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yumeka-sxf · 9 months

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An analysis on Anya (an Anya-lysis!)

As promised in my Twiyor season 1 wrap up post, it's time for me to give Anya time in the analysis spotlight – an "Anya-lysis" if you will! (yes, I've been waiting to make that pun!)

*I apologize in advance for the length of this post. I felt that splitting it into two would have hindered the flow of the analysis, so I kept it as one long post. But I promise it's not as long as it seems...the high number of images make it seem longer!*

Before I get into my analysis, I wanted to preface this post with a fantastic quote from @incomingalbatross, who perfectly describes the unique role Anya has in the series.

"Realizing that Spy X Family really is The Anya Show to me, and not just because "oh look, cute baby child" but because Anya is the center of the story. She has so many secrets resting on those tiny shoulders. She is juggling so many agendas. She's the one who knows everything and her choices drive the plot—she chose Twilight, she chose Yor, she chose Bond—and even when you look at the other characters and their relationships she IS the star they orbit around! Twilight and Yor's relationship is built on their shared care for Anya! And more than that, at the core of it all, Anya's goals are the ones we're invested in.

The center of this story isn't the superspy trying to do his job, or the assassin trying to do hers. It's the little girl who said "FAMILY" and pulled the building-blocks of one close around her with all her tiny strength, and everyone else in this story keeps being moved and changed and redirected by the force of Anya's attachments to her family.

And at the same time she is SO SMALL"

While Twilight may be the protagonist, and Yor the deuteragonist, Anya is definitely the main character in Spy x Family. Not only would there be no "family" without her bringing Twilight and Yor together, but her status as the main character is quite unique among shonen series, or even media in general.

Typically in stories where a little kid (like, below the age of 10) is the main character, either the majority of other major characters are also little kids, or the kid's main purpose is to be a cute comic-relief foil for the adults. But while there are kids Anya's age in SxF, the other important characters in the plot, namely Twilight and Yor, are not. So rather than the typical scenario of the main kid character constantly being surrounded by and working off their fellow kid characters, Anya is more often interacting with her adult parents. And it's not just for cutesy moments and comic relief – the true heart of SxF is about a fake family that could any minute be destroyed, with only little Anya being aware of this grim reality and doing everything she can to keep things together...all without the ability to be truthful with anyone, not with the adults or her fellow kids. While her parents are each secretly fighting for their own vision of world peace, Anya is too…the "world peace" of the family she doesn't want to lose. It really is a one-of-a-kind scenario for a little kid character.

But having such a special main character role doesn't necessitate a well-written character. But in Anya's case, she definitely is. In fact, I think she's the most well-written little kid character I've ever seen.

Too often in media little kids are portrayed as being overly cutesy, overly bratty/whiny, and/or act much older than they should. A key factor in making a little kid character believable is that you can't just make them cute and/or emotionally immature...they have to also be weird. Anyone who's spent time with little kids knows all the weird stuff they say and do because of their less restricted child brains and ignorance about the world. A good example of this is Lilo from Lilo and Stitch (another well-portrayed kid character). The movie does a good job showing all the weird habits Lilo has, like the bizarre origins of her favorite doll, the freaky voodoo stuff she does to the local bullies, and how she totally buys the fact that Stitch is a dog. Likewise, Anya has tons of little endearing weirdnesses, starting with her wanting a spy dad and assassin mom simply because she thinks it's "cool," to the funny lingo she develops like "ooting" (odekeke) and "ohayou-masu" ("happy morning," a.k.a, an adorably incorrect way of saying "good morning"), to thinking it's acceptable to give George a leaf as a parting gift (then wanting it back later), to her comical remarks whenever she thinks Loid and Yor are being "flirty."

Another realistic aspect of Anya's character is the fact that she's not super-smiley and overly cheerful/bubbly like many other main character kids. Not that she doesn't smile and can't be cheerful, but her default expression is a look of uncertainty or wide-eyed cluelessness, which makes sense considering her upbringing (I'm talking about her default expression in canon, not in merch or other marketing as characters tend to always smile in these even if that's not their usual expression – just look at Yuri's merch!) Most of the time when other characters are talking, she looks perplexed, like she isn't sure what's going on but she's really trying to learn/understand.

These expressions make more sense to me than a child who smiles all the time, because she's at an age where she still doesn't understand the right emotions to feel at the right time. A fantastic example of this is when she punches Damian – her face is totally blank! No anger, no fear, no embarrassment...because she still hasn't learned the proper emotions to feel in a situation like this.

All she knew was what Yor told her and that she was bothered by Damian's attitude. In fact, the iconic smug smile that she shows in that scene is the result of her not knowing how to properly react when faced with bullying (cry, get angry, etc).

Similarly, she has a very bored expression when all the kids are upset about George's plight, as if she doesn't really get what all the to-do is about. This also creates good contrast to how the other Eden kids from their rich families were probably forced to grow up fast, and thus act more like 8-10-year olds than the 6-year olds they're supposed to be. Meanwhile Anya, who's supposedly younger than them, stands out with her more childlike mannerisms.

This all makes sense not just because she's still a little kid, but because her view of emotions has been skewed by the fact that she can read people's minds. So she has to not only learn the socially proper way to react to people's actions and words, but also when she should, or should not, react to what's on their mind. I believe this is why she has such a wide variety of expressions compared to the other characters – her mind reading has forced her to experience way more emotions at such an impressionable age, though not always with enough context and guidance to identify when they're socially acceptable to express.

There are way too many examples of Anya's incredible range of expressions, so I'll just have to pick a few!

Put all this together – her childlike reactions to situations, but with a twist because she can read minds, plus her endless array of comical faces, and you have one of the funniest characters I've ever seen.

Because Anya has such a wide variety of expressions, and her default expression is that of uncertainty, there's a lot more meaning when she does smile. The shining smile she has when Loid praises her for getting a stella, when she plays with Bond for the first time, and when she meets up with Becky after their shopping trip, have a lot more significance because that's not an emotion she expresses all the time. Since happy/cheerful isn't her default mood, the emotional impact of scenes where she does smile is all the more stronger.

Likewise, considering her age, Anya isn't much of a crier either. Having a kid character burst into tears and throw temper tantrums is common, but the amount of notable times Anya has exhibited this behavior is relatively few. She did have a tantrum early on when Loid stopped her from going into his room and when she demanded that Bond be her dog…but those are the only notable cases in my opinion. She has shed tears here and there, but again, not a significant number of times. Similar to the scenes where she smiles, when she does cry (in a non-comical way), like when she's reminded about her mother at the Eden interview or when she's finally reunited with Yor after the bus hijacking, it has a lot more meaning.

Another common trait for little kid characters is that they're usually a representation of total purity and innocence. While Anya doesn't have the same dark ulterior motives and immoral occupations that the adults have, she's not shown to be a complete angel either. Even though good intentions are what drive her, she can be a manipulator, mischievous, and even cocky at times, like when she insists on being called' "Starlight Anya" after getting her first stella, when she was being overly competitive with Damian after the bus hijacking, when she was joking around on the bus after finding out the bombs were fake, and when she almost attacked Bond after he chewed up Penguinman. But all of these examples only serve to make her a more fleshed out character as opposed to just being the cutesy, happy series mascot all time.

Obviously because of her mind reading powers, she manipulates the adults around her all the time, but again, there's never any malice involved…it's clearly the result of a little kid doing everything in her power to keep the happy family she's created. And due to her mind reading ability, she's learned to be much more proactive than reactive – she knows what people are going to do before they do it, and what their intentions are without them saying it. This has allowed her to become resourceful way beyond her years, which has led to her saving the lives of both Twilight and Yor on more than one occasion.

One emotion Anya does have an abundance of is empathy. Typically children don't start to develop empathy – the ability to understand and relate to the intentions and feelings of others – until a bit past Anya's age. But because of Anya's ability to read minds, it makes sense that this part of her development would take priority over something like proper speech and school smarts. Her empathy extends to all the adults around her, her fellow kids, and even animals. While a lot of her empathetic actions stem from her need to help keep Twilight's and Yor's identities secret and thus maintain the peace of the Forger family, there are many examples where this isn't the case and she's simply acting out of nothing but concern for others: comforting the Eden cow because she understood it was scared, worrying about the well being of the Project Apple dogs, leaping into action when she heard someone drowning, and comforting Damian when she knew he was scared during the bus hijacking.

Even when identity reveals aren't at stake, she still comforts Twilight and Yor when they need it, like when she thought Twilight had a nightmare after his backstory reveal, and when she knew Yor was concerned about Loid's relationship with Fiona.

The bus hijacking was a prime example of Anya being empathetic, but not to an unrealistic degree. She empathized with Billy enough to diffuse the situation, but not on a deeper level because, again, she's a little kid. She understood he was upset, but she didn't have outpouring sympathy or deep, introspective thoughts about his situation – that's something an adult would do, not a little kid who's still learning what emotions to feel at what times. What she eventually does is something that makes perfect sense both for her personality and age. With some great resourcefulness on her part, she was able to figure out what she had to say to manipulate Billy the right way, but at the same time she was playing it by ear and basically clueless as to the depth of the matter, yet mustered up all the courage she could…typical Anya.

There are a lot more examples like this of Anya's sense of empathy, too many to list. But the bottom line is, although Anya does use her powers to manipulate people to benefit her own situation and those she cares about (who can blame her?) it's clear that even at such a young age, she's a genuinely good girl who wants to help others and do good in the world, even if she's too young to realize it yet. Not unlike her parents, really. I think we'll be searching a long time before we find another 1st-grade aged character as awesome as Anya.

#spy x family #spy family #sxf #spyxfamily #anya forger #sxf analysis #sxf spoilers #sxf manga spoilers

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theresattrpgforthat · 3 months

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System Overview - LUMEN

This week has been a break from my regular recommendations to cover a few popular game systems and talk about what makes them tick. This week, we're covering the fast-paced combat-friendly LUMEN system. This is all the systems I'll be covering this week, but I hope to do some more system overviews in the future!

LUMEN is a game system originating from Spencer Campbell of GilaRPGs, for use in his game LIGHT. It has gained popularity over the past few years due to its ability to replicate fast, powerful combat, and a simple set of rules.

As a disclaimer, I haven’t played any LUMEN games yet (although I really really want to give NOVA a go). What I have seen is a consistent amount of high-quality, exciting games being released over the past few years using the LUMEN system. The SRD is only 13 pages long, and the pieces are simple enough to pick up, re-mix, and turn into something engaging, which makes LUMEN a great option for new game designers - especially since the designer really wants to see what people are making with this toolkit.

So, let’s talk about some of the pieces that make up this game.

Attributes as Approaches

LUMEN gives your characters 3 stats that define how they approach an obstacle, rather than defining a specific skill. You’ll have something for raw power, one for quickness and speed, and one for precision and details. Your characters are expected to be professionals, the best of the best. Of course they know how to fight - this a power fantasy, after all. By focusing on an approach rather than a list of skills, these stats are also flexible: if you are using your raw power, you could open a door, swing a sword, or pull someone back from a ledge.

Depending on the game you’re using, the names for your approaches may differ. In Hedge, your approaches include Might, Sleight and Bright. In LOOM, these are re-tooled into Passion, Fleetness and Serenity.

This way of building a character is very good for players who may not want to juggle a number of different values in their head, and keeps the table focused on what the battle looks like more than anything else. It also makes a statement on what kinds of actions your characters don’t need to bother rolling for. No perception checks, minimal social obstacles, and don’t bother doing a memory check in this system. In LUMEN, you’re here to kick ass.

Dice Pools & Staggered Success

The number attached to your selected approach determines how many dice you roll to do an action. The highest number rolled is the only result you need to focus on.

Similar to Blades in the Dark and Powered by the Apocalypse, LUMEN uses a series of staggered successes. However, unlike the previous two games, success is a little more likely - 2/3 of the time, you’ll succeed. On a 1-2, the action failed with a consequence. On a 3-4, the action succeeds with a complication. On a 5-6, the action succeeds, no problems in sight. The difference in probability compared to Blades is one decision that indicates how powerful your characters are; they’re less likely to fail on any given roll.

To add a layer of complexity, you can include specific scenarios that determine how many dice you roll. For example, in Apocalypse Frame, there is a difference between rolling while inside or outside of your mech. When outside of your mech, a character subtracts 1 dice from their dice pool, and when attacking with your mech, you use a number attached to your Armament, rather than your Attributes. There are also character class abilities that may give you extra dice, such as the Ancient Technique ability attached to the Ancient class in Deathless. These abilities will only give you extra dice in very specific situations.

Character Classes

One thing is common among all three of the systems that I’ve talked about this week and that’s pre-packaged character abilities. LUMEN doesn’t use playbooks though, possibly because the characters are so lightweight that they wouldn’t take up that much space on a piece of paper.

Your class will come with special moves, abilities or gear that sets you apart, and will likely also define your play style. In Black Hole Era, for example, you are spaceships with system arrays and weapon bays. A Warlord ship has powerful long-range particle beams, while an Inquisitor ship has the ability to teleport or turn invisible.

That being said, you don’t have to use character classes with this system. In Wild Duelist, the game presents the character options as either a static stat build, from which you choose a few different options, or a character life path, in which you roll randomly to determine your heritage, weapons, approach scores and special powers.

Your character powers will usually come with a few important pieces of information: how they affect the field of play, what their range is, and how much it will cost you to use them. You do not roll to use your powers: you are powerful characters, and when you choose to do something cool, it works. In some games, your powers can be get more powerful as your character advances, or have tags added to increase range or damage dealt. Because LUMEN is meant to replicate combat-heavy video games, it also is designed to replicate the ability to customize your character to match the combat style that you prefer.

Room to Add Complexity

The LUMEN system is quick and only has a few core pieces, but there’s plenty of room to add more complexity in order to incorporate factions, long campaigns, and special details.

In Emblems of Their Dying Breaths, characters dig into dungeons that are procedurally-generated using a deck of playing cards. .brawl centres its combat on a map, using miniatures to help your players strategize as they fight in a cyberpunk arena. Clean-Up Crew diversifies the resources needed to pay for special powers, making enemy drops more interesting - and more necessary, if you’re going to find the specific resource you need.

The original designer is also updating and re-designing LUMEN, with the plans to release a LUMEN 2.0 SRD that does away with dice, health, and a few other pieces. You can check out some of his design thoughts on his YouTube channel, and take a peek at how this new version of LUMEN will play out in his game DUSK.

Meanwhile, let’s talk about some more games in the LUMEN series that I have yet to highlight on this blog.

Brawl City is a Street-Fighter game, still in development.

Dust is a game about surviving in a post-apocalyptic world, inspired by works such as The Book of Eli, and 9.

Photon is a two-player game about fighting a Singularity trying to consume the world.

paktbound is inspired by Dishonored and shackles your characters to a Stranger who sends them on heists in a rotten world.

If you want to check out more LUMEN games, there's a compiled list of games kept by Spencer Campbell, as well as a LUMEN collection that I'm adding games to as I find them.

Do you have any favourite LUMEN games? What kind of video game do you think would work well for this system? Share them in the comments and tags!

