#i was like passibly normal before

[parkercore-69]

i wish someone woulda told me about the medical malpractice pipeline before i watched re-animator cuz now im sat watching house md and i dunno whats become of me

[iepurasdepraf]

I... don't have the editing skill or knowhow to make something pretty to put here so you just get me talking, isn't that fun?

Arkhamverse Jervis Tetch x reader

Warnings: Female reader, bondage, fingering, ah... hm... that's all I think for this.

I just felt like it was getting a little long, but it's tasty as it is also, a whole thing on it's own really. If you want a part 2 let me know and maybe I'll finish what comes next, yeah?

@callsigncrash - You asked to be tagged.

A half sunken portion of a major city left to mold and crumble would normally make for an interesting if morbid opening for a fairytale or maybe an overeager young adult post-apocalypse novel the author didn’t have the technical skill to pull off. As would taking shelter in the attic of an abandoned townhouse. Turning that damp den into a passable hidey-hole for two lost dreamers to overwinter in, safe from the frigid water that was always seeping in and whoever else was creeping around what remained of Arkham City. Which was more than you’d think, really.

The man who called himself both mad and a hatter was in the midst of all that folly. Calling out to his friend with glee “Oh look! Mary Ann! Mary Ann, come look!”

An expert in making trash into treasure, the finding of Christmas lights sent him reeling into a giddy state. He had woken up bright eyed and bushy tailed and hadn’t lost that spirit for an instant even in the rising water and inclement weather though she’d woke finding herself far less hopeful. She’d barely slept at all in fact. 

However, said Ann of Mary didn’t look away from the ladder she’d been staring down at for the past hour or so even though normally she would have come with a skip at his beck and call putting a damper on the Hatter’s excitement somewhat. “Mary Ann?” Once more did not answer his call, it was as if she didn’t hear him at all. This was a vice versa of their usual and Jervis wasn’t sure what to think of it. It was his schtick to be lost in his own head after all. She was out of character!

He took offense at first, how dare she not give him her full and undivided attention! Then after a moment and impulsive thought wrangling he pouted. It wasn’t like she was one of his pawns. She had her own thoughts and feelings and- what was she looking at anyway? 

With lights in tow and shuffling in oversized boots, he makes his way over to peek over her shoulder. Mmm… water? Just water and soggy furniture. How boring. Not even anything swimming in it. Stinky, smelly thigh deep, to him, Gotham Bay water. 

More important than all that though was that she was frowning he noticed. Poor sweet Mary Ann, was she scared of the water? Worried? It wouldn’t come up this far. That’s why they were up so high.Though maybe she didn’t know that he considered. She’d not experienced Arkham City as he had after all. 

“Mary Ann” He said one last time, a little tersely this time, and when she didn’t respond he tossed the lights over her. Tangling her up like a tuna in a net to drag her deeper into the attic away from the distracting portal to a dreary reality. “Jervis!” “There she is!” “Get this off me!” She laughed over it luckily, amused as ever with his wiley antics. He couldn’t recall her ever getting mad at him for being himself. Maybe that’s why he felt so secure in being himself with her even if that meant doing something silly like tangling her up in Christmas lights. “What is this?” “Why, I’m so glad you asked! They’re lights. Fairy lights, Mary!” “I’m very happy for-” He pulled the wires tight playfully and she came to attention in a way he’d never seen before. So quiet, so red in the face. Ah. Jervis was mad, but not a fool. He knew that look. Seems they both just learned something about dear sweet Mary Ann. 

What fun! 

Something to pass the time then? Something to… distract her. That was a passible excuse. “Sit up for me, won’t you?” Oh, she was so obedient! Quick to do exactly as she was told now, just needed a little incentive. The wad of lights were easy enough to untangle. He had more than enough practice after so many years of decorating hideouts and set ups to get them undone in a jiffy though all that talent was then turned on it’s head to truss Mary Ann right back up nice and neat. Easy enough to make a harness, easier still to bind someone’s arms behind their back. He’d done that oodles of times. That delicious thigh meat dressed nicely, so thick it muffined around the strings. It would normally bring him to distraction, but right now he had just as lovely things to savor so he had to force himself to peel his eyes from the sight. 

He’ll be back later, thighs, just give him a moment. He has to bind shin and ankle so they can be bound to you, you see? 

Making dear Mary Ann kneel so sweetly on the floor that he just can’t resist showing her that being bound so specifically had it’s own benefits. A pull of the wire wrapped around his gloved fist and those loving binds squeezed coyly in all those tender places she could have ever wanted them to. She made the sweet mewls to prove it even after he let go.

Perfect, it was all so nearly perfect, but wasn’t quite. No, he had one thing left to do. “Don’t move.” She looked back in her partially bent forward position, but didn’t otherwise move which was fine and good. He beamed at her scrambling to get the dangling overhead light which he had to hop for to plunge them both into total darkness. “Jervis?” “Trust is essential, Mary Ann,” His disembodied voice said while seeming to float across the attic “You trust me, don’t you?” Without so much the pause for a breath she answered “Yes.” leaving her breathless when the generator roared to life on the other side of the room and the multicolored Christmas lights jumped to life around her revealing a grinning Jervis still crouched down from plugging the lights into the power strip. Oh yes, he was very willing to burn gas for this, for her. 

He looked utterly mad in the flittering light with that smile. Wide hazel eyes taking her in like he could physically consume her with them. Anyone else would be terrified of him, but not her, no. No! Not Mary Ann. Silly girl was arched and eager for him to come closer. They’d never done anything like this before. Such a shame! Such an interesting first time! More than made up for it by his math. 

“You’ve never looked more like Alice.” Her eyes went wide at that. There was too little time between the comment and Jervis dropping to his knees in front of her to respond. Even less between that and him pressing his lips to the corner of hers after lightly holding her chin to tilt her head just the way he wanted. He kissed her bottom lip, the top lip, the other corner. Teasing her until she whined about it before pressing his lips to hers and she learned his kisses were like him. Completely overwhelming. He didn’t kiss once in a long slow maneuver, no. He kissed her once, twice, a hundred times then finally slowing down to let her only gasp between them. 

He loved how she trembled, how she gave in. Pressing her chest to his while he let her desperately kiss him back while he enjoyed every sweet exchange. 

He had to indulge himself a little, didn’t he? Couldn’t let her have all the fun.

“Good. So good for me.” Jervis cooed treacly as a dove letting his hands wander as they pleased. Dressed in blue with the cutest pinafore and sweet as can be. Not Alice, but someone close enough for comfort. Someone you could confuse for Alice, but not her, no. He’d forgotten his logic for it at the moment. Was it that she cleaned up better? Mn, it wasn’t important. Mary Ann, dear darling Mary Ann in his arms was. Just a few more kisses he told himself. Just a few more. His tongue slipping in her mouth made them both swoon. Hers was soft and shy. His bold and brash, tasting her like Eve tasting the forbidden fruit and with the same fervor. If you're going to damn yourself it might as well be with gusto. Or in this case turn a friend into a lover. No going back in any case. 

“Jervis…” Down, down the rabbit hole or what felt eerily similar while he kissed his way down her throat to the very top of her chest. He couldn’t go lower and find flesh. He’d not thought ahead and undressed her before tying her up. More's the pity, but there was always later for that sort of fun. Instead he turned her gently, careful of her knees on the eeky creaky old wood of the attic floor while making sure to give the lights slack so as to not pull the plug out of the loose socket.

Hello, Thighs. Did you two miss him? He missed you. Oh, yes he did. He’d never had this much fun adjusting the clothing under someone’s binds before. At some point he’d not taken much notice to, he’d peeled his gloves off and tossed them a little too hard across the room to be found another time. Entirely to eager to finally feel the flesh of those absolutely maddening thighs against his palms. He didn’t have much feeling in his fingertips anymore. Too many scars, too many callouses. How long had it been since he’d felt someone’s thighs shaking like this against his own? How long had it been since someone made such thrilling noises that made every atom of his being vibrate with wanton desire just from his touch? He couldn’t recall. 

The Hatter managed to focus himself, moving pinafore and skirt around to the front and out of his way eventually between giving into the baser instincts his brain sent painful throbbing impulses to his groin demanding. Touch her here, feel her there. Cup right where you know she wants you to and call her yours just to make her whine and pant. A little pause just holding her close to make sure she was still with him before exposing those bloomers he’d spent so much wretched time getting the lace just right on.

“Next time I get it in my head to tie you up,” He whispered resting his chin on her shoulder, wrapping his arms around her hips so he could tangle his fingers in the light cotton fabric of the offending underpants “Be a dear, won’t you, and remind me to undress you first.” “I-” She didn’t get the time for a proper response. She didn’t really need it, did she? He ripped the seam open with a grimace and she let out the most pleasant squeal. “I can fix them later.” He assured as if it mattered. 

“That’s better isn’t it?” It was for him. Lord, was it. “Hm?” “Mhm.” “Now now,” Jervis tutted “I am a man of words. Use them.” She liked it when he was bossy. When he got that growl in his lilting squeaky voice and it dipped low low low to a rumble. It made her shiver and flush normally and though right now her poor face couldn’t get anymore red she managed to peep out a “Yes! Much better!” that told him he was doing everything right. “Good girl.”

Heavens to Betsy, if she wasn’t wiggly before she certainly was now and much to his delight he found out exactly why when he let his fingers go where they were naturally inclined. “Oh my…” Jervis breathed, ghosting just the bare tips of his fingers along her slit. It was hard to tell who was more worked up at this point. The way he clung to her while his fingers slipped into her to feel exactly how much she wanted him of all people was something poets would drool over. That rarely felt realization of what was generally revolting being wanted and oh how wanted he was. “Jervis- Oh my god!” He grinned, nuzzling his face into her hair. She didn’t know he knew how to do this and it was a little funny. People always mistook madness for innocence. He’d lived through the 70’s darling, this was vanilla cream in a lavender darjeeling. He’d bitched this pot before. “Hm, Jervis be nimble, Jervis be quick.” He squeezed her tighter and let his thumb find her clit to rub while his fingers fucked her hard and fast making her arch her back in her binds and shake while calling out his name over and over like a mantra. She didn’t last long at all, no, not after everything and came with all the flash and splendor he dreamed she might. Soaking his fingers in a way that made him nearly regret not skipping straight to the point earlier. “Jesus Christ-” “Not too bad for a lunatic?”

Poor girl could only huff out a few laughs at the silly rhyme after she’d come down a little then moaned low and long in relief in pleasure while sagging against him. “Don’t get too comfortable, darling,” He cooed, wrapping the leashlike cord of lights he’d left for the express purpose of a moment like this around his fingers after he’d pulled them from his lover to give her a little breather, only pulling hard enough to bring her back to attention with a meep. 

“That was just the foreplay.”

[laatmaar]

S/N: RG-300-459-76-44

Okay so this is the first time I have ever written fanfiction for anything, or even just written any story this long, but fallen hero has quite the death grip on my brain. So truly any advice and such is appreciated. Anyway I'm absolutely fascinated by whatever the regenes and the farm has going on, and this is a little piece exploring sidestep's, or rather Matt's, first mission on the farm. I say little but it has a word count of 3K, be warned. Also be warned that this piece contains somebody being murdered, but nothing too extreme or unusual for fallen hero I think.

You stand before a door. This specific door is quite unassuming, it is brown and the dark patterns of shaky vertical lines interrupted with little ovals signal that it is made of wood. Which makes it quite unlike most doors you are acquainted with, but it is normal here. The door looks exactly like the doors you’ve seen in picture books.  Presumably, to hide anything out of the ordinary, anything horrible, insidious, dangerous, behind a passibly normal exterior. In short, Mr. Brown made it look like all the other doors in this hallway. You like this door. 

If all went well Mr. Brown will now be lying dead on the ground behind this door, and the only thing you will have to do is help unit 44 with disposal of the body. It has been a long day and your body feels heavy, there is a strange empty feeling in your stomach. You do not know what you expected of your first mission, but certainly not feeling so… tired. You place your hand on the doorknob. You turn the doorknob. You open the door.

"Oh, thank God!”

Mr. Brown moves toward you more quickly than you were prepared for. He only stops in his tracks when, presumably, the gun that is quite obviously pointed at his head catches his eye again. Mr. Brown is, evidently, not dead. You close your eyes, breathe out. You open your eyes. Unit 44, who you were quite sure should have killed Mr. Brown some five minutes ago according to the mission parameters you memorized over and over and over and over again, moves towards the door. It makes sure its gun never wavers from its target's head and shuts the door behind you. You hear the click of the door being locked.  

