted with the curse instead. Does this mean one could simply cast ‘Remove Curse’ upon her person to effectively neutralize her? Or any of her family members seeing as she changed all of them herself? Our Tormentors rarely make things that easy, but a theory I encourage any with such abilities to try. 

Born into the Renier noble family, Jacqueline analyzed the changes in her city as the commoners became more wealthy. To Jacqueline this was viewed as a threat to her family’s position. Would a wealthy class of commoners abide by the rules of nobility if they have no need of them? And though Jacqueline shared her concerns with her family, the other Reniers ignored them, content with these inevitable changes.

Without her family’s assistance, Jacqueline was left to her own machinations. This eventually led her to discover a secret society of esteemed families that called themselves the Trueblood Council…which ended up being made of a bunch of filthy commoner wererats.

She was disgusted to find this filth in place of what she imagined as elite masterminds. Given the amount of gold she spent on gaining membership, perhaps she should have done a bit more research on them? Was it really THAT surprising they ended up being wererats considering their secret meeting location was the sewers? Regardless as she cursed and spit upon them, they made her into a wererat. 

Jacqueline easily adapted to her life as a wererat and swiftly infected all of the Reniers. Except for her twin sister, Louise, who resisted. For her insolence, Louise was disfigured and cast out. In order to gain control of the city, Jacqueline unified the wererats and together they created the Gnawing Plague. However, instead of becoming the savior to the people when they begged for her assistance, she let them die, finding her hatred of the commoners replaced with a hatred for all non-wererats. Who exactly are you ruling over if everyone is dead? Well, no one is the answer and the Mists took her after the last person in Richemulot died.

Now Jacqueline rules half-empty cities in the land of Richemulot, but can only maintain her rule by controlled releases of the Gnawing Plague in order to suppress those that would rise up against her. Given the apparently disposable armies of rats, wererats, and animated armor stuffed with rats she has control over, this seems an unnecessary tactic. Not to mention the populace cannot be all that intelligent given their lack of awareness of Reniers affliction. Jacqueline wears a shawl of rats, rat shoes, and a rat bracelet. Her love of rats could not be more apparent and the rats are known to be the cause of the plague.

No wonder she has no love of ruling over her idiotic populace. I doubt they pose any real challenge for her. Her torments are rather weak compared to other Darklords. She dislikes ruling, misses decadence yet causes such things to be nonexistent with her plagues and has to keep on creating plagues? I would take those anyday over what I have to endure.

Jacqueline can control and communicate any rat in her Domain and mostly uses them as spies. Otherwise, she is an inflicted wererat who has a love for creating plagues. Considering her control would easily break if the labs that created said plagues were destroyed, I consider this version of Jackie to be less powerful than in previous versions. 2.5 Skulls.

[fancy-rock-dove]

Thoughts on why the main relationship in TGCF manages to be full of tropes that are trash-associated but is also deeply compelling:

There are SO MANY nuances of the complicated power dynamics and self-sacrifice in Hualian’s relationship that could’ve been cringily unhealthy at so many points and THEN they just WEREN’T. Not ever. Not once

Every time I revisit this novel, I remain so impressed with MXTX’s capacity for nuance. These two are so gone on each other. Hua Cheng literally worships Xie Lian like a god. They would commit atrocities for each other. There are literally characters in the novel who worry about the sheer, unconditional trust Xie Lian gives to Hua Cheng no matter how many secrets he has. In a lesser writer’s hands, this exact dynamic is unhealthy to the point of atrocity: one becoming an unmoored monster and the other both enabler and victim. The shadow of this dynamic is hinted at in the book 4 flashback but it is specifically not allowed to actually become that. Never do we see even a shade of that relationship slip into the book itself, because that’s not how it really is for these two, not even in the darkest flashback moments.

Many narratives in which this level of devotion is present, it would be accurate to call it blind devotion, which becomes uncomfortable for the sake of the follower and unhealthy for the development of their love interest, but here the devotion is so continuously and unfailingly anchored not in looking the other way (the damaging nature of doing so being one of the core themes of the novel) but is conversely about seeing clearly and understanding fully.