#tabletop games #indie ttrpgs #system overview #game recommendations #LUMEN #mint speaks

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david-talks-sw · 1 year

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What's 'Star Wars' about?

A while ago I got an 'Ask' that concluded with "what is Star Wars about, if not the Jedi, right?" And weirdly enough... I have to disagree.

I mean... to me? Yes. Star Wars is about the Jedi. A Jedi-less, Sith-less, lightsaber-less Star Wars movie or series will struggle to get me on board (which is why I was surprised that I loved Andor so much).

But if you read everything George Lucas said, if you think about the Jedi's place in his two trilogies... they're not front and center, right?

Sure, there's Luke Skywalker... but he's a learner, in the Original Trilogy. Same goes for Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi, in the Prequels. They're going through character arcs.

Otherwise, the Jedi are either used as mentors to the protagonist...

... or to deliver exposition...

... but they're mostly vectors Lucas uses to present his thesis.

Functionally-speaking, the Jedi are important in that they embody the Buddhist philosophies the movie's themes are based on.

But when it comes to the plot, they're secondary. That's because the the themes of these films are bigger than the Jedi themselves.

So the question becomes... what's are the themes?

The primary goal of the Star Wars films is to inspire kids to start thinking outside the box and teach them a set of values and psychological motifs that have been passed down through mythology and fairy tales.

These values can be summed up in the dichotomy between greed and compassion / selfishness and selflessness / pleasure and joy.

We all have both aspects and need to strike a balance between the two. After all, being greedy ultimately comes from fear and being afraid can happen to all of us. Problem is, unchecked fear can lead to anger, hate and a whole lot of suffering.

The more selfish you are, the more you want things and the more you're afraid that you'll lose everything you have, you'll get angry when someone tries to take it and that will hurt everyone around you.

In other words, fear is the path to the tempting/addictive Dark Side.

Thus, seeing as we'll be inevitably tempted by the Dark Side and give in at some point (because nobody's perfect), we should aim to be as selfless and compassionate as possible for our own good... but also for the greater good, because we're all connected to a life energy. You can call it Qi or God; in Star Wars it's known as the Force.

As such, we all form a symbiotic circle and working with that in mind is better than putting ourselves first and draining from everything and everyone around us.

But we also need to be careful because there will be people who give in to that selfish side and will try to control everything. When the time comes, we must stand up for what's right.

So that's Lucas' thesis.

If I had to sum them up, the six movies illustrate it as follows:

The Prequel Trilogy is about the consequences of greed, explored through Anakin on a smaller scale and the Senate on a larger one.

The Original Trilogy shows the triumph of compassion, through Luke, Leia & Han and the Rebellion's fight against the Empire.

Lucas talked about it multiple times, the Prequels are about how Anakin becomes Darth Vader and how the Republic becomes the Empire, and in both those cases, it happens because they're greedy.

The Senate is greedy in the more classical sense. They could give a shit about "symbiosis", no they're taking bribes, letting corporations dictate policy, using loopholes to keep themselves in power and halting any meaningful progress out of fear that the new status quo will conflict with their own self-serving goals.

Anakin's greed manifests in a different way. He turns to the Dark Side because of his attachment. He wants to stop Padmé from dying... but not because he wants to save her, rather he wants to save himself from feeling the pain of loss again and will do anything to not have to live without her, her own wishes and the natural cycle of life and death be damned.

In both cases, they cave under pressure orchestrated by Palpatine, but nobody puts a gun to their head. They make a deliberate choice that comes from a selfish place, and neither one takes personal responsibility for it, they blame others, the Separatists in the case of the Senate and the Jedi in Anakin's case.

The Republic becomes an Empire with thunderous applause, betraying the people it was meant to protect.

And when faced between doing something he knows is right and giving in to his selfish desires...

... Anakin elects to do the latter, thus betraying his family and leaving the Force in darkness.

These selfish choices impact the galaxy as a whole, including the only characters in the trilogy who were doing their best to be compassionate and live in symbiosis: the Jedi, Padmé and Bail.

These champions of the Light Side are stuck playing catch-up or helplessly witnessing the events unfold, throughout the trilogy. They're playing by the rules and Palpatine uses this to his advantage.

Thus, as the galaxy tears itself apart because of Palpatine's manipulations, the Jedi and Bail are ignored and gradually weakened until they're either rendered irrelevant or killed.

A new order is born, one built on blood, lies and greed: the Empire.

But a new hope remains.

While before, the Jedi and people like Bail stood alone as everything around them became willfully corrupt... now, a Rebellion inspired by their legacy has banded together to overthrow the current order. But they don't fight for power or personal glory, they fight for altruistic, compassionate reasons. There's a sense of general responsibility that moves them, they're all doing their part.

On a larger scale, we focus on the Rebels, who are tired of seeing people suffer and decided this needs to stop. They have gone from being passive, to proactive.

On a more personal scale, we see the evolution of Luke, from naive farmer to a hero, and guess what? More and more selfish people - like Han or Lando - are inspired to join the Rebellion, after seeing the exploits of Luke, Leia, or even Ben.

It all culminates in the final film, wherein:

The Rebels band together with the Ewoks - literal teddy bears whom the Empire, in their arrogance, never even considered to be a threat - to destroy the Second Death Star and free the galaxy from imperial tyranny.

At the same time, Emperor Palpatine pressures Luke, who is tempted by the Dark Side like his father was.

But instead of giving in to his selfish desire to kill Darth Vader for all the horrors he's done...

... he finds the strength to rise above it, instead showing compassion for his father, which, in turn, inspires Anakin to do the same.

He faces a choice, like he did in Palpatine's office, two decades prior...

... and this time he chooses right.

Children teach you compassion. Anakin lets go of his fear and anger, and saves his son at the cost of his own life, finally bringing balance back to the Force.

Good triumphed over evil. Its champions achieved victory by being selfless, hopeful and fighting together / helping each other.

And that's it, that's how the movies thematically tie together.

As you can see, the Jedi aren't that directly impactful on the overall plot, because it revolves around Anakin, Luke and the respective factions/institutions around them.

But what the Jedi do bring to the table is their ability to teach and inspire others, both in-universe and out. They're spiritually impactful.

The Jedi are the epitome of compassion, and it's partially through them that George Lucas teaches his values to the audience.

#to be clear: Star Wars doesn't HAVE to be about all this #This is just me trying to summarize what Lucas said in all his interviews and speeches #The post-Lucas Star Wars transmedia franchise made the Jedi more central than they were originally meant to be; especially in the Prequels #You see this in interviews from current SW creators /writers #but also small stuff like renaming the Prequel era “Fall of the Jedi” when it was originally named the “Rise of the Empire” era #meta #george lucas #star wars #jedi order #the force #anakin skywalker #luke skywalker #prequel trilogy #original trilogy

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snaccpopstudios · 10 months

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Hi everyone! We're here with the long awaited post on our newest bachelor, Simoun. We know you've all been abuzz with questions about him so we hope to answer some of that in this deep dive into his creation. This post is in lieu of our usual Wednesday devlogs as we've been writing this over the span of several weeks, and was co-authored, edited, and reviewed by Tobias, Jude, ToyboxToonz, Primarvelous, and Sauce. The above image was drawn by @toyboxtoonz.

You can read the full post for free on Patreon, or click the readmore to see it all!

Personally speaking, some of my concerns since Simoun's debut are thoughts like "Do people think I'm making SnaccPop Studios push an agenda?" and "Do people think I'm going through a checklist while making new characters?" It's made it difficult for us to write this quickly because this is quite personal to myself and the rest of the sensitivity consultation team on the DachaBo team.

Concept to Creation

The story of DachaBo begins way before SnaccPop Studios itself was even a concept (that's Sauce's story to tell though). Early Patreon art of Simoun exists from November 2022, back before I was signed on to manage the Patreon and any other projects besides Sunny Day Jack. Sauce had some ideas laying around for several other characters in the DachaBo universe that didn't make it into the proof-of-concept demo:

I dug up an old draft for the DachaBo cat character we teased and it featured a story concept where the cat character was originally a female DachaBo character, referencing the original female design. And overtime he got tired of how he was being treated and decided to change his own self to reflect who he wanted to be, not the sycophants who collected the toys and whatnot ... It was shelved because I didnt have the means to sensitivity check it The designs are half cooked is all but he was supposed to be Indian ethnicity coded for no other reason than I've never seen a character like that

One thing that's important to note is that there definitely are Indian folks who are gender diverse (see Hijra on Wikipedia for a quick primer on one of the traditionally recognized nonbinary genders in South Asia) so it's not a novel concept by any means, but it's also not very common in media whatsoever.

Why The Long Wait?

One of the other contributing reasons as to why Sauce wasn't able to do much with the concept at the time is because we didn't have a VA for him confirmed yet, as I explained in May:

One thing that's rather unique to SnaccPop Studios in all of my experience as a game developer is the fact that all of our series involve coordinating with Voice Actors from the start, which means we need to take the VAs themselves into account when making characters. Adding another layer of complexity in hiring is the fact that SnaccPop Studios is a strictly Erotic Adult brand focusing on masculine love interests, and even if we focus more on the softcore, there's still the unfortunate stigma that any 18+ work has when attached to your name. All of these contributing factors make the potential talent pool that much smaller. This isn't to make excuses: I know SnaccPop Studios can do better on this front. While we can't make changes to some of the existing series' main cast (we don't want to put people out of a role they've been promised), we will do better moving forward to incorporate more diverse characters into our future titles, and that's a pledge

In the field of voice acting, it's best practice to cast actors with similar backgrounds to the character they're voicing, particularly for characters from marginalized populations (ethnicity, culture, gender, etc.), because it's a recurring issue in all professions where marginalized folks are regularly turned down for employment or career opportunities. You don't have to look far for instances where other voice directors failed to cast the proper talent for a character, even in the AAA sphere where they ought to have the resources to be able to find the proper talent; at SnaccPop, we wanted to avoid that situation at all costs.

Finding Simoun's Voice

So we had to confirm a VA first before we could do anything. Sauce, Reece, and I all tried to put private ads out for a trans masc POC (any ethnicity with dark skin) actor for a R18 game, which was largely met with silence at first, then responded to by folks who didn't fit the role in a full capacity (many only hit one or two of the criteria we laid out, some of them none at all). And it's not hard to imagine why: it's common knowledge that the majority of erotic works often fetishize marginalized people who are otherwise underrepresented in mainstream media. Things such as skin color, body type, hair color, age, etc. are treated as traits to be objectified, and on the off chance that queer folks or people of color might see themselves in porn… it's usually not for the most flattering or empowering of reasons. How could we, an exclusively Adults-only studio, convince someone who isn't familiar with us that we wanted to make something for people like them rather than something that turns them into mere masturbating material?

We were almost about to give up on the Catboy until I decided to take a chance on contacting a VA whom I hadn't had any formal and proper interactions with before. I'd been a fan of his work and knew him from an audition he sent in from a previous game I had worked on, but he knew me solely by name at best since we were following each other on Twitter. Still, it was a lead, and after chewing my nails for half a day, I shot off a message to Soren Viloria.

And what do you know? He said he'd give it a shot as his first NSFW role.

Naming the Lad

Soren is a Filipino VA, and despite the fact that I myself seem to be mistaken as Filipino by other Asians quite regularly, I'm actually not as well-versed in that culture as I ought to be.

There's actually a reason why we were so secretive with Simoun's name for a while: he didn't have one yet, so internally we just kept calling him "the Catboy." We wanted to pick a culture-appropriate name for him, something that was meaningful: Soren initially suggested "Siopao" as it was a common cat name (it's a type of Filipino Steamed Bun, so think of how many pets you've seen who have names like Cupcake or Nacho Supreme), but that didn't seem serious enough for a tsundere catboy like him. A few days later, Soren did a little research on a few well-known characters from Philippine media/culture that fit the bill a bit better:

Elías from the Philippine Revolution novel Noli Me Tángere (a required reading in the Philippines). Cat may like his radical tendencies for revolution and his deep, devoted connections.

Simoun from Noli's sequel, El filibusterismo. Holds revolutionary values similar to Elías, but far less noble and more of a loner. Violent at times, and will do what it takes to get his way.

Panday/Flavio, a very popular hero. Part of his charm is that he doesn't have special powers, but took matters into his own hands and forged a magical blade. Has been portrayed in both 'cool' and comedic ways.

Ricardo "Cardo" from the Philippines' longest-running TV drama Ang Probinsyano. Just a cool action hero dude who cares about family, but is also very ambitious and angy.

Seeing as how we already had an Elias Gallagher, Simoun seemed to be the perfect fit, and the name stuck pretty easily.

Simoun's Boundaries

Now that Simoun had a name, we were able to talk about him more seriously beyond the simple "tsundere cat" tropes. You've all already met Gil Finnegan, who we originally brought into SnaccPop Studios to handle the narrative design for DachaBo but was then onboarded to help with Sunny Day Jack, and those of you in the Patreon Discord server are familiar with our mods Tobias and Jude; along with me and Soren Viloria, that brought the grand total of openly trans masculine members on the team.

We all talked about our personal experiences as trans masc/AFAB people, what things we rarely saw reflected in both mainstream and indie media, things we wanted to see more of. Something we all agreed that was difficult to find was trans masculine folks in sexually dominant roles in erotic media, whether that was live video, audio, writing, art, or a combination thereof; there was only a handful of series we could count on our fingers as far as sexually explicit content that featured trans masculine people in roles that weren't exclusively submissive/bottoms, and the majority of us had already seen those or at least heard of them before (ie. Gummy and the Doctor and Sasha From The Gym were prominent ones). Either discovering this content was difficult due to Search Engine Optimization favoring depictions of trans feminine folks, or it simply didn't exist.

All of this, along with the backstory that Sauce had for Simoun, led us to determine that Simoun would be adverse to submissive roles in intimate situations. Simoun isn't the type to want to be penetrated either due to previous trauma surrounding his gender. Bear in mind that this isn't meant to imply or suggest that there is only one "acceptable" sexual preference for trans masculine folks, nor is Simoun meant to represent all of trans masculinity; he may be our first trans masculine character but certainly isn't the last, as we hope to feature more types of characters at SnaccPop Studios.

As an aside, it should be noted that the trend of erotic trans feminine content being more readily available doesn't necessarily mean that trans women have more positive representation per se; for every kinky piece of art created by trans feminine folks out there, there could be ten more works that fetishize and objectify their bodies. We probably don't need to tell you about the common derogatory slurs that have been used to refer to them; trans feminine and trans masculine people deal with varying levels and types of transphobia as well as situations that oversexualize (or even undersexualize) them, and it's important to focus on content that doesn't strip them of their autonomy.

There actually was a period of time between the release of his concept art after Soren was onboarded where the team observed comments both on Patreon and in the Discord regarding Simoun, and we discussed how we could avoid having people try to ship Bo and Simoun together; because Simoun hasn't had bottom surgery of any kind, we wanted to ensure that tokophobia (fear of pregnancy) or dysphoria wouldn't become a thing for any of us involved in the team or for our trans masculine Patrons. It was a bit of a chicken or the egg situation, trying to keep up with the evolving comments about Simoun to try and anticipate what people might accidentally say.

