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peachhcs · 1 month ago

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𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 | 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬

hughes!sister x will smith au (samy + will)

two times samy and will get injured in a game & then take care of the other afterwards

4.2k words

longest wonder years fic?? this takes place samy & will’s senior year of hs and dev program. this idea popped into my head the other day & i had to write it bc i find it really cute how much they look after one another & care for each other

au masterlist

ONE.

ann arbor's club soccer team was up by a point in a very tense game against battle creek's club team. now that the regular season was finished, samy transitioned from high school soccer to her club team she played with in the off season. her family traveled up from ann arbor into battle creek with the hockey boys in tow on a rather cold sunday afternoon.

the six of them—will, ryan, gabe, drew, aram, fowler, and vote—piled themselves into mrs. leonard's suv that fit a good seven people and followed mr. and mrs. hughes to the game. they were like a bus piling themselves in and pouring themselves out of the big vehicle ryan offered to drive so they wouldn't have to take two cars. now, they were all huddled together on the bench attempting to stay warm as the cold breeze brushed against their skin.

"god, how does she play in these temperatures. i'm freezing my ass off," aram complained, blowing into his hands for some more warmth.

none of them really looked at the weather before they left either, so the boys were pretty poorly dressed for a two hour game. gabe was probably the only one decently dressed in a heavier coat, a hat, and gloves—the others feeling very envious of him at the moment.

"she's got thick skin or some shit, especially wearing shorts and a short sleeve," ryan mumbled, clapping when ann arbor stole the ball back.

their eyes followed samy's team across the field as the girls struggled to get their feet on the ball. battle creek had a wicked good defense, so scoring wasn't easy. plus, club soccer felt way more competitive than high school soccer, at least in the boys' eyes. it was a lot faster movement, more running, and a lot more contact.

the youngest hughes waved her hand indicating she was open and wanted the ball. her teammate took it left, trying to fake out the opposing team. battle creek moved faster though and were on their toes as they intercepted the pass and took over.

samy ran across the field looking for an open or to steal the ball back. her footwork was fast as she bobbed and weaved through the other girls. the guys watched in amazement that she could move that fast, probably crediting some of it to her experience on the ice.

"let's go samy! take the ball!" ryan was the loudest one in the stands besides ellen and jim. he was never afraid to call out the refs and scream at the other team when they did something wrong.

"jeez, these girls are hella good," drew mumbled.

the ball fell to battle creek again. their girls ran up the field towards their goal making ann arbor chase after them before they could score. samy was in the middle of the action as the center forward, making an attempt to get the ball to score again.

battle creek passed it around, trying to get past the defense. samy's team crowed them, getting ready to block the shot which definitely flustered the other girls. the one who had the ball passed to her teammate who was relatively open for a goal. she got ahold of the ball, taking a shot from a very wide angle to the goal.

because it was so crowded in the goal area, the players nearly lost track of the ball until it came down on a direct hit to samy's face. the whole field gasped and so did people in the stands when the girl flinched, instinctively covering her face after the hit.

ellen and jim jumped up and so did will. when samy briefly pulled her hand away there was blood gushing from somewhere that was already staining her hands and dripping onto her jersey. more people gasped when they saw all the blood.

"oh shit," gabe mumbled.

samy's coach was running onto the field with the athletic trainer on her tail. they quickly ushered her off the field and samy's parents wasted no time rushing off the stands to her. will didn't even think twice either as he followed them and ignored his friend's calls.

her coach sat her down on the bench when the three got down there. ellen was at her daughter's side in seconds while jim and will stood back to see the damage. she slowly pulled her hand away again so everyone could see what happened and what was bleeding.

"looks like it busted your lip. you okay? feel okay?" the coach asked, handing the girl a cloth to apply more pressure.

"i-i think so," samy muttered, still a bit dazed from the whole thing.

"can you tell me what day it is?" they started doing the concussion check list.

"december 7th, 2022."

"your full name and birthday?"

"samantha poppy hughes. january 17th, 2005."

"what's their names?" her coach pointed to samy's parents and will standing in front of her.

"ellen hughes, jim hughes, and will smith." it seemed like she didn't have a concussion which was a relief, just a really bad busted lip. the thought relieved everyone that it wasn't anything worse, especially will and her parents.

"keep the cloth on the lip and see if the bleeding slows down. just sit and collect your thoughts," her coach instructed and samy nodded.

"will, can you sit with her? we're gonna go bring the car around closer if we need to take her to the emergency room," ellen looked at the blonde still standing there. he quickly nodded and took her place on the bench.

"crazy hit, huh?" the boy wondered and samy nodded.

"a shitty play if you ask me. she wasn't making that from where she took the shot," even hurt, the brunette was still commenting on the game and will laughed.

"can i see it again?" he wanted to see if the bleeding slowed down at all or not. samy slowly removed the cloth from her bottom lip and surprisingly, it started slowing a little, but the gash looked deep.

"shit, that looks deep. you still might need stitches," will informed as he inspected it.

"fuck. it's probably because of how cold it is and the ball was just extra hard today," the girl frowned while putting the cloth back to her lip.

"yeah, it's fucking freezing. how are you not cold? do you want my jacket?" will remembered that she was in nothing but shorts and a short sleeve. the youngest hughes giggled, but she didn't have time to say no because the blonde was shoving his jacket off and placing it around her shoulders.

"wow, so charming. thanks," she half smiled.

"i don't think you'd be happy getting hypothermia on top of a split lip," the two shared a laugh, indicating samy was still in good spirits.

"thanks for coming, by the way. i always like seeing you and everyone up in the stands," she settled herself against the back of the bleachers, sitting close enough that their shoulders and knees touched and will tried ignoring the feeling in his stomach at the contact.

"what kind of friends would we be if we missed a game? we just need to check the weather before leaving next time," his words made samy giggle again.

"how you feeling hughes?" samy's coach caught their attention again. the girl removed the cloth to show her the damage again.

"looks pretty busted. why don't you head back with your parents and get that looked at. you might need stitches. just keep me updated," her coach said and the girl nodded, a bit disappointed she was out for the rest of the game.

will helped the girl up, picking up her bag for her as they walked to find where ellen and jim ended up. the blonde caught his friends' attention in the stands, motioning to them that they were gonna leave. gabe gathered them all to meet them at the bottom of the bleachers.

"you all good hughesy?" ryan wondered when they got to them.

"yeah, i think i'm fine. busted my lip, but it doesn't look horrible," the girl shrugged.

"that was a nasty hit. it looked like it hurt," aram commented and will glared at him because obviously it hurt.

"yeah, it definitely did, but i'll be fine," samy chuckled nonetheless.

mr. and mrs. hughes finally reappeared with the car. will helped her over and into the backseat, putting her stuff in the trunk. "thanks will. you boys get home safe!" ellen exclaimed to all of them to which they nodded.

"we will, don't worry," will smiled. he waved to samy and so did the other boys before they drove off towards the hospital.

it wasn't until they got back into ryan's suv that gabe noticed will didn't have his jacket anymore, "where's your coat?"

for a second the blonde grew confused until he remembered samy still had it on, "oh samy has it. i gave it to her so she wouldn't get cold."

the darker-haired boy eyed his friend for a moment, about to make a probably smartass comment about that, but he decided to refrain and kept his mouth shut. the blonde noticed gabe's hesitation and raised his eyebrow.

"what?"

"nothing."

will didn't get it, but the other boys in the car did and they shared knowing glances around the blonde.

four hours later, samy facetimed will to update him. she connected with a line of stitches across the underside of her bottom lip. "does it look badass?"

"oh for sure. glad you're okay," will nodded.

"i knew i was gonna be fine. they numbed up my lip that i've just been drooling everywhere. i tried drinking something earlier but i literally spilled it all over myself," samy laughed and will was glad to see her in a good mood despite everything.

"well at least you're chipper. that's always a good sign of healing," he chuckled.

"i get them out in twoish weeks, but i can't play until they're out and i'm cleared," she rolled her eyes slightly.

"oh, that sucks. i guess that just means more time you get to come to games?" will grinned.

"right. by the way, i still have your jacket. i'll give it you whenever i see you which will probably be on wednesday at your game."

"can't wait," the two shared a smile and then proceeded to sit on facetime for the rest of the night. the brunette caught will up on everything she didn't tell him about the week and will caught her up on everything he didn't when he didn't see her.

if no one knew them, they'd definitely be suspicious of how long their facetimes were when they saw the phone log. the boys definitely were every time will denied there being anything between the two.

yeah right.

TWO.

the holiday hockey tournament was samy's favorite set of games the ntdp put on because each game was a different theme for those in the stands and she always got some type of free treat they were handing out to the fans. last night was your best elf or santa costume and tonight was wear your best holiday pajamas.

night two was always samy's personal favorite because she got to be comfortable and cozy sitting in the cool arena. she loved it when she was younger because her 10-year-old self had an excuse when she came to watch quinn's games.

it felt like dev program spirit nights. tomorrow night was wear your best game day outfit which meant people would come in their best threads and samy already had an outfit idea in mind. the girl got herself comfortable three rows up from the glass where she always sat next to grace and ryan's girlfriend who flew out for break.

the boys were playing against michigan state tonight and everyone was excited for a loud and crowded game since the entire arena sold out. the usa boys were on the ice doing warmups. samy caught will's gaze that looked for her before every start so he knew where she was sitting. she waved and he quickly waved back to her, julianne, and grace.

"so..what's up with you two?" julianne began with a quizzical look in samy's direction. the brunette raised her eyebrow.

"what do you mean?"

"i dunno. still not together?" she poked and the youngest hughes finally understood what her friend was getting at. a flush fell over her cheeks and she glanced over at grace briefly who said nothing but had the same look on her face as julianne.

"no, we're not. come on, you know we're just friends," samy brushed the comment off while choosing to forget about everything that happened between her, kevin, and will and all the stuff she was still trying to figure out herself.

"okay. just asking. ryan brings it up sometimes," the blonde hummed while samy's flush turned into slight embarrassment.

"oh."

julianne didn't bring it up again after that and samy was left wondering what that meant and what ryan was saying to her. she tried to not think about it too much or else she'd get into her own head and she just wanted to enjoy a game of hockey tonight.

the team kicked it off thirty minutes later with the first puck drop. the u18s flew across the ice after the puck that michigan easily worked to their favor. playing against the college teams were great experience for the boys who were heading to college next year, but they sure were tough and a bit more experienced than the u18s.

michigan's boys skated the bends of the rink with the puck. they were good at defense and getting between the players to make passes. samy was on her feet like always, shouting things and following everyone with her eyes.

"come on! get past them!" she called out to the usa boys. the golden trio as samy liked to call them worked together trying to get ahold of the puck, but man, michigan was quick.

minnetian finally got his stick on it. he took it up the ice, passing into will's line. the blonde shot his stick out to control it towards the goal. the three girls watched as he passed back to ryan who passed to gabe. the darker-haired boy went for the goal, throwing his hands up when it went into the net.

the stands cheered for them and samy jumped up in excitement. the other girls closer to the glass screamed gabe's name which definitely inflated his ego a bit as he blew them kisses. julianne, grace, and samy giggled at his behavior.

"god, he's so weird," julianne shook her head.

"tell me about it," samy mumbled with a small shake of her head.

the game picked up into a close score. 3-2 in the u18s favor. they were fighting hard tonight, especially will's line who was becoming better and better each game.

during the second period, things started getting a bit more tense. michigan started getting more touchy, sending some of the boys into the boards in a clean hit as they skated past for the puck. people in the stands started complaining when almost every u18 got sent into the boards by one of the michigan boys.

