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keikikait · 8 months

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ᴛᴇʟᴇᴠᴀɴɢᴇʟɪꜱᴍ (ɢᴇᴛᴏ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ)

pairing: geto x f!reader (not au, geto and reader are both around 27)

word count: 1.8k

summary: as one of masamichi yaga’s former students, you got along well with geto, gojo, and riko back in your high school days. now things are different, but you’re still attached to one man, suguru geto. you obey his every command like a devoted follower does.

warnings: SMUT 18+, MDNI, DARK CONTENT AHEAD, dom!geto and sub!reader, oral (m receiving), face fucking, use of the words cock and cunt, slapping, spitting, degrading, nickname use (slut), clit slapping, choking, light violence, angst!!!!, brainwashed reader, talks of non-sorcerer death (not too graphic, just mentioned), talk of cults, hyena motif, emotionally manipulative geto

a note: will i ever get over this? no. no, i will not.

please reblog and like, it means a lot! let me know what you think!

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧

Ever since you laid eyes on him, you knew you loved him. From almost failing a test because you spent too long gazing at him in class, to following him around like a lost puppy on campus, you’ve always been in love with Suguru Geto. Even now.

You’re devoted. You trust him. You’re easy. And that’s why Suguru keeps you around. He likes to manipulate you, he likes to push your buttons and tease you, send you away crying knowing you’ll come crawling back for more. You had never defied him. If he said jump, you’d ask how high. If he told you to kill an innocent non-sorcerer, you would.

You’re not a part of his cult, no, no. You’ve heard about cults before and heard the tales of Jim Jones, Charles Manson, Heaven’s Gate, and, of course, the Star Religious Group. You’ve seen the televangelist proclamations of the second coming of Christ and heard all about the Rapture, but that isn’t what this is. He isn’t a cult leader, not at all. He’s your Suguru. Your leader, devoted to the cause of wiping out the weak, the non-sorcerers. The ones who killed Riko.

You’re not his follower, you’re his. His soulmate! The one who gets to stay in his cushy cabin while the others are stuck in frail tents that could be knocked over by a gentle breeze. You’re the one he makes love to every night. He wouldn’t do that for just any follower, you were special. You had to be. You don’t know who you would be without him. You’ve supported him for so long, let his poisonous ideals fill your lungs and you choked on them at first, like anyone would, but soon you began to breathe them in.

You hadn’t always been this way. Once, you had done the unthinkable, the thing that breaks his heart the most: you tried to escape. You didn’t make it far out of the compound before he found you, easily overpowering you and tackling you to the ground. He was calm, at first, telling you how disappointed he was in you. How you failed him. You were supposed to be special. How could you do this to him? He trusted you. He started to get angry at your tears and your pathetic apologies, and he decided to give you a beating, just for good measure, breaking your nose just for the fun of it before he dragged you back inside the compound by your hair, kicking and screaming.

Once he had you back in his teeth, locked away in his room, he made you realise how disrespectful you were. He gave you everything, and you thought you could just run away? He taught you so much. He taught you how to hone your technique, how to make it as powerful as his. Almost. He taught you his ideals, about how all non-sorcerers are worthless monkeys who cause curses to begin with. He taught you that your thoughts about defecting — about leaving him — were like hyenas, and without him and his guidance, they would laugh at you as they chased you through the desert before killing you and ripping you limb from limb. You didn’t want to leave him, did you? You couldn’t be without him, after all, you were nothing without him. He had you wrapped around his finger, and his cock, and he loved every second of it, although he had to admit you looked prettier on your knees, worshipping him.

And that’s exactly what you’re doing. On your knees, trying to ignore the tingling in your calves from kneeling on the hardwood, his cock down your throat. You bob your head, tears streaming down your cheeks from the burning sensation in the back of your throat, trying not to gag. Suguru didn’t like it when you gagged. He didn’t like it when you resisted.

You make your way down to the base, your nose buried in his pubes, and he reaches a hand around to push on your head. “Good girl. Stay there for a second.” You nod, as best as you can, blinking away the tears as you relax your throat. He strokes your hair for a second before his hips thrust.

You try to relax, squeezing your thumbs against your palms as you try not to gag.