“Look I don’t care what goddamn government agency thought it worth to send a goddamn fucking regene to assassinate me or whatever but-”  Mr. Brown grabs your arm, in his thoughts you find only relief, and pulls you towards him “-surely you’re not programmed to kill innocent civilians.” At this he shakes your arm, which you’ve come to understand is actually quite a rude thing to do.

Unit 44’s face is impassive although the corner of its blue lip might’ve moved upward just a tiny bit. Its gun however has not moved at all. It looks you dead in the eye.

In your ear Mr. Brown whispers “Play along with me and we might both get out of this alive.” He leans even closer and unit 44 does not shoot him in the head. It should. “Trust me on this miss,” still whispering  “that thing is not human… blue skin and all that.” Places his hand on your shoulder, his mind churning with possible escape routes, “It’s a fucking ai but it will not kill us if they think it will cause a scandal… I’m sure.” His thoughts imply otherwise. “Just tell it your parents are nearby or something, I mean what are you sixteen.. seventeen?  Your parents must be nearby.”

You open your mouth to ask why unit 44 has not followed standard procedure, do missions normally deviate this much from the norm? You’re not sure you like the idea of that. Why is it that it has not shot Mr. Brown already, even though it had ample opportunity. His fingers are digging into your shoulder in a way that is really becoming uncomfortable and the desperation and fear in his mind make it difficult to think. You are tired. You remember that you should report to your handlers in about 10 minutes and how does unit 44 think it will ever complete the mission in time. You already relayed all information you gathered from Mr. Brown’s houseguests during the party to your handlers. You’ve already done your part, why is it refusing to just do its part. Why do you have to be part of this. However unit 44 says, “Close your mouth.” and you obey.

Unit 44 is after all the senior unit out of the two of you, and the most senior unit on a mission is in charge in the unlikely event that your handlers cannot be reached. You paid attention during the briefing. Your handlers cannot be reached because Mr. Brown went to great lengths to design this room. Sound-proof, signal-proof , everything-proof. A perfect room designed for complete privacy, something Mr. Brown is often in great need of. You have recently learned what the concept of ironic means and you think that it applies now. That this room should be his downfall, or at least was supposed to be if all went according to plan. If unit 44 had paid attention. It had not. You had seen its eyes wander.

“Killing an innocent human being is sure to cause a scandal!” Mr. Brown’s voice is pitched a bit higher than before, his fingers beginning to dig in painfully. That is going to leave a mark.

Now you’re sure, unit 44’s lips turn upwards. You do not know what it finds particularly funny, or where it even learned to smile. Smirk? Its gun aimed around two inches to the left of your face. At Mr. Brown’s mouth. Which is still moving.

“I know her,” he lies, “if she disappears” shaking you, again “her parents will be sure to raise hell! They’re important. Influential.” Those last words he emphasizes. You’ve learned that people will do this if they mean more than what they are actually saying. You however do not see the relevance or deeper meaning of your imaginary parents being important. His thoughts suggest that not even Mr. Brown is entirely sure what he means. He just needs to stay alive, from one second to the next. He knows he won’t be able to overpower the regene planted in front of the door, but.. he’s not dead yet. It is a miracle that he is not dead yet. You agree.  He is sure that you might be the reason why. He can use that. Talk his way out. He has talked his way out of failure and into success his entire life.

Mr. Brown talks and talks and there are still nine minutes remaining. His grip turning painful, and you just wish your pain gate would activate for more mundane matters than life threatening injuries. You need to finish this. Quickly.

You look at unit 44. Its lean body clad in a skin-tight suit and armour, its stance almost relaxed. Not quite, but almost. The heaviest armour is centered around its chest area, all its appendages left unobstructed. Under the armour the skinsuit peeks out, the black fabric making for a nice contrast against the blue skin of its neck. There continuing from the neck and covering its entire face are those patterns you are so familiar with, this time in a lighter blue instead of orange. All traces of what might’ve been a smile gone from its lips. Its eyes are still looking at you, expression once again completely neutral. It nods and lowers its gun just a bit.

“Restrain him,” it orders “on the floor, preferably.”

 You do not stop to question why unit 44 wants Mr. Brown restrained and not dead. Why it won’t just finish this job. Neatly. According to mission protocol. With a bullet, preferably. You do not question it because some irrational part of you is glad that it has lowered the gun. It might have decided to shift it about two inches to the right. Unit 44, you have suspected for some time, is unpredictable. At least the smile has not returned, that you can admit unnerved you.

Most of all you do not question it because you are glad to move. To take that hand from your shoulder and in one swift movement twist it around his back, kick his legs, push him into the ground, put your knee on his back, the other next to his hip, your free hand on his neck holding him down. This is a move you have practiced a hundred times. It is even easier than expected, normally your partners put up much more of a fight.

Mr. Brown lets out a yelp of surprise and pain. His mind is a potent mix of confusion, betrayal and fear. Mostly fear, there is something very wrong with the picture being painted. He has misinterpreted the situation, badly. But… since when did they put regenes in charge of people.

He makes an attempt at opening his mouth to ask, but you press his face into the ground and that gets the message through. He closes his mouth. On his neck your fingertips press down and the skin turns red. Your own shoulder aches and you squeeze, just a bit.

Unit 44 has moved next to you. Its eyes finally leave you and shift a bit to the right, so that it’s not looking down at you but Mr. Brown instead. Gun pointed to the side. It looks like it's contemplating something but its mental defenses are better than Mr. Brown’s and you are still so tired. Then in a move that should not surprise you as much as it does, it kneels next to you. Nothing should surprise you when it comes to unit 44. Still you cannot help the question forming on your lips when it replaces your hand on Mr. Brown’s neck and hands you the gun. “Well,” it says, and nobody should have taught it to smile. It’s misusing the ability entirely, nothing about this situation is funny. “time is running out. Shoot him.”

You feel your shoulders tense and your right shoulder ache. The gun feels slippery in your hands. The temperature in the room has not risen even a degree since you’ve entered it and yet your hands are sweating. An uncomfortable heat spreading through your body as you look at unit 44, that stupid smile still on its face. Its expression still so calm. Your jaw aches with the effort it takes you to not open your mouth and say something. Anything. Scream. You don’t know.

Eight minutes remaining, and approximately a second has passed since unit 44 gave you the order. Mr. Brown’s thoughts are quickly turning from incomprehension to panic. He struggles under your knee and unit 44’s strong hands. Hurting himself. His panic full blown now, and maybe his thoughts are the reason you can’t seem to think straight on this matter. The fact that your hand is trembling without your input. Mr. Brown should have been dead for ten minutes already. His breathing ragged, and he might be crying. “Goddammit you’re human you don’t have to listen to it!” he screams. You shoot.

There is something unpleasant about the way blood drops roll down your face. You’ve experienced many new situations and sensations today. You don’t want to experience anything else ever again. You want to go home. You never want to leave this room.

For the last minute or so unit 44 has been opening different cabinets and drawers in search of something, you don’t particularly care what for. You have been sitting next to a corpse. His eyes still open, staring at you. You stare back, and in the corner of your eyes you see unit 44 approaching. It hands you a packet of wet wipes and makes a gesture at your face. You obediently wipe your face, your makeup coming off. The lipstick has mixed with blood and turned a bright red, it was supposed to be a neutral colour. Presentable, but not attracting attention. While the other units were putting on armour they had dressed you in a nice off colour white dress, now ruined. They had shaved your face and applied all sorts of cosmetics. You don’t know exactly what. They had made what, you gathered from the laughter, were supposed to be jokes. Something about if only they had prettier models and the money they could make. They had sent you off to a party, and you had completed your task. As unit 44 should have completed its.

It is fiddling with the closure of your dress. At your questioning look it shows you some kind of gel. “For your shoulder,” it clarifies. It has gotten the button open and pulls the zipper down. There in contrast to the bruised skin on your shoulder the orange tattoos appear completely unblemished. Nothing ever damages that familiar pattern. You quickly reach out and close Mr. Brown’s eyes. Unit 44 looks at you for a moment, and you feel your face heat up. It has no right to judge you, but it merely smiles. Blue patterns moving.

It puts some of that translucent gel on your shoulder and, far more gently than you think is medically necessary, begins spreading it out. Looking back you should’ve known something like this would happen. You should’ve known because unit 44 had not been paying attention to the briefing. Because it had looked distracted when putting on armour. Because two days before the mission it had not been as efficient as it could’ve been at training. It had hesitated and you had not let it out of your sight since. You should have known because small disobediences lead to bigger disobediences later on. You lean back, just a bit, into her cool fingers. Its cool fingers. Its blue fingers. The same colour your bruise is beginning to take on, and that was not your thought. You feel sick to the stomach, and you are so tired and you never wanted to have anything to do with this in the first place. You did your job, and so you stand up.

You begin trying to zip up your dress, and you must look like an idiot when you can’t reach the zipper. You take Mr. Brown’s jacket from the desk chair and put that over your shoulders instead. A small burst of panic shoots through you. There are only two minutes remaining.

Your first mission is a complete failure, two minutes isn’t enough time. The blood pools beneath Mr. Brown’s head seeping into the wooden flooring. It is splattered on the walls, and on your dress. On your hands. You do not have enough time to clean it all.

Unit 44 makes no attempt to move from where it’s still seated on the floor. It looks relaxed in the way it’s leaning back on its hands looking at you, observing you. It looks resigned, like it does not care about any of this. Does not care about the consequences of not following mission protocols. Does not care about Mr. Brown lying dead on the floor eleven minutes too late. Does not care about you. You suppose its actions have proven that it doesn’t.

Under your gaze unit 44 finally stands up.

“We have one minute,” it states. “Now tell me exactly, what did it feel like?”

For the first time in quite a while you open your mouth and speak.  

It is only in Dr. Morgan’s office in preparation for your second mission that you dare to subtly ask about unit 44. Of course she knows many unit 44’s, 44 being only the last two numbers of a longer serial number, but she seems to understand which one you’re talking about.

“Hmmm, I get why you would be anxious about working with that particular unit again. After that disaster of a mission last time.” You had known it was a disaster, you had not known everybody else thought so too. “That it would wait to kill that Brown figure for so long, and then to do it so messily too.” It had taken the fall, you had suspected as much. “I had already said to Marcus there is something wrong with that unit. He even acknowledged it in that irritating way he always does, but actually listen? No. Never.” 

She is not truly talking to you, merely monologuing to herself and you are an unfortunate victim. This is why you asked her. She likes hearing herself talk, and her colleagues do not like listening. 

“He was all like let’s see where this goes. It would be a shame to have to start over again, blah blah blah. I said the nice thing about regenes is that we get to start over again. Its body is young and we can simply reuse it. Let’s just get it over with, but no. One more mission.” You wonder how many units had heard her complain about this in the days preceding the mission. Whether unit 44 might’ve. “So one disaster of a mission later and now it’s been decommissioned all the same. Marcus still won’t admit I was right though. Asshole.”

Unit 44 is dead. She walks over to you and injects something in your upper right arm. The bruise on your shoulder has healed faster than a normal human bruise would. You’re beginning to miss it.

“Well anyway its chip has been taken apart, and you won’t have to worry about ever working with it again. Sounds good?”

There is something ugly and sour rising in your throat. You force your face in approximation of a gentle smile and nod.

Later when you’re in the dorms lying on your stomach on your bed, you wait and listen. It is deep in the night and you’ve waited very patiently until you’re sure that most of the others are asleep. Or at least that the ones still awake are not paying any attention to you. You’re pretty sure you look convincingly asleep, you have not moved an inch in two hours. Your telepathy is not as strong as others, so you play defense instead.

In your mind you open the door. Step into the room. Lock the door behind you (unit 44 is not there to pick up the slack anymore). Check the room for anything unusual (ignore the body). Feel your own body on the mattress, muscles relaxing. Keep at it for another two hours. Convince yourself you have obtained some fraction of privacy. Some fraction of Mr. Brown’s room, his dead eyes never having left you. Only then, when you’re balancing on the edge of consciousness just about to fall asleep, do you allow yourself to imagine; her blue fingers spread out against your shoulder.