Debut Day Thoughts, & Moving Forward

We were quite happy with the general reception everyone had with Simoun, and we're excited to see so many people taking a liking to Simoun after his reveal. SnaccPop Studios has always strived to provide inclusive and diverse stories for those who don't often get represented in media, much less NSFW media, and the team was quite elated to see folks who were just as happy to see Simoun.

We hope that the love and care we put into building Simoun has shone through in this post and will continue to shine as we write more of him for DachaBo, because we're just getting started.

#dachabo #character design #trans masc #transmasculine #transgender #minors dni #gamedev

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sparrowsoupp · 5 months

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so a ‘swiftpaw lives’ au is nothing new here BUT hear me out:

in this au, everything happens as it does in the first arc up to the night where swiftpaw and brightpaw sneak out of camp to fight the dogs. as they are leaving, cloudtail somehow sees/hears/notices and is obviously suspicious so trails them into the forest secretly.

as they get closer to the dogs’ den he realises their plan and confronts the pair, trying to get them to return to camp. swiftpaw is defiant and argues back, escalating into a fight as cloudtail tries to physically knock some sense into swiftpaw. brightpaw looks on in horror trying to break up this fight. this is obviously not a very quiet battle, considering the participants are two bullheaded teenage boys, and so the dogs are woken up anyway.

swiftpaw leaps into action as brightheart freezes in paralysing fear. as a dog lunges at her, cloudtail notices and leaps into the dog’s jaws, pushing brightpaw out of the way in the process. in a burst of fear and strength, brightpaw notices swiftpaw unconcious and unable to move with a missing leg and grabs him to run away, escaping from the dogs and leaving cloudtail to bleed out and die (hence the main catalyst for differences in this au: cloudtail dies in swiftpaw’s place). she doesn’t realise this at the time, hoping cloudtail will understand since he is still up and fighting, and not thinking about the consequences of leaving one cat alone to fight a pack of dogs.

bluestar renames them in the same way lostface was named in the original arc, brightpaw being renamed lostface and swiftpaw being named dogleg, and fireheart is ANGRY with the pair (and himself) for the needless loss of his nephew’s life. no renaming ceremony is held, and they are made to keep their names in rememberance of their foolishness. (sidenote: i think this would also spark a major shift in fireheart’s good nature and personality, leading to MAJOR knockon effects for the rest of the series, but i haven’t thought about it too much yet and also i need to reread the books) and because cloudtail isn’t around to advocate for lostface’s warrior retraining, she is relegated to be a medicine cat and never really emotionally recovers in the same way she could in the books because cloudtail isn’t around to offer her that emotional support. she also very much blames herself for letting him fight a battle that he never signed up to fight and dying in the process, the overwhelming levels of guilt weighing on her constantly to the point where cats are a little creeped out by how empty even her remaining eye looks.

on the other hand (paw?), dogleg is left seething with anger and bitterness towards his clan. (i imagine him after the attack as a somewhat ashfur-like character, except much more extreme) a lot of his toxicity and anger would be taken out on lostface, one of the only cats he talks to anymore, and instead of brightheart and cloudtail entering a very healthy and positive relationship instead lostface ends up in a secret (VERY toxic) relationship with dogleg. she remains attached to him i think because of the trauma they experienced together. i have to think more about that, though. (maybe even kits?)

in the end something something dogleg forces lostface to start poisoning food as the clan’s medicine cat to take revenge on other cats like bluestar or fireheart. i think this culminates in dogleg turning very traitorous somehow.

that’s what i have so far! feel free to sends asks/tag with suggestions or ideas of knockon effects of this change. thanks for reading this big ol paragraph of me rambling about cats lol, appreciate y’all 🦭👍

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cannedpickledpeaches · 1 month

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Insert Your Name (11)

Mafia!Jade Leech x Mafia!Reader

Link to series masterlist!

Notes and TW: Congratulations! You have successfully made it all about you (positive). This series will have mentions of blood, violence, crime (kidnapping, attempted assassination, extortion), and harassment, as one might expect from a mafia AU. Please enjoy!

Sorry that the tags haven't been working for the past couple of posts! I had to go in and edit the html for each individual one T-T please forgive me

Tags: @guava-enjoyer @itszzmoon @twstsandturns @myteacupisempty @rou-luxe @chikitasmol @night-shadowblood-writes2 @haveneulalie @owodi

A strange sense of satisfaction fills you as surprise fills the man’s face, but you don’t show it. You need to see this through. If you’re powerless in the face of his ability, you simply need to borrow his power. So what if he’s akin to a god? All you need to do is bring him to your side. Whoever that author is, whoever took over (Y/N)’s body—maybe they aren’t capable of using such an asset effectively. However, you’re confident you won’t let that advantage go to waste.

The man hums in thought. “I suppose it could be done without much fanfare. I would simply need to shift my attention to your experiences and abandon the current story. However, you would need to have your story recorded somewhere, in whatever form you may wish for it to take.”

You understand what he’s getting at. A story needs a medium, just like that manuscript. There are many options: on film, as a novel, as a collage of pictures. No strict rules exist for expression of self.

“I’ll keep a journal. Every day, I’ll write an entry, and I’ll also use it as a planner. This way, my ‘story’ will have the events that occurred in my life, how they affected my ‘character development,’ and also outline how I expect the story to ‘progress.’ Is that good enough?”

You still don’t think of yourself as a fictional character. You’re real, in every aspect, to yourself. But that doesn’t matter right now. Functionally, you’re a character to this man. You’ll use that assumption to put yourself in the most advantageous position.

“Yes, that would be a rather interesting way to tell your story. There are indeed many stories that were written in the form of diary entries, so this is not an issue at all. This would, in fact, make things easier for me. I would not have to go through the paperwork and expend energy to bring someone from another world since you already exist in Twisted Wonderland as an established character. There is just one thing you should know before you make this decision.”

“Tell me.” Of course there are strings attached. There always are. You prepare yourself. Self-sacrifice in small amounts is necessary, of course, but if there’s anything you can negotiate with . . . .

“I will have to take the previous author’s soul out of (Y/N)’s body. (Y/N)’s soul will regain control of her own body, since it was never removed, only dormant. Since the author’s original body cannot function without a soul, she cannot return to her world. It will disappear, never to be recovered, lost to the fabric of what forms this space. Are you still willing to proceed?”

“Is that it?” You expected something else. This has nothing to do with you giving up anything. In fact, it could even be considered a bonus. This woman whose story made your life and relationships exceedingly difficult will disappear down to the traces of her soul. It’s an easy decision. “Of course.”

“How cold-hearted you are.” He chuckles down at his teacup. It never seems to drain empty no matter how he sips it. “That is not an undesirable quality in protagonists, although they often do not have a happy ending in fairytales.”

“Is that supposed to deter me or something?” You stay resolute. “My future was always uncertain no matter if it’s a story or not. I’m in the mafia. I’ve come to terms that horrible things could happen at any moment because of the nature of my job a long, long time ago. It’s my responsibility to plan so that I reduce those chances as much as possible. And you’re going to help me.”

“Yes, I am.” He glances at the fireplace, which has burned down to glowing red embers. “Perhaps you should count yourself lucky that you are under my jurisdiction. I am partial to tragic endings, but I also do not mind if an amoral character triumphs in the end. Some of my peers would adamantly ensure it does not happen.”

You furrow your brows. This is not the first time he brought up something being under his “jurisdiction.” However, this is the first time he’s mentioned “peers” instead of “characters.”

“There are others like you?”

“Yes, of course. Twisted Wonderland is filled with too many stories for me to manage on my own. Since you are mainly involved with the Leech Mafia and stories of the Coral Sea, you fall under my jurisdiction.”

It makes sense. This man compared himself to a god, but he isn’t one. He isn’t omnipotent or omniscient.

“Who are they?”

He tilts his head. “You would not know us even if I told you.”

“I’m curious. Tell me anyway.”

“Such a curious character.” He glances at the embers again. “Alright, I see no harm in it. My peers overseeing Twisted Wonderland include Walt Disney, the Brothers Grimm, Hanna Diyab, Victor Hugo, and Lewis Carroll, among others.”

None of these names ring a bell. It is just a list of names, but having more information is never a bad thing.

“And your name? I should know how to address you.”

“Oh, I have not yet introduced myself to you? My apologies, I must be turning forgetful in my old age.” He laughs at himself in a good-natured manner. “My name is Hans Christian Anderson. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

You introduce yourself as well. He extends a hand to you. When your hands connect in a firm handshake, the new deal you’ve made feels solidified.

Anderson looks at the fireplace one more time. The light has died completely, the little room lit only by the moonlight pouring in the window. With a gentle but decisive clap of his hands, he stands from his armchair.

“That was a fruitful discussion, and I thank you for your patience and understanding. I fear time has run out, however, and so I will be sending you back shortly. I’ll place you right back where you came from: at the moment when I brought you here.”

“Hold on!” Too soon, too sudden. You still have so much to say. He holds up a hand, stopping your protests.

“If you’d like to communicate with me, simply write a request for it in your new journal. I wish you best of luck.”

And with that, the world goes white again.

This is the story of a girl whose name is no longer hers. A girl so common that she may as well be a faceless background character in another person’s story. A girl who wishes, more than anything, to be the protagonist of a love story that will sweep her off her feet and solve all her problems.

Her family is normal. Her friends, too. And so is she. It isn’t enough for her. The world inside that game she plays is so magical, so whimsical, so perfect. The characters are handsome, powerful, clever, funny, or rich, or some combination of those qualities. If she enters this world, surely all those wonderful characters would treat her as someone special. They’d love and revere her unconditionally. She pines for a man who would love her and her shortcomings in their entirety, no matter what she does.

The beauty about fictional characters is that because they are fictional, they can be whatever she wants them to be. She can wholeheartedly believe they’ll love her, and there is nothing wrong with that. But she isn’t satisfied with that alone. It needs to be real.

Desperately, she writes a story revolving around a faceless, flawless main character who she desperately wishes she could be. Everyday, the writing consumes her, dragging her into a fantasy of bliss. She begins to resent her reality. Nobody in real life will love her the correct way. Nobody can be as good as the characters she pours her love and headcanons on. She doesn’t consider how love can be gradual, nor does realize someone might have to get to know her before loving her. After all, in her fanfiction, the perfect mafioso loves her main character upon the first meeting and devotes himself with no questions asked. Isn’t that the ideal love?

One day, a miracle occurs. She meets a man who offers to make her story into her reality. Jumping on the chance to live her perfectly crafted life of happiness, she agrees. Finally. Finally, she will be loved the way she wants.

At first, everything went perfectly. Real life follows her fanfiction to the letter. Jade is charming, Floyd is endearing, and a string of coincidences leads her to meet Vil, another handsome bachelor. Love surrounds her at every turn. All she needs in this life are the handsome men who give her special treatment. After all, this body, this life—(Y/N)—was created by her, for her use. All of the previous relationships this body entertained no longer matter. They aren’t hers, anyway.

The polaroids that occupied her nightstand are probably in a landfill somewhere. The aesthetic was cute, befitting the tastes of a character she modelled after herself, but the person in them is irrelevant. Some side character she’s never going to see again. No matter; she’ll eventually replace those polaroids with cute photos of herself and her new love. (Y/N)—no, the placeholder—has served its purpose. It will not miss those useless decorations since it will never again have its own consciousness.

So where did it all go wrong? Perhaps it was wrong from the start. She should have cursed that old man for scamming her. Her happy ending was never a guarantee. How dare a throwaway side character upend her perfect, fairy tale ending? Is that even allowed? They’re all just characters anyway. How can they steal from a real person?

Until the very end, she couldn’t see anyone around her as anything other than characters in a story. Maybe if she did, she might have gotten the love she wanted. Now, she disappears, having never achieved the goal she so desperately grasped at. Like seafoam, her hopes and yearning for love bubbles and disappears.

Hans Christian Anderson places a book into an empty spot on one of his many shelves. He has always been fond of tragedies. As for this new story that’s unfolding . . . who’s to say how it will end? He’s a patient man. With a smile, he settles into an armchair and sips from a cup of tea. He’s looking forward to it. When it eventually ends, like all stories inevitably do, he’ll shelve it and find another story to bring to life.

The world suddenly flashes into focus. The sun’s dying embers flicker on the sea. Sand shifts between your toes. Fingers graze your neck. Before you can activate your Signature Spell, (Y/N) crashes into you and you both topple over into a bed of sand. Bloodlust raises the hairs on the back of your neck. But it isn’t coming from (Y/N). Instead, you instinctively wrap one arm around her and hold the other one out in front of you, shielding her from Jade.

“Wait, wait! Jade, it’s fine. I’m okay.”

He freezes. One of his hands stops a centimeter away from (Y/N)’s hair. She doesn’t react. Slowly, you lay back down, heaving a sigh. You shift her face to the side so that she doesn’t suffocate in your shoulder. Her eyelashes flutter against her cheekbones, complementing the slow rise and fall of her ribs.

“See? She’s asleep.”

Jade furrows his brows. “I fail to understand. Most importantly, are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah.” You chuckle, staring up at the stars that unveil themselves in the darkening sky. “I’m just a little tired.”

You explain everything to him. He seems skeptical, but eventually, he accepts it. He sits in the sand next to you, his hand covering yours. You pretend not to notice, but it offers a soothing calm to your exhausted mind.

“I’m sorry,” you say, glancing at his side profile. “Even if I write that Vil Schoenheit will cure your parents, it might not happen because of continuity issues. Maybe (Y/N) will still be able to convince him.”

“That’s alright.” He catches your gaze. “It would make the story progress more smoothly if we continue with our talks with Walrus.”

He accepted it so quickly. For that matter, so did you. You wonder briefly if there is something at play that makes you accept the reality of your situation as fact—if it’s because you’re a character after all—but that’s all speculation. Not worth your time and energy to figure out.

“Bottom line is, this is my story now. So I’ll make sure the curse on your parents is dispelled.”

“How reliable.” Jade gives you a gentle smile, one that causes an unfamiliar stirring in your chest. “Thank you. What would you like in recompense?”

You weren’t expecting him to offer anything at all. But since he offered, you aren’t one to refuse.

“Money.”

His quiet laughter blends in with the sound of rushing waves.

“No hesitation at all, I see. Of course, I will pay you adequately for your invaluable help.”

“I also want something else.” You fiddle with the strands of (Y/N)’s hair. “I’d like a vacation. Just a week or two after everything settles down so I can go back to my hometown with my mom.”

“Is that what the money is for?”

“Yeah.” Your heart feels a little lighter. “You should visit the Coral Sea after your parents wake up as well. I’m sure you’ll want to spend time with them.”

A pause. You scrutinize Jade’s expression in the low light, but his expression is wholly unfamiliar to you. He almost looks . . . nervous.

“Would you come with us?”

You blink. “Don’t you want to spend time with just your family?”

“Yes, but my parents would be delighted to have you over again. You have not been to our home under the sea in a long time, and I would be more than happy to show you around again.”

“It won’t be a bother?”

“Far from it.” His thumb rubs softly against the back of your hand. “I . . . We are very fond of you.”

You can’t help but think there’s an ulterior motive, but you accept. This wouldn’t be the first time you’ve travelled to their home under the sea, and this most likely won’t be the last.