And he thrusts again.

And again.

And you gag, your hands instinctively coming up to his thighs to push him away. He grips your hair into a tight fist and yanks you off, a trail of spit following your mouth. A symbol of your connection. You take a shaky deep breath, looking up at him with red, teary eyes. “Suguru-”

He slaps you, hard. Your head jolts to the right, a stinging sensation spreading over your cheek. You sniffle, tears welling in your eyes again. You could almost hear the hyena’s laugh.

He tugs your head up towards him, slapping you again, harder this time. “I told you not to gag.” You nod, babbling an apology. You deserve this punishment, after all. You had failed him. You were resisting, even though you didn’t mean to. You notice his cold, hateful glare and you apologise even more, apologising for your failure, apologising for letting him down.

You want his cock back in your mouth. You want to be useful to him. You look at it, thick and long and covered in your spit and tears. You feel your mouth watering and you stick your tongue out slightly. He notices this and laughs, jostling your head around. “You want my cock?”

You nod, panting a little. “Yes, Suguru.”

“Are you going to gag again?” He asks, tugging on your hair.

“No,” you say, your eyes wide and full of adoration as you stare up at him. “I won’t gag.”

He sighs, tugging on your hair again. “You know what happens when you disappoint me,” You nod again. “What happens when you disappoint me?”

“The hyenas come.” You answer softly.

“Yes, that’s right,” Suguru says, pushing your face against him. He rubs his cock against your cheek, smearing your spit and tears over your face. “The hyenas come, and they will kill you. And then you’ll be without me. And what are you without me?”

Your answer quickly. “Nothing.” He grins. He taught you so well, he taught you exactly how to please him. He rubs his cock against your cheek, the one he just slapped, before sliding his cock back into your mouth and down your throat. He thrusts and thrusts, and you finally listen to this time. You don’t gag, not even once. You take his abuse, loving every second of it.

After a few minutes, he pushes you off and you land harshly on the floor. “Get on the bed, slut.” You do, climbing up onto the bed and pressing your back against the pillows. He gets on top of you, caging your head in between his arms. He spits on your cunt before sliding in, gritting his teeth at the slight resistance. You weren’t being very good right now, were you? He slaps your clit and your cunt gushes, allowing him to slide in.

Suguru leans down on his elbows, one hand wrapped tight around your throat as he thrusts into you. He loves this feeling, the feeling of you spread open and dripping wet for him, wrapped around his cock. You take all of his hurt and abuse and you smile and ask for more. He’s never met anyone quite like you, so easy to manipulate and so easy to toss around like a toy. He could even throw you away once he was bored, knowing you would still be in the trash can once he needed you again. Suguru didn’t care about you. You could drop dead in front of him and he would step over your body, only hearing the hyena’s laugh as they tear out your intestines. He let you call him Suguru, but only because he knew you loved it, and if you loved it and you loved him, you would worship him. You would be his, and that’s all he needs, a devoted follower to support his goal.

“Open,” He says, squeezing your throat. Your mouth falls open and your tongue rolls out, and he spits directly on your tongue. “Don’t swallow it. Let me see.” You nod, your tongue hanging out as he fucks you, his spit dripping onto your chin. The sight makes his cock twitch, you look so pathetic and stupid, and he can’t wait to hit you later and make you cry for disobeying him and gagging on his cock. If you couldn’t follow a simple order, what could you do?

The combination of his big cock in your tight little cunt, his spit on your tongue, and his hand around your throat is too much and you cum, squeezing and clenching around him. He laughs triumphantly, squeezing your throat even tighter. He slaps you again, not because you did anything wrong, but because he loved the pathetic look in your eyes as the hit registered. His hand tightens to the point of strangulation as he cums inside you, burying himself deep at the hilt. He leans his forehead on your chest as the cum spurts out of his cock, painting your insides white. This is the closest you’ll ever get to being his.

He pulls out, climbs off of you, and leaves the room. You lay there for a second, catching your breath, basking in your post-orgasm haze. You shakily stand up and head into his bathroom, cleaning yourself up. You leave the dried spit and smeared mascara, knowing Suguru will like that more.