[jeanbeaux]

FRATS WITH BENEFITS

jean kirstein x f!reader

wc: 4.6k

warnings: alcohol consumption (not underage bc everyone is a college senior) and of w**d mentions, frat boy antics, and sexual jokes (no actual smut tho!). Mentions of a tiktok audio and references to Naruto. Canon-typical horse face jokes. Author does not have a real idea of how frats work so all knowledge is gathered from Neighbors (2014). i tried to be as inclusive as posssible but there are height jokes bc author is short, so to my queens built like megan thee stallion i love u but we know jean he would still try and make fun of your height affectionately. (please let me know if I miss anything!)

a/n:  eee so this is like my first fic ever, so i’m happy I finished in time for daddy jean’s birthday. special shout out to @welcometotheclubhoe for bribing me to write this with a juicy kiss and allowing me to yell about fratboy!jean in her inbox and @aiiishiiiteru​ for beta-ing and sending me jean tiktoks to feed the brainrot much luv <3 <3 

It’s a dingy basement with a ceiling lined with LED lights, but then again, you can’t exactly expect gala-level ambiance when it comes to the decor choices of your average frat house. The only thing that had separated the last one from this house was the fact that the ceiling remained glowing green as opposed to the irritating strobe of the Alpha Nu House. Otherwise, it was the same throbbing bass that flowed through the house, the same games of Beer Pong that occurred out in the backyards, just with different players. You and your sorority had been at this for what had felt like hours: hitting up house after house on Frat Row as a part of your Welcome Week tradition. A tradition that always starts with the tipsy promise at the pregame of sticking the whole night together and ending up at a tattered vinyl booth in the back of Sawney & Beans. 

A promise, which, has never been kept during your four years at the University of Sina. 

After Sasha had insisted on staying behind with the cute blonde who had the recipe to the ultimate munchies snack, the group was now down to four. Hitch and Historia were enjoying themselves on the makeshift dance floor, Ymir had gone drink hunting, and you were standing in the corner, waiting for your social battery to recharge as you nursed the soft buzz in your body with whatever the house had come up with as a passible drink. The numbers 12:30 glared back up at you as you glanced at your phone, tucking it back into your pocket with a sigh. Just thirty more minutes, Hitch had begged. Let's just stop by at one more house, she said, and you found yourself caving when she promised you your meal was on her. 

However, judging by how she had begun to cling on the flustered boy with a bowl cut that had approached her, you resigned yourself to the thought that those loaded skillet huevos rancheros were going to be on your dime. So that must be Marlo, you thought, snorting into your cup at how the face to the name Hitch had been raving about all summer had not matched up at all. He didn’t seem like her type at all but then again —

“You’re in my spot.” A voice announced, pulling you from your silent appraisal. You looked up toward the owner, who responded to your confused gaze with a shit-eating smirk. He was tall, almost annoyingly so, with broad shoulders illuminated by green glow of the party lights. He had tucked his ash brown hair in a backward baseball cap, his amusement at the predicament apparent in caramel eyes. 

“Sorry?” you blinked back.

“Yeah, this is my spot,” he repeated, gesturing to a piece of paper that hung above you that read “Cirstein’s Charging Corner” in a scrawl comparable to a kindergartener's. 

“So did you want to charge your phone or something because I can just hold on to it while you do whatever or —” 

He laughs, cutting you off before he explains, “This is just where I normally hang out when I’m tired out with the party. Judging by your face right now, it seems like you're doing the same thing.”

“You’re not wrong on that,” you remark, shuffling over to the side so he can join you against the wall. “How long have you been doing this for you to get a place card to make it all official?”

“Oh, since about the third party they threw freshman year. And since it looks like I have a squatter, I might as well introduce myself — I’m Jean Kirstein,” he says with a teasing smile, “With a K, not a C. My buddy Connie took one English class and decided to force alliteration by bastardizing my last name.”

You introduce yourself back with a giggle. “Honestly, I’ve got to respect the effort he put into that. But I’ve got a question for you, Kirstein. If you get so tired of these parties, why not just go back to your room?”

“Excellent question, mon ami,” he replies, pausing to take a swig of his beer, “You see, my room lies between the guy who fucks obnoxiously loud and the guy who enjoys hosting drunk Rock Band competitions until four in the morning. Not exactly the best place to seek some R&R. But this corner right here? Best place to people watch. Well, from my height at least. You meet the smirk he gives you by sticking out your tongue. “Alright, I’ve decided to let you stay here under one condition: tell me what you see.” 

You turn your attention back to the party scene before you. “Well, I can tell you this much, if that guy over there is your friend, do him a favor and pull him out of there cause he’s gonna strike out pretty fast.” You nudge your drink in the general direction of Historia, who was nodding politely at the broad-chested blonde chatting animatedly with her. 

“Oh, come on now, that’s a bit harsh. Sure, Reiner’s a little thick sometimes when it comes to talking to girls but that doesn’t mean he’s totally helpless.”

“That’s not why I’m saying that it’s because —” You pause as you catch Ymir in the corner of your eye, and decide to forgo an explanation. “Actually, just watch, it will make sense soon enough.” Jean shifts attention back towards the scene, catching Ymir splash Reiner with her drink with a dry “Whoops!” — no indication of regret on her face before turning to hand Historia a White Claw. Reiner stood frozen, mouth agape; while Historia was simultaneously apologizing profusely to the drenched boy and scolding her girlfriend for being so extreme. 

Jean dissolves into laughter as he whips out his phone to take a picture of Reiner’s misfortune. “I’m never letting him live this one down, oh my god,” he manages between breaths. “You aren’t bad at this, what else you’ve got?”

You bring the red Solo cup back your lips in an attempt to hide the smile growing on your face. Perhaps this tree in a black bomber jacket wouldn’t be the worst company for the rest of the night. You survey the basement again, letting out a groan when you see it. “Possibly the most tragic observation of them all, my meal ticket is getting laid tonight.” He follows your gaze back to the middle of the dance floor, where Hitch had been grinding on an incredibly flushed Marlo. Beet red and visibly conflicted between matching Hitch’s motions or upholding her honor, his eyes flitted from her to the various partygoers. As soon as he caught you and Jean looking back at him from the corner he panicked, grabbing Hitch’s wrist to whisk her away to a more secluded spot.

“Hold on,” Jean began, “Are you telling me that’s who Rock Lee bagged at his internship?”

“Rock Lee? I thought his name was Marlo?”

“Well it is, hold on, it’s easier if I just show you, come with me.” He offers his hand as he strides off the wall, guiding you through the crowd of sticky and sweaty bodies till you reach the kitchen, stopping by the wall where their class photo hung. The professional headshots of the 15 boys smiling in their suits rather seemed out of place in a room that repurposed a cracked bong as a condom jar, but it seemed that the sticky noted nicknames that had been crudely plastered to the glass was their attempt at making the ornate frame match the frat-core aesthetic.

"Allow me to introduce you to the Epsilon Class of Rho Omicron Zeta. The random greek letter assignment wasn’t exactly for us, so we came up with new names. Marlo over here was named for his resemblance to this icon from Naruto over here," Jean explained, handing you his phone to show you a picture of an anime character with bushy brows and a bowl-cut on his phone. "Even acts a bit like him too."

“If this Rock Lee guy has a stick up his ass but in an almost endearing way then you’ve nailed it.”

“That’s our Marlo,” he grins, “I came up with that nickname so I’m pretty proud of it.”

“Did you come up with Birth Control too?” You ask, pointing towards the picture of a dark-haired boy with a timid smile. “You’ve gotta give me the back story on that one.”

Jean reaches over your head, flicking the sticky note under the picture with long fingers to reveal the words Bertholdt Hoover in gothic script. “How do you think you say his name?”

You pause, contemplating where this could possibly go. “Bertolt.” 

“How did you forget to use two of the letters in his name?”

“They look like they don’t belong there!” you protested. Silent letters and all that jazz. How do you even pronounce it?”

“Truthfully? We don’t exactly know,” Jean admitted. “Poor kid had his professor call him Burthold for half a semester before he finally corrected him. And during a smoke session, we all decided to play Benedict Cumberbatch with his name, and thus, he was henceforth known as Birth Control.”

“Huh, it’s not bad. Personally, I would have gone with Bear Turtle.”

“Hmmm,” he muses, making a show out of tapping his chin thoughtfully. “I’ll bring your suggestion up with the high council, you’ll hear back in 3 to 5 business days to see if we approve. They still aren't over the blow of not being able to use Big Dick Berty on account of him nearly choking on his water at the suggestion of it.”

“You guys are such children,” you laugh, earning another one of Jean’s warm smiles. “Was Freckle Dick and Jaeger Dong not enough for the penile-themed nicknames?”

“When is two ever enough?”

You roll your eyes and turn back to the photo. “I’m not going to dignify that with a response, Ponyboy,” you tease, finally finding his picture. “Are you just a big fan of The Outsiders?”

For the first time tonight, Jean’s sunny disposition dims for a minute, embarrassment flitting across his features. “Well, if you must know, they call me that cause —”

“Cause of his big oleee horse-face!” A boy behind you slurs, knocking you into the wall as he barrels headfirst into Jean’s chest. He reaches up to cup Jean’s jaw with one hand, cheeks squishing under his fingers. “Don’t you agree?” he asks, turning to face you as he moves Jean’s face from side to side with drunk amusement. You look back at him bewildered, not sure as to how to respond to the situation, but that doesn’t seem to deter the newest member of your party from continuing on.

“Ya know, I tell him all the time, Jean boy!” He emphasizes with a smack to Jean’s chest. “Just cause your face is long, it doesn’t mean women think it’s ugly! I’m sure plenty of people find that attractive! And if you don’t like his horse face, I’ve walked in on this guy in the bathroom a couple of times, and trust me, does he have the horseco—”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” Jean peels off the hand holding his face hostage, “I’m cutting you off for the rest of the night, Connie, time for you to go.”

“But Jeaaaaannn,” he whines into his shoulder, “you haven’t even introduced me to your pretty lady friend here!”

“(Y/N), this is Connie,” Jean sighs, trying to stabilize the swaying boy, “Connie, (Y/N).”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Connie says, shooting his hand forward.

“Likewise, Cueball,” you reply, offering your hand, which Connie begins to swing back and forth.

“Jean!” he gasps, “How did she know my name?”

“Because you’re practically bald, Connie.”

“I am?” Connie breaks the handshake to frantically run his hands through his buzzcut. “Oh my god, I AM! Jean! Where did my hair go?”

“We trimmed it this morning, remember?”

“Well give it back!”

 “Will you excuse me for a minute?” Jean turns to you with an apologetic look, holding Connie by the elbow.  “I’ve got to take this dumbass to bed before he poisons his liver any further.”

“No! I can’t leave! I had to tell you something, I’ve been looking all over for you,” Connie hiccups. “You won’t believe how far Rock Lee’s been going to keep up the story of him getting a girl. He interrupted the Rock Band session to ask for some lube. Lube! While I was jamming out to The Go-Go’s! Who asks a man for lube as he’s trying to play We Got The Beat on the drums?”

You and Jean exchange a glance before you begin snickering loudly. 

“Whaddam I missing? What’re you hiding? Tell me!” Connie grabs Jean by his jacket in a futile attempt to shake the answer out of him.

“Marlo’s actually got a girlfriend,” you explain, “She’s a part of the SNA srat, like me.”

“Bro!” Connie’s eyes go wide. “Do you know what this means?”

“That you and Eren owe me $10?” Jean offers.

“That Rock Lee — hic! — FUCKS!” Connie retorts. “Who would have thought?”

“Me, which is why you got to pay up, Cueball,”  Connie grumbles as he reaches for his wallet, pulling out a crumpled bill to smack in Jean’s awaiting palm. 

“Also, please don’t tell Eren now, Jean. I may or may not have told him you and I would be on clean-up duty for the next 3 weekends if we could beat him at Flip Cup.” Connie admits sheepishly. “He also may or may not be waiting for us to show up outside soon.”

“Why on earth would you tell him that?” Jean pinches the bridge of his nose, groaning in exasperation.

“Because I know we could!”

“Then couldn’t you have at least stayed a little closer to sober? God, Connie, who else am I supposed to team up with?”

“Well, there’s Marco, and Armin and —”

“Armin? He can’t even hold a full cup without the guarantee of dropping it, how am I supposed to expect him to flip an empty one?”

“And you have her!” Connie whips his arm in your direction, pointer finger dangerously close to your nose. “You can play, right?”

“Well I wouldn’t say I’m amazing at it, but —” you begin.

“See! She can play! We got this Jean,” he beams, satisfied at how he’s managed to salvage the situation.

“She didn’t agree to anything!”

“But she’ll do it, right?”

Both boys turn to you expectantly. Jean’s face unsure, trying to convey that you didn’t have any obligation to go through with Connie’s hair-brained ideas; the look Connie gives you is pleading, large hazel puppy eyes desperate for you to absolve him from Jean’s impending wrath. You look back at them, then look at your cup, finishing its contents with a gulp before responding.