"what the hell! let's play fair!" samy called because she didn't think they deserved to be shoved like that.

will had a hold on the puck, racing towards the other end of the rink to the goal. ryan and gabe were at his sides ready to get a pass if he needed, but then a big guy in green came barreling down the center of them and went head first into the blonde sending both of them to the ground.

a gasp rippled across the stands and samy jumped up, her own gasp leaving her lips when she saw how hard will fell to the ground. the whistle blew and everyone went still for a second as the teammates crowded around.

"shit, come on, will. get up," the brunette mumbled under her breath as everyone watched in anticipation.

will wasn't getting up. the michigan player who hit into him was up and the fans started yelling at the refs to throw him out for that one.

"he's not getting up," samy mumbled mostly to herself or to julianne and grace if they were listening. she found herself clutching julianne's arm as the refs looked will over.

"get up, get up, get up," the silence in the stands was a bit deafening as they watched one of the star players lay on the ice somewhat unmoving.

finally, will was up with the help of the refs. he didn't look good at all. samy caught gabe's gaze in the stands and when they met eyes, he made a motion for her to come down, so she raced down the bleachers without a word. the others clapped, relieved the blonde was at least on his feet. they got will off the ice and took him back into the locker room just as samy made it down to the floor.

she poked her head into the locker room, watching as will tore his helmet off and fell back against his stall groaning out in pain. she slipped in, knowing they didn't care she was in there.

"will? are you okay?" she was at his side a moment later, worried when she saw him wince with every movement. the trainers let her slide in next to him on the bench as they tried helping him get his gear off so they could see better.

"fuck, that hurt so fucking bad," the blonde grumbled.

"that was a mean hit. i don't know why they started playing so dirty like that," samy shook her head as she also helped the trainers slide will's shoulder pads off.

the girl moved back as they began examining his shoulder and chest area all while will just groaned and complained of the pain whenever they touched him. the worry was etched into her features because she never saw her friend get hit like that before.

"ow, ow, ow," will complained when the trainers got his leg pads off next. they felt around his rib cage and hip area, testing out different pressures of each touch and peaking at his skin for any bruising.

the blonde subconsciously reached out for samy's hand as a way to place the pain somewhere else. she let him take it and he literally squeezed the life out of her hand.

"it doesn't look or seem like anything's broken, but we're gonna send you in anyway just in case. i think it's just some serious bruising. you took a pretty hard hit and i think your body is just in shock from it," the trainer explained.

"fuck, it feels like i broke something though," will huffed.

"which is why we're gonna recommend you get into the er so they can take some x-rays and confirm. i don't think anything is broken because it doesn't feel like it from what i examined, but i might've missed something smaller," the girl continued.

"yeah, okay," the blonde nodded.

"do you have anyone that can take you? are your parents here?"

"not tonight but my sister is. and you," will looked at samy who quickly flushed.

"i can go get her," the brunette nodded, ready to get up and get grace, but will held her hand in place before she could move.

"no, no just text her to come. don't leave me," will nearly begged so the girl didn't move. instead, she pulled her phone out to text grace to come down.

the older smith sibling was in the locker room a minute later. she frowned at her brother's painful state. "i'm gonna need help getting him up," she looked at samy who nodded.

the girls put their arms under will's armpits and slowly got him to his feet. the boy groaned out at the movement, literally putting all of his weight on them as they shuffled themselves out of the arena to grace's car.

"shit, i parked kind of far. do you think you can make it or should i bring the car around?" the older girl wondered.

"just bring it around. it'll take us forever if i try to walk," will mumbled.

"are you okay here with him for a few minutes?" grace asked samy who nodded and then the girl hurried off to get to find her car.

"sorry for making you stand in the cold," will mumbled as he tried not to put all of his weight on just samy.

"it's okay. can i check your bruising again? i wanna see if it got worse," the brunette asked. will nodded and attempted to hold himself up as samy slowly slid his shirt up.

just as she suspected, there was big purple makes littering will's rib cage where the guy hit into him. his shoulder looked similar, but like the trainer said, nothing looked broken. "it honestly just looks badly bruised," the girl said.

"i guess that's a relief," will threw his arm back around her shoulder when she was done inspecting.

"i was worried for a second. you had me scared you weren't gonna get up," samy said after a beat of silence. will peered down at her, a bit of surprise on his features.

"well, i thought i wasn't making it up after hat hit," the blonde grumbled.

"i'm glad you did though. can't have you getting seriously hurt on me," the girl teased a bit making will crack a smile.

"i'd never, don't worry. or if i do, at least i know you'll be there for me," a small blush spread across both of their cheeks, but luckily grace drove around before they could say something else.

samy helped will into the car, trying to gently sit him down without hurting him further. she ruffled up some of his still damp and sweaty curls, "i'll come by and check on you after the game if you're home."

"please do. i'll be expecting you," will teased a bit. samy rolled her eyes, stepping away and waving to the siblings as they drove off.

despite losing will, the u18s won the game 4-3 which held some redemption for all the players they pushed down throughout. will texted an hour ago that they were back home and he was just badly bruised, nothing broken, so samy decided to stop by and see him like she promised.

she made her way up the stairs to his room and gently knocked on the door before pushing it open. the blonde glanced up from his phone, smiling at her presence as she slowly shut the door.

"i'm not broken at least," the boy grinned, throwing his phone to the side. samy rolled her eyes a bit as she sat down on his bed. will carefully pushed himself up some more so he could rest his back against the headboard.

"that makes me relieved. you guys won 4-3 at least," she smiled.

"i know, gabe texted. that makes me feel a little better that they whipped their asses. still have no idea what was up with them tonight," will huffed.

"yeah me neither. my mom thought it was because they were mad u18s were beating them so they decided to play rough."

"fucking bullshit honestly. maybe it's because u18s have never had the lead on them like that before," the two snickered before falling into a second of silence.

"did you at least win the pajama contest?" will changed the subject as he examined samy's holiday pjs more closely. he liked the little reindeer on them and her matching top.

"no, i didn't, but it's fine. i was still comfortable so that's all that matters," she grinned.

"you'd definitely win if i was judging. how could they not like the reindeers?" the hockey player laughed.

"beats me. a kid in an elf onesie won over me," the girl shrugged but will just rolled his eyes at that.

"whatever. they just don't have taste," his words earned a tiny blush across samy's cheeks.

she wanted to change her sitting position, so she crawled up will's bed to sit beside him against the headboard. the blonde instinctively opened his arm for her to get into, locking it around her waist while his other hand clicked the tv on with the remote.

no wonder why julianne asked about them.

even if samy and will knew it, they'd never talk about it with one another. they were friends and this was them hanging out as friends. there was nothing weird about the way samy talked will's ear off about the rest of the game and the boy just listened while half watching the tv with a content little smile on his lips like everything about her in his arms was so perfect and normal for them.

and when it was getting late and will's mom hadn't heard much since samy went upstairs she peaked her head into her son's room to find the two cuddled into one another fast asleep in his bed. the older woman stared at the two teenagers for a second before deciding to let them be.

she also knew. way more than her son and her best friend's daughter did. so she let them be because it was late and she wasn't going to wake samy up just to make her drive the 30 minutes home.

plus, she figured will could use the company and comfort after tonight's injury.

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temporalhiccup · 3 months ago

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In an effort to ease out of burn out and try to feel real and human again I'm digging around old games and seeing what would be fun to tinker with. For most of my games they get to at least an Alpha Build/Playtestable stage, but Never Break The Chain is one of the few that didn't quite manage to get that far (though it honestly wouldn't take that much more I think!)

Never Break The Chain mechanically and emotionally is a response to The Eventide Club, which was @jdragsky's response to Apocalypse Keys.

It's clear that this game is partly a love letter to jay dragon's design and how it makes me feel, and I wrote this during a time when I was insecure about my design. I was reeling from the idea that my games were too emotional to be enjoyable, that strangers were never going to like the games I create. (Typical Capricorn, even the way I work through my shit has to be productive in some way)

Every player character is made up of two components: a Musician Playbook and a God Playbook. It's my take on the very popular idea of fallen gods feeding off divine worship as musicians. I wanted to create a really fun and emotionally intense game (inspired by how famously messy Fleetwood Mac and other bands can be, definitely The Wicked + The Divine too).

It's been three years since I took a look at this stuff and it's fun remembering the mechanical shenanigans I was up to: tightening chains, breaking them, creating halos, shattering them, etc. I'll tinker a bit with these mechanics and see what comes of it.

The more complex of the playbooks are the Musician ones. What remains of the divine is raw and simple, ever fading and barely there. In comparison, the Musician playbooks are a chance for me to explore some truly messy human stuff.

Here's the Musician playbook, The Mask, it's mostly intact from the last time I touched it years ago. I just tightened a few options here and there.

I'll spell out the inspiration for this playbook: David Bowie, specifically the maddened Bowie interviewed by Cameron Crowe in 1975.

Bowie was famous for his different personas, and you can see some of them represented in the masks below: Ziggy Stardust, The Thin White Duke, Halloween Jack, the Goblin King, and the Minotaur.

This playbook is an exploration of what it could have been like for Bowie exploring these different personas, based on various events written about or talked about in later years, offering points of tension and intensity (deconstructed and awaiting creative input, like always) and hopefully creating explosive moments of playable drama.

I do think this playbook leans most into Bowie's contentious phase as the Thin White Duke. This was a man who was clearly breaking apart on stage, underneath the thinnest veneer of a persona that was holding itself together with a white-knuckled grip. Other personas were haunting him, discarded or never worn. Station to Station is my favorite Bowie album on most days, and his live performances of its music are almost painful to watch (while impossible to look away from).

I think, if we ever get this to playtest, I'll probably leave this playbook mostly as is (barring some mechanical tweaks that will be applied to all playbooks maybe) and just see where things go.

The Mask

You understand better than anyone that music is a story, and that performance is a mask well worn. You have created several Masks and stories over the years, and the Masks have recreated you. But as you seek fame and fortune, will the Mask become more real than you ever could be? One day you'll wake up and there won't be anything of you left, just a blank face both empty and signifying nothing.

Your Name

(Choose 1): A completely made up name that is never questioned, an appropriately dramatic name, a single initial that no one pronounces properly, I change my name every few months, a series of letters and numbers that only makes sense to my fans, a name that is as enigmatic as it is beautiful.

Your Look

(Choose 3-4): A painfully sharp and pale business suit with splatters of paint and blood on it, shades that almost no one has ever seen me take off, hair dyed into every imaginable color, the cruelest smile, the kindest eyes, an intoxicating scent, small and delicate tattoos that tell all my secrets, the body language of a predator, an unexpected scar, something else that betrays my mortality and weakness.

Your Role in the Band:

(Choose 1-3): Lead vocalist, lead guitar, muse, song writer, fuck buddy, everybody's ex, the face of the band, I'm here to look pretty baby

Choose the Mask you currently wear, one Mask you discarded, and one Mask that threatens to consume you.

I am an alien from a dying planet and harbinger of an inescapable apocalypse, my music is wild and haunting

I am royalty from a fictional past and deride the love I desperately need, my music is rhythmic and romantic

I am a rebel leader from a dark future and I shall orchestrate a dystopia of our own making, my music is hypnotic and delirious

I am the fae king who grants ill-cast wishes and offers dark bargains, my music is ethereal and manipulative

I am a serial killer who turns willing victims into impossible art pieces, my music is violent and eerie

I am a fallen angel, on the run from divine hunters and mortal lovers and only you can save me, my music is soft and beautiful

I am a broken doll mimicking life, perfect and made to fulfill your every desire, my music is naive and inviting

I am a warrior from another time and place, only you can heal my wounds and recreate my fate, my music is loud and lustful

As The Mask I gain 2-4 tokens when I:

Hide my true feelings behind a Mask

Ask someone to wear one of my Masks, for now

Give a part of myself to a Mask

When you gain your fifth token:

The divine music swells within you and seeks release. You cannot gain new tokens until you choose one:

Go to another band member and take off your Mask, reveal something vulnerable and raw about yourself. If they reach out to touch your real face, they break a chain. If they do anything else, break one of your chains.