Once you return to his bed, he’s already lying down, a drink in hand. He isn’t even looking at you and all you can do is admire his beauty. He’s the most handsome man you’ve ever seen, and you don’t understand how you got this lucky. You lay next to him, your head on his bicep as he stares out the window, deep in thought.

After a long, comfortable pause, you speak. “Suguru?”

He looks down at you, a look of disinterest on his face. “Yes?”

You lick your lips, fiddling with your hands. You pick at the skin around your thumbs when you get nervous, and your eye twitches as you break the skin once again. Finally, you speak, “Do you think we’re soulmates in every universe?” His eyes narrow for a second before he smiles, leaning down towards you. You feel his hot breath on your face and you bite your lip, wondering if this will be the day he finally kisses you.

He chuckles, pushing some hair out of your face. “What makes you think we’re soulmates in this one?”

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am i okay? maybe

#keikiwrites #geto suguru #jjk geto #geto x reader #geto angst #tw: emotional manipulation #tw: violence #jjk angst #f!reader #jjk smut #geto smut #dom!geto #sub!reader

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vintagerpg · 8 months

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This is Question of Gravity (1982). So, Role Aids is sort of cynical in a lot of ways. Its kind of a calculated cash-in, aimed at capitalizing on the popularity of D&D and, because of that, a lot of the material is sub-par. But there are modules like this one, which is so wild and unlike anything in the land of official D&D that it justifies the entire line, even the schlockiest stuff.

There is a lot of unnecessary material in this one, too. There’s all this plot that frames out how the central macguffin was made, reasons for investigating it, a nearby village, blah blah blah. None of that stuff interests me much, nor does it really matter. What matters is that there is a mysterious cube, 1,000 feet long on each side, surrounded by patrols of monsters and demons. A tunnel leads inside, where gravity is relative to position, so, Escher-like, players can walk along all the interior walls and ceiling as if they are the ground. And they are, I guess.

The whole thing is a nest of stairs, ledges, ramps and platforms of varying heights and distances. Look at those maps! How on earth did the cartographer, Jim Clouse, drawn them? How am I supposed to parse them?! Frankly, the scenario doesn’t even come close to living up to the potential of the space. I am not sure any scenario really could, honestly, but this mélange of evil humanoids and demons herding visitors to the cube into a central temple for sacrifice to the dark powers seems particularly flat for such a bizarre venue. The resolution is a simple battle — kill the sorcerer, seize his evil staff, problem solved.

Still, holy wow, this dungeon. Someone make an adventure worth of it, please!

Cover is by Janny Wurts, the interiors are by Gerald O’Malley. The package feels charmingly old school.

#roleplaying game #tabletop rpg #dungeons & dragons #rpg #d&d #ttrpg #Role Aids #Question of Gravity #noimport

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sjsmith56 · 4 months

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Faces of Bucky Barnes

Summary: One shot of an interaction with the multiverse that affects Bucky Barnes during a tough time in his life.

Length: 7.4 K

Characters: Bucky Barnes from 2024, Bucky Barnes from 1938, Jim Barnes (son of another AU Bucky from 1971), Bucky Barnes from 1998 (AU).

Warnings: some references to drug use, domestic abuse, alcohol abuse, and suicide but it’s not really a dark fic.

Author notes: Set at the same time as Spider-Man: No Way Home but only connected in a roundabout way. Also slightly connected to What If? Season 2, Episode 2, What If? ... Peter Quill Attacked Earth's Mightiest Heroes. Images in the banner were created by the author using the Microsoft Copilot App in Designer mode.

🌃 🌉 🥡

It was Bucky's favourite place to go when he needed to get out of his head for a while. A rooftop on an empty warehouse that overlooked an approach to the Brooklyn Bridge was the perfect location to sit at night and see the bridge that he had grown up with all those years ago, before the war, before HYDRA, before the Avengers. Before everything became fucked up again.

This time, it was Alexander Ross who set in motion the latest attempt to rope Bucky into doing something he didn't want to do. The man just wouldn't take no for an answer.

"You served your country before, then you served HYDRA. I'm just asking you to serve your country again. Then we'll call it even."