So when Hua Cheng does things like offering to take the plague sword and release the disease on Yong’an himself, it actually has the effect of letting Xie Lian see the effect these choices are having on himself more clearly. It was absolutely necessary that Wu Ming not say “let me do this because you want it done” but instead say “I would do this if you needed me to and you didn’t want to because I independently understand why you want this”, because then, refusing him is a real reflection for Xie Lian on himself. There is self-sacrificing devotion in the relationship, but only for the sake of their actual wellbeing, never just while following a blind desire to do what they say.

Like, Hua Cheng can refuse Xie Lian. That’s a pretty foundational thing that happened. He does refuse him things from the beginning, even in the most basic, relationship-defining things. Xie Lian asked him to forget him after the burning of his temples and he refused, and here we are now. It’s a devotion to each other’s wellbeing, that also manages to be so without either of them assuming they know better than the other what that person needs or wants. The only time Hua Cheng actively sacrifices himself (which Xie Lian definitely wouldn’t want if asked) it’s in pursuit of the goal/outcome that XL wanted/needed to happen.

There manages to be complete devotion to each other, and also deep respect for each other’s choices and judgement, and those things…. often don’t coexist in fiction. Like, Hua Cheng introduced nothing if not agency to Xie Lian’s life. In the grand majority of the side arcs, often the “twist” in the mystery we’re exploring is some variation on “was someone forced to do something? No, they had agency!” And whether what they did with it was bad is also very much up for debate. The backstories and current stories of our protags were often journeys in recognizing that they’re not absolved of personal responsibility for lack of easy options, and show them winning by choosing to wrest back agency instead, even to their own detriment. “Take the third path”, “no paths are bound” etc. are catchphrases of our main character for a reason. Sometimes the best option still ended in tragedy, but it didn’t compromise their integrity. I LOVE “no paths are bound” as a tagline for this book and a catchphrase for Xie Lian, because it ALSO ties the good things about the main relationship into the main themes of the book. Hua Cheng’s goal is not just to be able to protect, which he probably could have done as an ordinary super ghost, but to be powerful enough to put every single possibility on the table for Xie Lian. Hua Cheng needed to be the Most Powerful, because he decided that if Xie Lian wants to do something, Hua Cheng needs to be strong enough to make it happen, needs to make it so that that every option, every path, is always under serious consideration. He literally made it so that any roll of the dice was an equally good outcome (Which is the best rationale for designing an OP character I’ve ever heard in my life). He’s not preventing danger, but instead increasing his agency in the face of it. Essentially “If what you end up choosing is MORE DANGER then I’ll be unhappy about it but I won’t stop you, I will work to make that path walkable too. I’m not here to keep you on a path, I’m here to open and smooth the one you most want to use.”

And, moreover, both people are able to be insanely cool and insanely powerful and be looked up to by the other, because while the power dynamics between them, perceived or real, could’ve been uncomfortable at many points, they WEREN’T. The people involved are on even footing even when they think they’re not. There was never a time when their presence wasn’t good for each other, even before Xie Lian knew to pay attention. Even in Hua Cheng’s very earliest appearances in the book 2 flashbacks, it’s really notable that he had enough effect on Xie Lian and his well-being that he appears multiple times in Xie Lian’s memory of those events, even though he had no idea who he was, or even that all his appearances were the same person.

MXTX really seems to grasp what’s attractive about these protective/super-powerful-boyfriend dynamics in fiction, why they often go badly wrong/make fiction bad rep of healthy relationships, and then SHOWS THEM IN THEIR HEALTHY FUNCTIONAL FORM INSTEAD so we’re free to love what we love about them. At the end of the day, we’re shown the way the best of these things all ideally point to love and concern for the other person as they are, before any considerations of their role in your own life or what they do for you. BUT with the expectation of reciprocal respect and latitude to do what you need to do as well.