Reflect on the god you once where, and create a new Mask to contain that memory. Your power wanes, crack one halo.

The Mask's Chains:

A whisper that comes from my mouth but doesn't sound like me at all

An embrace that promises more than it should

A kiss that comes dangerously close to unmasking me

One of my Masks on someone else's face

A song I wrote that will weaken a single Mask

A Mask I created that takes a life of its own

A Mask someone else creates to imprison me

Someone I love wearing my true face

The Mask's Move:

When you put on one of your Masks to tell its story, describe how you embody it and how you draw others into your spell. Spend tokens and roll.

On an 8-10 You are in control of the Mask, choose one:

A part of your Mask becomes more real than real, create a new Chain that reflects this.

A part of your true self gives way to the Mask, one Halo becomes whole again.

Someone is inexplicably drawn to you, you have them wrapped around your finger, for now. Say who they are and place a chain on them. If they're a band member, they place a chain on you as well.

On an 11+ The Mask begins to consume you, and you cannot tell the difference between art and reality. Choose one:

Another band member must become a part of your story, both of you place a chain on the other. For now, you are obsessed with crafting a Mask for them to match your own.

One of your fans is convinced the Mask is your true self, you cannot outrun them. For the rest of the scene you are at your fan's mercy. Describe how their obsession for you draws out something painful and real from you. When you return in a future scene gain the chain: an obsessed and dangerous fan

On a 7- your sense of self shatters and the Mask bleeds through. Until you regain your sense of self and remember you are not your Mask, you cannot perform. The Audience will tell you what happens next.

At the start of every session:

Spend a moment with your Masks and consider who they are and what story they have to tell. Choose one:

Put down the Mask you're currently wearing and pick up another, why does this one call out to you?

Change something essential about one of your Masks, what part of you refuses to bend or break?

Create a new Mask, based on someone you're obsessed with and yearn for. What does it feel like when you pretend to be them?

#never break the chain #pbta #design breakdown #ttrpg design #indie ttrpg #sword queen games #indie ttrpgs #im honestly so burnt out i am a crisp of the human i once was #im not doing okay but looking at old game design stuff has been fun #ill eventually be okay!#maybe playtesting this will be the cathartic and fun experience I hope it'll be

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waywardsou2 · 5 months ago

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Logan Howlett X Coverartist!MaleReader

Summary: Logan didn't even know why he went to this stupid concert. It was so damn loud and his senses were overwhelmed. Not to mention the only available place was in the mosh pit with all the sweaty chaotic bodies swarming around him. It sucked.

Word count: 1k+

Tags: concert, implied past trauma, strangers bonding, no dialogue, implied M! reader

Logan didn't even know why he went to this stupid concert. It was so damn loud and his senses were overwhelmed. Not to mention the only available place was in the mosh pit with all the sweaty chaotic bodies swarming around him. It sucked. But all he wanted was a distraction.

He pushed himself to the front of the crowd up against the fence that kept a gap between the stage and the crowd. He hoped maybe up here he could find some respite but everywhere he turned there were just more bodies. At least the music was loud enough to drown out everything else. Every other voice and memory in his head.

Maybe that's why he came here. To drown the voices, push their head under the water of sound and hold them there until they suffocate.

It was something. The music was pumping a song he didn't quite recognise but the best filled his ears so it was better than nothing.

He watched you and your band on the stage. This song was more tame than ones you had in your arsenal so you weren't jumping around like usual. More bopping back and forth to the beat as the notes rang clearly from your mouth.

You and your band were a cover band specifically but you were notorious for coving songs like you were the original band. You finished the last note of Adele's 'Fire to the Rain' before the music died down. The crow cheered for your performance and you held up the hand with a microphone in it. They cheered louder as you smiled, your chest heaving with the effort of pulling full breaths of oxygen back into your lungs.

Your curls were gathering in large ringlets and sticking to your face as sweat had begun to cover your skin. It felt gross but it meant you were having a good time so you didn't mind. Your tank top stuck to your chest as well outlining the faint muscles you had underneath.

Your black loose jeans swayed around your ankles as you walked. You knew the next song that was coming on. This crowd was going to go nuts.

As your keyboard player began with the opening notes of 'Ride' by Twenty One pilots. The crowd began going wild. Even louder than before, if that was even possible.

But all Logan could do was watch as you took several deep breaths in. Re-warming up your lungs and abdomen for this next song.

This one he knew.

It was one he listened to often. Having been born in the 1800 he had heard a lot of music over the decades. But this was one he liked the most. Unlike his usual collection of 70s rock, jazz and mix and match 40s swing music, he loved it none the less.

He watched as you stared out over the crowd as you begun to sing. Your voice low but powerful. Full of life and emotion as you let each word roll off your tonge.

Your eyes scanned the crowd as they always did. Watching the faces of fans come together to form a symphony of joy and excitement. The feeling would never get old. As your eyes fell to the front of the stage you saw a man. Couldn't have been older than 30 with wicked mutton chops, a crisp leather jacket and brown eyes that were such a beautiful shade you were sure someone had carved then out of an oak tree. His hair was most intriguing if all. With the edges curled up into little waves. They almost looked like cat ears from up here.

He wasn't really your type. But you couldnt help but look at him and marvel at his looks. His body was tense but he gave the illusion of calm with his nonchalant demeanor. His arms resting on the metal fence that keep any unruly fans from you and your band members. As the song went on your eyes couldn't help but fall back to the man over and over.

His gaze was hard. But not cold. And every time you looked he was looking at you.

What were you thinking of course he was. You were performing on stage in front of a crowd, everyone was staring at you. As usual that thought gave you the shivers.

Slowly the tension in the song built up. The guitar and drums fell away with only the keyboard and synth left. Your vocals ringing clear and true like a church bell. As the song reached its peak you yelled out the long note. Singing with all of your heart. This song had always meant so much to you. Not that you knew exactly why. You bent over and closed your eyes as your voice strsined but didn't break to hit and hold the note.

Logan listened intently as the background music faded and your vocals rang out for the peak of the song. It was his favourite part. The one that helped him feel the most. Helped him to remember that he was human, mostly. With a heart that still beat like anyone else. It didn't matter that his bones were msde of Anamantium or that he had retractable claws not dissimilar to a Wolverines.

He watched as your eyes closed as you inhaled one last time ready for the long note. Something in him told him to breathe deeply. And before he knew it he was matching your tone and singing out the note a long with you. All other sound faded away except your harmonising voice. Your mezo alto with his bass. It's was beautiful the way your voices wrapped around eachother like a double helix of musical symphony.

For a moment the crowd completely disappeared. The floor emptied, no moshers in sight. Only concrete floor. No happy fans yelling from the bleachers. No strobe lights and fancy displays. Just you, Logan and your voices.

But as the notes fell away all of that came rushing back with a crash. The noise flooding back like a broken damn. People kicking his legs as they jumped and pressing up against him as they clumsily flailed around. But he couldn't tear his eyes away from you as you opened yours.

As you closed your eyes the last thing you saw was the man still standing by the fence. His own face beginning to scrunch with the effort of sounding out a note this long. He was singing with you. The two of you were singing. His voice mixed with yours. Despite the roar of the crowd you could hear it. His voice ringing loud and true along side yours. It was the only thing you could hear. Just the two of you. In perfect harmony.

The emotion of music had the power to pull the two of you together. It was strange and magical.

You finished the song and knew your gig was up for tonight. You hoped before the night was truly through, you would get to speak to the leather clad man from the mosh pit

Let me know if you want a part two!

I also take requests if anyone is interested

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sp0o0kylights · 2 years ago

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S4 Starts with the Demobats Attacking the School / Rejected Stobin Time Travel AU Bit

Eddie's hunched over the table, fingers held up in wicked claws. His hair hangs down as he tilts his head, voice pitched to the maniacal tone of the villain he's finally unleashed on his players.

This is it. The big reveal, the prelude to the boss fight. His players have worked hard to get here, and they stare raptly, caught up in the rising horror of betrayal and terror that Eddie's been weaving around them.

This whole campaign took months to reach this point. His glee cannot be contained and so he channels it into his villain instead; cackling madly before throwing himself upwards, one hand covering his face but with his fingers splayed to showcase one wide eye.

"Now you see your fatal flaw!" Eddie crows. "Pick up your weapons and--"

He slams one hand down on the table.

"--fight --"

He slams his other hand down.

"--for--"

A third bang, far louder than Eddie's own echoes through the room.

Hellfire as a whole jumps --Dustin screaming and Jeff shouting--as Steve fucking Harrington bursts through the drama room's door.

"Why the hell don't you have your walkies!?" He thunders as he flies in, face furious.

Fury bolts through Eddie like lightning, so fast it leaves him temporarily light headed.

"Steve!" Dustin yelps at the same time Mike pissily shouts his name. Both leap to their feet, as Harrington, chest heaving, slams the door behind himself.

"We have a code red!" Harrington spits, eyes focused on the younger Hellfire members. He fumbles with the door for a moment, long enough for Eddie to realize he’s trying to lock it, before the ex-jock strides into the room.

It's not until Steve gets closer that Eddie registers the bat with nails in it. There's a dark, tacky liquid leaking down the sides, little bits of something rancid clinging to some of the nails.

A metallic scent that screams 'wrong wrong wrong!' and oh God.

It's blood.

Real blood, not the fake stuff Eddie once bought for his Dracula costume.

"The Party--" Dustin hisses, head flying comically between Steve and the rest of the table (but most noticeably, down at Eddie’s end, where the older Hellfire members reside.)

"I suggest you read them in or whatever Nance calls it, Henderson, because they're involved now." Harrington says, deadly serious.

Sinclair’s face scrunches up in confusion. "What do you--"

Something screeches outside. The noise raises every hair on Eddie's neck, and temporarily stuns the room into silence.

An echoing scream answers, just as inhuman as the first.

Harrington winces. "Give em the cliffnotes version man, there's a bunch of bats outside."

"Bat bats or--demobats?"

"What do you think, Mike?"

"Fuck." Sinclair hisses under his breath.

"Anyone besides me have any weapons?" Harrington asks and he sounds like he's not hopeful for a yes but is asking anyway.

"Yes Steve, we all brought guns to school. Mines in my locker!" Mike snips, and Harrington levels him with that annoyed look mothers everywhere somehow seem to know.

"I've got my slingshot." Lucas chimes in, patting his backpack. "I uh, I don't go anywhere without it anymore."

Harrington nods, once. His faze ticks up, sweeping across the room to the older members.

"Alright. Anyone else?"

"A knife." Jeff admits after a long pause, his own eyes trained on Harrington's nail bat.

Grant shakes his head, and Gareth, usually the loudest of them, is silent.

A static crackle makes everyone jump, before a tinny voice comes through. "Steve, are you there? This is Nancy."

"Hey Nance. We have an Upside Down situation at the school."

A pause then; "it's not just the school."

"Shit." Dustin hisses. Then adds; "Scale of one to ten, how many bats would you say are outside?”

“Too many.” Harrington answers, running his free hand through his hair. It’s a soothing motion, Eddie has watched Steve enough to know that, but this time something’s different.

Less “shit I flunked my chemistry final” and more frantic, “we’re losing the baseball game and also Hargrove’s being weirdly aggressive again.”

Not that Eddie witnessed such events, just that he had….heard about them.

Sure.