“Oh, why not. Can’t make any promises I’ll save you from clean up duty, though.”

“Yes!” Connie exclaims, fist-pumping the air. “If Jean wasn’t in love with you I’d kiss you right now.”

Jean smacks Connie upside the head as you feel the heat begin to rise in your cheeks. “Connie, please remind me to kill you tomorrow.”

“Aye aye Captain, one second,” he fishes for his phone. “Hey Siri, set a reminder for Jean to kill me tomorrow.”

“Oh for the love of — let’s go already,” Jean leads you once again as he pulls Connie by the ear out the door. The cool autumn air is a respite from the sweltering atmosphere of the packed house, cooling you down as you approach the battered folding table set up in the front lawn. The opposing team seemed to have already gathered, comprising of a ginger with a poor imitation of a Ken doll hair cut, a slicked backed dirty blonde, Reiner, who was sporting a new set of clothes, and a green-eyed brunette whose hair was tucked in a low bun.

“So, you finally showed, Ponyboy,” the man bunned brunette grins. “I’ve been waiting out here for over 30 minutes, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah, Jaeger, relax, your messenger got himself drunk along the way, don’t blame me,” Jean dismisses. “Had to go and find myself a new teammate,” he adds, gesturing to you.

“Sup, I’m Eren,” he waves; the rest of his teammates mumble their hellos and introductions soon after. “You familiar with the rules?”

“Uh, just drink, flip the cup and be the team to have all four members do it first?”

“Bingo,” he says, popping the o. “Decide the order of your team, Jean, and we start from there.”

Jean brings you into a huddle with Connie, a sweet-looking guy who you recognize to be Freckle Dick, and a nervous blonde that you figure to be Armin. “Alright, Armin, you can start the chain. (Y/N), you go after Armin, and Marco, you follow her, and. I’ll end us off. Sound good?”

“You got this team! Go us!” Connie cheers, extending two thumbs up into the middle of the circle. The other two nod in confirmation and the huddle breaks to line up in position in front of their cups. A small crowd of spectators had gathered around the table, lighting your nerves on fire. Jean picks up on your nervousness and softly taps your shoulder.

“Hey, don’t freak out, it will be okay however it turns out,” he says reassuringly, that easy smile back on his face. “And if you never see me and Connie again after this, it’s because he’s in various dumpsters across the city and I’ve died of Neisseria.”

“I’ll try not to let it come to that,” you crack a smile of your own in return. “For Connie’s safety, of course.”

“Is each team ready?”Eren asks, bringing your attention back to the table.

“It’s now or never.”

Eren begins the countdown. “Three, two, one, go!”

Armin and the ginger, Floch, grab their drinks as the crowd begins to roar. Armin finishes his just a hair faster than Floch, hurriedly wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he sets the cup at the edge of the table to be flipped. The cup rattles dully as it flips onto the table, and when it finally lands on its rim after the fourth try, you see Armin let out a breath of relief. The knot in your stomach twists as you watch him, tightening and tightening till it’s finally your turn, and when all eyes turn to you, you feel time stop. You reach for your drink and you gulp, trying your hardest to ignore the taste as you drain the cup, putting it down to the edge and giving it a soft flick at its base, watching with bated breath as it lands face down with a soft “thwack!”

“(Y/N)’s got gaaaameee!” You pick out Connie’s voice screaming from the crowd.

You should be happy. Ecstatic, even. But you can’t bring yourself to think about anything other than the burn in the back of your throat. “That’s not beer,” you sputter, scrunching up your nose in disgust.

“Yeah, its what Eren likes to call the Paradise Punch,” Armin explains. “It’s the jungle juice from inside with an extra shot of vodka.”

“What is he, a sadist or something?”

“Unfortunately.”

You look back to the table’s end where Jean and Eren are finishing their drinks. Both slam their cups on the table at the same time, Jean flipping his cup on the second try with lithe hands. The crowd cheers on as Connie runs up to high five you all, Eren crushing his cup under black painted fingernails.

“What do you say, horse-face, how about a round two?” He challenges.

Jean looks over at you and the others for approval before agreeing.

“Bring it.”

Round two eventually turns into round three, which then gets followed by round four. The buzz in your veins blooms into a fuzzy warmth that fills your body, leaving your brain slightly hazy, but you’re happy. The score ends up tied, Eren arguing for a speed round to determine the winner. “Listen, one round with one cup, me and anyone on your team, that’s how we settle this.”

“I volunteer!” You blurt, shooting your hand up in the air. “Pick me, Jean, pretty please!” You don’t even give him time to respond as you bound back to the table to face across from Eren. “Set the cups up, big boy, let’s go.”

You truly don’t remember how you won. All you know is that by the end of it, you’re holding that Red Solo Cup like it’s a Wimbledon Trophy, Eren’s face in his hands in defeat. And then you take a step on the uneven ground before and you fall, only to be caught by Jean’s strong arms before you could eat grass.

“Whoa there, you doing alright?” Jean chuckles as he helps you stand up.

“We won, Jean, look!” You wave the cup in front of his face. “Connie’s gonna live! Oh and, Jaeger Dong!” You call out to Eren, earning a puzzled look from the aforementioned. “You owe Jean $10!”

“Why?”

“Cause Rock Lee FUCCCCKKS!”

“Yeah! That’s right!” Connie joins in. He turns to the crowd to begin a chant “Rock Lee Fucks! Rock Lee Fucks!” gathering enough energy to get Marlo to open his window, only for him to slam it shut the minute he could make out what was being said. You take in the chaos around you with a drunken smile, and gesture to the scene before you to Jean saying, “I think he started a riot, how’s that for a people-watching opportunity?”

“I think it means that I’m doing my best to keep him away from liquor for the rest of the semester if this is what I’m going to have to deal with.”

“Aw you’re like his babysitter,” you tease.

“An incredibly underpaid one,” he sighs, “But I’m willing to hand that role off to Marco if you need someone to walk you home,” Jean offers, “It’s getting pretty late.”

You glance at your phone again, the clock now reading 2:30. Ymir and Historia had texted you that they were at the house already, and Hitch, well, was currently in the middle of convincing Marlo to open the window and wave to his fans. “I think I can walk back myself, it’s not too far from here! Thank you, though.” You take a step away with a wave, only to stumble again for Jean to catch you under the armpits, hoisting you up tenderly.

“It’s no trouble, seriously,” he assures you, “You’re tripping over yourself, and my babysitting instincts are just screaming that leaving you unattended is just a bad idea. Here,” he shrugs off his jacket, handing it over to you, “You’re getting cold, give me a minute to grab my keys and we can head out, okay?”

You nod in understanding and he moves back towards the house. You take the opportunity away from him to put on his black bomber, and it absolutely swallows you, the fabric ending mid-thigh. It’s a heavy material, but comforting, and you tug it closer to your chest so you can inhale the subtle scent of woodsy cologne. You spot him heading back to you and wave, the sleeve falling down your forearm with the motion. 

“How is this so big,” you say when he finally reaches you. “Why are you built like a giraffe?” 

“Hah! It’s not my fault you’re built like a baked bean.”

“Rude!” You playfully flip him off, and you notice that he really wasn’t built like a giraffe. Somehow, his shoulders looked even bigger in that fitted white tee than they did in the bomber, sleeves cuffing around defined golden biceps and stretching across a toned chest. “Are you not cold?”

“Nah, I tend to run warm anyways.”

“And you have a hat on.”

“How is that supposed to help?”

“It covers your ears. And if they don’t get cold, you won’t,” you conclude.

“Do you want to take a look at my hat again?” he asks, and you oblige. Looking up to him to see that stupid smirk make its return, because his baseball cap did not, in fact, cover his ears, keeping his silver piercings visible as they glinted under the light of the street lamps. 

“You know what, I’m tipsy, I’ve decided I don’t have to make sense now,” you huff. 

The rest of the walk home goes by smoothly, as you talk about your majors and what you did over the summer. You find out he’s pre law, originally wanting to become a prosecutor but he recently had a change of heart after interning the public defender’s office. He likes historical fiction and the color green and thinks that the Game of Thrones finale was one of the top ten worst betrayals he’s experienced in his life, second only to the time his mom told everyone his middle name on Parent’s Day freshman year. He listens to every word you say with attention, commenting about how Sasha’s antics are comparable to Connie’s and how he too would rather all parties stop at 11:30 sometimes so he can go to bed. 

“I’m telling you, sometimes, it’s alright for everyone to sleep by 12!” he states as you approach your house.

“Hey, all you’re doing is preaching to the choir here,” you agree, turning to face him. “Well, this is me! Thanks for walking me home tonight.” 

“It was nothing really. Do you mind if I use your bathroom before I head back?”

“Sure, come on in.” You fumble with your keys, nearly losing your grip on the cup you had been carrying on the way home.

“You really carried that all the way back home?”

“Why not? It’s the start of my Flip Cup trophy collection.” You shove the door open with your shoulder, beckoning him inside. “The bathroom is the first door on the left.” You decide to stay in the living room till he left to properly say goodbye, but something about sinking into the couch just pulled your eyelids shut. 

“Are you planning to sleep out here?” Jean asks with mirth as your eyes flutter open lazily.

“Mmm? Yes.” You stretch yourself out on the loveseat, snuggling your face into a throw pillow.

“Your back’s going to hate you for that, you know.” 

“I’ll deal with her tomorrow. For now, she’s quiet, and I’m going to enjoy that.” You lift your head up from the pillow and smile back at him. “Good night, Jean. I had fun tonight, maybe I should keep squatting in corners to see if I’ll find you.” 

If it were a little brighter, and if your eyes were more open, you would have noticed the light blush that dusted his cheeks at the statement. 

“Maybe you should,” he says softly, cockiness absent in his tone. “Good night, (Y/N).” You fall into the pillow again, closing your eyes and drift off to the sound of his receding footsteps.

It’s bright when you wake up. 

Too bright. 

You groan as you rise from the couch as a response to the sunlight from the windows and the increased tension in your back. “That tall bastard is never gonna let me live this down,” you grumble internally as you rub your bleary eyes. 

The room begins to come into focus again, and you notice the dimpled red disposable cup left at the edge of the coffee table. You reached over for it, and note the additions made in Sharpie as you slept.

“Cirstein’s Charging Corner - currently seeking tenants. People watching skills required, Flip Cup Champions preferred. Call if interested?”

thx u for reading!! <3

© all rights reserved JEANBEAUX 2021. please do not copy, modify or repost my work.

[howtofightwrite]

Followup: Damage Decks and the use of Playing Cards in RPGs

Wait what is the “damage deck” rpg called?

hueynomure

I was thinking, specifically, of two games. One was the FFG version of Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay, the other was Decipher’s Star Trek: Customizable Card Game. Both games are out of print, (The Star Trek: CCG went out of print nearly 20 years ago, and FFG lost the Warhammer license back in 2017.)

With Warhammer, I misremembered how the damage rules work, and it’s something of a hybrid system. Damage inflicted becomes “minor wounds,” which are tracked by face down damage cards. Under certain circumstances, a minor wound can become a “serious wound,” by flipping the damage card over, and at that point it has a persistent effect until the character is healed. The primary way minor wounds become serious ones is if the character is knocked out, in which case, one of their minor wounds will flip face up.

It’s a little unusual to see a mechanic like this in tabletop RPGs, but the mechanic of taking a persistent debuff after being downed in combat is significantly more common in CRPGs. Both the Dragon Age series and Pillars of Eternity use that exact mechanic to penalize characters who have been downed in combat.

It’s also worth pointing out that FFG is primarily a tabletop game publisher. This is very apparent in their Warhammer RPG, which features a lot of items you’d normally associate with a tabletop game, rather than an RPG. Player characters, their items, their skills, and the things they’ll fight are all tracked with cards. Keeping track of player characters between sessions was accomplished with custom tuck boxes. There are also a mountain of tokens for tracking many other things. So, in that environment, the use of cards to track damage isn’t that strange. It’s also why the box was nearly $100 USD when it was still in print. It’s beefy, and there’s a lot of stuff in there.

The Star Trek: CCG was one of the first imitators of Magic: The Gathering, and significantly, one of the first to really depart from the game structure of Magic. Where M:TG is about dealing 20 damage to your opponent before they do the same to you, Star Trek’s victory condition was acquiring 100 points from completing missions. Combat was not a primary focus of the game, and there was no direct victory condition through combat.