Suddenly, (Y/N) shifts on your chest. A soft noise escapes her lips as though she’s finally awakened from a long nap. Her bleary eyes find yours. Kind, lovely, and gentle eyes. The eyes of the (Y/N) you know and love, the eyes of your friend.

“Huh? Are we on the beach? What happened?”

A relieved laugh bubbles out of your throat and you hug her tightly. Confused but sweet, she reciprocates with reassuring pats to your arm.

“Yeah, we’re on the beach. Let’s get you home.” You sit up and smile as she fusses over the sand in your hair. Normalcy is slowly but surely returning. “I’ll tell you everything on the way there.”

#twisted wonderland #disney twst #jade leech #twst x reader #twst jade #twst fanfic #jade leech x reader #mafia au #multi chap fic #slow burn

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superblysubpar · 8 months

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masterlist | the music

Chapter Warnings: spoilers for the movie franchise Star Wars | mentions of the holiday Halloween being celebrated by others and reader enjoying it | Leigh is not my character creation, a shared character who @sweetsweetjellybean originally created & I put a little twist on for this story with her permission.

Sorry freaks, no smut this chapter - but the series is 18+ and so is my blog so skedaddle on out of here if you're not!

9.4k words | A/N: I can't begin to express my gratitude for those who've read this story & those that helped me get through writing it, especially my beta extraordinaire @sweetsweetjellybean and @loveshotzz for helping me break that pesky wall of self doubt and writer's block always. I have a big long A/N on the epilogue that's posting right after these two chapters with more sap. Thanks for being here, I love you immensely if you've made it this far from the beginning or you're just arriving 💛

In the movies, they like to make those big plot twists drag out for the protagonist to let it really sink in. Or maybe it's more for the viewers. Special effects, camera angles, flashbacks, and poignant music playing - all to make seconds feel much longer than they are.

In your experience, these plot twists are usually predictable. Of course that guy’s the villain, it was the best friend all along, he’s Luke’s father, et cetera, et cetera. You’re utterly baffled every time by a character’s lack of intuition to see it coming. You’ve booed at writing and acting and told yourself that in real life, it’s so different.

Sure, surprises happen. Reality does not care about predictability, the fragile state of the human heart, or what’s fair. You get that. People cheat, they make mistakes, they die, they lose - and there isn’t some fade-to-black-happy-ending guarantee when they do. There isn’t a countdown on the bottom of a screen letting you know there’s still time left to make it all back from whatever happened, no assurance that it’ll all work out.

To call something real - something happening directly to you - a plot twist, seems horribly wrong though. Is there another word for it? Those moments that manage to catch you off guard, that come without warning or a build up. Moments that hit you repeatedly like a knife to a chest in a slasher flick. Or feel like the instant demise of oxygen leaving your lungs as a door opens to space. That sucker-punch from a red glove to the jaw when you think you’ve just won the big fight.

What do you call that shit?

Robin’s voice is an echo, muffled and distorted as if you’re deep underwater. “Oh my god, hi! Wow, you are so much prettier than Steve mentioned.”

Who is with Steve?

Robin keeps going, putting her entire foot in her mouth, oblivious to the way Steve’s eyes haven’t left yours. You only stop staring yourself, after what feels like hours, to finally take in their intertwined hands as Robin babbles. “Wait, I mean…no, see…alright, he told us you were pretty is what I’m trying to say, but like you’re even prettier…”

Who the hell is with Steve?

Her laugh cuts through the fog and your eyes finally focus on the woman attached to the sound.

She’s pretty, just like Robin keeps saying over and over again.

Dark, shiny hair, piercing eyes that you can see - even from this distance - are a hazel to almost match his. A hypnotizing smile, curves and a confidence radiating off of her… everything you wish you were but aren’t.

She laughs again, assuring Robin she gets it (in an infuriatingly humble way), introducing herself as Leigh Kensington.

Nancy perks up at the name when Robin gasps and shouts, “Oh my god! Nance!” Robin looks back, waving her over, “Just like Legally Blonde!” Her voice attempts to lower as she sighs to Leigh, “She loves Reese Witherspoon. It is Vivian Kensington right?” The question louder and directed at Nancy again. Robin doesn’t even take a breath to let her answer though, “Which is hilarious because Steve’s mom’s name is Vivian and you’re dating Steve and you work in legal, right? And-“

Emerald glass shatters around your feet as the bottle of beer falls from your hand, the sharp shards scatter quickly, too broken to ever be put back together. Your legs turn to lead and muscles are no longer in communication with your brain as it finally makes the connection to what you’re seeing and hearing and what that means for you.

“Shit! Jesus, woman-“ Eddie jumps back from you as the glass skirts across the pavement further.

Robin finally turns in your direction at the commotion, her brows knit together in worry. Face progressively getting more concerned as it tightens. Her hand lets a bean bag fall to the board with an echoing thump. “Hey, you look-“

Not waiting to hear the end of her sentence, you will your legs to work and spin, taking off in search of literally any place that isn’t there. Your feet pound against the pavement, thuds that vibrate through the rubber of your soles all the way up to your eardrums.

It’s seconds, less than a minute, and it’s as if the entire stadium - hell, your entire world - has spun upside down. Roars to your left, the rumbling of fan’s excitement from the nosebleeds down to the field mingle and harmonize with the rapid beating in your chest. As you keep running with no real destination other than away, your shoulders bump stranger’s, meeting their frowns and scoffs with whispered and rushed apologies. The familiar sting behind your eyes forms, eyelashes growing damp as you suck in a sharp breath. No more running, you need somewhere to hide.

You’re not going to cry about this. You’re not. How could you be so stupid? How could you let this happen?

The familiar long line all women are accustomed to grabs your attention and you’re off again. Disgruntled and shouted annoyance from everyone in line echoes across the dull gray tile as you rush past them, yelling something about an emergency. You slam a turquoise door, sliding the silver latch with shaking fingers as your forehead rests on the cold material of the stall. You focus on breathing through your nose and out your mouth, this is fine. You’re fine.

A buzz in your pocket once, twice, and then a third time, and you don’t have to pull your phone out to know they’re texts from him. Despite your better judgment, you look:

It buzzes a fourth time and you lock the phone, debating just chucking it into the toilet.

The sleeve of your sweatshirt presses to your mouth as you clear your throat. No tears are falling for him, not today, not ever.

You hate Steve Harrington.

This was always the plan.

You hate Steve Harrington.

It’s not like you were in love with the guy.

Even as you think it, the panic turns to defense inside of yourself - scrounging around for rocks and bricks, reinforcing the wall around your heart you had started to let crumble for a boy you thought was worth it.

“Girl, what the hell?”

A familiar pair of red converse with writing and doodles covering any space they can, mirror your feet at the base of the stall. You step back, fingers hovering over the latch, ready to tell her it’s fine. Robin isn’t an idiot though, and you’re certain that despite your denial, she’ll take one look at you and make you spill your guts.

Her feet move closer, the familiar clink of rings meeting metal hits your ears, letting you know she’s pressing her palms to the door. Robin’s voice is softer and for one brief, horrible moment, you think she knows. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

The guilt that’s hovered over you for months like a storm cloud, releases, engulfing you completely, the promise of sunlight no longer on the horizon. Funny how just hours ago, you were thinking about Robin finally knowing, about how she couldn’t be mad, not when you were both so happy. Your gut twists. You’ve lied to your friend for so long, and for what?

“Just, um, cramps.” The lies keep on building, pushing at the dam you’ve created to keep it all from her. You’re just buying time now, the pressure is going to reach its breaking point soon and you’re worried your friendship with Robin will be washed away when it does.

At the mention of cramps, the disgruntled voices of those in line turn to understanding - muted solidarity in the form of tampon and painkiller offerings.

“Robin, why don’t you grab her some food or something? Maybe a ginger ale? I’ve got stuff in my bag and we’ll meet you all out there,” another familiar voice suggests.

“But I can-“

“That would be really great, Robs,” you interrupt her protest, pushing out the words to sound as eager as you can.

A pair of white tennis shoes sneak between Robin’s and the stall door - like Nancy is trying to put space between the two of you, shielding her girlfriend from any more of your lies.

“Okay, if you’re sure,” Robin starts hesitantly, “I saw this gourmet grilled cheese stand thing and-“

“No!” Fingers curling over your mouth at the severity of your interruption, you take a beat before quietly continuing, “Uh, um, actually, just some chips please?”

Your eyes close, willing the memory of your last grilled cheese away. Now is not the time to remember the man you shared it with.

How he looked at you.

How he asked you to open up, how it made you feel when he said he knew you.

How he kissed you.

You hate Steve Harrington.

The initial shock has stopped sizzling and is now a full burn, anger releasing over your frazzled nerves. What else has Steve claimed, what other things could be ruined when all you can do is relate them to him? But as quickly as the anger for him forms, you have to glance down and realize there are three fingers pointing back at yourself.

Why did you give him the opening?

“Roger that, kitten!”

You’re sure she gives a salute to your closed stall door, the red sneakers turning on their heels, her footsteps fading away. The pristine white of Nancy’s twist slightly towards the door. Her voice is quiet as she asks, “Can I come in there?”

Clearing your throat once more, you try to brush her off, “Nancy, really, I’m fi-“

“Bullshit.”

Maybe it’s the way she says the word - that a girl you don’t know all that well can see through your lies, be so sure you’re not fine. Maybe it’s because you desperately wish that you could have opened the door for Robin, to leave the football game and go drown in margaritas and dissect every little thing that led to this moment and let her tell you it was all going to be okay and boys are stupid. Or maybe, it’s the fact that you’ll never get to do that, never allowed to tell Robin, that makes you slide the latch unlocked for Nancy Wheeler.

She slips in quickly, her brown curls that are clipped in a half up-do bounce as she tilts her head quizzically at you. Her arms cross over the embroidered team logo on her sweatshirt, her blue eyes peer directly into your soul. She’s got this way about looking at you that, without saying anything, makes you want to tell her everything. An energy radiates off of Nancy, a quiet curiosity bubbling under the surface - or perhaps it’s frustration. You’re being studied, a puzzle she can’t crack.

Her lips twist as she clearly debates her words before she finally settles on a simple, “You didn’t know?”

Nancy’s question makes your stomach drop, solidifying that she not only knows about you and Steve, but that Leigh is not a new or unknown development. Your mind swirls to their argument on the beach, Nancy finding you in the bathroom - how long has Steve been seeing Leigh?

“No,” your response comes out in a half laugh, trying to cover up any feelings that attempt to sneak out and reveal too much. The toe of your sneaker scuffs at a knick in the tile as you avoid her eyes.

She tucks a curl behind her ear and sighs. Her face pinches into that quizzical look again, huffing, “He’s an idiot.”

Rolling your eyes, you shake your head. You don’t want to dwell on how she connected the dots about you and Steve or how you’ve all been lying to Robin, and you especially don’t want her pity. “Nancy, I really don’t need you to comfort me. I’m fine. Can we just go?”

At the clamp of Nancy’s mouth shutting and the purse of her lips, you regret the icy tone almost immediately. Squeezing your eyes closed, you try again. “I’m sorry, I’m just…” trailing off because where do you even start? You’re mad, hurt, confused, blind-sided, the list could go on and on and you don’t care to reach the end at this moment. You force a smile, changing the subject all together, “Don’t you want to get out there and hear how incredibly little Robin truly knows about sports?”

Nancy’s lips twitch and her arms drop to her sides with a sigh. “Right, well, if you change your mind, I like to think I’m a pretty good listener if you ever want to talk about anything.”

Sometimes, people say things to say things - like they feel as if they’re supposed to say a certain thing when a certain situation calls for it. One look at the kindness in Nancy’s eyes, the small smile on her lips, and you know that is not the case right now. She genuinely, truly means she’s there to listen if you need it. Despite lying to all of them, despite barely knowing her, and the realization has tears forming behind your eyes for an entirely different reason than earlier.

“Thanks,” the word leaves you quietly. It feels small and inconsequential in return for a gesture you’re not even sure Nancy realizes the weight of.

That is, until she turns from the door, her hand hovering over the latch as she faces you again. “I should mention though, that one of you is going to have to tell Robin. Sooner rather than later. And I make no promises it won’t be me, but she should hear it from one of you.” Her tone is adamant with absolutely no room for arguing.

Your guilt tugs you down harder now, only able to nod in response.

Nancy’s head bobs once in return, silently agreeing to drop the subject unless you bring it up again, and she leads the way out of the bathroom.

You hear Robin before you see them. She’s passionately arguing her case about a new musical group that Eddie is scoffing at. Leigh holds her hand up at Eddie’s argument and begins agreeing with Robin, who beams before sticking her tongue out at him.

“Hey.”

The word freezes you and Nancy clears her throat as she makes her way towards the others. Steve pushes off from the brick wall as you turn to face him.

You’ve seen many looks in his eyes before now. When they glint with mischief and charm as he flirts, how they soften as you tell a story. When they’ve turned darker as clothes are shed and they get to roam freely over your body, taking you in like an artwork. How they seem to melt like honey all over you when you’ve found them staring and they don’t care to appear ashamed he’s been caught.

Now, they’re looking at you with far too much pain behind them that doesn’t seem fair. He shouldn’t get to look at you like that, he shouldn’t get to look sad.

Steve extends his hand, a green can with beads of condensation running down the sides of it in his palm. You ignore how your fingers touch and they way his try to linger as you take the soda from him.

When you don’t say anything, he pulls the sleeves of his maroon sweater over his fingers, the toe of his boot scuffing the pavement as his brows meet in the middle. Several pieces of hair fall over his forehead that’s wrinkled with concern, letting you know he’s run his hands through it too many times to have already broken whatever products he’s put in it.

“Can we go somewhere and talk for a sec?”

A sec.

A quick conversation, one he just wants to get over with. To tell you what? Things you’ve already concluded from his surprise today? That he’s with someone. He wants to stay friends. He never felt the way you were starting to feel for him. This was always the plan.

You’re not interested in anything Steve has to say any more.

“Game’s about to start, Harrington, maybe later.” Your tone is clipped and short, smile forced.

His brows pinch closer together as he tilts his head, the harsh line of his jaw flexing. “Really? Cause the way you ran off and that tone could have fooled me.”

“I’m fine, I don’t know exactly what you’re hearing, but if you have something you’d like to say, by all means Steve, let’s hear it.”

Steve closes his eyes and a long breath leaves his nose, “Please-“ his plea is cut off by her.

“Hi, I’m Leigh. It’s so nice to meet you, Steven’s told me so much about you! I hope everything is okay? Everyone was so worried…”

She reaches forward, arms wrapping around you and your stiffening body.

She’s fucking hugging you.

“Uh, yeah, you…too. And yes, thanks, I’m fine. This will help.” Untangling yourself from her, you hold up the can and force another smile. “Thanks Steven.”

Leigh beams at him, grabbing his hand and you just can’t help yourself, turning to him again. “Actually, Steven was just letting me know he had something to tell me, what was so important, buddy?”

Eddie coughs as Steve narrows his eyes. Nancy claps her hands, interrupting the tension filled moment, “Alright, ready guys?”

Robin points towards the bleachers. “I’m ready for tip off! To our seats!”