He’ll go with that.

xXx

Wheeler Jr yelps, sliding as a demobat swoops down and beats at him with its wings. Teeth snap close to his head, missing his ear by inches.

He twirls, arms waving madly, until Harrington grabs him, keeping Mike's head down with one hand and jamming his nailbat toward the creature with the other.

The two of them manage to make it into Eddie's van, half falling half jumping, Gareth and Grant slamming the door behind them as demobats dive at them.

"Gun it!" Gareth calls and Eddie does so, the lurch sending Henderson and Jeff tumbling to the floor.

Eddie watches in the mirror as Mike, the most antagonist of the freshman when it comes to Harrington, clings to the ex-jocks shirt for a moment.

Steve's hand has left the back of his shirt, though now Eddie can see his grip has changed to more of a tender hold on the kid. Something familiar and comforting.

"I got you." Steve says quietly and it's only because Eddie's got his attention split between him and the road that he catches it, and the way Mike presses his forehead against Steve's shoulder for a moment before finally sitting up.

Which just confirms what Eddie already knew--for all his bluster and guff, Mike was one of Harrington's too.

xxx

--This is where It turned into the “failed time stobin time travel AU- but I like this part and you need the above for it to make sense so TWO IN ONE--

xxx

Speed running the beginning is starting to become the easiest part, if only because Steve finally knows exactly what to say.

"They're not a part of the party." He mimics Dustin's voice before pointing a finger at him. "We have exactly sixteen minutes before the damn demobats attack you can fill them in in Eddie's van."

The very same Eddie who looks positively aghast. "You actually believe this?"

"Oh absolutely." Dustin says, scooping his nerd crap into his backpack. "Trust me, Steve's not creative enough to come up with something like this on his own."

"Hey." Steve says in warning.

"Also he only gets bitchy like this when something’s gone really wrong." Dustin ads with a look that might have been apologetic--if one squinted and looked at his face sideways.

Lucas, Steve's new favorite, slides slowly next to him. "You sure you're okay?" He asks quietly and Steve pats him on the shoulder for being the only one to care.

“Not at all.” He answers because fuck, he really, really, isn’t. “In the meantime, I need you all to listen very carefully.”

Mike already has his mouth open, patented bitchy look on his face and nope, no, Steve is not letting him derail this conversation.

He let that happen by accident once and Steve’s learned his lesson since.

Pointing at Mike, Steve starts firing instructions. “Do not, under any circumstance, try to fight the bats. They can and have lifted you right off your feet and I will not be jumping for you again.”

Steve’s finger ticked right, to Lucas. “Luc, I know you have your slingshot and a handful of shit to fling in it. You need to sprint to Eddie’s van, then get set up to start shooting so the rest of us have cover. Got it?”

Lucas, Steve was pleased to see, had already dropped into ‘shit’s fucked’ mode. He nods, his own nerdy gear long packed away. He digs through his backpack now, looking no doubt for the slingshot.

Steve was baking him a damn cake when all this was over.

“Gareth.” He continues, pointing at the next guy down the line, watching as he jumps out of his skin (and then looks mad about it, as if it was Steve’s fault he’d flinched.) “You’re weirdly good at counting the bats, so I’m gonna ask you to keep doing that man. As well as keep an eye out for anything ground level, we got surprised by a demodog last time.”

“Shit, really?” Mike groans, throwing his hands over his eyes in frustration.

He was ignored.

Steve skips over Eddie entirely, knowing all too well how much of a trap addressing him could be. “Grant, you’re best on the radio. Once we are securely in the van I need you to call for Nancy and give her an update on what’s happening.

Grant at least, comes onboard immediately, nodding his head and standing.

He got an absolute look of betrayal from Eddie and Gareth for it, but hey that was yet another thing to be addressed later.

Here, Steve slings his own backpack down and off his shoulders, taking the first thing he has in it, out. “Jeff,” He calls, before holding up the box he’d pulled out. “This is a medkit. You know how to use it, so you get it.”

Steve doesn’t toss the box to him this time, instead putting the kit on the table and sliding it over.

Hesitantly, Jeff takes it, eyes darting between Steve and Eddie.

“And Dustin--” Steve says with an air of finality, yanking the second item he’s been looking for out of his backpack, “take off that damn Weird Al abomination and put this jacket on. For some reason the bats keep locking onto it.”

“They want my shirt?” Dustin asks, but does as told, seeming far too delighted at having been given Steve’s old swim team jacket.

“Uh.” Eddie starts, rising to a hunch over the table, head partially tilted.

Steve was pretty sure he did that because he thought it was intimidating (or at least, perhaps was a bad habit because he did it way more often then he didn’t, but that was a thought for Not In The Beginning of The Mess Steve.)

“We have five minutes left before they attack.” Steve says, right over the second (and far more aggressive) “Uh.”

“The van isn’t locked, which is just so safe considering all the drugs in it, Munson.” He can’t help himself, throws the pissiest, most disapproving look he has in his arsenal at a now gaping Eddie.

“No matter who gets to it first, one but Eddie or myself drive it, understand?”

“Oh so now you’re fine with Eddie’s driving!?” Dustin doesn’t stomp his feet but Steve has known him for a while now.

The foot stomping behavior wasn’t one he grew out of until just last year.

“Considering what we’re about to face yes, absolutely I am.” Steve counters rapidly. “Eddie drives like a demon and that’s exactly what we need right now.”

And oh. He’s going to have to say things like this more, because the shocked look that overtook Munson’s face is delightful.

“I’m taking the rear, because I have the bat.” He holds his weapon, watches as the older members of Hellfire finally seem to register what it is. “Everyone got the plan down?”

“Harrington.” Eddie finally starts, voice positively frigid in fury, and Steve is prepared to mouth what is no doubt the line Eddie’s about to say (much like Dustin, he too rarely deviates lines in the beginning) “What kind of game do you--”

Right on cue, something inhuman screams outside.

The bats are here.

“Bicker later, Munson.” Steve says, locking eyes with Eddie. “Goal for now is to survive.”

xXx

The run to Eddie’s van consistently remains to be one of the worst parts of the entire day (minus the other various parts where someone inevitably bites it, thus resetting the entire damn time loop.)

The initial plan had gone smoothly. Lucas reaches the van first, then uses it as a shield while he provides cover with his slingshot.

The little group of Jeff-Dustin-Grant and Eddie all manage to reach it at about the same time, with Steve able to pull the bats off them with a couple of well timed whacks of the nailbat.

This is where everything goes to shit.

Once again, Mike tries to take the spot of “first to die” by swinging his fist at a low flying bat. The tail of the thing immediately catches his wrist, using the momentum of the movement to swing its teeth towards the freshmen’s face.

Steve reverses direction, and knows immediately he won’t be there in time to prevent an injury.

Curses hard, and winds up to swing, right as Gareth snarls out; “Hell no!”

He’s closer to Mike, and despite already having one bat swooping madly at his head, manages to grab the one attacking Wheeler right as Mike trips over his own feet and falls backwards.

A stream of yells and ‘fuck you!’’s follow as Steve bends to yank Mike up, then carries on as wings beat frantically around Gareth’s head.

The other bat dives, latching onto his hip right as Steve manages to grab the one Gareth’s holding. Takes it from him as Gareth screams, trying desperately to rip the demobat that’s gotten its teeth into him, off.

Practice makes perfect, and perfect in this case, is slamming the fucking demobat onto the concrete hard enough to stun it before slamming it to bits with two hard strikes of the nailbat.

Steve isn’t sure how long it takes him to do it, but between Gareth’s screaming and the shrieks of more incoming bats, he knows he doesn’t have much time.

He’s not losing someone. Not here, right at the start.

Not when he already knows how to play out this part.

Gareth manages to rip the creature off himself, and Steve takes it from there, snatching it out of the younger man’s hands and repeating the fling-and-smash move he killed its brethren with.

Does it fast enough that he’s back at Gareth’s side before the guy starts to collapse downward, tears streaming down his face.

“I’ve got you, you’re okay.” Steve tells him, pulling him close and forcing Gareth to wrap an arm around his shoulders. “Put hard pressure on it man, hard, then we’re gonna run for it.”

“Can’t--fuck---” Gareth pants between hard breaths. Blood’s soaked soaking into his jeans, and a glance at it shows it’s a bad bite.

“You can.” Steve tells him, already pulling them both forward.

It doesn’t go well.

Gareth almost goes down twice, leg buckling, and Steve grits his teeth. Knows neither of them are going to make it at this rate.

“Gary!” Someone screams. He can’t quite tell if it’s Jeff or Eddie, but either way, Mike and Dustin have leapt out of the car, flinging rocks and whatever else they can find into the air.

“Careful!” Steve yells as one nearly belts him, but at least it causes enough of a distraction that he manages to toss the bat ahead of himself, wincing at the sound it makes as it hits the ground.

It’s close to Dustin though, who thankfully, takes his cue and snatches it up.

“Stay!”

It’s a command, and Steve says it like a command. The last thing he needs is for Henderson to go charging into a hoard of demobats, especially not after Steve’s witnessed Eddie dying to them on at least five separate time loops.

If not here, then later.

He can’t think about that now though, not when Gareth’s hissing in pain, fingers clutching onto his shirt like a lifeline.

(He is, he realizes, Gareth’s lifeline. The younger man won’t make it unless Steve gets them to the van.

The bats would take him as their sacrifice and if there is one thing Steve was sworn to stop, it’s people sacrificing themselves--or others.)

“Take a breath.” Steve instructs, before bodily swinging Gareth in front of him.

Ignores the yelped cry he makes, and stoops down to get a good hold around his knees.

Grunts as Gareth, having figured out what’s happening, circles his other hand around Steve’s neck as he lifts the smaller man up into a bridal carry.

Ignores the choked sobs that escape Gareth as he does it. The fucking bat bites hurt and what they’re doing right now is no doubt jostling the shit out of the wound.

He’d be crying too if it were him, not that anyone can pick him up like this.

(Deliberately forgets to recall the two times he’s died precisely because of that.

The knowledge that if he’s injured, the amount of people who can drag him to safety solo is numbering close to zero isn’t a helpful one right now.

Neither is any other thought beyond pure focus on getting Gareth into the van.)

From there it’s a matter of running and not falling on his fucking face--or on the guy currently bleeding on him.

They make it though, a fact Steve is very grateful for.

Hands reach out, all of them pulling Gareth in while Steve hustles the rest, not slowing down until he slams the van door shut and yells for Eddie to gun it.

“Jeff, medkit!” he says, but Jeff, bless him, is already on it.

Grant’s speaking into the walkie he’d been given, Nancy’s tinny voice a soothing balm on Steve’s nerves as he, Dustin and Jeff get Gareth laid out in the van best they can.

“Where am I going, Harrington?” Eddie calls from the front, having floored the van the second the doors had slammed shut.

“He’ll be okay.” Steve soothed quietly, one hand going to squeeze Mike’s shoulder, the other looping around Lucas.

If there’s one thing he swears he will be, through every loop, it’s supportive of the damn kids.

They deserve to know someone is in their corner, even if they don’t always believe him.

#this was originally part of the stobin time travel au #but I couldn't make it work #also I think I posted the bottom half before about mike #steve harrington #eddie munson #hellfire #mike as one of steves kids #s4 au #0o0 fanfics

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dailydemonspotlight · 3 months ago

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Agrat bat Mahlat - Day 120

Race: Qadištu

Alignment: Neutral-Chaos

October 4th, 2024

Now, for something completely different. While some may consider the Qadištu to be a scary quartet, I personally consider them utterly fascinating, and easily my favorite of the bunch is absolutely deserving of being mentioned in this month of spooks. She's not only an unholy prostitute, but also a witch, a crow, and a character who gives me so much gender envy it drives me insane- Agrat bat Mahlat, a demon from Jewish myth who is said to be the daughter of none other than Lilith. The dancing roof demon is a surprisingly obscure creature, all things considered, but this doesn't mean there isn't a lot to dig into with her, so let's begin this dance of death.