Over the years, Star Trek reworked its ground combat to be almost passible, but ship combat got a significant rework with the Blaze of Glory expansion. This saw the introduction of the “Battle Bridge side deck,” constructed from Tactic cards. Tactics had two parts to the card, the top was a combat modifier that you would select, and the bottom was the damage effect. Ship combat occurred once per turn, with your ships having the opportunity to attack your opponents, at which point, both players would draw the top two Tactics cards from the BBSD, select one, place the other underneath the deck, and then both players would reveal them at the same time. Tactics had varying effects, frequently increasing attack and defense values. If your attack was greater than the target’s defense, that was a “hit,” and if your attack was greater than twice the target’s defense that was a “direct hit.” At the same time, your opponent would make the same checks with their attack against your defense value.

Tactics cards would define what you did on a hit or direct hit. The default was to deal the top two tactics from your deck to your opponent’s ship on a hit, and the top four on a direct hit, but there was some variation. For example: One Tactics card (“Maximum Firepower,” I think), would deal the top three cards on a hit (if you were using one of a small subset of ships), but also had a defense penalty instead of a bonus. An entire subset of tactics (“Target Weapons/Shields/Engines”) would direct you to deal the top card off your deck (or top three on a direct hit), but was also placed on the target as a damage card when used.) (In the case of Target Shields, it would be applied even if you didn’t score a hit.)

As with Warhammer this is, technically a hybrid damage system. Each Tactic card’s damage section had a small text box which indicated what it did to the ship, this included disabling systems (such as the transporter or tractor beam), killing a crew member, causing the ship to be vulnerable to boarding parties, ect. It also applied penalties to the ship’s stats, and applied a “-%” to the ship’s hull. If the cumulative damage exceeded -100% hull, the ship would be destroyed. So, there is a health pool, but it’s gated by cards.

Now, significantly, this was not in the RPG that Decipher developed for Star Trek.

The use of cards as a game component in RPGs is pretty rare overall. The most prominent example I can think of is Deadlands, which used cards during character creation, and also when casting spells. Though, that was with a (mostly) standard 54 card poker deck. The only unusual element was the Jokers which were distinct from one another, and one had a special significance. Including, if I remember correctly, killing the player character if it was drawn during character creation.

The reverse is also unusual. You don’t often see card games which trend into roleplaying territory.

The (also, now, long out of print), Babylon 5 card game actively encouraged players to roleplay as their various characters during sessions session, and many of the cards in that game are primarily only useful as roleplaying aides. (There is a serious difference between competitive decks and casual ones.) However, there is no persistence between sessions. The game (unsurprisingly) has a card based consequence system, but, damage is just points assigned against a character’s highest ability.

FFG’s Arkham Horror card game is the inverse of B5 in many ways. You’re not actively encouraged to roleplay at the table, but your characters (or at least their decks) are intended to grow and change over the course of a campaign. Additionally, the game structure is more in line with an RPG, it’s cooperative between the players, with, “self-playing,” scripted scenarios that you work together to overcome. As with B5, there are persistent card effects that can linger on a character, but damage is simply measured against a health pool. (Technically two distinct health pools, Health and Sanity, but, this is H.P. Lovecraft inspired title.) (Also, there is an Arkham Horror board game. Same publisher, same setting, most of the same characters, but it is a different game.)

Now, my background with board and card games is not absolute, so I could easily be missing some other examples. (In particular, I haven’t played the board game version of Arkham Horror.) But, Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay and the Star Trek CCG’s ship combat are the two examples I was specifically thinking of when I mentioned that system.

-Starke

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Followup: Damage Decks and the use of Playing Cards in RPGs was originally published on How to Fight Write.

[grailfinders]

Fate and Phantasms #80: Charles Babbage

Hey, remember how the Lalter build wasn’t strong? Let’s do that again. Today on Fate and Phantasms, we’re making the King of Steam, Charles Babbage! You should probably check with your DM before bringing a giant transforming mecha to your next D&D game, it might mess with the game feel.

If that’s not an issue for you, you can check out Babbage’s build breakdown below the cut, or his character sheet over here!

Next up: Hyde your kids, hyde your wife, and hyde your husband, ‘cuz he’s stabbing everybody out here.

Race and Background 

Babbage is (probably?) a human, but his armor is part of him, so this is a great opportunity to make a Warforged. This gives him +2 Constitution and +1 Intelligence, as well as some other racial bonuses. Constructed Resilience grants advantage and resistance to poisons, immunity to eating, drinking, breathing, disease, and sleep, and you can’t be put to sleep through magic. You also take Sentry’s Rests- Your long rests are only six hours long, and you aren’t unconscious during them. Your Integrated Protection gives you +1 to AC, and you integrate into your armor instead of donning it normally. This takes an hour (which can be done while resting), and the armor can’t be removed against your will. Finally, your Specialized Design gives you proficiency in Athletics and one tool. You’re a robot, you don’t really get tired.

You are the foremost expert in steam-powered technologies (although that’s probably not a huge achievement in many D&D campaigns), so you’re a good fit for a Sage. This background gives you proficiency in Arcana and History checks.

Stats

Your highest stat is Intelligence- you’re literally a robot that you made, you’d have to be very smart or very stupid to try that. Second highest will be Charisma; You’re all about the steam-powered dream, and you’ll have to convince the others to help you out. Your Strength will also have to be rather high- you’re swinging a giant club/sword around, and you can’t do that without some muscles. Unless you multiclass into Warlock, but honestly a fourth class would be too much. Speaking of multiclassing, your Wisdom also needs to be passible- don’t worry about getting this to 13 immediately, you’ll have plenty of time. Your Constitution isn’t great- your armor takes most of the damage for you. Finally, dump Dexterity. Being a massive lump of metal will severely impact any potential ninja career.

Class Levels

1. Artificer 1: If you really want to be Babbage, we’ve got to get you into a decent suit of armor ASAP, and that starts with Artificer levels. First level artificers have proficiency in Constitution and Intelligence saves, as well as Perception and Investigation. You can also use Magical Tinkering to add minor magical effects to tiny objects, as well as cast and prepare Spells using your Intelligence. 

Mending will help you repair your armor and self for the time being, and Poison Spray lets you hand out samples of your Demonic Fog. For first level spells to check out, Alarm is a reasonable gadget for you to have, Identify will let you google whatever you come across, and Grease is a holdover from your racing days.

2. Artificer 2: Second level artificers can Infuse Items with magical effects. You can know four right now, but you can only use two at a time, switching them around on long rests. Enhanced Weapon, Enhanced Defense, and Enhanced Arcane Focus will help make up for your low ability scores later on, and Sending Stones are just useful to have.

3. Artificer 3: You can now make The Right Tool for the Job at the end of an hour while resting, as long as that tool is an artisan’s tool. You also become an Armorer, learning how to turn regular heavy armor into Power Armor. You can ignore the strength requirement for that armor, use it as a spellcasting focus, and it also can’t be removed against your will again. So now it’s really on there. Your armor is the Guardian Model, which comes complete with Thunder Gauntlets and a Defensive Field. The former is a melee weapon that uses intelligence and keeps the enemy’s focus on you, while the latter gives you the ability to gain temporary HP equal to your artificer level each turn as a bonus action.

Finally, you gain Magic Missile and Shield as specialty spells, which don’t count against the number you have prepared.

4. Artificer 4: Use your first Ability Score Improvement to enhance your Charisma- you’ll be needing it soon enough.

5. Sorcerer 1: Like right now! When you become a sorcerer, you have to pick your Sorcerous Origin, and the Clockwork Soul feels like it was made for you. You get another list of Spells that use your Charisma and aren’t prepared, so you pick them every time you level up. You can also Restore Balance, using your reaction to negate advantage or disadvantage on a roll made within 60′ of you a number of times per long rest equal to your Charisma modifier per long rest. Now the roll’s perfectly balanced, as all things should be.

Unlike most sorcerers, Clockwork souls also get specialty spells, which don’t count against the number you know. Your specialties are Alarm and Protection from Good and Evil for added magical defenses. You also learn Booming Blade to enhance your weapon attacks, Create Bonfire and Shape Water to make steam, and Minor Illusion to make fake steam while waiting for the water to boil. Burning Hands will let you shoot superheated blasts of steam from your hands, and Fog Cloud just makes a lot of the regular variety.

6. Sorcerer 2: Second level sorcerers are a Font of Magic, giving you a number of Sorcerer Points equal to your sorcerer level. Right now you can use them to make new spell slots, or you can turn existing slots into points. You can also blast off on jets of steam thanks to Jump, which triples your jump distance.

7. Sorcerer 3: At third level you get the real reason for last level’s point system, metamagic! When you cast a spell, you can spend sorcerer points to make it a Heightened Spell to induce disadvantage against it on a single target, or a Subtle Spell so you can cast it without verbal or somatic components. That second one is pretty important, since you’re probably running around with a club in your hands anyway.

You also get second level spells this level. Your specialty spells are Find Traps and Heat Metal, but you also get Enlarge/Reduce. Would you really be Babbage if you weren’t a giant robot? The real Babbage would probably say yes, but let’s ignore that for now.

8. Sorcerer 4: Use this ASI to round out your Strength and increase your Wisdom to the multiclassing minimum. Your final sorcerer spells for a while are Control Flames and Enhance Ability. The former is really just more hot steam, and the latter is your awesome robot body making up for your low ability scores.

9. Artificer 5: Fifth level armorers get second level spells again, as well as an Extra Attack when you make the attack action. Your specialty spells are Mirror Image and Shatter. Sometimes all that steam makes people see things.

For prepared spells, Darkvision and See Invisibility uses your robot eyes to see things normal people can’t.

10. Artificer 6: Sixth level artificers get Tool Expertise, doubling their proficiency bonus when used in tool-based checks. They also get two new infusion ideas, and one more that can be used concurrently. The Wand Sheath is very useful for you, as it lets you cast sorcerer spells while your hands are full with fighting. You could also use Radiant Weapon as an upgrade to your Enhanced Weapon if you don’t want to use Darkvision.

11. Artificer 7: At seventh level, you experience Flashes of Genius. When a check or save is made within 30′ of you, you can react to add your intelligence modifier to the roll. You can do this a number of times per long rest equal to your Intelligence modifier.

12. Artificer 8: Use this ASI to become a War Caster, allowing you to cast somatic spells while holding weapons, cast spells as attacks of opportunity, and have advantage on concentration saving throws.

13. Artificer 9: Your final level of artificer lets you make Armor Modifications. Your power armor now counts as four items for the purposes of infusions, and you can use two extra infusions as long as they’re a part of your armor.

You also learn third level spells, including your specialty spells Hypnotic Pattern and Lightning Bolt. Fly further empowers your steam jets to really lift you off the ground, and Protection from Energy gives you defenses against spells and other armor-avoiding types of damage.

14. Druid 1: I know that technically druids don’t like using metal armor, but I have a very good reason for breaking the rules a bit here. Okay, it’s not good, but it is very funny. If your DM (or you) doesn’t like this rule break, feel free to swap this out for more artificer levels.

Anyway, first level druids learn the language of the druids, Druidic, as well as yet another list of Spells that use Wisdom for casting and preparation. You also get Resistance and Guidance for a small boost to your saving throws and ability checks.

15. Druid 2: Second level druids get the reason we’re here, Wild Shape! Twice per long rest, you can turn into a beast of CR 1/4 with no flying or swimming speed, gaining that creature’s physical stats. You also use their HP instead of your own, with their entire health bar acting like temporary HP. You can’t cast spells, but you can concentrate on them. You can also use any class and race features while in this new form. I’m not entirely sure how integrated armor works with druids-that’ll have to be a DM decision.

You also pick your Druid circle at this level, and Moon Druids are experts at transformation. Your Combat Wild Shape lets you transform as a bonus action, and you can spend spell slots to regain HP while transformed. You can also transform into beasts of CR 1 or lower. Now when you need to make a quick getaway, you can Wild Shape into a warhorse and let another party member ride you to freedom! That’s right, I managed to sneak the Babbage Locomotive Form in here!

16. Sorcerer 5: Fifth level sorcerers get third level spells. Counterspell and Glyph of Warding further enhance your magical defenses, and Haste will let you overclock your armor for extra speed, actions, and AC!

17. Sorcerer 6: Sixth level clockwork souls can make Bulwarks of Law. By spending 1-5 Sorcery Points as an action, you can give a creature an equal number of d8s they can roll to reduce incoming damage as a reaction. The bulwark lasts until the end of a long rest, or until another bulwark is made.

You can also cast Stinking Cloud for a slightly more demonic fog.

18. Sorcerer 7: Seventh level sorcerers get fourth level spells, including the specialties Arcane Eye and Otiluke’s Resilient Sphere. The former creates a mobile camera you can see through, and the latter gives you a super armor mode where you’re immune to any damage or effects from outside the sphere. You also learn Wall of Fire to create a wall of steam that can burn those who get too close.