Nancy gives you a look, some sort of attempt at bringing light to the moment in front of her, before she wraps her hand around Robin’s arm and starts to walk away. “It’s kick off, hun.”

Leigh laughs as Robin lets out a long ‘Oh’, Steve and her following. When Steve glances back over his shoulder at you, the full can of soda meets the trash as you turn towards Eddie. Stealing the fresh beer from his hands, the plastic cup tips to your lips, foam slowing you down as you chug.

“Woah, woah, woah! Easy killer.” Eddie tugs on the cup, pulling it from your mouth. “From my understanding, football games are long and we need to pace ourselves. Stevie is not worth a two in the afternoon black out.”

Your mouth opens to protest and he waves his hand in front of your face, “Ah, ah, ah, you can squeeze my fingers or something whenever you feel like punching him instead.”

“Ed-“ you begin, adamant you need another drink (or twenty) to deal with the day you’re about to have.

He begins to walk away, waving his hand dismissively, “No really, I’m a secret masochist, I’ll love it.”

Your eyes narrow, hating the way your lips fight a smile that wants to meet his mood. Despite everything, you’re grateful for him and Nancy. Unsure of how to even attempt to show them how much you appreciate them. Especially after Nancy’s reminder that someone was going to have to tell Robin eventually, and these two had been lying for the both of you, keeping your secret when they didn’t need to.

Up ahead, you hear Leigh laugh, catching her head thrown back and his smile, the squeeze of her fingers on his bicep and you gulp. Your feet plant to the ground harder and you tug on Eddie’s wrist. As the group rounds the corner, heading to their seats, he turns to look at you with his eyebrows raised.

Eddie must see something in your expression because he mumbles, “Such a fucking idiot,” before he turns to the nearest vendor. “Yeah, hi, I need four very large beers. And I’m talking take your idea of large and triple it.”

This time the smile wins just a little. It’s quick to fall though, when Eddie taps his cup to one he hands you and proclaims, “If you can’t date ‘em, drink about ‘em. To the losers who break our hearts.”

“I-“ ready to tell him that’s not it at all, but his look makes your mouth close.

You don’t say it out loud, you don’t dare to speak it into existence - Eddie is wrong. You’re not broken hearted, you’re just mad Steve didn’t tell you. You’re mad that clearly they all knew, so why not you? That’s all.

Your cup taps Eddie’s again and you let the beer wash away the bitter taste in your mouth.

Screw Steve Harrington.

As the third cup of cheap beer hits your lips, you risk a glance down the line of your row again. Immediately regretting it like you have every other time. Leigh pushes the loose strand of hair on his forehead back and your eyes return to the field quickly. You’re sure your skin is turning just as green as the artificial turf, the beer making it a little easier to admit to yourself that you are jealous of the intimate moment. Your gut twinges slightly at the remembrance of only a few short weeks ago when you purposely tried to make him feel what you are now. You have no right to be mad at him.

The players blur as they move in an intricate dance only they know before anyone else. You’ve always liked sports, but today has been a good reminder as to why. Players and teams practice and memorize skills and plays that work - but there’s no guarantees. They need intuition to know when to use certain moves, to have a good defense and follow their gut and deviate from the plan when they think the other team is pulling a new play.

It’s all predictable, but not at the same time. Risks and playing with the odds, yet revolving around something incredibly low stakes like a ball in a net or getting past a painted line on fake grass. It’s also realistic. Sure, there are once in a lifetime passes like the Minnesota Miracle or a ball sinking into the net from a distance unfathomable as the final buzzer sounds - but most of the time, it’s just about who’s the best that day. Who ran faster, who slipped through someone else’s mistake. You like that the players can pour themselves into it and it’s still not going to be a win every time, because it’s just not sometimes, and that’s okay. They lose and they get up and they do it all over again. They also know that if they win, it doesn’t mean they’ll keep doing so without hard work and dedication.

Poetic to your circumstances, really. Steve was just better at the game, and you knew the eventual outcome of your deal with each other. So really, is there anyone to be mad at here other than yourself?

Steve’s laugh echoes down the line and your jaw clenches, because maybe Steve was better at the game, but he certainly wasn’t playing fair.

Yeah, you can still be mad at him.

Your eye twitches as Robin and Leigh gush over horror movies they both love, a breath you didn’t know you were holding leaving you when they head off together for a bathroom break.

His eyes actually burn your cheek from the way they stare down the row in your direction now that he doesn’t have her to focus on. Clear to you now that all you are - all you ever were - is an afterthought, something to pass the time.

Refusing to look his way, you try not to feel bad about the sigh you hear all the way from five seats away.

Oh, I’m sorry Steve, are you mildly upset that I don’t want to talk to you after you got me to open up just to blindside me?

You’re not surprised when a dark denim leg presses against your shoulder, his large brown boots landing on the open seat next to you as he climbs over. As he sits, you stand, quickly making your way down the row, occupying Robin’s empty seat on the other side of Nancy.

Steve stands, hands on his hips as he frowns. “Are you being fucking serious right now?”

Turning your attention back to the field, your knees bounce with restless energy, anticipating his next move. An intricate dance just like the players below you.

Steve climbs back over, and you can’t help but relish a little in his groan and mumbled comment about being twelve under his breath as you shimmy between Eddie and Nancy, shoving Eddie into your old seat, ignoring his grunted protests. Unable to help yourself, you smirk into your beer, watching out of the corner of your eye as Steve’s jaw clenches. Making him irritated seems only fair under the circumstances.

You’re ready for his next attempt, sure he’s going to make Nancy swap with him or come up behind you. So when he puts his foot on the chair, you move to the edge of your seat. Steve pounces, tumbling over the back of the row in front of you instead. He’s breathless, cheeks flushed pink as his hands land on the armrests of your spot. His arms cage you in as he leans over the back of the blue metal chairs, ignoring the grumbled complaints of those he bumped out of the way in his pursuit.

His face fills your vision, freckles that dot the sharp slope of his nose, the light scruff he’s let grow more highlight’s the angle of his jaw and the curve of his cupid’s bow. For a second you forget you’re supposed to be mad when you finally meet his eyes. They steal all of your attention and you hate that you can’t look away.

You hate him.

“We’re gonna talk,” he huffs, catching his breath.

“You should hit the gym.” A sad attempt to change the subject, to hurt him a little. Your eyes flit down to his lips in a mistake. You can’t look at his eyes again so you settle on his cheek, trying your best to ignore the endearing pair of freckles.

“I know you’re mad, and if you just let me explain, I-“

“You’ve had plenty of chances to explain before today Steve!”

The hush of the people around you makes your eyes close, taking a moment for a calming breath. Eddie coughs into his fist on your left and squints at the field, Nancy scratches the denim on her thigh and clears her throat on your right.

Steve’s eyes narrow, his top lip pulls in, tongue licking over it before he lets out a cold laugh, “Jesus Christ, what was I supposed to do, tell you while we’re fucking? Or how about after you told me about your parents? I-“

The beer in your hand splashes across his face as he coughs and sputters. His fingers wipe over his eyes and you stand, pushing past the gawking crowd and down the stairs.

Nancy and Eddie were right.

Steve Harrington is a fucking idiot.

You’d rode the train past your stop twice, both your airpods in and a look about you that dared anyone to even glance at you the wrong way. At the sight of the sun sinking past the horizon, you bite down on your cheek, willing your gut to stop twisting as it attaches a thing you love to him. Steve Harrington was not going to ruin sunsets for you, you draw the line at fucking grilled cheese and football.

The flick of your entryway lamp illuminates your place, the lyrics “You call me strawberry wine…” drift out of your airpod as you remove it from your ear. You’ve had enough of the universe’s poetic irony today. Tossing the case and your keys into their dish as you turn the lock on your door.

The sunset is the least of your worries, what didn’t he touch here? Your door, the coffee mugs he proclaimed as his favorites, the counter, the fire escape. You reach for the bottle of wine on top of your fridge as you click on the Instagram notification.

A caption reading ‘We just hope both teams had fun🏈 ’ below her photos. A selfie first, Robin’s bashful face filling the screen, getting her cheek kissed by Nancy. Another, this one with you - she must have caught it during bags - a shot of Eddie and you mid-laugh. The last one clearly taken after you left, the group in the stands, Steve’s sweater gone, replaced by a dry light blue t-shirt. You click your phone locked again and drink straight out of the bottle as you walk down the dark hallway. Old wood floors creak underneath your feet as you make your way to your room.

Fuck, your room.

It’s a moment that perhaps you should be crying during, do normal people cry when boys like Steve Harrington blindside them? When a man you start to break down for was spooning you fully clothed at the start of the day and getting a beer tossed in his face by the end, shouldn’t some sort of despair come out in the form of dramatic tears? Nothing leaves your eyes though as you strip the sheets off of your bed. Steve’s not worth any. No guy is.

Tugging harshly at the last corner of the fitted sheet with a frustrated grunt, you throw all of your bedding out into the hallway and slam the door. The flutter of paper on your desk as the door swings closed catches your eye, your chest tightens at the realization of what you left there.

The glow from the setting sun outside washes over the photobooth strip as you walk towards it, lit up in a perfect square of tangerine. Your thumb brushes the last photo as you pick it up, wondering how it all went so wrong, so fast.

It rips easier than maybe it should have, diminished to something small and as broken as you can make it before you toss it in the trash in your bathroom. Your eyes linger on the shower curtain and then your shampoo. The wine bottle presses to your lips again as you make a mental note, adding those to your list of things to replace tomorrow as well.

Your phone pings again, the group chat you’ve just been recently added to:

Your thumb presses the lock after turning it to silent, the dots from Robin appearing letting you know you don’t want to keep reading all of them talk. Your bare mattress stares at you as you drink more wine. They’re home. Together? In his apartment? In his bed?

It doesn’t matter, good for Steve, hope he’s happy. Good fucking riddance, right?

Opening your bedroom door, you sigh at the pile of bedding, stepping over it and making your way to your couch. Your protective wall is still standing, your armor dusted off and polished once more. It’s time to pick up the pieces, replace what’s broken, and move on from what others like Eddie may want to tell you is heartbreak, but you would argue is just called life.

And life is pain, and anyone who tells you differently is selling something, right?

Halloween season used to be one of your favorite times of the year. Parties and opportunities to dress up like someone you’re not. Evenings to be a character in a story far different than the one you were living, with lines already planned for you to say, an ending meticulously thought out. Now, however, the red fabric that clings to your body serves only as a reminder of how your life is the furthest thing from picture perfect.

Originally, when you found the dress thrifting with Robin, it had felt a little like fate. A tiny and gentle nudge from the universe in the right direction - a sign. Now, you’re sure it was actually some twisted joke. Someone, somewhere out there, is laughing it up as they play with you like a plastic doll. Because even meeting Robin, a thing you were positive was divine intervention, is now wrapped around him. Some evil force at work as they had you meet her, then him, while they cackled and said ‘Ha! Watch this! This one’ll be good.’

Your costume now a cruel oxymoron - a girl who resents love dressed as someone who cherishes it. Pretending to be a girl who loved a boy endlessly, so devoted, she claimed to die the day he supposedly did. A girl who-

“You know,” a finger pokes your cheek, “For a princess, your sour look is not very princessey.”

Robin raises her eyebrows at you, hands on her hips, orange fabric of her skirt swishing around her thighs as she turns. Her sparkly red turtleneck and shine of her black mary jane’s glint in the strobe lights that are making sweeps over the room.

You try to smile, if only for the fact that Nancy actually got her to wear the costume. Crossing your arms, your eyebrows raise as you respond, “Well, you must be a detective or something, Miss Dinkley.”

Robin rolls her eyes, but fights a smile, fiddling with the magnifying glass in her hands. When you don’t say anything more though, her big blue eyes soften as they glance up at you through fake glasses, and she reaches out and squeezes your shoulder. “Seriously, is everything okay? I feel like…” she trails off, shaking her head, at a loss for words it seems - an unusual thing for her.

The line for the bar shifts forward and you nod, that terrible feeling still sits heavy in your stomach like a bag of rocks - you’re weighed down, to be left at the bottom of your guilt to drown. “I’m fine, Robin,” it slips out when you repeat the words quieter, because maybe if you say it enough times it’ll come true, “I’ll be fine.”

“Aha!” She points a finger in your face, “You just said be fine, implying something is in fact not fine currently and-“

“Robin,” your laugh is unconvincing even to yourself. You rub your temples as you face the bar. “Quit being a meddling kid.”

It’s supposed to be a joke, but it comes out with a little more bite than you intend and her mouth shuts quickly. It’s silent for only a few seconds though, before her shoulder bumps yours. Her question quiet, “How long were you waiting to use that one?”

Your head rests against her shoulder in a silent ‘I’m sorry’, hers against yours in an equally unspoken ‘You’re forgiven’ as you sigh. “Oh, just since you put on the costume.”

She hums and then lifts her head and faces you. “Last thing, and then I’ll drop it, I swear.”

Facing her, you swallow harshly as she stares at you with eyes that feel like they can see everything. Even more so when she says, “I know we haven’t known each other that long, but you’re important to me. And if there’s something going on…” she trails off before smiling sadly and continuing, “You can tell me, okay? You can open up and I’ll probably talk too much and offer too much advice, but comes from a place of love and-“

You hug her tightly, Robin wraps her arms around you just as fiercely as her sentence breaks off. Your response sticks in your throat, an alarming hope of ‘what if I told her?’ rising in you that you need to squash down quickly. She can’t know, despite Nancy’s warning that she should. If she did find out, you’re not certain she’d be on your side anyways. It was all your idea to lie to her, it’s selfish of you to ask her to comfort you in this situation.

Especially after you made her practically drag you to the party tonight. Eventually giving into her puppy dog pout (for a girl who easily falls for it, she has a pretty convincing one herself), your guilt all but consuming you at this point. You could put on a smile, a brave face - you could pretend to be someone you’re not, just tonight, and just for her.

You haven’t seen Steve since the football game, ignoring any sort of notification related to him in your phone. But in the process of trying to remove anything Steve from your life, you’ve removed Robin from it as well - a packaged deal. Each ignored message, each call you watched ring and left unanswered, every dodged lunch, were just more punches to your gut, pieces of your heart ripped off and stepped on. You missed Robin so much, one night out, forced to make small talk with him, was a fair price to pay for the deceit and lies - if it meant you got to see her again.

When you break away from the hug, it’s your turn for the bar finally. Both of your eyes widen at the sight of the specialty drink menu. ‘Bootini’s’ and things like a cocktail called ‘Vampire Kiss’ making both of you frown at the dollar signs next to each. You’re suddenly grateful for the tequila that’s still filling your stomach with warmth and Eddie’s insistence on taking the shots before leaving Nancy’s.

“They do have like, a regular bar, right? Cause your girl is on a budget and…” your sentence trails off as Robin smiles at something, someone, over your shoulder.

“Well, there isn’t much money in revenge.”

His voice alone is enough to make your shoulders go up, to cause your stomach to twist, but when you spin to see him, you know it’s not the tequila making the room feel fuzzy and your stomach heave.

He can’t be serious.

He is not wearing that. He’s not.