Those were his exact words. As if Bucky's service in World War II wasn't enough, all by itself. As if fighting Thanos twice and containing the Flag Smashers also wasn't enough. Why couldn't Bucky just be left alone to do what he wanted? Why couldn't he tinker with old cars and motorcycles, keeping them in good repair for enthusiasts who still appreciated how things were made before. The sound of a siren on the bridge caught his attention and he focused on a police car in pursuit of someone. That part was still very much the same now as it had been then, even though the subway cars and vehicles crossing the bridge looked different. There were always going to be people who lived on the wrong side of the law and those who would hunt them down.

Why did Ross think it should be him doing the hunting? The man wouldn't even say who it was he wanted Bucky to hunt down but deep down the super soldier knew that Ross saw a lot of good people as enemies and that's what bothered him the most. For all he knew Ross wanted Bucky to go after Sam, or even Peter Parker, and that would never happen.

Peter Parker, that kid was facing problems just as bad as Bucky had it. He just couldn't seem to catch a break. Why couldn't they leave him alone as well? Let him go to college, marry his girlfriend, have a family. He was a good kid, and a smart one. But no, certain segments of society were out to pigeon-hole him as a threat.

"Stop," he said out loud. "Breathe. Peter will be okay. You can tell Ross no and you'll be okay. Life will go on."

A sound of a portal opening behind him made him shake his head. How did the sorcerers always find him? He turned around to see if it was Dr. Strange or Wong, but he didn't expect to see what he saw there and stood up, facing the young man, with his face, his much younger face, dressed in a brown suit.

"What just happened?" The younger version asked, his face a mask of surprise. "I'm in Brooklyn, cuz that's the Brooklyn Bridge so that must be Manhattan but it ain't nothin' like the New York I know. Who are you?"

His Brooklyn accent was strong, much stronger than Bucky's accent of 2024. He studied the current version carefully, lingering on his eyes, recognizing him. Approaching him where he stood near the edge, he looked up at him, puzzled that this older man with his face was taller.

"Are you me?"

Fuck it. The guy just walked through a portal from the 1930s based on that suit that Bucky remembered wearing then.

"James Buchanan Barnes, born March 10, 1917, is the day I was born, in Indiana," replied Bucky. "Moved here when I was a little kid. You?"

"Same," he replied. "You're older and taller than me and dressed different. What year is it?"

Older Bucky smiled a little. He read a lot of science and fantasy fiction when he was younger so the thought of it being a different year obviously came easily to his other self.

"2024, and before you say that makes me 107 years old, yes, I am that, technically. But there's a reason I'm still alive and I'm not sure I'm supposed to tell you. What I can do is phone someone to get you back home."

The younger Bucky smirked. "Hate to break it to you, pal, but there ain't a pay phone up here."

It was older Bucky's turn to smirk as he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialled Dr. Strange. His smirk turned to a frown as the call went to voice mail.

"Hey, Strange, it's Bucky Barnes," he said into the phone. God, he hated voice mail. "I'm talking to a version of myself from ...." He looked at his younger self. "What year exactly are you from?"

"1938, was headed out for my 21st birthday party. Supposed to pick up Steve then meet Dot and a bunch of friends at a dance hall in Rockaway Beach."

Fuck, he was such a punk then. "The younger version of me says he's from 1938. Are you messing around with the multiverse again? Call me back, or better yet, get over here. I'll keep my phone on so you can locate it."

He hung up then noticed his younger self looking curiously at it.

"It's called a cell phone. There aren't many pay phones these days as nearly everyone has their own personal phone, even homeless people. It's used for more than that. You can pull up maps, watch movies, television shows, play games, even pay for things."

He shrugged. The younger man looked back at the Manhattan skyline, his eyes taking it all in.

"I can still see the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building," he said, "but look at the height on some of those others. People live in those?"

"Most are office buildings," replied older Bucky. He sighed. "Not sure what's going on as you shouldn't be here. The guy I phoned is a sorcerer acquaintance. He should be getting back to me."

"Sorcerer? Seriously? They're around in the future?"

"They were around in the past," said older Bucky, "but more hidden and secretive. The ones now have had to be more visible because of ... stuff."