19. Sorcerer 8: Use your last ASI to enhance your Strength to make it more passible. You also learn Major Image for larger wind-proof fog clouds.

20. Sorcerer 9: Our capstone level grants you the spell Cloudkill for a truly demonic fog. You can also Animate Objects to create clockwork minions, or make a Wall of Force.

Pros:

You have a high AC, especially for a caster. Without any outside help, you can reach 20 AC normally, or 25 AC with the shield spell.

This also makes you a very durable gish, with advantage and proficiency with concentration saves helping you keep your spells going on the off chance you get hit. You also have multiple forms of damage reduction and healing to keep you in the fight for way longer than you’d think.

You also fit into several niche use cases. You can use Enlarge and your armor to body block enemies from entering locations, or use clouds of steam and wild shapes for quick getaways.

Cons:

This build is very Multi Ability Dependent. You’re three classes, and each one uses a different casting modifier. On top of that, you’re also trying to be good with regular weapons! You should save this one for when you roll really well, I don’t think the standard array is enough for it.

Also, multiclassing into multiple casters means you don’t have the highest level spells you could, limiting your options at higher levels.

If being weak at high levels wasn’t bad enough, you also have to deal with your low scores at low levels too. Levels 1-2 are going to be very rough for you before you get your power armor.

[wiener-soldiers]

operation omega - naked (iii)

summary: years after the avengers dismantle HYDRA, the group remerges more dangerous than ever. their modus operandi? infiltrating foreign governments, stealing and reproducing their weapons, and selling them to terrorist groups. when the us government approaches the avengers for help on a secret operation with a secret asset, they are reluctant to agree. it isn’t until their quinjet almost gets shot down in the middle of nowhere when the understand that omega means business.

pairing: bucky barnes x SEAL!reader

words: 2.5k

warnings: mild sexual tension, they’re kinda all naked

a/n: this is still exposition haha. also i barely edited this

taglist: add yourself here!

OPERATION OMEGA MASTERLIST

Omega, Bucky quickly learned, was nothing like the Avengers.

They weren’t independent, rather they were the collective asset of the allied nations.

They weren’t public figures, rather nearly no one knew they existed except for the people who can directly order them to go on missions.

They didn’t really have private lives; they were stationed at their base for months on end and were only allowed back home for a few weeks at a time.

And most noticeably, they weren’t superheroes, but they were badasses.

Omega had ex-Navy SEALs, Green Berets, Delta Force, CIA, and Air Force. Everyone on the Avengers, including the enhanced, were pretty intimidated by the lineup.

Bucky also noticed how they were all much more like a family. Not like the Avengers-dysfunctional-type family, but one that actually cares. He notices that despite prepping for missions, they still have happy hour on Friday night, movie night on Saturday night, and they actually enjoy training with one another.

One minor thing Bucky also noticed is how little clothes they all wear.

He honestly shouldn’t be that surprised. Though being in army camps seemed like a lifetime ago, something about the atmosphere screamed the lack of necessity for shirts.

And honestly, who wouldn’t want to show off how fit they all were?

The first instance he realized this fact was when he was in the medical wing to get his physical. Captain Y/N insisted that all the Avengers go in for a physical exam done by their in-house doctor, Dr. Marge Dean—who also happened to be an ex-Green Beret and CIA operative—just in case there were health issues that needed to be fixed before they went in the field.

Bucky’s appointment with Dr. Dean was scheduled for noon, but he got there five minutes before. Knocking softly on the door, a soft female voice said, “It’s open” before he pushed his way inside.

Dr. Marge Dean wasn’t alone in the room. Sergeant Dominick Stone, ex-Air Force pilot, was also there. He sat on the exam table across from Dr. Marge with his right hand heavily wrapped. The duo looked up at him and offered him a smile. He tries to ignore the fact that Dr. Marge was wearing nothing but short track shorts and a sports bra and Dominick was wearing nothing but boxers. If they’re comfortable with each other, then it can’t be that bad, Bucky tells himself.

“Afternoon. Doc, Sergeant,” Bucky nods at both of them, returning a smile.

“Please, James. Call me Marge,” Marge tells him softly as she finishes wrapping Dominick’s hand. “My abuella’s a doctor. I grew up with everyone calling her Doc, I guess I just haven’t gotten used to people calling people me that yet either,” she giggles softly.

Bucky smiles at her, “Marge it is.”

“I would shake your hand,” Dominick says as he hops off the exam table and waves his bandaged hand in the air, “but it’s a little hard right now.”

Bucky chuckles, “Don’t worry about it, Sarge. What happened?”

Dominick sighs and Marge chuckles as she cleans her equipment, prepping for Bucky’s physical exam. “It’s stupid,” the Sergeant sighs.

“Oh come on,” Marge starts, “I think it’s funny, Sarge.”

Dominick sighs, “I was sharpening my knife and I accidentally cut my hand really deeply.”

“A combat knife?” Bucky asks curiously.

Dominick sighs, “A kitchen knife.”

Marge bursts into another fit of giggle before patting the exam table, signalling to Bucky that she’s ready to start his exam. “Dom’s Ma is from Ghana. The first time we went home for our break, his Ma gave him the family fried rice recipe. He makes it for us every week,” Marge starts as she starts Bucky’s physical. He surprised at how calm she acts around his metal arm; whether it’s a telltale sign of a good doctor or a good person, Bucky doesn’t really care—the simple action allow Bucky to trust her.

“I was sharpening the kitchen knives because no one in this damn place will do it—”

“You said you found it relaxing, so we let you do it!”

“And I was distracted for a second and my hand slipped,” Dominick rolled his eyes and gestures to his hand again. “It’s not big deal. No stitches needed; I’ll be good in no time.”

Marge finishes monitoring Bucky’s breathing and moves on to taking his blood pressure. “All those extra bandages are just to make him feel better,” she jokes.

Bucky takes a deep breath, allowing his walls to come down a bit. “Well, Sarge, I’d love to try it sometime,” Bucky says with a smile that reaches his eyes. “Ya know, after your hand has healed an all,” he adds an on, jokingly.

Sergeant Dominick grins, “I go by Dom.”

“Fair enough. I go by Bucky.”

The second instance he realized the unspoken, no-clothes policy was later that week. That morning marked the second week that the Avengers were working with Omega. Slowly, they were fitting in with their new partners. Despite looking crazily similar, Bucky’s hunch that Steve and Jack may want to one-up each other was proven false. Steve and Jack bonded surprisingly fast from their shared interests in history, art, and their war experiences. Wanda got along really well with Dr. Marge as soon as the two girls realized they both had a passion for cooking and baking. Natasha got along with Second Lieutenant Abigail Lee, the resident engineer and ex-Green Beret weapons specialist, as soon as Natasha found out that Abigail loved stand-up specials as much as she did. Clint and Sam got along really well Sergeant John McBueller after drunkenly one night, John taught the two how to salsa the same way his mother taught him how to when he was younger. Tony gets along with the ever-so-clumsy Sergeant Dom because Dom is secretly a nerd about everything about the Iron Man suit and Tony thinks Dom is like a younger version of Rhodey.

The unlikely group of friends found themselves in the kitchen that morning. The ex-military individuals were still used to a waking up early so their training sessions normally takes place before breakfast, whereas the Avengers training sessions normally took place later at night, as the team is full of insomniacs.

Bucky, Steve, Tony, Clint, and Sam sat in the kitchen that morning. Tony was tinkering with a new gadget Bucky couldn’t even begin to comprehend, Steve was hunched over a tablet analyzing reports, Clint was looking over flight logistics, and Sam was switching his attention between sipping his coffee and making breakfast for everyone.

Bucky’s attention was concentrated at the laptop in front of him where he was analyzing old Avengers briefs for HYDRA missions. A fit of chatter take his attention away from the laptop. Salsa-dancing John McBueller and Dr. Marge walked into the kitchen, easy chatter flowing between them. His eyes widened at their wardrobe, John was wearing nothing but grey sweatpants and Marge only sported a sports bra with her leggings, sweat dripping off the both of them.

In comparison, every Avenger was very clothed.

“Morning guys,” John called out, following Marge into the kitchen. Marge busied herself by making a protein shake for her and John, not noticing the stares both her and John were getting.

“Morning…” the Avengers mumbled.

“John you want banana in your shake?” Marge asked, not giving a care in the world.

“Hmm, yeah sure. Also, can you add peanut butter too?” John responses, easily as care-free.

“Are you guys always like this?” Tony asks, baffled at how casual they are.

“What?” Marge and John ask at the same time. Bucky chuckles at his expression.

“This…naked,” Tony says bluntly.

Another loud chuckle is heard down the hall and Dom and Abigail enter the kitchen next. The corner of Bucky’s mouth quirks upwards as soon as Tony’s eyes widen even more. Abigail was wearing nothing but a swimsuit and a flannel to cover up, her hair still wet from the laps she swam in the lake that morning. Unlike John, Dom was wearing a shirt, but his dripping wet swim trunks and open flannel—with nothing on underneath, to add—made his attire barely passible.

“Jesus, is your dress code basically nothing?” Tony remarks. He wasn’t surprised that every member of the Omega team was absolutely shredded. He was used to it in fact, as it usually isn’t surprising for Steve or Bucky or Sam to walk around shirtless. He was just surprised about the bluntness the Omega team had.

“Morning,” Bucky hears a final mumble. The group in the kitchen turns towards the sleepy voice; it was Y/N with Jack trailing into the kitchen behind her. Though he was used to seeing his new teammates so naked, his eyes widened at the sight of her. She wore nothing but pajama shorts and a lacy bralette. Jack shuffled in behind her, wearing nothing but boxers. Jack gently put a green flannel around her shoulders and Y/N mumbled a thanks.

“Sorry we woke up late and missed training. Pulled an all-nighter analyzing more intel and I didn’t realize I missed training,” Y/N mumbles.

“Jesus Christ, you guys are shameless. I dig it,” Tony says, mostly to himself.

Bucky can’t help but feel his cheeks heat up at the sight of Y/N. He normally was fine around naked girls. He was nowhere near the level of confident as he was when he was younger, but we was rarely flustered at the sight of one. He really tried not to stare, but the view of Y/N in nothing but comfy clothes wrapped around a flannel, laughing softly at something someone said over a cup of coffee was something that made Bucky’s stomach flip.

Oh, fuck. She’s so beautiful, Bucky thinks.

Bucky hears a soft chuckle behind him. He tilts his view backwards and sees Wanda (he isn’t exactly sure when she woke up and made her way to the kitchen) smirking at him. His eyes widen, Stop reading my mind, asshole.

Wanda’s smirk only widens.

Early the next morning, Bucky woke in a cold sweat. The hairs on the back of his neck stood as he looked around the unfamiliar surroundings before he slowly realized that we was in the Omega bunker, not his room at the Avengers’ tower.

Fucking nightmare, he sighs. His metal arms cramps, a symptom of the Phantom Limb Syndrome that he feels every now and then, especially after he has a nightmare. Bucky sighs and glances at the time: 5:11 AM.

He decided that sleep is so far behind him at this point, so Bucky rolls out of bed, pulls on a pair of workout shorts, and trudges out of the room.

As soon as he walks out into the hallway, the goosebumps on his bare bake perk up. Still, Bucky continues trudging towards the kitchen. He starts a pot of coffee and digs around the fridge for some food.

“Bucky?” someone calls out to him, startling him. He tries to lift his head out of the fridge, but he accidentally hits his head.

“Fuck,” he hisses, grabbing the back of his head.

“Shit!” the voice calls behind him and he feels to warm hands wrap around his neck. “Are you okay?”

Bucky turns around and face Y/N, who’s hands are still on his neck. Bucky can’t help but notice that she’s wearing nothing but a sports bra and sweatpants. He gulps and trains his eyes on her face.

“Yeah, I’m fine. No biggie,” he says weakly.

Y/N smiles softly, letting her hands fall. “What’re you doing up?” she asks softly, side-stepping around him to grab a banana from the counter.

Bucky exhales softly, hoping his breath isn’t shaky. “Nightmare,” he states bluntly, too tired to lie.

Her eyebrow raises, “Oh?”

“It was about, uh…how I lost my arm,” he says quietly, not meeting her eyes. “The dreams, I’m used to. It’s the pain from Phantom Limb Syndrome that usually wakes me up.”

“Biofeedback,” Y/N says simply.

“I’m sorry?”