“Come up with that all by yourself, did ya?” Robin pats Steve’s shoulder and before he can reply she’s holding up a hand in front of his face, letting out a low whistle. “Hoolly cooww.” She motions for Leigh to spin who blushes and laughs, but obliges as Robin keeps going, “Miss Morticia Addams, if you wanna ditch Dingus here…”

Steve puts his hands on his hips, an edge to his tone you may have found amusing if it wasn’t because of his best friend hitting on his girlfriend. “Seriously, Robin? Are you being serious right now? Where’s Nancy?”

Robin rolls her eyes at him and Leigh laughs more, squeezing his shoulder. “I should be the one saying holy cow! Look at you two! Y/N, where did you find that dress?”

God, you hate that she’s nice.

Her dress is phenomenal. The low cut, black fabric that hugs her curves and drapes over her flattering in a way it simply wouldn’t be on you. She’s got the perfect gauzy sleeves, the rings and red lips and nails, she’s even got a rose and scissors in her hand.

You hate that you want to like this girl.

Your smile is tense, “I, uh-“

The bartender clears her throat and you point, saved by the bell, turning your back on the group. A name of one of the drinks leaves your lips and you’re vaguely aware of Robin saying something about finding the others and to not order her something with whiskey in it because he remembers what happened last time.

The deep breathing through your nose is a sad attempt for composure when you get a longer chance to take Steve in. Even with the dim bar lighting, the mirror behind the shelf of various liquors gives you a perfect view. You’re not sure whether you want to kiss him or punch him.

Steve’s dressed in all black, head to toe, the v-cut of the flowy top revealing quite a bit of his dark chest hair and you swallow, your fingers gripping the edge of the counter. You always hated how Buttercup couldn’t tell it was Westley, in fact, you hate it in any movie when a character has a mask over their eyes and suddenly everyone is unable to tell who they’re dancing with, hell who’s kissing them. If anything, the black band of fabric across his face only makes the lips below and the eyes underneath it stand out more - the curve of his top lip you can still feel under your tongue. The colors of his iris’ so distinctly Steve that you’d recognize anywhere - instead of a sea after a storm, a forest. He really went all out, even his scruff shaved to have a thin mustache, he’s wearing the black cap pushing down his normally styled and perfectly messy hair, and when you glance down, you’re not surprised to find matching pirate boots standing next to you.

His hand reaches across your chest with a matte black card - that kind that isn’t glossy like a normal one and you quickly hand the bartender crumpled bills instead, earning a sigh from Steve.

“You’re not seriously wearing that.” Weeks of no contact, and you hate that your voice doesn’t come out strong and confident when that’s all you can think to say.

Risking a glance his way, you find his eyes are already on you, his jaw clenching before he asks, “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

Your inhale is sharp - how can he be this cruel? How can he act like that costume means nothing, or like the last few weeks weren’t awful? Weren’t they awful for him? To go from talking almost every day to nothing?

“Are you fucking kidding me Steve? After everything, after what you said at the game, you’re really gonna stick to not admitting what this is?” Gesturing up and down his body as you ask. He truly can’t be this much of an asshole, he can’t-

Steve shrugs. “I’m just a pirate. I don’t know what your problem is.”

Turns out, he can be.

Before you can even start to formulate something nasty to respond with, a person walking by shouts out, “Oh nice! As you wish, dudes!” Clapping Steve’s shoulder as they waltz past like it’s the 90’s and people still say ‘dudes’ to strangers.

Dude did just make your point for you at least, though.

You hold your hands out to the retreating body in a show of ‘see?’ and then childishly flip Steve off. “The case rests, your honor.”

“It was last minute and I didn’t-”

His weak and pathetic attempts at excuses fall on deaf ears as you push your way through the crowd towards the beacon of red neon announcing an exit for this god forsaken bar.

Maybe it’s the tequila talking, but you don’t think it is - screw Steve Harrington for ruining a fucking bar, for ruining the word dude, for ruining The Princess Bride, for ruining everything.

Screw everything.

The sting of rejection and the quiet anger that’s been sitting at a simmer since the game rests over an open flame now. Your insides quickly grow to a rapid boil. Apathy and anger rage for the top spot as everything you’ve tried to keep under a lid steams, ready to overflow and burn.

Ignoring the calls of your name, something still makes it past your seeing red rampage of an exit, connecting the voices, aware of Steve saying something to someone, but you can’t really find it in yourself to care who or what. The cool air hits your body as you push outside, stinging against the damp skin under your eyes.

A hand on your shoulder makes you jump, his voice quiet, “Y/N-“

“Don’t touch me, Steve,” you warn, taking a step backwards after yanking your shoulder from under his fingers. Your hands balled into fists as you spin to look at him.

He runs a hand through his now uncovered hair, face fully revealed without a mask too. He watches you closely, his voice gentle, as he raises his hands up, “Look, I just want to make sure you’re okay. You can-“

“You don’t get to check on me anymore, or worry about if I’m okay, you’re not my boyfriend,” your tone scathing.

Steve’s gaze bounces over your face, his jaw hardens as the vein in his forehead dances. Somehow his voice is soft despite the bite to it, “Yeah, I know. You’ve made that perfectly clear. But I am your friend, and I -“

Your laugh causes him to break off. You gesture inside and then to his outfit. “Friends don’t treat each other this way, Steve.”

He drags his palms down his face, his own disbelieving laugh echoes against the brick of the bar. “Are you kidding me? I have been nothing but your friend! I am sorry about what I said at the game, but really, when was I supposed to tell you? And this costume…I…” He shakes his head, licking his lips as he takes a step closer to you. “Look. I should have told you about Leigh sooner, but if you would have given me five minutes to-“

“Five minutes. A sec.” Your hands move in quotation marks as you recall the conversation he wanted to have at the game too. Your face pinches into an irritated scowl as your hands drop in front of you, palms open. Exasperation laced around your words, “What the fuck is there to explain anymore, Harrington? You’re dating her and you didn’t tell me - the story is over.”

Steve stands just in front of you now, that gravitational pull at silent work again, even weeks apart unable to switch it off. Your bodies move with each other, your voices rise in sync, your chests fall with shared breaths. A different sidewalk, that same feeling of flight or fight, but you know that it’s too late this time. Even turning the heat off isn’t going to fix the damage that’s been done.

Another laugh huffs out of him, “You’d like that, right? That’s it, case closed. Y/N calls the shots and decides everything.” He shakes his head and points to his chest, towering over you, “This is all such total bullshit. You’re mad at me for something that was your idea, because you didn’t get to decide when it was over.” He shrugs, waves of nonchalance carrying his words through the air to hit you hard like a slap across the face. “You’re a spoiled brat who’s mad because you’ve lost a toy.”

Any maturity you attempted to have towards the situation has evaporated.

“Me? The spoiled brat? Excuse me, Mr. 50th floor and Daddy’s Credit Card. Take a look in the fucking mirror, Steve!”

Your chests almost touch with each ragged breath as his hands run through his hair and he pulls. A frustrated groan at your words, while the volume at which his come out becomes louder, “I’ve got plenty of fucking mirrors, why don’t you take your own advice! You’re a hypocrite. You can’t even admit it to yourself, can you? Tell me I’m wrong! Tell me you didn’t ask me for this arrangement. Tell me that the words ‘no feelings’ and ‘just sex’ didn’t leave your mouth. Tell me what you have to be upset with me for then!”

Your chin quivers at his words, the truth of them daring the tears behind your eyes to fall.

Steve gulps, his fingers dance on your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. His eyes shine with his own held back tears, like he regrets how he said it but not that he did. His voice quiets as he pleads, “Tell me.”

He doesn’t get to look at you like that. He doesn’t get to say those things to you and then look at you like that.

What happened last time Steve Harrington asked you to open up and tell him something?

Tequila lingers on your tongue, aiding in the formation of words that are meant to sting - you want to hurt him like he’s hurting you. You bite down on your jaw, the anger and pain ready to fall down your cheeks as you remove yourself from him.

Your hands press against his chest, “You’re bullshit. This is bullshit.” A small shove as you practically growl the next words, “I’m a hypocrite? How about the fucking bathroom at that party where you told me I couldn’t have it both ways, but then you’re dating someone while getting all jealous?” Another shove, this time his fingers brush your wrists, a halfhearted attempt to get you to stop. “Begging me to open up to you? For fucking what, Steve? This costume? You…” you close your eyes and let your hands drop, letting the words do all the work now, “You’re a liar. You’re an asshole.”

Steve’s head ducks down, his fingers brushing his nose before he rolls his shoulders back. When his mouth opens, you step backwards, shaking your head.

“Lose my number, Steve.”

His eyes roam over your face, waiting, searching. He only nods once and takes his own step back.

“As you wish.”

Your breath sucks in sharply, a sob you’ve been holding in since the moment he said the words ‘Sorry we’re late’ threatens to finally crack out of your chest. You wish you had another beer to toss in his face for using those words at this moment.

It’s not said with the kind of reverence of the movie. There isn’t a narrator to let you know what he actually means by the phrase. But you know. It’s not an ‘I love you’, not like this. No, it’s merely a promise to do as you asked.

All you can do is turn away from him, hold your chin up and roll your shoulders back as you walk down the sidewalk.

There is no hopeful glance back over your shoulder, no loud smacks against the pavement made by his feet chasing after you like in the movies.

Like you said, your story is over.

'One New Voicemail':

“Hey, just thought I’d try ya, I know you’ve been busy. Um, well, Steve and I are heading to the Rocky Horror show tonight and I know he’d love someone to aid in his teasing of how totally into it I get. Right Steve?”

[muffled sounds of movement and whispers]

“Hm…yeah, I uh-”

[a clear smack to his shoulder]

“It feels like forever since I’ve seen you or we’ve done something just the three of us! Anyways, call me back, text me…beep me if you wanna reach me…ugh, sorry that was so lame, okay bye. Love you!”

If you were surviving before them, you could survive without them. It seemed simple enough.

You’ve never stayed in one place for long, friendships like Robin, Eddie, and Nancy had been left before. Friendships that were never given a chance to really even start before you were gone. The promise of any relationships packed into boxes and off to the next city. Addresses and phone numbers and notes of ‘Keep in touch’ left to collect dust until forgotten about completely.

So, it should have been easy to continue to ignore their messages. To ignore the holes in your chest, to ignore the want to call or text one of them when something happened as mundane as a stranger calling another stranger ‘toots’ in your mailroom. If Steve touched things in your life and now caused them to wilt in your memories and sights, the other three made things bloom. They breathed life into you again.

You weren’t going to let Steve Harrington take something like that away from you.

Which is why you found yourself curled into your father’s sweater for courage, walking down the sidewalk towards the cemetery with a promise to meet them there.

Orange and brown leaves crinkle underfoot before they blow across the pavement. The moon is full, the sky that deep indigo it seems to only get this time of year. Both a perfect backdrop for the bare trees that dance in the wind and the blocks lined with homes with glowing porch lights. Orange buckets overflowing with candy rush past in a blur, laughter and squeals of children echoing down the street past you.

As you make it to the black iron fence, your eyes roam the blankets and patrons occupying them in the park next to the cemetery. Apple and brown sugar meet your nose and you take special note of the mini donut booth attached to the scent. Which is where you see Eddie, shoving two in his mouth and rolling his eyes at Nancy. He spots you and grins around the sugary dough, nudging the shoulder to his right and nodding in your direction.

Robin spins and you see her shoulders visibly fall and a grin spread across her face. She says something to the other two who head in the direction of the blankets and she races through the crowd. Muffled oofs and sorry’s meet your ears as she dodges and spins around people balancing concessions.

You reach the front of the line, a sandwich board proudly displaying the original ‘The Evil Dead’ poster sits next to an older woman on a stool at the gate. She smiles at you, holding a flashlight towards the ground. “Ticket, dear?”

“Rose! Rose, she's my girl!” Robin shouts, breathless as she makes it to the gate.

“Oh!” The elderly woman smiles wider, ushering you through, “Have fun ladies! Tell Edward I’m still waiting for my hot chocolate.”

“Yes ma’am.” Robin salutes with two fingers and then grabs you in a hug. “Jesus Christ I missed you!” Her voice is loud and she shrinks in your arms as the lights of the booths go out and the crowd surrounding you turns and shushes. Her voice shifts to a whisper, “Whoops. Come on, we’re towards the back and we still have all the commercials to chat without too many nasty looks.”

Robin holds your arm in a death grip, a silent promise to not let you out of her sights and clutches so long as she can help it again it seems. When you reach the blanket, Nancy and Eddie’s conversation stops abruptly and their smiles seem painted on as they look up at you.

It’s one of those moments, those silences that are too stilted and too abrupt, letting you know exactly what was being discussed just seconds before. You wave a little, ears burning since you have no doubt about who the subject of their interrupted conversation was.

“Eddie,” Robin begins, huffing as she falls to their cushy spot with extra blankets, trays of drinks, and several bags of sweets littered around them, “Rose is fiending.”

“Oh shit!” Ducking and wincing when someone turns around and glares at him. He grabs one of the cups with a big R on top and squeezes your shoulder as he stands, “Be right back! Glad you came!”

Sitting as Robin pats his now empty spot next to her. “Can I get you anything? We have cocoa and cider, donuts, popcorn, candy corn, caramel corn, basically any kind of corn and-“

“Robin,” Nancy hums, almost singing, as she sips from a cup. She squeezes her fingers. “You have to actually take a breath to let her respond.”

“I’ll never say no to a cider or donut,” you point to the items with a laugh.

Robin grabs them and hands it to you. She whacks pillows and squishes around, rolling and frowning and readjusting.

Eventually, she sighs, content, and grabs Nancy’s hand and then a donut from your bag and knocks it against one in your fingers before taking a bite.

“Happy?” Nancy asks as Robin hums around the sugar she licks off of her lips.

“You know it. Only thing that would make tonight better is…” she trails off with a grin.

You take her words as a warning to look around, wondering where he is and mentally preparing yourself.

Nothing could have prepared you though.

It happens quickly and yet not at the same time.

Your head turns to see them walking hand in hand. A swing of fingers as they walk past twinkling lights, the breeze blowing her hair perfectly.

Nancy says “Shit,” under her breath as she sits up. When you turn to look at her with a frown, she opens her mouth but no words come out.

The movie starts.

Eddie slows down as he makes his way back towards the blanket, looking at Nancy then over his shoulder then back at you.

Robin waves her arm too much and you turn to look again, trying to figure out what you’re not getting.

Steve’s eyes meet yours and he stops, tripping over his own shoe.

Leigh waves and something sparkles on her hand in the moonlight.

Robin beams and squeezes your wrist. “Oh my gosh I can’t believe they actually came! I figured with the whole engagement thing they wouldn’t. Now it’s all officially perfect. All my favorite people together on my favorite day.”

Plot twist: Steve Harrington is engaged.