Agrat, Lilith, Eisheth, and Naamah all actually have quite a bit of overlap- all four are angels of prostitution, as well as being mentioned each as the wives of Samael, but there do appear to be some differentiating factors between each of the Qadištu. Agrat bat Mahlat is first mentioned in Yalquṭ Ḥadash, a work of rabbinic literature that mostly appears in relation to Agrat, at least from my research. While I can't actually get the original copy of the work due to fact that I can't read the language, the demon is also listed, thankfully, in her original epithet within the Jewish Encyclopedia of Demonology.

To paraphrase the text, Agrat appears on the eves of Wednesdays and Sabbaths to bring myriad destruction alongside eighteen demons, named as 'messengers of destruction.' Her name literally means 'Daughter of Mahlat,' as bat is a word used to connect a daughter to her parent. According to the compendium and a treatise by rabbi Nathan Nata Spira, Mahlat was the name of Ishmael's daughter, who was exiled to the desert after being discovered as a witch. While in the desert, Mahlat ran into and mated with a demon named Igrathiel, who ended up fathering Agrat, beginning her exploits as, well, a demon.

Another thing Agrat bat Mahlat is known for is her appearance in Zoharistic Kabbalah, a collection of books going over several different aspects of Jewish thought and history, at least from what I can tell. Within the text, Agrat is listed alongside the rest of the Qadištu- Lilith, Eisheth, and Naamah- as being an 'angel of sacred prostitution' as well as one of the four mates of archangel Samael. Agrat herself is given the same amount of focus as the rest of the group save Eisheth (as it's somewhat ambiguous if she's even a member or not), and she's portrayed on the far more wicked side of the angels in Jewish myth, sometimes even being called one of the queens of demons. It's complicated, as is her role, as she's been pitted as being very morally grey.

In Zoharstic Kabbalah, Agrat and Lilith visit none other than King Solomon as prostitutes, and Agrat offers him the ability to commune with several spirits that, after the fact, would be sealed away into a lamp and tossed into a cave near the Dead Sea. After a while, the lamp was found by one King David, who used it to summon Agrat and ended up sleeping with her after likely either a bit of bargaining or some bewitching on either end. At the end of this one-night stand, Agrat then bore him a son in the form of a demon- none other than Asmodeus. Yep, she's Asmodeus's baby momma. I wonder how he'd react if he saw her in 3D? This later seems to have become a general theme with Agrat, as, according to the compendium, men could be seen trying to summon her to get her to sleep with them, but I doubt she delivered very often.

In terms of design in SMT, Agrat bat Mahlat is probably my favorite of the already strong collection of designs in the Qadištu- she fulfills such a good role in being both intimidating and beautiful, and I adore the calls with her witch's hat and crows wings connecting her to Mastema, who is a character who is a major player throughout her arc in the game. I'm not sure where her umbrella comes from, but it's a really fun detail that ties a lot of this already fantastic design together, and makes the second in command of the Qadištu an insanely memorable character.

No clue why she looks so stoned though. She might've eaten the forever weed brownie.

#smt #shin megami tensei #megaten #persona #daily #agrat bat mahlat

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grimbanes · 2 years ago

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kaz brekker being a menace! six of crows edition;

kaz and matthias underrated moment: “were you always good at locks?” “no.” “how did you learn?” “the way you learn about anything. take it apart.” “and the magic tricks?” kaz snorted. “so you don’t think im a demon anymore?” “I know you’re a demon, but your tricks are human.”

Kaz’s grin was as sharp as a razor. “Thank goodness we’re proper thieves. We’re going to do a little shopping and it’s all going on Fjerda’s tab. Inej,” he said, “let’s start with something shiny.” - chapter 28.

“when we get our money, you can burn kruge to keep you warm,” kaz said. “i’m going to pay someone to burn my kruge for me.” kaz fell into step beside him. “why don’t you pay someone else to pay someone else to burn your kruge for you? that’s what the big players do.” - chapter 19.

“please tell me kaz hasn’t gone missing again,” nina said. - chapter 37.

kaz marvelled at his own stupidity. dumber than a pigeon fresh off the boat and looking to make a fortune on the east stave. - chapter 45.

“son of a bitch,” he exclaimed a second later. rollins held up his watch chain. a turnip was hanging from the fob where his diamond-studded timepiece should have been. “that little bastard-“ then a thought came to him. he reached for his wallet. it was gone. so was his tie pin, the kaelish coin pendant he wore for luck, and the gold buckles on his shoes. rollins wondered if if he should check the fillings in his teeth. - chapter 46.

They blew up the lab, he’d thought as the debris rained down around him. I definitely did not tell them to blow up the lab. - chapter 38.

The harbour had lifted her dark hair, and for a moment Kaz was a boy again, sure that there was magic in this world. She’d laughed, and if he could have bottled the sound and got drunk on it every night, he would have. It terrified him. - chapter 38.

“And get me clean clothes and fresh water.” “Since when am I your valet?” “Man with a knife, remember?” He said over his shoulder. “Man with a gun!” Jesper called after him. Kaz replied with a time-saving gesture that relied heavily on his middle finger. - chapter 13.

At any given time he had at least two knives stashed somewhere in his clothes. He didn’t even count this one, really - a tidy, wicked little blade. - chapter 13.

“This is disgusting.” kaz shrugged. “Only disgusting thing about it is that I didn’t think of it first.” “These men aren’t slaves, kaz. they’re prisoners.” “they’re murderers and rapists.” “and thieves and con artists. your people.” “nina, sweet, they aren’t forced to fight.” - chapter 6.

these are just some favourites from the first book that made me laugh very loudly.

#kaz brekker #six of crows #six of crows duology #crooked kingdom #leigh bardugo #grishaverse #kaz #kaz brekker imagine #kanej

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yohohonabottle · 1 month ago

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Paragon lore, according to Finch (me)

And some lore for the Paragon hero tier within the Self aware!AFKJ premise (The Sun and Moon is a really good starting point, in case you haven't see it. Never-ending as the seas is good too.)

P 1 stage: can feel vaguely Player's emotions.

P 2 stage : Can feel Player's emotions as though their own more strongly, and sense the Player's presence. (Regardless if said 'Sun' is logged off, logged in-game, nearby or away from the device used to play AFKJ.)

P 3 stage: Now the character can not only feel the Sun's emotions much more like their own, the Player's presence...But also hear the Sun's voice but physically and in their mind.

P 4 stage: Last Paragon stage is full attunement: All previous stage effects, plus the ability to temporarily borrow the Sun's powers. (And the Moon's, if the Sun has a Moon.) Every 'kit' or powers that can be borrowed depend on that Esperia (account)'s Player(s) or ''Suns'' as referred to for simplicity. And their respective Oc's - Moon(s). In this case I'm looking at Rila/Finch and Pirin as they are my account's Sun and Moon.

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

And well...Poor Valen will be the first to reach Paragon. And be advanced to later stages. As such, upon reaching last stage of Paragon-- he'll be able to weave narratives into physical manifestation (writing) and trap enemies into...anything he can get his hands on to draw. Canvas, a brick, a roof tile, piece of paper/wood, etc. Plus make creations that come alive similar to Albedo that he can command.

And just over all make things--

-> Creation both through art and writing, with Language and a bit of Luck on the side, lesser known aspects (Rila's abilities) And also -> Destruction, like who he can 'Destroy' a trapped foe through altering them in his 'drawing' or literally destroy that enemy by erasing them...like a sketch/pencil drawing. -> Mild reality manipulation through writing, since lore literally = 'rules', time and reality in fictional worlds. [!] But Valen isn't the Director of Esperia, neither are the Sun and Moon. So he can't permanently and fully mess with reality.. but can still do considerable damage.

And Pirin's ''kit'' revolves around song/dance/folklore/luck/fate + Truth. (And lesser known such as War and what comes with it--Combat, Loss, Death.)

So when Valen attunes to him, he'll gain sharp clarity of mind and the uncanny strong intuition that's like an acute lie-detector. -> Phraesto can puff all the smoke/illusions he wants, but Val won't fall for any of it. He knows it's an illusion/deceit/manipulation. Also the luck aspect comes in the form of being able to sense when his own, or that of others, will be good or bad. (It's very vague, but there.) -> And like a Kuker, his presence will ward off evil spirits. (Think of Chongyun and his Yang energy.) Because what those fiends will be hearing, is chimes of bells as loud as Dulingr's but constant, and experience nightmares. (See Pirin's ways of dishing retribution in the next post linked back to this sentence) But to everyone else those invisible bells are nonexistent. Even to Val himself. He just walks into a fight, and the Hypofiends instantly nope out.

You know the best part of having his Dove's powers?

He can sing so well, that literal sirens will get jealous or mesmerized. (And their singing will sound like crowing compared to his.) Plus he'll suddenly be a wicked good dancer, able to grasp rhythm and footwork -no matter how complex and intricate- with ease. It just.. innately clicks in his head now, while having the Moon's abilities. Ludovic can legit hand him a music sheet, ask him to play the piano or ANY instrument (violin, lyre, harp, flute, panpipe) and Valen will get that song right like he's some genius maestro/composer who's done it all his life. Practiced for years and years on end nonstop like a 'madman' devoted to his artful craft, honing it every single second of his life, every breath he draws. ...And then the Moon's ''buffs'' wear off and all that goes bye-bye.

Same goes for any of the other Paragons- Soren and Sinbad. ..Just imagine Soren who can't draw well or sing for shit, even if his life literally depends on it.....Suddenly becomes master painter/singer/musician/dancer.

That would be funny and mind-boggling. And Bear-boy's on a roll--The muse is there, the knowledge (innate, artist intuition), the skill, the drive-- creating masterpieces that hit as hard as Ludovic's....then it wears off and he's left with toddler-level of chicken scratches again.

(Lumont's art will look like toddler scribbles and smears, they already do when looking at Ludovic's art. But Soren, with Rila's (The Sun) abilities? He's suddenly on the same level of the Earl.

Or Sinbad singing like a nightingale, a truly dulcet tone even the divine can praise. Play his flute even better, or any instrument, and he's like Orpheus- Weaving such music and song, that even wild beasts stop/come to listen raptly. (Harak included. That shark will be standing/sitting still quietly and listen, forgetting entirely about his hunger/gluttony.)

That it can heal the most ailed, the pains of men and beasts, no matter how tormenting. Regardless if it's the spirit, soul, heart, mind or body.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------Drawbacks of the Sun and Moon's powers/ Detrimental effects

Honestly as good as it is to have the Moon and Sun's abilities (Either one or both)... there's a draw-back that can get costly if the Paragon(s) doesn't let go/holds on for too long or gets greedy with it. Same for the Sun's ''kit''.

(The Sun -Creation/Destruction + Language is less known or that Luck overlaps with the Moon.): -Crippling perfectionism, -self-doubt or overthinking (too much analyzing and splitting hairs) -and indecisiveness, -language 'warps' to gibberish to their ears/stops making sense. -The drawings may turn against that Paragon, or weaken and waver. Half-finished. -Uncertainty, the grip on reality is slipping and their head is stuck in the clouds (day-dreaming/dreaming) surrounded by what-if's both positive and negative. -Viscerally vivid images in their mind's eye.