“Talk to Tony about adding biofeedback and haptics to your metal arm so you can feel touch in that arm again,” Y/N responds, stepping closer to him. She reaches out for Bucky’s metal palm and drags a finger down it. Bucky doesn’t flinch; he knows what the feeling is supposed to feel like but it pains him that he can’t feel it. “I read an article talking about how biofeedback helped some patients overcome their Phantom Limb Syndrome…” she trails off, hoping she didn’t make it awkward.

“Thank you,” Bucky says sincerely, searching her eyes for any sign of discomfort.

Y/N doesn’t say anything, but the comforting look in her tired eyes say it all, you’re welcome.

Bucky continues to make his coffee and a breakfast omelette while Y/N sits at the island silently, eating her banana and observing him. It was 5:30 AM already, meaning she should have been out the door and starting her run. Instead, she watches how his back muscles contract as he cuts vegetable combined with the soft mechanical whir of his metal arm to create a mesmerizing scene.

Bucky speaks up, snapping her out of her trance, “What about you? What’re you doing up?”

“I normally go on a run right now,” she told him, casting her gaze towards his face. She notices how his unkempt hair dangles in front of his eyes and how she do desperately got the urge to push the hair out of his face to stare into his eyes.

“Don’t let me stop you then,” Bucky jests.

Y/N smiles at him, “Didn’t feel like it today. I like going on runs because it’s calming. Sitting here and watching you cook, it’s also…calming.”

Bucky had nothing to say to that, surprised by her honestly. Y/N is equally as surprised and hopes she didn’t make it weird. Apparently, she hasn’t because moments later, Bucky slides a serving of omelette for her as well.

“Thank you,” Y/N mumbles before digging in.

“Don’t mention it,” Bucky replies with kind eyes.

They eat in silence. Not an uncomfortable one, but a perfectly, intentionally quiet one—like if one of them spoke, it would ruin the calming and intimate emotion draped over the kitchen.

They both finish their meals and clean up the dishes. As Bucky is about to round the corner and head back into his room, Y/N calls out, “I would love to run with you, if you want.”

Bucky pauses mid-step and glances back at her, waiting for her to continue.

“There’s this trail that I made when we first moved here. It leads to a beautiful rock formation and a waterfall. I run there every morning,” Y/N gushed out. Bucky fully turned to look at her this time. “You’re welcome to join, if you want.”

Bucky smiles at her.

Bucky got a long really well with Captain Y/N Y/L/N after their quiet morning breakfast and confessions. Waking up to run with her is what make Bucky excited to wake up every morning.

[afewmarvelousthoughts]

Only For A Moment Ch. 10

Master List | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9

Pairing: Bucky X Reader

Summary: For most of your life you’d been able to keep your abilities a secret, that is until Hydra got wind of you. After years of being in their clutches, you break out when The Avengers expose SHIELD/Hydra. Since then, you’ve been on the run. Things are going as well as you could hope when you see a familiar face… Could the Winter Soldier really be in Bucharest too?

Warnings: Nothing really.

A/N: This isn’t relevant to the chapter but is anyone else feeling that Chris Evans tweet still? It’s like an end of an era and I’m just already gearing up for all the tears that are going to come. Enough of that. It’s been a fucking terrible week and I kind of just want to bury myself in my writing for a month (fic and otherwise). Hope y’all like this one =)

Tags are open!

@bluegirlusa1 @l0kisbitch @tazzi-baby  @disagreetoagree @woodyandbuzz20-01 @mooniightbucky @soulless-and-sarcastic

You plop on the couch pulling your bag to you groaning.

“What's wrong?” He sounds so concerned your heart aches for a second.

“Nothing,” you laugh a little, “I just never thought I’d still hate doing laundry even when I own like six pieces of clothing total.” He studies you a minute and goes to his small closet. He throws a dark blue button up at you and your power catches it midair. You peek around the floating garment and look at him quizzically.

“Get dressed,” a pair of jeans sail over the suspended shirt and you catch it normally.

You stand to snatch the shirt, “I own pants.”

“How many pairs?”

Shaking your head, “1.5.”

“Please explain how someone can have half a pair of pants?” In response, a pair of too big jeans cut off at the knee rise from your bag. He shakes his head, “What in the hell are those?”

“My laundry day pants.”

“A disgrace is what they are.” You really can’t argue. “We’re getting you some clothes.”

Your pride prickles at this, “I can get my own clothes,” and you send his clothing hurling at him. His metal hand catches them and he massages the bridge of his nose.

“But you don’t.” You stare incredulously. “You said you have six pieces of clothing, no five because I won’t count whatever those monsters you showed me were. You could get your own clothes but you don’t. You’re an exceptional thief,” your mouth opens to defend yourself, “that’s a compliment,” he fends you off, hands up. “And you have passible documents, obviously the know-how to get new ones if needed. Easy enough to get a place. Yet you chose to live in something no better than a cave.” He holds your cold stare for a second and sighs. “In the nine days I observed you, I think I saw you eat maybe, maybe, four or five times and even then not much. You could have been eating in that house but I didn’t see anything besides some bottled water there so I’m assuming you weren’t.” Your eyes are firmly planted on the ground.

“I did, see you drink no less than five huge coffees a day, black mostly I’m assuming. I did see you burn through what, a pack a day, at least? But you don’t seem to even be a habitual smoker because in the whole time I’ve been around you, you haven’t lit up once and you left the pack you had in your squat. I did see you drink-“

“Enough!” Who the fuck does he think he is?! Your ragged jeans, the full-length ones, land in your hand and you slip them on. “Thank you for reminding me that you were stalking me for over a week without me having a fucking clue, makes me feel super confident about my ability to keep myself alive.” You grab your bag and boots, “And thank you for the bed and breakfast experience but I can take care of myself.”

You’re about to turn the doorknob when you hear him say, “But you don’t.” You pause for just a moment, “You don’t because you think you don’t deserve it.” Now you’re frozen. “Anything that happened to you there wasn’t your fault and anything you may have done… you have to try and forgive yourself for.” You look over your shoulder at him, he’s looking right at you, metal arm still clutching the clothes hanging at his side. “If you need a point of reference, I promise you I’ve done far worse things, and I’m not sure what I even deserve… but the basics food, clothing, shelter, even I allow myself that.”

When you escaped Hydra six months ago you had just wanted to end it. What was the point of living anymore? All the people who mattered were dead, erased from everything. You had less than nothing. But you couldn’t do it.

After Nix found you at 15 you had told him you wanted to just die. He’d said, “Fuck that! The best way to get back at every asshole who’s hurt you is to keep living. Don’t give them the satisfaction of winning, they don’t deserve it.” You couldn’t let him down now so you decided to live, go on for them. But… you weren’t really living. You were just, alive. Suddenly you felt so ashamed. You owed it to them, to Nix, to yourself to do better than this.

Your tongue didn’t want to obey but you drop your boots by the door and strode over to him, yank the proffered clothing out of his hand without making eye contact, and slam the bathroom door closed.

Staring in the mirror you glare at yourself. Door slamming? Really? Are you a teenager?

You lift your breasts up, binding them tightly. Maybe too tight. But a twinge of pain is grounding and you leave it. The button up is blue-black, Brings out my circles beautifully. You’d never been more thankful for your broad shoulders than in these last few months. they made passing easier, as did the muscles you’d gained over years of training with Hydra. Concealing your wide hips and hourglass torso was easy with layers. The jeans were too long as was the shirt, ending just below your ass. You may have always been thick but tall, not so much. You lift the denim from its resting place just above your pubic bone and cinch them with a belt closer to your waist. tuck the front of the shirt in leaving the back out to further hide your curves. The sleeves you roll to your elbows before stealing yourself to face the aftermath of your own bullshit.

He’s sitting comfortably on the couch reading the book of Cummings’ poems when you come out. Looking at you over the book he gives you a small smile and you almost wince. Y/N. You’re a fucking asshole.

He left your boots by a dining table chair, even laid your jacket, which you’d almost stormed off without, over the chair for you. You crumple into it. “I… I’m…”

“You really don’t have-“

“I do though.” He’s slipped a piece of stray paper into the book and is looking at you with a gentle expression. “By and large you’ve been needlessly nice to me. And this… I’ve always been bad at accepting help and everything… I don’t know how to be a fucking person anymore on top of it.”

He lets out a humorless laugh. “I’m struggling with being a human again too… I get it.”

“Well, you’re certainly better at it than me.”

“Hardly.” He sets the book aside. You slip into the boots. “So, you good to go?” He’s walked over to you and reached out his right hand. You take it.

“Yeah.” He slips gloves over his hands and you wonder if he had them yesterday. and grabs his cap.

Clothes shopping with The Winter Soldier, you think, What the fuck is even my life?

[itsmekatiecassidy]

Space and Time||Amellidy

Where: Margot & Jai’s New Years Eve Party

Who: Katie Cassidy and Stephen Amell @s-amellywood

Summary: Things are still somewhat weird between them. He follows her into a back room. They talk. They argue. Maybe a little bit of crying, maybe some laughter--pretty much the usual with them. There might even be a part of their conversation where they contemplate going to Karaoke to sing a duet together of “I Will Always Love You” by Whitney Houston man, I don’t know.

Katie: Excusing herself from the party, Katie made her way into one of the spare rooms in the back. She took out her lip gloss and made it look like she was in here to freshen up, when really, she just wanted a minute to herself. But that wasn’t looking like that was going to last long. She noticed in the mirror she was currently looking in, the door behind her was opening, but she smiled at the familiar face. “Hey, what if two people had been hooking up or something back here? Would serve you right for not knocking,” she tried to joke. Jokes were what seemed to keep her in check when trying to act around him. Putting her stuff in her bag quickly, she spun around, “I’m done here anyways--you can have the room to yourself.”

Stephen: Stephen hadn't been at the party long - just long enough to have a half a drink and ditch it on the bar before he was finished with it. He'd managed to keep to himself primarily. The only people he'd even spoken to were Margot and a few of the staff serving at the party and the conversation with everyone was light. From a distance he'd kept his eye on his ex-almost-wife in a way that was distinctly not creepy. Finally, she'd stepped away and Stephen wasn't too far behind her as she slipped into one of the empty rooms. "Nothing I haven't seen before," he half-joked with a small smile on his face as he closed the door behind him. "No. Its fine. I'm actually here to talk to you." The man's hand ran over his hair nervously as he walked further in and took a seat on the edge of the bed. This was probably the first time they'd have a civil face-to-face conversation since the day they should have been married and the whole thing was a little unnerving. "I um - I want you to know that we're good. From here on out I'm not holding anything against you - we're 100% fine.."

Katie: Katie's eyebrows shot up a bit, as if instinctively when he'd said he was there to talk to her. She wasn't used to it--not now--not with the way things had been ever since their almost wedding--a day and event the blonde still tried to block out as best she could. But, at the same time, she would take what she could get with him. "Oh," she said, still somewhat surprised as she turned from the mirror to face him, "Okay. What's up?" she asked before he went on. Even though he'd basically all but said this the other day, Katie was still a bit surprised. She never could seem to get the echo out of her head of him saying she was nothing to him. Sure, she didn't think things could go on as normal after the non wedding, but hearing him say that to her that day, in the house they shared, stuck with her and still hurt her deep down. "Okay," she said nodding her head gently, trying to actually let it sink in. Tucking a piece of hair behind her head, the girl cleared her throat and continued, "Thank you. It actually means a lot because I can't say I could blame you if you held it against me for forever--but like I've always said-- I think it's best if we can get to a good spot for the girls. I don't want them to have to go through some of the things I did with my parents, just because I fucked up..." she said, shaking her head trying to get back on track, "And I'm sorry for giving you so much shit about certain people lately..." she said, even if she still was happy she'd said something, since it all seemed to out of character to her. "It's not that I don't want you to move on...alright, well maybe deep down all things considered it's hard for me to think about you moving on--because hey, big surprise, I'm selfish like that--but I do want you to be happy. And to be able to find someone who can give you the things you want in life because I couldn't...I'll try to be nicer about the next girl you wanna bring around, alright?"

Stephen: Stephen nodded as he listened to her speak. It wasn't hard to tell that she was apprehensive about what he was saying and he completely understood why. She may have been the one to go all run away bride on their wedding but he was the one who remained spiteful over the whole thing. He was the one who had said things with the sole intention of cutting her as deep as she had cut him. "They'll never have to deal with any of that, I promise that much. And thanks for all that..about me moving on." There was a silence that hung in the air a little too long. One that usually would have signaled that the conversation was over but Stephen spoke again before Katie had a chance to leave the room. "I didn't mean it. You know that right? When I said you mean nothing to me? I didn't mean that. At all. I was just trying to make you feel what I felt but the words weren't true."