WCIL taglist:

@loveshotzz @myobmaya @sweetsweetjellybean @pastel-pillows @littlesubbyflower @johnricharddeacy @freezaz123 @selfdeprecatingnerd @big-ope-vibes @manda-panda-monium @hellkaisersangel @yogizzz @soulmatecashton @happytimeunicorns @mandyjo8719 @lunarxeclipse @buckleylips @beckkthewreck @differentdeputyfishpaper @supardupar @micheledawn1975 @imjuststeddietrashatthispoint @sagelittleplace @totally-bogus-timelady @steves-babysitter @fallinginlovewithqueue @aftermidnightwriting @omgshesinsane @pootcullen @definitionwanderlust @nostalgiafool @palmtreesx3 @scoopshxrrington @live-the-fangirl-life @eddiesguitarskills @mannstarkey @keepingitlokiii

#steve harrington #modern!steve harrington #modern!steve #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington series #steve harrington angst #steve harrington fic #stranger things fanfic #we'll call it love

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silvergarnet12 · 1 month

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Splatoon was the first Nintendo game to push me out of my comfort zone of single player games, and with the closure of it's servers I wanted to draw a tribute to a game that really means a lot to me.

Some long rambles about the game under the cut.

When I first played the Global Testfire I was 15, and the only mutliplayer games I played were with friends in the same room.

Splatoon was also the first shooter I ever picked up, as I always liked bright colours over more realistic graphics in my games, and back then the only shooters I knew about were Halo(and that was only really a name to me!) and the CoD games.

Any worries I had about being bad quickly vanished as the sheer vibe of chaotic fun the game had, particularly when no one had played it before, got rid of any worries, and all I remember is having fun. And choosing to play as the guy instead of the girl for the first time, solely becuase I wanted a ponytail like in real life(I would continue to use the guy through the series as a tradition, a contrast to what I saw most people online doing).

When the game came out I binged the single player, and vividly remember the first time I fought DJ Octavio, and the first time I heard Calamari Inkantation. If ever a game was to convince me that a song could irreversibly change your life, it was Splatoon. Because to teenage me, in that moment, with Calamari Inkantation playing in the background while I fought an octupus DJ, it did.

It gave me terminal brainworms for this series. And here I am, 8 yrs later. Older and more tired, been through some shit, had some good times, tried, succeeded and failed in things throughout the years.

I've always been grateful that they made the decision for the player character from 1 to return, everytime they've shown up it's felt a bit like seeing an old friend, especially since as the games time skips have always had them close to my age(which probably helped my attachement back in the first game). So hi Three, can't believe we both probably pay taxes now.

I have the original two Inkling Amiibos, in a collection that is slowly building, I'm still attached to Marie, and yes I was on her team for the Final Splatfest.

I cried when it was over, just like I did in 2's Final Fest(I was team chaos, two for two baby!) and will probably do so for 3's as well. Something about this series just makes me super attached to it's world and characters.

So booyah Splatoon, my final online game of yours was well and truly years ago, but I replayed story mode to share you with a friend recently, and I think I'll refight Octavio tonight in honour of the good times.

You encouraged me to try out games I wouldn't have otherwise(hello Overwatch and Deep Rock Galactic), and outlasted one of the other major games of my teenage years(...Overwatch 1 I miss you). So thank you for that.

I'll miss Squid Jump, Inkstrike, the og kit for the NZap 89(why does it's new one not vibe with me ;-;), the Squid Sister's broadcasts and the more saturated colours. At least I can always return to the Plaza in 3, and that Spyke isn't dead like I was concerned he was when 3 released, and see the Squid Sisters perform during Splatfests again.

I have so much more to say in my heart about you but no more ways to word it.

You've been a fantastic game, and will always be a treasured experience that I am grateful to have been a apart of from the very beginning.

Now bring back Moray Towers in 3 damn it! It's in 2 but I DON'T WANT TO LOSE MY FAVOURITE STAGE IF IT"S NOT IN 4.

#splatoon #splatoon shutdown #my art #wii u #nintendo

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lynxgriffin · 8 months

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Since we've got plenty of time to reflect, who do you the Knight is? (I'm very much hoping it's Papyrus)

Okay! So!

While I uh, think that Jaru is super wrong on almost all his theories, I've got one major exception where I think he is correct, and that’s the identity of the Knight:

(This is kinda long, so going under the read more)

Namely, that the Knight is Gerson’s soul tied to a particular object and brought to life in the Dark World. Although for me personally, I’m going to tweak that idea quite a bit because I think it can actually tie in really nicely with my current theories on Ralsei’s identity and nature.

We keep getting little references to Gerson brought up here and there in both chapters: there’s a drawing of a turtle monster in the abandoned classroom, done by Alvin. It’s presumably either Alvin himself or his dad, Gerson, and I’m guessing it’s the latter. We have books written by Gerson in multiple places, a memorial bench for him, and then Alvin’s conversation about him in the graveyard by his headstone. Alvin also mumbles something about “did I do the right thing?” to Gerson’s grave. As long as you initiate a conversation with Alvin, the game makes sure that you don't miss that extra bit, which is a little telling.

We know that Gerson was originally a historian, and then later turned to writing fiction, and wrote a beloved fiction series that fans still send his family letters about after his death.

What do we know about the nature of the Dark Worlds? They’re basically imagination and fantasy brought to life. While they certainly seem to have a full history outside of what we experience, with characters that remember each other even from other Dark Worlds, they’re only “given form” when a dark fountain is opened. Any Lightner with determination can stab the earth, and a dark, inky substance can spew from it and give a world of fantasy its own form. The Darkners frequently talk about how Lightners give them direction and purpose in their lives.

So…question! How many of you have used a fountain pen?

I have used those before. They’re quite sharp, and using them very often feels like scratching or stabbing the paper. Black ink spews forth, and from this black ink…you can create whole worlds of fiction! Worlds that other people can interact with!

We know that Gerson wrote beloved fiction well into his old age. What if he knew his time was coming, but still had stories to tell? What if he didn’t want to stop? Alvin says how his dust was sprinkled on a hammer and buried in the earth, and that this is considered the appropriate monster cultural ritual for helping a soul pass to the afterlife. But Alvin also appears to have done something that is still really troubling him. Maybe Alvin, either at his father's request or based on his own wants, didn’t actually follow the appropriate cultural funeral rites, and somehow helped his father’s soul attach to a different beloved object…a fountain pen that he’d use to write down his story ideas. And if that object gets brought to life with a dark fountain, you could get the Knight: the soul of a writer, filtered exclusively through their favorite writing tool, unwilling to stop creating.

I think it would make sense on a few logical and thematic levels:

It explains how the Knight is able to get around and open the fountains: the same way that Ralsei is able to do the weird things he does. They’re both Darkners carrying Lightner souls, so they can bend the rules.

It explains Queen’s insistence that Lightners are the ones that can create fountains, while King hates Lightners but seems to fully trust the Knight…a Darkner with a Lightner soul can meet both those people's expectations.

It sets up the Knight as a foil to Ralsei: they’re both the same kind of special Dark World being, both believing that they are fulfilling their roles and serving the Lightners, but coming to vastly different conclusions about how to do that.

It explains the Knight’s motivations: not that he’s actually trying to destroy the world or anything, but that he’s trying to serve the Lightners. He knows very well how much joy and positivity his fiction has brought to Lightners in the past. How could more of that be anything bad? This is his purpose, what he was made to do. Not doing it is virtually unthinkable.

And I think that in turn keeps him following in the footsteps of how Toby usually writes his villains…rarely if ever fully malicious, but utterly convinced that they’re doing the right thing, or that they have no choice in the matter.

And of course that ties in with one of Deltarune’s themes: the balance between reality and fantasy. The Knight has no more ties with reality, and therefore is focused exclusively on creating more fantasy and having it supplant reality, upsetting the balance between them.

And this is extremely speculative, but I've been thinking about how Toby mentioned that chapter three will be a bit of an odd one out, that it's more about trying weird things than advancing a lot of plot. Kind of an interesting thing to note since Kris just made a fountain that should take us into chapter three. If the Dark Worlds are in some way shaped by the will of the Lightner that makes them, then chapter three indicates that Kris's will manifests more as just...trying out stuff rather than something purposeful. Kris makes a fountain because they really want to keep up this special hangout with their friends. But the Knight? He's making narratives.

#ask lynx stuff #ask me about my stupid Knight opinions!!#but yeah a big turnaround from it being Gaster like it was in PT #I am sorry...I'm not a Papyrus Knight believer :(#I do want to see Paps tho #deltarune theorizing

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bonefall · 3 months

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Now we've got all six of em, can I just say that CRIPES ALMIGHTY the titles for a starless clan suck major ass! Both separately AND as a group!!

I Do Not Rewrite Arcs Until They Are Done BUT DO YOU WANNA HEAR MY WIP RENAMES SO FAR

Remember: Don't get too attached yet, the only one I can say with certainty will show up somewhere is the title of Book 4.

ARC RENAME: A Starless Clan -> A Prayer Unanswered

The original name is really good but I'm getting a vibe that the theme of the rework is going to be... when love isn't enough.

It's about how some things can't get better. It's about how all the kindness in the world couldn't get Bramblestar to turn around as a leader. It's about how Heartstar might have had good intentions, but occupation never works out in the end. It's Nightheart's relationship to his family being salvageable, not because they don't all want to fix it, but because his life has worked out best with distance from them.

So, Prayers Unanswered is both about the religious part of how RiverClan doesn't have a leader and can't get in proper touch with StarClan, but it's also about every other wish that hasn't come true.

River -> Starcrossed One of the VERY large changes I'm considering is actually massively reducing Nightheart's POV. I'm thinking of doing this, not because I dislike him, but because I think it might actually be a better story if the audience is guessing as to his intentions just as much as the other characters are. So, until he's ACTUALLY needed later, his chapters are short and sparse. So Starcrossed would be about setting up the troubles of the Clans, especially the parts of the conflicts I want to highlight more in BB. It would be setting up the rule changes for "starcrossed lovers" (lmao) but also the brewing anger that the cats have towards code changes... and StarClan, if I do decide to keep the newest revelations and work them in better, in hindsight.

Sky -> Fracture There's a phrase in my head that is so interesting to me that I need to do something with it. "Only frozen water can fracture." I want to make the RiverClan situation worse than in-canon. First of all, there's going to be identifiable groups this time which begin to scramble for power. Instead of having the cats just... forget how to do the chores they've done their whole lives, the Clan is splitting up into factions. This is why they won't be able to win against Heartstar later, when she decides to take drastic measures. They're not fighting like a Clan; they're fighting like a bunch of disorganized teams. There should also be a bunch of needless injuries, maybe even a border aggression that lead to a death, before Heartstar barges in. I also want to make this a bigger part of the story, Erins willing. Too much time was spent on the Catnip Patrol, imo, we're going to have ANOTHER big trip and I don't want this one to eat up so much time. Rowankit is also still going to die; and maybe a couple of elders around the Lake too.

Shadow -> Snakes and Turnclaws Berryheart's hate movement has been too tame, from canon books 1 - 4 as of the time of writing. It's ridiculous that they haven't even injured anyone in the Battle Cat series. I saved Antfur from the previous arc so that she can die here. We've been seeing the Anti-Turnclaw movement rise from the first book, so now with Nightheart's boldness leading him to a place where he will be unsafe, we need to see his rusty butt in actual danger. I'm even thinking that, instead of Nightheart failing his task on purpose, Sunbeam makes him fail by stopping him from getting killed. I need to know the ending of ASC first though, because I MIGHT be having Berryheart getting her exile here. Whatever kills Antfur is either deniable enough that she's able to squeak by while Sunbeam quietly leaves (refusing to accuse her mother of anything publicly) OR it's so obvious that Heartstar casts her out on the spot. Meanwhile, we see the OTHER half of ShadowClan's conflict as RiverClan finally unites... against them, as their common enemy. Task failed successfully, Heartsy

Thunder -> The Source of the River I'm still unspeakably proud of this outline. There's so much I want to do here. She's going to come back with a DND party and I'm hoping that all of them end up in RiverClan with her; INCLUDING Nightheart. I want the fact that he accompanied Frostpaw to actually be the final straw for him. While he's away, Sunbeam is acclimating to ThunderClan and falling in love with her new home. There are parts she misses about ShadowClan, but as she's adopted by Sparkpelt, taken as a secondary apprentice by the deputy, smiled upon by Squirrelstar after she pressures Bramblestar to abdicate... this starts to feel like this is where she belongs. And that's too hard for Nightheart to ever come back to. "You come to the source of the river, and are vexed that you do not find the water that is flowing downstream" dude.... man. That's what BB's about. Change. I also really want Nightheart to choose HIS OWN NAME by the end of this series-- so at some point in this book he should finally admit "Nightheart" wasn't his choice either. (I'm thinking Deltastep. Because his journey with Frostpaw begins at the southern delta of my reworked map.)

And I haven't done them for Book 5 or Book 6 yet, especially since I might end up condensing them or chopping them up to put into the other books.

I do know I'm really love to play with the idea of a starless sky for one of the last books though, I may or may not keep Splashtail's lack of faith in StarClan (hate the Evil Atheist thing they keep doing), but the idea of a "Pitch-Black Star" absolute fucks as symbolism, ngl. Maybe something like "A Gap in the Stars" or "Constellation's Void" or "The Stolen Star"

Also also also I'm having Curlfeather come back as a Dark Forest Demon for at LEAST one scene.

I don't give a good goddamn if they don't go to the Dark Forest or not. ONE weird coincidence that could totally have been Just Good Luck but was actually Curlfeather. Let Her Drown Splashtail, she deserves it. Let her be a malevolent spirit who protects her baby. RiverClan can whine all it wants about Mothwing who ooo doesn't believe in God, Frostpaw's got a demon. Cry about it

Also I hope Frostpaw becomes leader because I'll make it go hard

#Mapleshade here like ''haha i will continue my curse on the appledusk bloodline''#And Curlfeather looms behind her like ''dont.''#BB!ASC #better bones au #ASC Spoilers

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red-riding-wood · 3 months

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Yellow Light

Pairing: Jonathan Crane x F!Reader

Summary: Jonathan is your guide as you escape Arkham Asylum.

Based off the song "Yellow Light" by Of Monsters and Men (original version here and acoustic version here). This song is really special to me and helped me brave my heart surgery in August. A lot of this fic is a projection of my own experiences, trauma, and health issues over the past several years -- but Arkham can represent absolutely anything you want it to that you or the character is trying to escape.

Song lyrics are in bold.

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, depictions of PTSD (hospital trauma specifically), drug addiction/use, psychosis, hallucinations, fear of death, blood.

Will also use similar themes to my upcoming series "Darkness Until Dawn" and OC Cassie Hart but this is a standalone x reader fic.

I also feel like Crane might come across a bit OOC in this fic because he's in an established relationship with the reader and he's in a comforting role, but I promise I have some very fucked-up stuff for him coming up where he's an absolute menace.

WC: 3309

Sounds of Hell threaded themselves into the night air. Howling, bleating, baying down the streets. Whispering thoughts of death into your ears. Thoughts that formed into icy talons that raked down your spine, that stirred goosebumps along the bare flesh of your arms. That froze you in place, your heart slamming against your ribs as they tethered you to the cold concrete like vines.

Frantic looks cast to your left, to your right, you turned, stumbling over your own feet as you whirled, the darkness of each alleyway sinking into your soul. Staring back at you as if to say, you cannot escape me.

I’m looking for a place to start. Everything feels so different now.