I’ve never seen another story do this quite so well with such so-often-abused tropes and dynamics, and it’s one of the reasons that the romance in particular makes this work so near and dear to me.

It kinda reaffirmed my ability to see these things I naturally love seeing in love stories as healthy, reasonable forms of affection and devotion when based in an actual healthy relationship. When much, much fiction that treats similar dynamics badly makes me want to feel bad for enjoying aspects of them.

So seeing THIS relationship be what it is was a validating, freeing, and clarifying experience.It basically explained for me why I like these things, and elucidated why, for me, they fit into my paradigm of ideal romance and devotion, even (especially) when they can be problematic if treated wrong.

In essence, seeing these tropes done well is also an exercise in seeing what was missing in cases where they were damagingly removed from context, and thus understanding their key aspects and the core behind their impact. This book actually literally kinda reframed the way I conceptualize romance by helping me put together how many of the tropes I love in romances actually fit into an ideal relationship.

A spring cleaning of my thoughts if you will.

An ordering of my conceptions.

And I bonded with it deeply for that.

And yet it is also trash, who would’ve thought.

(it is self-aware, culture-savvy, meta-commentary trash for the most part, that clearly leans into it with fond intention, so I really do not mind it. It manages to be genre bending while expressing only love for its own genre and why it is the way it is. No disdain here. Only love for things as they are.)

[chaikachi]

I HAVE ONE OBJECTION TO YOUR OTHERWISE STELLAR META ON THE DOJO SCENE/RUBY'S BREAKDOWN!

I would say as of recent there is now one other character *besides* Oscar who takes notice of how much Ruby is struggling and breaking, who uplifts and comforts her without placing any expectations on her in the process... That of course being Little.

The only one still with Ruby. (*gestures to Little being framed in Jinxy's jar of hope that Ruby can't fill all the way, because Little is meant to represent the last spark of Ruby's hope and inner child*)

I don't think they'll have the perfect wise or uplifting words to say to Ruby (and I'm not sure she'd want to hear them right now anyway, she just needs to feel what she's feeling and let the rain pour, metaphorically and literally). But I imagine if Ruby asks them why Little is still with her, why don't they just leave her alone, and Little saying that they just want to be there for Ruby because she's sad, and because Ruby is their friend, and they don't know what else they can do for her. And that's all. And then Ruby will cry and I'll cry and we all will cry.

Also this ask may just be an excuse to share a headcanon I have, of if Little returns with Ruby to Remnant, that Oscar makes food for everyone to celebrate their return, and also gifts a tiny picnic basket especially for Little and says something like: "thank you for being Ruby's guide when she was feeling lost" because she was lost physically but also *felt* lost too and just. Little has taken on the purpose to be Ruby's guide, and I think that's going to apply in more ways than just helping her get back home.

YOU ARE SO TRUE!!! i was so caught up in the parallels and RG that I left our little friend behind 😭 Before I do get into it, do want to just acknowledge that what you mentioned about how Little might handle this is absolutely all that Ruby needs right now. I've seen some discussions around about people saying WBY haven't supported Ruby enough (valid, as are their reasons for not being able to) but the counter argument is often that they can't force her to dump about her trauma and it's like... no. Secret hidden third option. Just give her some time to rest, acknowledge how hard this is on her and how much this sucks without sugar coating it, and remind her that you're there to lean on if she needs it. I really hope that she gets that from Little in the coming episode(s).

BUT YES. SPEAKING OF LITTLE. YOU ARE CORRECT. They stuck by Ruby's side in the market when her team ran off and were paying such close attention to her after they first noticed how sad she was in the paper vilage.

It's hard to catch, but I'm also fairly certain Little is the first to call out to her when she starts hallucinating against the walker. It's timed just as Little jumps up and it's just ahhhhh. YOU'RE JUST A MOUSE!!! WHY ARE YOU BEING BRAVE AND PEEKING OUT OF HER HOOD RIGHT NOW!!!

We don't see them for the entire breakdown scene before it ends with a zoom in on this. Which is just... oof...