(The Moon's - Song/Dance/Folklore/Music/Truth/Luck):

-The clarity of mind is... working too good. Their rationality is high...but their emotional intelligence/empathy gets slowly lowered until they become cold/aloof/desensitized. ''Emotionless''/''Soulless''. Like how Pirin steeled himself and locked away his own emotions upon fighting with his brainwashed and grown up younger twin brother and sister. (Second lifecycle, he was Andrius or 'Andy' for short, eldest of three. Alexander was the youngest of the trio.)

So that Paragon(s) become coldblooded, merciless. All that Paragon cares about, is the truth. Doesn't matter if it hurts and how much it hurts, if it's good or bad.

Basically an Arlecchino/Raiden Shogun/Ei situation in a way.

-Bloodlust can gradually flare, and allies can get in the line of fire. (Less known/noticed part of the Moon --War.)

-Too calm. Eerily, hauntingly so. Nothing can rattle them or touch their soul/heart. That Paragon literally can loose someone dear and 'not care'. Not even a tear down their cheek. Hell! Let's use Valen as example: He can loose Fay somehow and seemingly not care. Or be the one to end her life somehow/see her fall/ mercy-kill, etc. and same thing. Like he's gone ice-coldly numb.

You may notice Rila and Pirin/Stranja have this opposite dynamic -- |> Rila is Life in her 'kit' duality besides the other main aspects like language; And in her ways of behaving-- Jovial, chaotic, inconsiderate, senseless, dynamic, full of potential and offers such to others both through lending her powers (letting them be grasped without question, limit or condition).. as well as giving opportunities and take them without conscious intent.

(Think of how a tide can bring in stuff on the beach but also kill what's on that shore)

|> Pirin is Death. (War, combat, Loss. Besides the whole music/folklore and luck thing.) Serene, tranquil, neutral in attitude and quiet. Neither actively seeks to take someone's life, nor will shy away from doing so if it comes down to it one way or another. ...Yet can be violent, sharp and sudden, torturous. (Like how some deaths, ways of dying are.)

...Funny enough Pirin is 'Life' in duality of personality. Ruthless/Benevolent - Gentle, loving and peaceful/Cruel, monstrous (in his anger).

#afk journey #afk journey fanfic?#into the merlinverse #lore/world-expanding???

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rcreveal · 1 month ago

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The Trouble with a Keen Manager, Ch 16

It's the 1990's and Usher, a demonic manager has taken away Crowley's demon powers as part of an "Accountability" drive. Despite everything, Crowley prevailed...he wasn't alone after all. But Usher has sent a 'test' on the night of the Whickber Street 'Take Back the Night' march. What will Crowley do? What can he do without any access to demon powers?

Chapter 16

Trade had been brisk at the Dirty Donkey when Aziraphale stepped into the pub again on Friday night. Young women were testing the waters since word had obviously gotten around that this was a pub that watched for dirty players. Organization was happening around tables that usually held men and women just wanting relief from the work-a-day grind or a little company. At one, women were offering sign ups for self-defense classes. At another, law students were talking about what legislature was needed to help women prosecute physical and sexual offenders, even if it were their husbands. Signs and posters leaned against the walls and tables, poked up from where they were tucked into the backs of chairs. Eyes were bright with excitement, nervousness, righteous anger, and some glances flashed with quickly suppressed fear, while others gazed up at him steady and firm.

Aziraphale took in the forest of placards ready to be picked up for the march tonight.

“Take Back the Night” “No Means No” “Stop the Violence” “Keep your rosaries off my ovaries” “Safe Homes, Happy Families, No Violence!”

“If you don’t like abortions, have a vasectomy” “No more Rape” “Raise Your Voice, Stop Abuse” “The Way I Dress is Not a Yes”

When the trembling force of enough belief collected like this, great good could come of it. Aziraphale had seen it before, he glanced over at the Agatha Christie readers who had claimed their own table, chatting animatedly as they waited for the march to queue up. For an angel, it was easy to see them as the younger women they had been when they had marched before. Their eyes lit as youngsters shyly asked about their vintage t shirts, sashes, and ribbons.

Smiling to himself at the fizz and buzz of activity, Aziraphale threaded his way towards the bar where Crowley was doing an admirable job of keeping everyone in…oh, liquor.

Aziraphale leaned into the bar, remarking to Crowley, “My! It’s very exciting, isn’t it!?”

Wiping the bartop, Crowley muttered, “If you order something we can talk longer.”

“What are the young ladies drinking?” asked Aziraphale curiously, noting that a whole table had the same beverages.

“Specialty of the house, VVL, Virgin Vodka Lemonade,” Crowley said with a wicked grin.

“I’m really not fond of vodka drinks, Crow.., Anthony,” the angel replied, looking concerned as Crowley’s hands started to assemble all sorts of things in a shaker.

“ Virgin just means there’s no alcohol in it, angel,” he explained.

“Oh!” smiling brightly, the angel said, “That’s alright then.”

Dropping a curl of lemon rind in the glass and placing it on the bar, Crowley leaned back to watch the angel take a sip.

“Mmm, refreshing! And surprisingly complex!” Aziraphale lifted his glass to Madame and the young organizers of the march.

Crowley noted that some men didn’t look as relaxed as the angel, sitting subdued deep in corner booths of their regular boozer, or uncomfortably stranded in ones or twos at tables. They’d been caught unaware in a change of the tides. A few looked around round-eyed as young women made bawdy jokes and laughed loudly at them. Shoe’s on the other foot, thought Crowley, and some blokes would not care for that. Of course he noticed the ones throwing on their coats and leaving the bar with dark looks at the ladies and darker comments to their mates. But other men, mostly crusty old fellows, sensing a new and receptive audience were sharing their most ribald jokes. Crowley knew the angel noticed that , since Aziraphale's ears were getting red.

To stop Aziraphale from interrupting the punch line of a really raunchy joke being told by a young woman to a rapt audience over in the corner, Crowley caught the angel's attention with, “Are you marching tonight, angel?” Crowley leaned on his elbows at the bar to peer out the windows as groups of women went by. There was a festival feel in the air, it made him edgy.

“Well, this corporation is rather more masculine, so I thought I’d cheer them on from the sidelines,” replied the angel, beaming at the crowd.

“Yeah, well, keep an eye out for trouble,” Crowley said, looking uneasy.

“What’s wrong?” asked Aziraphale, noting the tension in Crowley’s face.

“I don’t know. There’s just something coming… Something…ugly,” Crowley wiped down the bar before walking down to take another drinks order from a new group of young women.

‘Hey, Anthony! I’ll take a VVL,” called Viv, one of the University students, leaning against the bar. Looking from Anthony to Mr Fell speculatively, she commented, “Didn’t know Mr Fell spoke Scots Gaelic. Were you talking about your book?”

Mixing the Virgin Vodka Lemonade, Crowley replied, “Yeah, something like that.” He hadn’t realized that they’d been speaking Scottish. All his demonic powers were blocked, but strangely some things remained.

Crowley’s musings on the powers that were weirdly not blocked was interrupted by sudden scraping as seats were pushed back all over the pub in time to some unspoken signal. As one group of women after another finished their drinks, gathered their signs and headed out to gather at the starting point of their ‘Take Back the Night’ march, Aziraphale cheerily wished them a good march. Clusters of women could be seen walking down both sides of Whickber street now in almost continuous streams. The angel moved to a seat with a better view, estimating that within about fifteen minutes, things would start to get going.

Crowley, meanwhile, had been busy bussing tables around the pub while getting antsier and antsier. Something bad was definitely coming. Running the dishwasher in the kitchen, he started to feel a beat, even over the mechanical rhythm of the machine. Dave and Aziraphale looked up, surprised, as Crowley raced through the pub in a flash of red and tartan, out the front door, skidding to a stop by dint of grabbing the doorframe.

Looking down the street one way Crowley saw all the ‘Take Back the Night’ marchers. But the source of the sound he had heard, coming from the other direction, was a group of swaggering, youngish men, singing and chanting. Some swayed, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders. Others sang with their bare arms raised. Initially the tunes sounded like familiar football chants. The words, well, the words were something else entirely.

Dave dropped his rag on the bar and came up to the pub door beside Anthony, peering around the young man tense as a hawser hanging out the doorway. The Dirty Donkey’s owner had learned that the young barkeep had a remarkable instinct for trouble.

Looking up and down the street, then finally catching the words of the chant, Dave grunted, “Bloody hell,” quietly before turning from the door and jogging over to the phone.

Dialing the Met by memory he said, “Hello, I’ve got a disturbance to report,” urgently into the receiver.

The remaining regulars in the pub got up to see what all the excitement was about, too hard of hearing to catch the meaning of the words adulterating the familiar chants, but curious what could have possibly gotten Dave riled up.

Aziraphale joined Crowley in the doorway, looking in concern at the unfolding drama. No one saw the result of a little gesture that the angel made.

Crowley, head swiveling from group to group, missed the angel’s miracle entirely as he struggled in the conundrum Usher, it had to be Usher, had just dropped him into. Here he'd been carefully cultivating a little self-sufficient, reliable, bit of wickedness: spreading subversive ideas about gender equity and that people ought to be able to marry whomever they sodding well chose. And it was catching on! Then Usher had to go and send a mob down here! Crowley glowered, he could just see how this would go. The men would attack the women. Women would attack the men. Locals would step in. Violence would get out of hand. Shops and homes and vehicles would be broken and burned. With enough mischief in the air, and Usher, sod ‘im, had made sure there was enough mischief tonight, the mayhem and rioting could leave a burned out husk of the vibrant community, capable of blighting a neighborhood for years, decades even.

What the Hell did Usher want? Just to get him discorporated? To see if Crowley would side with the nastier group and have his camouflage flip over to look like one of the swaggering bastards shouting about doing whatever they liked? Claiming it was what the law said, claiming it was what the Church said? To get Crowley up before the Dark Council defending whatever he did next? Because either way, Crowley was in trouble. He was out a place to survive if he let the riot happen or he was probably going to be up on charges of ‘‘doing good’’ if he tried to stop it.

Fuming in the ever narrowing space between the two groups, something in Crowley snapped. Usher could push those sodding bastards down any street he liked, but not this one . This street was his and he was blessed if he was going to let it get destroyed because of Usher’s petty, stupid, power games! Because …because it was…He didn't have time for…Aggggh! Because he did have an angel! And damn it all, he wasn't afraid to use him!

On hearing a frustrated snarl, Aziraphale looked up into the furious glare of the demon. The next thing he knew, Crowley spun and grabbed him by the lapels. “You’ve got to do something about this, angel!” Crowley growled, right up in his face, “Good thwarting evil kindov thing is right in your job description!!” there was a desperate edge to the demand.

Aziraphale snorted through his nose and grasped the demon’s hands as if to pull them off, but then just held them instead where they vibrated with tension.

Aziraphale retorted, “Yes, of course , but how else!? I'm already speeding the Met along and all the neighborhood is coming out to witness!” the angel raised a hand to upper story windows sliding up and shop doors opening.

Glancing around at the expanding audience, Crowley shook his head, chin length red hair whipping about.

“This is about to explode, right now, angel! People are going to get hurt !”

“Crowley, I'm sure it won't come to that!” Crowley's furious countenance slipped into a mask of disbelief. “It's not like we can get away with calmly strolling out into the jam, manifesting our true forms, and telling them all to behave!” Crowley's disbelief was turning into something. Acceptance, Aziraphale hoped. “It isn’t the done thing!” Aziraphale laughed nervously, stepping back from the demon’s suddenly slack grip on his coat to try and get all parties into view, in case he was wrong and he did have to figure out how to step in.