Which way was out? Which way was back there? Back to the dingy halls of Arkham, the acrid stench of spoiled cafeteria food, the howling of patients that still seemed to echo back to you from the alleys.

The maw of a great beast parted, razors of teeth glinting silver in the dark, stretching from one brick wall to another. Hurtling towards you, wisps of black smoke emerging from the darkness and curling round you like hissing tongues. The roar started as a peal of thunder, and ended as a shockwave, razor teeth shattering into glass as the beast collided against your skull. Dizzying waves sent the world spinning, brought you to your knees before the Devil himself.

She’s good as dead.

The beast’s maw burned hot as hellfire, breathing smoke into your aching lungs, ripples of molten lava racing beneath your skin. Teeth tore into your shoulder as your hand met the ground, shaking fingers settling into the grooves of the concrete like cold tiles. Death’s talons wrapped around your throat as a cry twisted from your larynx, pointed nails morphing to scalpels and tearing down your sternum, splitting open your ribs and baring your bleeding heart.

Crimson freckled the concrete, splatters of your blood landing hot and thick against the back of your hand as cold washed over each limb, the darkness creeping in from the corners of the alleys. You reached your free hand to your forehead, and nearly cried out again in pain, but you couldn’t speak; something sharp wedged itself between your fingers, something sticky attaching webs of hair against your clammy palm.

Your hand came away with a shard of glass protruding from the stretch of skin between your fingers, red dribbling down flesh too pale to be living.

Your stomach buckled, and you curled in on yourself, eyes rolling to the back of your throbbing skull and voices pouring in like a tide.

Get back here! She’s running. Running away. Where does she think she’s going? She’s not going anywhere. She can’t escape us. You can’t escape us.

Patients rattled the bars of their cages, threw themselves against their padded walls. Screeched warnings and mournful wails and haunted cries into the stale air of the hospital, into the icy chill of night.

Fingers seized into talons as they closed around your ears, attempting to block out the noise as it built into a terrifying crescendo, wails and whispers melding together as if the darkness were mocking you but the chill that swathed your impotent form reminded you of your isolation.

GET OUT! your lips parted to say but fell silent upon the words of the damned. Let me go. Let me go, let me go.

Warmth brushed your shoulder, and you blinked saline from your eyes, streaking salt down your lip, dampened hair falling over blurry vision as you looked up to the hand held to you in the darkness. The white cuff of a shirt disappearing beneath a black suit.

Just grab hold of my hand. I will lead you through this wonderland.

And his voice, soft and warm and human, cut through the noise. Hollowed a path through the tunnel of voices and breathed life into lungs that gasped for air. Sent a tremble of fear through death’s icy talons and made the demons crawl back into the earth.

I’m here, he said.

You couldn’t straighten your claw-like grip as it brushed the warmth of his hand, but his fingers entwined in yours and the glass split his palm and bled over your knuckles and he pulled, your shoulder screaming in pain and your legs wobbly beneath you, but you stood.

Your fingers balled into a fist, the touch of his hand dissolving like a pill in water, like sutures that held you to together for one moment only to leave you in pieces, scarred and bruised and broken. For a moment, you thought you’d fall again.

Faintly, a glow emerged from the blackness, silhouetting the lazy fall of a feather, so tranquil in contrast to the tendrils of ink black that writhed in your peripheral. You swiped a hand out to the feather, its softness akin to his hand, but the voices hissed at you to look up.

The jagged peaks of the skyscrapers groaned above, folding in across the dim sky and curling into black tides that came crashing around you as pressure mounted in your skull.

The darkness devoured you.

Water up to my knees. But sharks are swimming in the sea.

The ocean came flooding in around you, dampness seeping into the cuffs of your trousers, rising as the blackness pressed in around you. Ahead, the light glinted yellow, casting a thin line of white against the waves. The feather bobbed along the surface, chased by current that now buffeted the backs of your knees.

One foot placed before the other, you waded through the water, each step weighing heavier than the last. Each time, the light ahead grew just a little brighter, though the sides of your vision darker.

Wretched creatures began to emerge from the darkness, hissing and snarling and reaching for you in tendrils of smoke and ink. Gravity began to pull you downward, the current guiding you forwards as the alleyway morphed into a tunnel, and the voices of the underworld rang louder in your skull as you descended into the bowels of the city.

She’s heading into the darkness. The rot.

A giggle, echoing against the walls of the chamber that reeked of all things barren and desolate. Her mind’s a disease.

The reach of death grew thick here, in twisted ropes and vines that swallowed the arched ceiling, that bore down on you like snakes and streaked through the sea like eels of tar, the water itself no longer seeming so heavy in comparison as they engulfed each limb. Tightening. Shuddering.

She can’t get very far. She’s killing herself.

She has to. She has to live.

The voices were starting to argue.

Some were even voices you knew; they came to you past the iron bars nestled into pockets of your memories, depressions in the walls – people you’d known in that awful place cried out to you, cursed you, their faces fuzzy but still recognisable even in the darkness. Fellow souls trapped in the place that knew not of the sun’s warmth against your skin or the whistle of freedom through the wind.

Look. Look, girl.

Your brow furrowed, and your eyes scanned the darkness. With each face they landed on, the symphony of wails seemed to spike in volume along to the frantic thud of your heart, the little weaving line of a monitor etching itself across your mind’s eye.

Not there. No, not there.

Can’t she feel it?

It’s too late. The rot has her.

Soon it will reach her soul.

Your heart came lurching to a burning throat as the waters stirred and a creature emerged from their murky depths, slivers of metal protruding from its back before it disappeared, for half a moment resembling the wicked tips of syringes that still pricked your swiftly numbing skin.

Tearing your hands from the water, you froze, paralysis seeping in to every pore.

Ink tendrils snaked across the pallor of your flesh. From your fingertips to your elbows, the rot had taken you. It tightened round your forearm, your fingers turning completely numb.

You screamed.

Shhhhh, he soothed. Just come to me, darling. I’ll make it all better.

“JONATHAN!” Your mangled cry turned into something intelligible, the name sweet like honey on your tongue despite the bitterness of bile at the back of your throat.

Just follow my yellow light. And ignore all those big warning signs.

You began to slosh through the water, seeking him out in a frenzy, your teeth gritting as the walls of your skull began to cave in, as the rot spread to your shoulders and turned the water to pitch.

And at last, you saw him. Like the feather, silhouetted by the light, but unmistakably him. He paused, looking over his shoulder, strands of his black hair wisping this way and that. His face was shadowed, the sockets of his eyes black. The frames of his glasses glinted silver in the dark, like the teeth, the scalpels.

And he disappeared round the corner that twisted, walls shifting and shuddering as if forming a maze for a path.

Death’s icy fingers pried their way beneath your skin as the cold seeped past your blood and bones and settled somewhere deep inside the dwindling warmth of your soul. Freed from the water at last, you turned the corner and raised a rot-wreathed hand to the light fractured by a criss-cross pattern that reminded you of the bars of the asylum’s gate.

And the damp air became dry and musty, and the sewers morphed into dingy halls, alabaster wallpaper peeling back to reveal the black rot. Your pace quickened as these walls closed in, groaning with curses of the damned.

Just a little farther, the soothing, slightly-lilted baritones of his voice encouraged you on, but every turn you made down the narrowing halls, he managed to evade you, disappearing just out of reach. At the end of each hallway, what must’ve been a sewer drain and not a gate yawned from the blackness, little pockets of light stretching wider with each turn.

The feather crunched beneath your toes.

Fingers wrapped around the bars of the gate, and the hinges squealed as it swung open, your feet slotting into indentations along the walls as you desperately attempted to pull yourself up.

Warmth made you shiver in your cold sweat, and whispers funnelled into thin threads and lay buried beneath the ground as his hand met yours. In the faint glimmer of the light, you witnessed the rot dissipate, chased away by his touch. Purified.

“Jonathan,” you breathed, pulled flush to his chest, the mint of his breath raking across your lashes and the familiarity of his musk inhaled deeply through flared nostrils. You buried your face in his wrinkled tie and dress shirt and sobbed, your tears still tasting like saline. You savoured this moment, trembling beneath his touch, his hand petting the back of your dampened hair. You pulled away only as he hissed in pain.

“Jonathan, I’m scared,” you whimpered, guilty that you had seemed to wound him but caring only for sanctuary in this moment in which you knew nothing but fear. “Please don’t leave me. I’m so, so scared.”

“I know you are,” he said, squeezing your shoulder. “But you have to keep going.”

“Where? Where are you taking me?” You stared into the hollows of his eyes, still pitch black past the glint of those silver frames. Why couldn’t you properly see him? Could he see you? Was he just another shadow, a trick of light on the wall?

Somewhere deep in the dark, a howling beast hears us talk.

Sirens wailed from the alley behind, and your blood ran cold. Jonathan stepped away, his touch tearing from yours almost painfully. Like he’d left the shards of glass in your palms.

“Don’t let them take me!” You pleaded, stumbling forward through the darkness. “I can’t go back! I can’t! COME BACK!”

She’s so afraid. So pathetic. She can’t do this without him.

The light grew in intensity, tinted more gold now than yellow, bathing the walls in a soft glow as they drew impossibly close, tapering the air in your lungs, building the pressure against your temples until your shoulders sagged under the weight of fatigue and white-hot fire cleaved your skull in two.

Jonathan paused, and turned. “Close your eyes,” he told you. “It’s not so dark here when you embrace it.”

I dare you to close your eyes. And see all the colours in disguise.

“NO!” You screeched, afraid that if you so much as blinked, he’d disappear, and you’d be lost to the darkness forever. You lurched forward on your heel, wedging yourself between the shuddering walls that closed in around you, following the same – and only path – he had taken. Turning sideways, you gulped in a breath of air, fingers scraping madly against the brick walls as the tide beginning to pool again round your ankles. The sky collapsed, pinning you, forcing your only breath from your lungs and snapping your ribs around your stuttering heart.

She’s gone. She won’t make it. She can’t reach him.

The air grew stuffy, stale. Your own breath bounced off the walls and flushed your cold, tear-streaked cheeks.

“Just trust me,” Jonathan said. “Just let go.”

Running into the night. The earth is shaking and I see a light.

With the darkness claiming you and the ground beneath you quaking with wrath, the howls of the damned echoing through a familiar hall, the world swaying on its axis, you had no choice but to suffocate your fear, to shutter your eyes closed on the light that seeped through the crack in the walls, warm against your skin in the cold dread of night.

She’s giving up.

She’s fighting.

She wants to die.

She wants to live.

The yellow-gold exploded across the backs of your eyelids, streaking like fireworks along the pitch black. Your skull still throbbed in pain, and your lips parted, the sound of a window banging against old hinges as death whispered to you through the alleys, the sewers, the hallways.

Next time.

Jonathan’s touch met your clammy palm, and the world fell silent, the walls disappearing around you and the emptiness of air spilling around your limbs.

I’m here, he reminded you.

The light is blinding my eyes, as the soft walls eat us alive.

Your eyelids peeled back to reveal the checkered, rose pattern of your wallpaper, the bright fluorescents of the bathroom, the blue eyes that bore into your own past silver frames. Slivers of ice encroaching on ink black pupils, cold and calculating yet echoing a familiar warmth.

He loosened the makeshift tourniquet from your arm, pins and needles racing from your fingertips to your elbow. A syringe of your favourite poison lay on the bathroom tile, beige powder swirling in a sea of saline.

“Come back to me. Come back to me, please,” he begged, as if for this moment alone, he allowed himself to believe in the higher power you knew he cursed.

Water seeped into your clothing like the sea of pitch, spilling from the bathtub that you had left on. It carried little rivulets of crimson around a minefield of glass. He didn’t seem very concerned with turning it off right now, despite always bitching at you about saving electricity or water. His eyes were on you, and only you.

“Jonathan,” you mumbled weakly, though you thought you screamed; your eyelids fluttered and your heart pounded faster in your chest as the darkness threatened to spill across your vision again. Your nails dug past the fabric of his suit, gripping his arm tight so that he could never let you go.

“I’m here,” he breathed, and reached his other hand around your neck to cup your head, to bring you forward. You glimpsed the white ceramic of the bathroom sink, bloodied where you’d tried to steady yourself with your hand after you’d bashed your skull against the mirror – your ineffectual attempt to cast the demons out. Glass shards lay scattered against the tile. Fragments of your broken reflection.

You still remembered the haunted look you’d hoped to banish from your eyes.

“You have to get your head out of that place,” he murmured against your scalp, his fingers bloody and sticky as he brushed shards of glass from your hair, seemingly immune to the pain. “You’re not in hospital anymore. You’re here. With me. You have to come back to me.”

Your lower lip trembled. “I can’t escape them,” you admitted, voice a mere whimper. “I can’t escape it. You’re here to take me back, aren’t you? You’re gonna lock me up.”

For a moment, you really thought that he might; his palm still rested, warm and bleeding, against your cheek, but his cold blue eyes studied you not as his lover but as his patient, assessing your condition. He sighed, as if disappointed. Shame crawled its way beneath your skin like the cockroaches that had infested the asylum’s lower wards. You had always been so desperate for his approval, he rarely saw this side of you since your rehabilitation. It wasn’t until slivers of ice shattered into twin pools of blue fire that relief began to seep into you, slow and warm but whelming.

“No. No, I’m not,” he said, voice gentle, soothing. Blue eyes glanced to your head again. “Though, you are showing symptoms of a concussion…”

Your heart sped in your chest, and the icy talons of death speared your soul, the darkness hedging the borders of your vision. Innerved by your fear, you reached for the bottle of tiny white pills that lay open, haphazard next to you. But the warmth of his hand left your face, and your fingers clenched around nothing. In a blur of movement, Jonathan threw the bottle at the toilet and it clattered against the back of the seat. You jolted, gasping, wincing as the jagged teeth of the beast sliced through your clothing.

“You prescribed me those,” you told him. “They’re supposed to make me better. You said so yourself.”

“I’ll fill you a new prescription tomorrow. Taper you off. They were no good for you,” he said, and laced his fingers through the bloodied locks of your hair. Pulled your forehead to his so that your breaths became one, and the demons in your skull grew muffled, and his warmth chased away the icy touch of death.

“What am I gonna do?” you whimpered, sobbing, hands grasping feebly at whatever you could grab hold of – his sleeve, his tie, his collar. You felt as if your soul, your mind, were laying in fragments around you like the glass, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t piece them back together. “I just want to be free. I just want to be okay.”

“I know.” He inhaled, closing his eyes, and his grip tightened on your hair, scalp stinging slightly at the almost needy action. Like in this moment he was more afraid of losing you than you were him.

Even he thinks she’s a lost cause.

And Jonathan was never one to utter false truths; because you knew this about him, his silence unnerved you. But finally, after what could’ve been hours or minutes of your pitiful sobbing and the endless drone of the tub, the trickling of water against the tile, he said,

“I’ll be right here, darling. All you need to do is take my hand.” The warmth of his palm slotted into your own, and you wove your fingers so tight that your knuckles turned white around the blood that trickled down both your wrists from the jagged glass that barbed your flesh. A seal. A pact.

“I will see you through this,” he said. “All of it. I promise.”

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