The sound of another portal behind them had them both turning to the source. Young Bucky's face transformed into something incredulous as the telltale sparkle of light appeared and grew larger, except it wasn't a sorcerer who came through. It was another version of Bucky, definitely from the multiverse because he was young, but he looked like he came from the 1960s or 1970s, as he had long hair, a Fu Manchu moustache and wore bell bottom jeans and a jean jacket. He came through, watching the sparkling circle close then noticed the others standing there.

"Far out," he said, as the portal closed behind him. "That was some trip." He noticed the 1930s version of himself. "Cool threads, man. Got a 1930s vibe going there." He looked closer at the two of them. "Weird. You look like me, except you're older and you're younger. Dude, what's happening?"

"Did you understand that?" asked 1938 Bucky.

"Some of it," said original modern Bucky. "Not sure what's going on, but I think you two appeared here from your original universes. What year was it before you came through the portal?"

"1971," replied the long-haired version. "I smoked up a little while ago, thought maybe I was hallucinating. This is real? What year?"

"2024," answered 1938 Bucky as he glanced at original Bucky. "He smells of reefer."

"Reefer." The long-haired man laughed. "They haven't called it that since the 1940s. What do they call it now?"

"Weed, mostly or cannabis," said original Bucky, sighing. "Can't believe I'm having this conversation. It's legal now, at least in New York, so they refer to it by brand names as well."

"No shit!" The long-haired man laughed again. "Like, you can buy it in a store?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

Bucky dialled Dr. Strange again, getting another voice mail prompt which made him hang up. This was definitely a multiverse thing but the fact there was a version of him that was born after the war meant he wasn't just in his original time frame. He was in different ones as well. Unless ... this guy was his kid.

"What's your name, when were you born and who were your parents?" he asked. "Sorry, just trying to keep things straight."

"Jim Barnes, Jr., born in 1950," said the long hair version. "My dad was James Buchanan Barnes, Sr., and my mother was Dolores Barnes. They split up when I was about 10.

Fuck, this guy was his kid. 1938 Bucky glanced at him, obviously thinking the same thing, as he mouthed Dolores' nickname, Dot.

"Why did they split up?"

"My dad was never right after the war," said Jim. "Lost his best friend in 1945 when he fell off a train during a mission. Tried to drink himself to death but never seemed to get there. He could out drink anyone, so he just got angry and eventually it got too dangerous for us to be around him. Us three kids stayed with Mom." He shrugged. "Not sure I'll be seeing any of them any time soon. I decided to go to Canada when I got my draft notice. It's just a matter of when."

Modern Bucky felt his stomach do a flip. Steve must have fallen off the train in this man's timeline, an event that obviously affected him deeply. This son of his was 21, in 1971. It meant he likely was drafted into the Vietnam War and didn't want to go. He glanced at the 1938 version of himself, who was frowning at this revelation.

"It was because of a war in Southeast Asia," Bucky murmured. "By all accounts it wasn't supported too well by the population. Some burned their draft cards and went to Canada. Stayed there, too." He looked at Jim sympathetically. "Can I ask you something? Are you strong? Like really strong? Can you handle your alcohol well?"

"Yeah," said the younger man suspiciously. "Takes a lot to get me buzzed. Sometimes, it's not worth the trouble." He frowned. "I'm not a coward. I am strong but I don't want to fight anyone. It's a bogus war, man. Rich boys can get deferments or get into the Coast Guard or the National Guard and not have to go over but even they've been involved in some killings. The killing of those four students in Ohio last year was the last straw for me. I'm not firing against American citizens."

His dad obviously never told anyone about what HYDRA did to him and he passed on his abilities to his kids. No wonder he was trying to drink himself to death. The guilt over Steve's death ... wait, if Steve fell, did he become.... He shook his head, clearing that thought.

"Your dad, is he still alive?"

Jim swallowed, looked at the Brooklyn Bridge with obvious pain then back at Bucky.

"No, he put a bullet in his head a couple of years ago, after my older brother Steve came back from Vietnam missing an arm. That's another reason I'm not going. If anything happened to me, it would kill my mom and as fucked up as I am, I do love her. I love Steve and Rebecca as well."