Crowley let go of the angel’s lapels, hands loose at his sides, head down, Aziraphale's words ringing in his ears. Into the jam… into the jam…Aziraphale was reaching out to pat his shoulder but froze at the wild look spreading over Crowley's face. Dancing from foot to foot, Crowley looked up and down the street from the marching women to the men yelling obscenities and lewd suggestions. Looking down at his kilt and up at the angel, the demon exclaimed “Naaawwh! Haven’t ye heard of a Highland Charge?” Aziraphale's face was a picture now. Realizing Crowley's intention too late, Aziraphale reached out a hand as though to draw him back as the demon, looking like a skinny youth with nothing but a determined expression, unorthodox dress sense, and some big boots sprinted out into the street hollering over his shoulder,

“See ya later, angel! If they gi’e me another body that is!”

Arriving alone in the space between the groups on the wings of his own eerie, ululating cry, a sound that broke through catcalls, cursing, and other commotion, Crowley faced himself towards the mob of men. In the sudden, shocked silence, he took a great breath.

Aziraphale, somehow prevented from joining Crowley in the fray, did the only thing he could think of, he began to pray.

If you like my drabble, check out my Masterlist

#good omens fanfic #ineffable husbands #protective aziraphale #crowley good omens #protective crowley #1990s #original character #crowley lost powers #feminist themes #terry pratchett fanfic #good omens aziraphale #aziraphale pov #crowley pov #through the ages #whickber street #the dirty donkey #take back the night

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mattnben-bennmatt · 6 months ago

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Matt Damon's interview w/ GQ (13 December 2011)

Wicked Smaht

Is there friggin' anything Matt Damon can't do? As the action hero/leading man/activist/Oscar-winning screenwriter/sitcom revelation/Internet meme finally makes the transition to Serious Director, we're about to find out

By Zohar Lazar and Amy Wallace | Photography by Ben Watts

I'm ducking Matt Damon. We're supposed to meet at the Central Park Zoo ticket booth precisely at noon, but I'm not there. I'm thirty feet away, standing behind a huge oak tree, keeping watch.

Cameron Crowe, the director, has urged me to try to get a glimpse of the 41-year-old actor when he doesn't know I'm there. "Matt's fans relate to him as an older brother or a member of the family. And that's how he relates to them," Crowe says, recalling how during the shoot of their new movie, We Bought a Zoo, he liked to do reconnaissance on Damon as he signed autographs and interacted with his public.

The Boston native, who now calls New York home, can be reticent in interviews, reluctant to reveal too much or get too personal. I want to observe him in his natural habitat, and I imagine that my stealth will be rewarded with the kind of unguarded moment that can only be viewed in the wild. As minutes pass, however, and I don't spot him anywhere, a thought looms: This is Jason Bourne I'm hunting—the master of evasion. What if Matt Damon is ducking me?

Stepping into the open, I sort of wave my notebook like a journalistic homing beacon, and suddenly there he is, all smiles. "Hi, I'm Matt," he says, extending a hand. He's in jeans, a gray waffle-y long-sleeve T-shirt, and what look to be brand-new black Puma sneakers. He has a knit cap pulled down to his eyebrows, which makes it easy to notice that his hat and his eyes are exactly the same blue. He's taller than I thought he'd be and exactly a quarter inch taller than the man standing next to him: a gray-haired, bespectacled guy in pleated chinos and a baseball cap.

"This," Damon proclaims, "is my dad."

When Damon the younger pulls out a credit card to gain us entry to what we will all agree must be the smallest zoo on earth, Damon the elder (his name is Kent) observes wryly, "This is the first time the son buys the father a ticket to the zoo. When has that happened before?" Whereupon the son grins big and says, "There's, like, a disturbance in the Force!"

"Come on," Kent says. "Let's go see the polar bears."

As we set off, I'm immediately struck by the constant cross-generational ball-busting between father and son. For example, the story of when 12-year-old Matt announced his intent to play point guard for the Boston Celtics.

Kent: I said, "Matt, I have to tell you a little bit about the real world."

Matt: My favorite player was Tiny Archibald, and he goes, "You know they call him Tiny because he's six foot one." He told me that he was the tallest Damon to ever evolve at five foot ten.

Kent: Five ten and a half, by the way.

Matt: Used to be, man.

Kent: Not that we're sensitive about it.

I mention something Crowe has told me about Damon's performance in the new film, in which he plays a widowed father of two who buys a ramshackle zoo. Crowe singles out a scene in which Damon talks to an ailing Siberian tiger through a chain-link fence. In the script, the tiger was supposed to be supine, but the minute Damon delivered his first line, the cat got up, snarling, and came toward him with menace. "Most people would have said, 'This isn't funny—put a chain on that thing!' But Matt stays in," Crowe told me, explaining why that first, unexpected take is the one he used in the final film. "You see him flinch but stay in."

Hearing this, Kent gets a mischievous look: "So you were brave?"

Matt shakes his head and rolls his eyes. "Cameron was telling stories about how I was brave in the face of a caged tiger," he says. "He was working it."

"Bunch of b.s.," agrees Kent. Which is when I realize that we may still be talking about who's the bigger man. Standing in front of a 90,000-gallon tank containing Gus, the zoo's half-ton polar bear, Matt describes borrowing a bike from his elder brother, Kyle, and discovering (when he couldn't reach the pedals) that Kyle has much longer legs. "We realized if you took his lower body and my upper body, we'd be, like, six foot three," Matt tells his dad, who readily concedes that Matt is long of torso. "You have a neck," he tells his son. "I don't even have a neck." At which point, Matt nods and says simply, "It's true." If you measured the smirks on their faces, I swear they'd be precisely the same size.

···

When I tell the director Steven Soderbergh that I'm writing this piece about Damon, he responds with faux derision: "Why? He's not doing much." (Damon was in five movies released in 2011, and he's appeared in more than thirty-five films since his breakout role as an emaciated addict in 1996's Courage Under Fire.) Soderbergh has directed his friend in six of those—Ocean's Eleven, Twelve, and Thirteen; Che: Part Two; The Informant!; and Contagion—and most recently has cast him as Liberace's lover in an HBO biopic slated to shoot later this year. He calls Damon "probably the least vain person in his position"—meaning movie star—"out there. He has no interest in protecting any sort of idea of himself as an actor."

What he does have, however, is an interest in using his power as an actor to champion the underdog and right what he perceives to be wrong. He has thrown his full weight (and his money) behind a charity, Water.org, that seeks to provide sources of clean water to the Third World. Over the years, he has spoken up about public-school teachers (he supports them), the middle class (he thinks they're getting the shaft), and President Obama (he feels he's not delivering on his promise). At the White House Correspondents' dinner this year, Obama responded directly, saying, "Matt Damon said he was disappointed in my performance. Well, Matt, I just saw The Adjustment Bureau..."

Damon tells me he didn't see that speech live but got thirty e-mails from friends the next morning and watched the president's remarks online. "I have to say, it was pretty funny," he says, getting in his own dig: "Whoever came up with it, it was a terrific joke."

Recently the director Michael Moore called on Damon to run for president, which he says he will never, ever do. Which may be for the best, given how explicitly he pokes fun at his own image. In appearances on late-night TV and on shows like Entourage, he seems to relish being pompous, arrogant, goofy, even profane. Tina Fey says he approached her at an awards dinner and said he'd like to be considered for a cameo on 30 Rock. ("We don't let people slide," she says, "once they make a mistake like that.") Whether impersonating his pal Matthew McConaughey for David Letterman ("In today's scene, I think it would be a good opportunity for me to take my shirt off....") or pretending to be screwing Sarah Silverman on her then boyfriend Jimmy Kimmel's show (On the bed, on the floor, on a towel, by the door, in the tub, in the car, up against the minibar!), he seems to have an intuitive feel for comedy.

"A lot of stars/serious actors try to put some weird 'comedy sauce' on their acting. Matt doesn't put anything on it. He says the lines honestly," says Silverman, whose Emmy-winning music video, "I'm Fucking Matt Damon," nearly melted the Internet after it aired on Jimmy Kimmel Live! in 2008. Whether it's comedy or drama, she adds, "he has that Meryl Streep thing where he always blows your mind, and you just want to watch him and watch him. He doesn't need a fancy accent or a fake tooth to play a 'regular person.' He just eats normal and gets a not-expensive haircut."

···

Scott Rudin, the ber-producer who worked with Damon on the Coen brothers' True Grit, says he's been a "crazy stalker fan" since he read Good Will Hunting fifteen years ago. And Rudin's regard for Damon has only grown, he says, as he's watched the actor carve his own path through Hollywood.

"He's done such great things with his stardom," Rudin says, recalling how Damon turned his nonleading role in True Grit—the buffoon with a romantic streak, LaBoeuf—into "the beating heart of the movie." There's something about Damon—a melding of his talent and his public persona—that gives him a "compact with the audience," Rudin says. "And he retains it, whether every movie works or doesn't."

With the Bourne franchise, which has earned more than $1 billion worldwide, he has proved his box-office clout. And then he turned his back on it, at least temporarily. What other A-lister would have walked away from the fourth Bourne film (and an estimated $20 million payday) because, he says, he and director Paul Greengrass felt that the tight timetable set by the studio would endanger its chances of being good? "That's a pretty striking move," Rudin says.

Damon says they had no choice. "If you look at the first three movies, we kind of pounded that idea of identity and amnesia into the ground. We really got everything out of it that we could. So to reboot it, we need to come up with something completely new," he says, explaining why the eleven-month turnaround that Universal Pictures wanted didn't feel doable.

Another Bourne film is in the works, however. Tony Gilroy, who wrote or co-wrote the first three films, has written and begun directing the fourth, The Bourne Legacy. The movie is said to exist in the same world as the previous three, but it introduces a new main character, played by Jeremy Renner. Damon says he learned about the project one day while surfing online. "It was a surprise," he says, though he doesn't sound particularly miffed. Not yet, at least.

Damon tells me he thinks Gilroy is a great director (Michael Clayton, Duplicity) and that he admires Renner. And because Damon fully intends to make another Bourne movie someday, he says he's "really pulling for this one, even though I don't have anything to do with it. Selfishly, it's bad for me if that movie doesn't do well." He says he still feels "inoculated" by the franchise—as if it protects him from having to do anything that could be bad for him. "It feels like I can swing freely, like a baseball player—just be relad and really do the things that I want to do and not worry, because I know there's another one out there."

Later, though, Damon will wonder if maybe he has become a little too relad. Because suddenly, as we sit on a bench in the afternoon sunshine, he takes a major swing at Gilroy. Damon says that back in 2001, when the first Bourne movie, The Bourne Identity, was still in postproduction, Gilroy saw a rough cut and got worried. "The word on Bourne was that it was supposed to be a turkey," Damon says. "It's very rare that a movie comes out a year late, has four rounds of reshoots, and it's good. So Tony Gilroy arbitrated against himself to not be the writer with sole credit."

Typically screenwriters use the Writers Guild's arbitration process when they feel they've been denied credit unfairly. This time, Gilroy wanted to share the credit (and the blame), Damon says, "to have another guy take the bullet with him." And so someone named William Blake Herron is now cashing residual checks on Bourne, just like Gilroy is. (Actually Damon may have gotten his chronology wrong—one source says Herron initiated the credit dispute, but that Gilroy didn't oppose sharing credit.)

Gilroy wrote Bourne 2 as well: The Bourne Supremacy. Then, Damon says, for The Bourne Ultimatum, the third in the franchise, Gilroy struck a deal to write just one draft of the script, take no notes, do no rewrites, and get paid "an exorbitant amount of money."

"It's really the studio's fault for putting themselves in that position," Damon says. "I don't blame Tony for taking a boatload of money and handing in what he handed in. It's just that it was unreadable. This is a career-ender. I mean, I could put this thing up on eBay and it would be game over for that dude. It's terrible. It's really embarrassing. He was having a go, basically, and he took his money and left."