Katie: "Good, because they deserve more then that, and I'm glad we can both agree on that. No problem--feels kind of good to get it all out there like this. Besides, it's literally the very least I can offer, especially since if anyone deserves it, it's you," she said with a small shrug. She was being nothing but truthful, she never once could find it in her to bad mouth the man sitting in front of her. Sure, she could say he was acting unreasonable, or an ass--but she'd always admit that deep down he was one of the best people she knew, and she was the one that had caused him to act the way he had, she had no problem owning up to it. Sensing that they'd said all they had, the actress turned to gather her things as he'd began to speak again. She froze. She didn't know what else to do. If his words before had shocked her, she didn't know what the hell these ones were doing to her now. "It's fine, Steve." she said, figuring out how to move her arms again as she grabbed her bag and phone and turned back around to give him a passible smile, "You don't have to say anything else... like you said, we're good."

Stephen: Stephen shook his head in disagreement as she stated that he didn't need to say anything else. She was right, he probably didn't need to but it didn't change the fact that he had to, even if it was selfishly for him. "You mean everything. You always have." He wasn't looking at her now, he honestly couldn't bare to. "I love you. Just like I did before. I'm not asking you to leave Zach and give us another shot or anything like that, I just needed to tell you that. I guess I need you to understand that nothings ever gonna change that for me." This was the first time he'd actually said any of that out loud and it felt like a weight off his chest. "Honestly, I just want you to be happy."

Katie: And boom goes the dynamite. Katie simultaneously felt like one weight had been lifted off her chest, only to be almost knocked out by another, heavier weight. "Just stop, please." she mumbled as he went on. She felt like her head was spinning. She'd basically gone from thinking that things would never be okay with them, that he'd always have resentment for her, to him telling her this. She needed to sit. She made her way to sit on the opposite end from him as she brought her hands up to the side of her head, as if doing so would cut off everything he was saying from reaching her brain. "Why are you telling me all of this right now, then? What's the point?"

Katie: she asked, finally looking over at him, her eyes searching his as if they'd lead her to an explanation. Was he fucking with her again? Trying to play some mind game to get back to her for the things she'd put him through? He didn't seem like the type, but for the life of her she didn't understand where this was coming from, and why he'd decided to say all of it now. "Don't do this to yourself--or to me. Just...don't. It's not worth it. It's not worth it for us to sit here and tell each other things like this..."

Stephen: "The point is that I don't want there to be any misconception here. We're never gonna be /just/ friends." Somehow he was managing to keep his voice even and steady despite how this whole conversation was making him feel. This wasn't easy for her either and it wasn't had to tell, especially when he knew her as well as he did. "Look, I'm not trying to do anything to either of us. It might be selfish but I just needed to get all this out there in the open. I need things with you and me to be 100% transparent. Everything between me and you has always been complicated and I'm trying to uncomplicate it as much as possible. All my cards are on the table now," he told her truthfully, his eyes finally back on her again. "I love you. I always have and I probably always will. Its just a part of who I am now. Stephen Amell - Son, Father, Brother, Friend, In love with Katie Cassidy, Cousin, Actor.. Its just a part of my DNA I think."

Katie: "You don't get to do this," she said angrily. It was like it had all bottled up inside of her, her feelings for him, about them, everything that had happened. She'd wanted to hear him say these things after it had happened--wanted nothing more for him to understand why she got scared, and did what she did. Not because she didn't love him, but because she was scared--and because she just couldn't seem to change her mind and fears about marriage. To forgive her and for them to move on. But it didn't happen like that. He'd made it clear she was all but dead to him--and now his story was changing, and damn right she was pissed. "I wanted to fix what I did to us. I didn't do it because I stopped loving you--and you turned your back on me because you were hurt. Which is fine--I get that. But you can't wait until I try and move on from you...AGAIN... and then lay this on me, what the fuck? I don't know if you're just trying to hurt me right now--if this is some fucked up mind game you're trying to play or if it's the truth, but honestly? I don't want to know." she said in a huff, feeling her heart racing, as it always did. He had a way of getting her like this, he always had. She wasn;t sure if she wanted to scream or cry or do both, but she knew she couldn't deal with this right now. " Just get up and go back into the party--please."

Stephen: Anger. He should have expected that but he didn't. He should have known that springing this on her wouldn't just automatically sit well with her but he was hoping it would. Instead of matching her emotion, he actively made himself stay calm. "There no mind games. I'm not trying to hurt you. Katie - I'm not," he reassured her. "And I'm not trying to get us back together, I know thats over. Like I said, I just needed to put all my cards on the table and I'm sorry if that inconvenient for you but I have a feeling theres never gonna be a time where it would be convenient." It was true. No one would ever be prepared for this - especially not Katie. They would be like that couple that swore they'd have a baby when the time was right - but the time was never right. He could tell from the look on her face that she didn't exactly want to continue the conversation but honestly, he didn't want it to end. This may be the last time he'd be able to talk to her like this and he wanted it to last an eternity. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't the best place to do this but if I didn't say all this now I'm not sure I ever could have...But if you wanna go then you can, I'm not gonna stop you. Just remember that I'm here if you ever need anything, ok?"

Katie: Sighing, Katie shook her head as she ran her fingers through her hair. Part of her would have rather believed this was some fucked up mind game he was playing...but she knew him. Even now, they probably still knew each other better then most people. "Fine," she said--giving up her anger over the whole thing. What was the point? It was there, it was out--as much as she wanted to go back--there was no going back. Might as well just get it all out--because what they'd been doing wasn't working, and as she always said, they had no choice but to keep being in each others lives. There was a long silence in the air as Katie tried to get her thoughts together--pick her course of action--but finally she spoke up again, once she'd had a bit to settle down, "Goes both ways, ya know?" she said, looking down and spinning one of the rings on her finger. "All of it. You don't just...have what we had and then fall out of love with a person," she said, shrugging a little. "And I am sorry. I know..." she paused trying to choose the right words, "I know you didn't want to hear it before--but I really am...I never wanted us to sit here like this--or how we have been for the last few months..."

Stephen: The last thing he had expected was her to say that his words were mutual. He had to remind himself that nothing she was saying meant that they were giving thing whole thing another chance. She was with Zach now and it was time for him to make an attempt at moving on, too. "Yea, I guess you're right," he shrugged. It seemed cliche to even think it but the two of them were like one of those doomed romances that people wrote novels about. As much as both of them wanted it to work it just didn't seem like it was meant to. "I know. I think I've known that since it happened, I just wasn't ready to accept it ya know?" he asked rhetorically. Deep down he had always known that her absence at the wedding wasn't meant directly to hurt him but it just wasn't something he could get over.

Katie: It was now seeming to all sink in for Katie. Again. The girl had mourned the relationship for more then a while--in various forms of very typical Katie Cassidy dealing methods. She cried to herself. She drank. She got depressed. Drank some more. Had a few one night stands. More drinking, more crying, then she woke up one day and decided she had to be over it--so she was. She wasn't sure she'd have to go through all of that again this time--but the fact that things were actually, really over seemed to be sinking in all over again right now. "Yeah, I know, I didn't really deserve it at the time, anyways," she said, bringing two fingers up to the corner of her eyes, telling herself she for sure wasn't going to be a typical dumb girl and fucking cry right now--that there was nothing to cry about. It had been over for a while. "I feel like a Whitney Houston impersonator is about to bust that door down right now and start belting out 'I Will Always Love You' to us or something," she joked, trying to break the tension.

Stephen: That was probably the fasted Katie had ever calm down after being angry in a conversation with Stephen and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't happy about it. For once, it seemed like everything was good between them. Or, well, as good as it was gonna get. "You didn't deserve me saying all that shit either, though," he reasoned. Stephen's eyes closed for a moment, not wanting to see her cry let alone be the reason for her tears. By the time he was opening his eyes, he was chuckling at her successful attempt to cut the tension. "That is kinda the theme of this whole conversation, isn't it?" he smiled, enjoying the lightness between them after such a loaded talk.

Katie: "Yeah well, you didn't deserve a lot of the shit I did--so..."she trailed off with a shrug of her shoulders. The fact was, neither of them were perfect. They both had their flaws, and both could have handled things better or differently. But there was no going back, no changing things. And they both seemed to know that by now. "It is," she said, laughing slightly as she nudged his arm with her elbow, "I'll never be able to listen to that song the same now," she joked again before looking over at him curiously, "So now what?" she asked, wondering what his take was on where they went from here.

Stephen: Stephen nodded in agreement, the amused smile still showing on his face. "Same here. Thanks for that," he teased. The feeling in the air between theme seemed to be more easy..more natural and that was something he was thankful for. Hell, it was what he hoped would eventually happen after he put everything out there in the open. "Now we just go back to our lives, I guess. Everything stays the same except the fact that we're not holding anything against one another." That was the plan, at least. God know how well it would work in actuality but it was something he was willing to try if nothing else. "I mean unless you wanna mess around one last time," he said seriously, letting the comment linger between them before he cracked a smile to show he was only joking.

Katie: "Hey no problem. I'm not Whitney but I could probably start belting it out right now if you want. Or we could go out there, track down a karaoke machine and turn it into a duet--but I don't know if the world's ready for that," She replied still grinning. Talk about a whirlwind conversation, but if she thought about it--she could really expect nothing less when it came to the pair. Getting serious once more, the blonde nodded her head slowly, knowing what he was saying was right and a good plan...on paper at least. Actually following it through might be a different story. She also wasn't sure what the fuck she was going to tell Zac--where she was or even about this whole conversation. Whatever, at least that was something she could put off. She was about to agree and tell him that seemed like the best thing to try, when her head shot over to look at him, her mouth hanging open--literally shocked at what he'd just said. Let's be real, he did look good--but he always did. Maybe one last--no. She stopped the thought from forming because she knew her mind liked to be a bad influence, and she knew the champagne she'd been drinking all night was just catching up to her. Besides, he was smiling and clearly joking--and she was at least a little more then half way relieved by that. "Stephen Adam Amell!" she said, hitting him for every syllable in his name, before shaking her head and laughing, "You're an asshole. And I don't appreciate your humor anymore. BUT--for the other stuff...sounds like a plan. Maybe we can be friends after all..."

Stephen: "A Katie and Stephen duet? We might cause a disruption in the space time continuum," he laughed, enjoying the lightness between them. Maybe this whole thing could be a fresh start for the two of them...a next chapter in their relationship, maybe even a better one in some ways. He wasn't sure if his little joking comment had gone too far and the suspense was sustained as she sat there slack jawed for a few moments. It only broke when she finally said his name, and hit him right along with it. "Yea, you love my humor and you know it," he laughed, rubbing the spot she had hit him as if it had actually hurt. "I think it'll work. I think we can at least give it a try. We owe the kids that much, at least."

[pixie-lated]

Today my coworker made one of his usual bad jokes that are moderately offensive. He makes them so that you either have to tollerate his desire to be "naughty" for his own amusement, or else listen to his 40 minute speech about how a person used to be able to have a sense of humor but PC culture is strangling his freedom of expression; HE doesn't get offended when people make fun of Lithuanians! (of note: I vaguely recall having heard one joke about Lithuanians once ever in a movie from the 40's. That is how irrelevant that comment is for an American.)

He -a man litterally my father's age who has himself noted that I am younger than his daughters- meandered up to my seat at the front desk, leaned in, and said in his 'I either don't mean it or want plausible deniability' voice, "by the end of the day I'm going to have you on your knees..." and then explained like a normal human that he needs my help hooking up some power strips because he can't reach the outlets and has trouble getting up and down.

Fyi to you young ladies out there: this is my coworker abusing the system to harass me. It's not particularly for sexual gratification for him. He's 'just' an asshole who enjoys power-play bullshit and thinks that's the same as friendly banter. He knows that if I object it is only more evidence that PC Culture kills fun, and that they'll need, like, 30 documented complaints before he actually faces consequences.

Because it is inconvenient, he ignores that I was never having fun. Not today, not when the air conditioner broke this summer and he said it was "ok by him" if I wore tanktops around more often, not when he looked at a photo of a Bayonetta cosplayer and then asked if I would ever consider wearing that to work.

And let me tell you, it's fucking infuriating, because he is actually a passibly likable guy despite his horrible politics and inability to shut up about them. If he weren't also choosing to be a gross, inappropriate douchebag he would almost qualify as a work friend. As it is, if he doesn't retire soon I might just stab him with a craft knife for demanding a man play Wonder Woman. You know. For equal representation. -_-