Bucky placed his hand on Jim's shoulder, patting it sympathetically. The sound of another portal drew all of their attention as the circle formed. What stepped out shocked Bucky, as this version of him wore a uniform that was obviously his universe's version of Captain America, complete with a dull silver-coloured prosthetic arm. His hair, longer than Bucky's but shorter than Jim's was clean and somewhat styled. He looked startled at the 1938 version of Bucky, then puzzled at Jim Barnes. Finally, he noticed modern Bucky, specifically the metal hand and approached him.

"What year?" he asked, gesturing to the skyline.

"2024," replied modern Bucky. "I've been out of HYDRA for ten years. You?"

"1998. I was sent to be Russia's contribution to a threat to the world in 1988 and escaped but I ended up in a car accident a couple of years later. Went into a coma. When I woke up it was 1994 and my old arm was gone but Tony Stark made me a new one. Somehow the damage that put me into a coma neutralized the trigger words. Peggy Carter asked me to be Captain America for the Avengers. What else was I going to do?" He shook his head then looked at the two younger men as they stood gazing at the Manhattan skyline, so different from what they were used to. "I take it these two are other versions of ourselves."

"Not exactly," said Bucky, gesturing to the 1938 version. "He's an original. The other one is our son. In his universe, Steve fell off the train and we tried to drink ourselves to death, never telling anyone what we were or accepting it."

"Shit, does he have ...?"

Modern Bucky nodded. "We should tell him, as it appears he's self-medicating a lot, unsuccessfully. Mind you it's 1971 in his world and he's just made the decision to be a draft dodger." He hesitated for a moment. "My words are gone as well, courtesy of a brilliant scientist. She designed this arm for me. You should know that Steve is alive."

"What? They said he was lost in a plane crash in 1945."

"Frozen in the ice. In this universe, they find him in 2011 and thaw him out. The serum kept him alive. He stayed here until last year then went back in time to be with Peggy. Cap in this time is another guy, Sam Wilson. He has wings."

"They didn't ask you?"

Bucky shrugged, then looked over to the Brooklyn Bridge. "Too messed up in my own head. I killed a lot, including Howard and his wife, in my timeline. I remember them all."

"I'm sorry." Cap Bucky placed a hand on Bucky's shoulder. "You are a good man. I killed a lot for HYDRA as well, but Peggy never held that against me. Neither do the other Avengers. I guess Howard died of cancer when I was in a coma. What you do in the here and now is what should define you. Easier said, I know, but still true." He took a breath. "So, what are we going to do? Sit here and wait for a sorcerer to appear? I could use something to eat."

Bucky looked at the others. "You guys hungry? I don't live too far. We could pick up some takeout and beer. I left a message for Dr. Strange. Once he checks his messages he should come and help get you back to where you belong."

"Food is good," said 1930s Bucky. "What's takeout?"

The other three smiled the same lopsided smile and Bucky gestured to follow him down a fire escape. They stopped at a Korean place that was still open, with the proprietor waving to Bucky from the kitchen, as he was a regular customer. He ordered several servings of everything, knowing that three of the four of them could easily finish it, choosing Korean fried chicken, beef and pork bulgogi, green onion cakes, japchae, bibimbap with rice, and kimchi. Although the staff gave the other three some second and third looks, they didn't say anything.

"This universe has seen some strange things, including aliens, androids and sorcerers," explained modern Bucky. "Seeing three other versions of me doesn't even come close to weird."

After dividing the food bags between them they made one more stop at a 24-hour liquor store with Bucky getting a couple of six packs of beer and a bottle of bourbon. They crammed into the elevator of his building.

"I only have a one-bedroom place," said Bucky. "Not much furniture but I'm good on the floor if you others want to take a chair. I'm living on an army pension so it's what I could afford."

When he handed off the food and booze to the others to unlock the door, he opened it and stepped back to let them in first. They filed in, dropping everything off on the small kitchen island.

"This is nice," said 1930s Bucky. "Clean, small but if it's just you it's enough. Nicer than that slum Steve is living in."

Both modern Bucky and Cap Bucky nodded, remembering that tenement room their best friend insisted on living in. Taking his meagre assortment of glasses out, Bucky poured out some bourbon in each one, holding his glass in front of him.