Also I know that Little is first and foremost supposed to be a symbol for Ruby's remaining spark of hope and inner child, the literal "Little" Riding in her Red Hood... but i can't get the parallels of that mouse to Oscar outta my brain. 💀

Cinder and Nora have both called Oscar 'little'. Little Prince. Oscar paid attention to Ruby back in v6 when she said "Food always makes me feel better" and so after her confrontation with Jaune, he went and made her a freaking casserole about it. And what is one of the first things Little does upon meeting Ruby? Offer to share their food with her when she's upset. And they, just like Oscar, were the only one paying attention enough to how hard of a time she was having.

EDIT: I am currently having a convo with someone else about this and oh my god

Ruby: I've never spoken to a... mouse before. Little: Well... I guess I've never spoken to a you before! - Oscar : I've never really meet huntsman and huntresses before... Ruby: Well, uh... we've never met a person with two souls! So first times all around!

I just!!! I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH THIS.

Lastly, your headcanon is adorable. Little absolutely deserves an entire picnic basket full of food and a very cozy bed after all of this, and both them and Oscar are fist-bumping through dimensions right now over their shared fondness for Ruby. 😤

[tomorrowusa]

Justice Samuel Alito is a far right fanatic and makes no secret of that. But he apparently also has a conflict of interest.

In early July 2008, Samuel Alito stood on a riverbank in a remote corner of Alaska. The Supreme Court justice was on vacation at a luxury fishing lodge that charged more than $1,000 a day, and after catching a king salmon nearly the size of his leg, Alito posed for a picture. To his left, a man stood beaming: Paul Singer, a hedge fund billionaire who has repeatedly asked the Supreme Court to rule in his favor in high-stakes business disputes. Singer was more than a fellow angler. He flew Alito to Alaska on a private jet. If the justice chartered the plane himself, the cost could have exceeded $100,000 one way. In the years that followed, Singer’s hedge fund came before the court at least 10 times in cases where his role was often covered by the legal press and mainstream media. In 2014, the court agreed to resolve a key issue in a decade-long battle between Singer’s hedge fund and the nation of Argentina. Alito did not recuse himself from the case and voted with the 7-1 majority in Singer’s favor. The hedge fund was ultimately paid $2.4 billion. Alito did not report the 2008 fishing trip on his annual financial disclosures. By failing to disclose the private jet flight Singer provided, Alito appears to have violated a federal law that requires justices to disclose most gifts, according to ethics law experts.

In court cases where judges have a personal connection, judges are expected to recuse themselves. Another option, chosen by Alito, is to pretend that you're ignorant.

ProPublica sent Alito a list of detailed questions last week, and on Tuesday, the Supreme Court’s head spokeswoman told ProPublica that Alito would not be commenting. Several hours later, The Wall Street Journal published an op-ed by Alito responding to ProPublica’s questions about the trip. Alito said that when Singer’s companies came before the court, the justice was unaware of the billionaire’s connection to the cases. He said he recalled speaking to Singer on “no more than a handful of occasions,” and they never discussed Singer’s business or issues before the court.

A reminder of the connection between Justice Clarence Thomas and Nazi art collector Harlan Crow.

This spring, ProPublica reported that Justice Clarence Thomas received decades of luxury travel from another Republican megadonor, Dallas real estate magnate Harlan Crow. In a statement, Thomas defended the undisclosed trips, saying unnamed colleagues advised him that he didn’t need to report such gifts to the public. Crow also gave Thomas money in an undisclosed real estate deal and paid private school tuition for his grandnephew, who Thomas was raising as a son. Thomas reported neither transaction on his disclosure forms.

The Republican Supreme Court shows growing signs of corruption in addition its decision making which is based more on ideology than the law.

It's interesting that the two most far right SCOTUS justices are also the most corrupt.

When you vote for president you are voting for the person who appoints Supreme Court justices. When you vote for US senator you are voting for one of the people who confirms those justices. People considering casting "protest votes" for unelectable third party candidates should be reminded of the long term effects of their acts of futility.