Gilroy's lackluster work left the production in chaos, Damon says. "We had a start date. Like, 'It's coming out August of next year.' We're like, 'Hang on, we've got to figure out what the script is.' " In the end, the shooting script was written under extreme deadline pressure by George Nolfi and Scott Z. Burns, with input from Greengrass, Damon says. And then Gilroy raised another challenge. "Before the movie came out, he arbitrated to get sole credit," Damon says, disgusted. The WGA looked into it and turned Gilroy down. (He shares credit with Nolfi and Burns.) "That was just a little bit of justice, I have to say," Damon says.

A representative for Gilroy referred all inquiries to Universal Pictures, where spokeswoman Kori Bernards reiterated the studio's support for both Damon and Gilroy. "We could not imagine replacing Matt as Jason Bourne, which is why we're so excited Tony's script creates a fantastic new character in The Bourne Legacy and also leaves open the option for Matt to return.... Tony has done everything we've asked of him on each of the Bourne films, and his work has been a huge asset to the franchise."

···

"Are you spying on me?" Damon says into his cell phone, which has just vibrated in his pocket. He's talking to his wife, Lucy, and he's also looking right at her. The petite, dark-eyed beauty is standing forty feet away, on the other side of a low fence.

"Do you want to see a polar bear?" he asks Lucy, his voice playful and delighted and warm as melted butter. (If he bottled that voice, lots of women would pay thousands of dollars an ounce and pour it all over themselves.) But Lucy isn't budging. Damon turns to his dad and me: "She says, 'I've already done the zoo.' "

They met in 2003 in Miami, where Damon was shooting the Farrelly brothers comedy Stuck on You, in which he and Greg Kinnear played conjoined twins. The movie was a god-awful flop, but boy, was there an upside: Luciana Bozan, an Argentine-born bartender with a 6-year-old daughter named Alexia. Once they met, Damon—who'd been romantically linked to actresses like Minnie Driver and Winona Ryder— was done looking. They married in a civil ceremony in 2005 and promptly (very promptly: Lucy was pregnant when they wed) had three more girls of their own: Isabella, now 5, Gia, 3, and Stella, 1.

Meanwhile Damon and Ben Affleck, the man he calls his "hetero lifemate," remain as tight as ever. The two have a production company, Pearl Street Films, and Damon lets slip that they are developing a biopic about James "Whitey" Bulger, the onetime godfather of the Irish Mob in Boston, who was on the lam for sixteen years before being apprehended last June. Damon will play Bulger and Affleck will direct. But that won't be for a while yet. First Damon must finish Elysium, a sci-fi picture directed by Neill Blomkamp, who made the acclaimed District 9.

Then Damon will direct himself. Beginning sometime in early 2012, he is going into preproduction on an as-yet-untitled movie he's writing with John Krasinski, of The Office. They met and hit it off when Damon did The Adjustment Bureau with Krasinski's wife, Emily Blunt. Krasinski shared his script idea—about a salesman (Damon) who visits a small town and experiences something that changes his life—and the two started working together on the weekends while Damon was shooting We Bought a Zoo.

"I just found writing with him really easy—like writing with Ben," Damon says. We've stepped briefly into the penguin house, which smelled like you'd expect a place filled with the excrement of sixty-five large birds would. ("The penguins were great, by the way," Damon said as we fled. "Thank you for that.") Now we've detoured past the red panda toward an enclosure that houses three snow leopards. As we wander, I'm struck that Damon appears to approach this major career shift much like he seems to do everything else: without much apparent angst.

To be sure, he is thinking a lot about how to apply the lessons he's learned during the two decades he's closely observed almost every great director alive—in addition to the ones we've already mentioned, he's also worked with Eastwood, Redford, Scorsese, Gilliam, and Van Sant. DeNiro and Affleck have advised him, he says, on the challenges of directing and acting at the same time. Damon's not naive: He knows that if he sucks as a director, it will be a very public failure. "There are just too many decisions over the course of too long a time, and if you're not a truly great director, you just can't hide," he says.

So why do it? "When I first started getting work, I felt like acting was the most important thing," he says. "But the more you do it, the more you realize that in the end, the director has all the power."

"Clint says all the time, 'Let's not fuck this up too much by thinking about it,' " he says, referring to Eastwood, with whom he's done two films, one of which (Invictus) got Damon an Oscar nomination. "That's his approach, and some people love it and some people hate it, but he doesn't do too much hand-wringing about it. I'd love to do what Clint does."

Certainly, Damon hasn't been a hand-wringer when it comes to acting. Instead of simply "protecting the beachhead," as he puts it, sticking with action roles (and cashing the big paychecks), he has used the Bourne franchise to afford him the freedom to do lower-paying, noncommercial work that he finds worthy, often in supporting parts that don't get his name at the top of the call sheet. ("There are no small roles," he explains, winking at his dad. "Only small actors.") He played an energy analyst in Syriana, for example, Stephen Gaghan's 2005 drama about the forces driving the oil industry, and narrated the Oscar-winning 2010 documentary Inside Job, about the financial meltdown. For Soderbergh's The Informant!, in which he played a self-deluded whistle-blower who lies as much as he tells the truth, he gained thirty pounds, grew a doltish mustache, and wore a hairpiece. Oh, and he took a greatly reduced salary as well.

"I haven't made him a lot of money lately," Soderbergh says, noting that Damon's agent, Patrick Whitesell, "jokes, 'Whenever the phone rings from you guys, I know we're taking a haircut.' "

The Ocean's movies pay pretty well, Damon insists—"I think you get half your quote." (Which, if reports can be believed, would be about $5 million for Damon.) But even in those, which ooze glamour, he plays an oddball. And that, he says, is just the way he likes it. Given his castmates, he says, it's the only way to make a splash.

"Look," Damon says, "if you want to try and GQ it up with George and Brad, good luck! That's pretty rarefied air, and you're not going to bring more charm than those two, so you've got to find something else."

···

We're sitting near a throng of barking sea lions when I ask if he's read A Visit from the Goon Squad. He hasn't. "What is it?" he asks. "I've never heard of it." "It's Jennifer Egan's book," I say, pulling the slender novel from my bag. "It won the Pulitzer this year."

He laughs. "I'm like, 'I've never heard of it.' You're like, 'Well, it won the Pulitzer, dumb-ass.' " I explain that I brought the novel not to shame him, although that's kind of fun, but to show him a chapter that spoofs the very thing we're doing: a celebrity interview. In addition to being hilarious, the fake magazine profile in Egan's book—it's about a made-up actress named Kitty Jackson—drops a few real names, including Damon's. Kitty is said to belong "in the category of nice stars (Matt Damon) rather than of difficult stars (Ralph Fiennes). Stars in the nice category act as if they're just like you (i.e., me) so that you will like them and write flattering things about them, a strategy that is almost universally successful...."

I hand Damon the book. Keep it, I say. I don't tell him that in it, the journalist ends up trying to rape the celebrity-profile subject—in Central Park, no less. I don't reveal the book's suggestion that celebrity profilers are, metaphorically at least, having their way with their subjects. Because that would be kind of like saying that while interviewing Matt Damon, I'm also fucking Matt Damon. And as we all know, Sarah Silverman got there first. Here, Damon and Silverman on the making of "I'm Fucking Matt Damon."

Matt: Jimmy Kimmel and I had this kind of fake feud going.

Sarah: Every night at the end of Jimmy Kimmel Live!, Jimmy would say, "Sorry, Matt Damon, we ran out of time"—a joke that started because in the early years of Jimmy's show, the lead guest would be, like, the man with the longest leg hair in the world.

Matt: So the producers called me up and said, "Would you ever consider coming on and we'll do a bit? We'll finally get you on, and then we'll run out of time, and then you and Jimmy'll do a whole fake fight." And I was like, "Oh, that's funny." So I came on, and I did this whole fake fight with him as they're rolling the credits. And then we did a thing for The Bourne Ultimatum in 2007, a fake trailer in which Guillermo [the security guard who has become a regular on Kimmel's show] ends up in my movie, and I say, "Wait, now you're trying to bump me from my own movie?" Then the question was, How do we beat that?

Sarah: For Jimmy's fortieth birthday, the plan was to have a show where all the guests and bits were a surprise.

Matt: Sarah was going to come out and say, "Well, happy birthday, but there is this one thing that I should probably tell you."

Sarah: Two writers, Tony Barbieri and Sal Iacono, had the idea that it should be a song.

Matt: We shot it really quickly. I was in Miami, and I think we met at the Delano Hotel at seven in the morning, and we were done by ten. It was a tiny production: one camera, a couple of backup dancers. We recorded the song in the closet. They put sound blankets in there and a microphone, and I recorded my part. After it was over, I had to go to a parent-teacher conference for Alexia, and I was like, "What the fuck did I just do? Holy shit. I can't do this shit anymore. I have kids. This is crazy. They're going to see this."

Sarah: The video was actually shelved for many months because of the writers' strike. We dusted it off and aired it on Jimmy's five-year-anniversary show instead. I remember that night: Jimmy and I were brushing our teeth before the show, and he was like, "I'm so excited for your surprise—I hear it's great!" I didn't want him to psych himself up too much, so I was like, "It's a 'funny video,' you know?" Jimmy loved it, which was nice.

Matt: After the thing ran, I went to pick Alexia up at school, and one of the teachers came out and had seen it and said, "Oh, it was great, it was really good," and then I realized, "Okay, it's okay."

Sarah: The fact that it became this viral thing was very unexpected. It's funny—though our names will forever be linked, I really don't know him personally. I mean, if I see him somewhere, he gives me a warm hug and hello, but I don't have his phone number or anything.

Apparently, Damon doesn't just collect famous friends. Which makes sense, since his relationship with his own celebrity has been fraught. While he understands that profiles like this one play a part in marketing his films, he has at times been difficult when interviewers have tried to talk about anything more personal than global politics or film theory. The last time this magazine profiled him, in 2007, the writer resorted to describing the "excruciatingly long and loud—like, racehorse long-and-loud—piss" he took in a trailer lavatory, because "it was the most interesting thing he did over the course of...three hours."

Crowe has a theory about Damon's elusiveness. "Matt's a guy who skewers pretension. Hourly and by the minute, nothing is going to get pumped up into some lofty thing with Matt around," the director says. "It may not be as subversive as him trying to be tricky about not letting the interviewer get to him. It's more that he would skewer the guy that you mostly read in celebrity interviews. He laughs at that guy. He's very careful to not be that guy."

With me, he hasn't been that guy. He's been forthcoming—way more forthcoming, he already realizes, than he meant to be. Damon has very pointedly skewered someone—Gilroy—who he feels unfairly pumped himself up. And he regrets it. As this story is going to press, he'll call me to clarify: "If I didn't respect him and appreciate his talent, then I really wouldn't have cared.... My feelings were hurt. That's all. And that's exactly why I shouldn't have said anything. This is between me and him. So saying anything publicly is fucking stupid and unprofessional and just kind of douchey of me."

But that will come later. Now, at the zoo, his phone buzzes—his wife again. It's time to pick up their daughters from school, so Damon, his dad, and I head for the exit. There we meet up with Lucy, and we all walk briskly east, toward a huge chauffeured black Yukon XL that waits to whisk them away. Before we can get to it, though, a paparazzo suddenly charges toward us, his camera raised. He's not exactly menacing, but he's persistent, trying to herd Damon and his family into a single frame. Most movie stars of Damon's stature would have said, "This isn't funny—put a chain on that thing!" But Damon smiles a tight smile. "Here," he says politely, "you can take a shot of me and my pop." Damon stays in. You see him flinch, but he stays in.

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