"Here's mud in your eye," he said, draining it in one gulp. "They've been kind enough to provide us four servings of rice, just take what you want from each of the other containers and dig in."

For the next few minutes there was no sound as they all went after the food, transferring portions into their individual rice boxes. Modern Bucky sat on the floor, leaning against the wall as the other three took the armchair, and the two dining table chairs that were there. Cap Bucky eyed the bedding on the floor.

"Sleeping there?"

"Yeah, bed's too soft," replied modern Bucky. "I manage a few hours every night."

Jim swallowed his food and looked critically at the two artificial arms. "What's with the arms?"

"Not sure I can tell you, exactly," said Cap Bucky. "Let's just say this Bucky and I have a shared experience where we lost our flesh arms, went through some shit, then got a new life and new arms in the process."

"Were you born in 1917 as well?" asked 1930s Bucky. "He already told me."

"Yeah, I was. Don't know if you'll go through what we went through. Jim's dad didn't, at least not the way we did."

"He had both of his original arms," said Jim. "But he was one angry guy. Ma said before the war he was a lot of fun but after ... he was a different man. She still loved him, but he hurt her and us, more than once."

"I would never hit a woman," stated 1930s Bucky. "Not Dot, I loved her."

The other two Bucky's looked meaningfully at each other. On a hunch, modern Bucky signed to Cap Bucky, who sat back and watched, nodding his head. He signed back, as the other two realized what they were doing.

"What can it hurt?" asked modern Bucky, verbally. "They've already seen two different versions of us, and how New York looks in the 21st century. Maybe, this Bucky is this guy's dad. If he understands what might happen, he can deal with it better, and I'm sure Jim would like to understand more of what his dad went through that made him the way he is. It can help him with his own timeline and whether he should go to Canada."

The bright blue eyes of Cap Bucky seemed to harden for a moment then they softened.

"Alright, we tell them both everything," he said. "We can't change our past but maybe we can change their futures."

For the rest of that night, the two Bucky's with prosthetic arms told their stories, amazing each other with the synchronization of their journeys until Cap Bucky's took a turn when he listened to Howard Stark and didn't kill a boy who only wanted to get back home to Earth. Both 1930s Bucky and Jim Barnes questioned them about details, about the things that they wished they had done. By sunrise, the 1930s Bucky had loosened his shirt and tie and was lying on top of the double bed in the bedroom. Jim Barnes had taken his boots and jacket off and was lying next to him curled up with his hand hanging over the edge. Cap and Modern Bucky still sat in the living room, leaning against the open wall, while finishing the bourbon.

"So, where exactly is Steve in 1998?" asked Cap.

"Buried in a glacier in the Arctic," said Bucky, reaching for one of his notebooks and tearing a sheet out. "Here's the coordinates." He watched as Cap looked at it, folded it up and placed inside a hidden pocket. "They were on a display in the Smithsonian. He's alive and they should be able to resuscitate him. I don't know if your universe will go through with what mine did but if it does, aliens start to show up in 2011, then Tony tries to make Ultron in 2014 to protect the Earth. Instead, Ultron went a little crazy and decided to kill humans. Aliens start looking for the stones ... that blue Tesseract is one of them ... and Thanos comes calling in 2018. If he does, remember to go for the head. Don't let him snap his fingers or else half of all life, everywhere, is just gone."

"What about you?" There was sympathy and understanding in Cap Bucky's eyes. "What's going on with you?"

"A powerful man wants me to work for him." Bucky looked at his metal hand. "By work, I think he means for me to hunt other enhanced individuals and bring them together so that he can control them. I don't want to do it but he's in a position to make my life miserable if I don't." He looked around at his little flat. "This isn't what I ever envisioned for myself. I'm 107 years old, living on an army pension that barely pays the bills, while waiting on the army to give me my back pay for all the years I was basically a prisoner of war. Half of society thinks I should have been shot for what I did as the Winter Soldier, and the other half are indifferent to my existence."

"You have friends though, right?" Modern Bucky felt his face get warm. "You don't think you're worthy of friendship, do you?" Cap sipped his bourbon, thoughtfully. "Obviously, I didn't kill as many people as you did when HYDRA, then Russia had me in their control, but the body count was still up there. I became a kind of vigilante when I first got away from them. I could hear calls for help and would get to people who were being assaulted. I hid myself a lot. Then, I got hit by an armoured truck and knocked out. Stayed that way for four years. When I woke up, Peggy Carter was sitting next to my bed. Tony showed up within the hour. A few of the Howlies showed up, old men all of them, but they were so happy to see me. None of them ever forgot about me and Peggy apologized for not looking for me, even though she suspected who the Winter Soldier was years later. I could have been angry, but the fact was that I could have also escaped sooner than I did. I just convinced myself that I was too far gone and not worth saving. I was wrong. Don't give up on life, Buck. If you don't want to do what this guy wants you to do, then don't do it. Call in your friends, tell the newspapers, expose his plans to the daylight. Fight for your right to have a life, to be just another face in the crowd."

"You make it sound easy." Bucky sighed. "I'm just tired of it. You know what I really want to do? Fix motorcycles and cars from the 1930s and 40s, find an understanding woman who doesn't mind listening to the old music with me, maybe dinner out or dancing once in a while, having a couple of kids and playing catch with them in the back yard. Getting old ... God, how I want to grow old." He rubbed his face. "Sounds pathetic."

"No, not at all," smiled Cap Bucky. "Sounds pretty perfect to me."

A portal began forming in Bucky's living room and both men stood up. Dr. Strange strode through.

"I got your message," he said, taking in Cap Bucky. "How many?"

"Three, although one of them isn't me. He's, my son."

Strange frowned. "Your son ... interesting. Well, get them out here and I'll send them back."

Modern Bucky went into the bedroom while Cap Bucky stayed out in the living room with Dr. Strange.

"Can you do me a favour?" he asked. "Is there any way you can make him appear like another face in the crowd?"

"That's what got me into this mess," said Strange. "A similar request from another person. You mean, no one would know who he is?"

"I mean, I think he would want to keep his friends because he doesn't have many and he shouldn't have to start at the beginning to find new ones." A crease appeared in Cap's forehead between his eyes. "All he wants is to live in peace, fix old vehicles, find the right woman and grow old. Is that too much to ask?"

Strange looked carefully at this version of Bucky, noticing the uniform. He had obviously come to terms with his own past if he was Captain America in another universe. The Bucky from this universe came out of the bedroom followed by a younger version of him from what appeared to be the 1930s and another from the 1970s. They were both rubbing their eyes as if they had been asleep for a while. The younger Bucky's eyes grew large at the sight of Dr. Strange.

"Sorcerer?" Modern Bucky nodded making the 1930s version grin. "Far out."

Jim Barnes grinned at the use of his term by the older Bucky. "He doesn't look like Gandalf."

"None of us do," deadpanned Strange. "Alright, let's get you two back to where you belong. No talking about what you've seen or heard. Frankly, people in your times will think you've had a psychiatric episode if you do, so keep it quiet."

With a wave of his hand the first portal opened, and 1930s Bucky quickly shook hands with the others before stepping through. Once that portal closed, he opened another one for Jim Barnes who looked thoughtfully at the two Bucky's then waved when he stepped back into 1971. Cap Bucky extended his metal arm to modern Bucky and the two men with the shared HYDRA past grasped each other's arms before releasing them. After he stepped through the portal only Bucky and Dr. Strange were left.

"Busy night?"

"You don't know the half of it," said Strange. "Is everything alright, with you, I mean."

"Thaddeus Ross is pressuring me to join his "team," said Bucky. "I think he wants to use me to hunt down enhanced individuals. Even though the Sokovia Accords are toast he still wants control of us."

"What do you want?"

"To find my own way, one that doesn't involve hurting people, or having to justify why I should be allowed to live," said Bucky, frowning. "I just want the life I was supposed to have if HYDRA never get their claws into me, unless I ended up a serial killer anyways, because I don't want that."

"That's fair," said Strange. "Excuse me for a moment." Bucky watched as the sorcerer did his thing with the Time Stone. When he came out of his momentary review of time, he looked at Bucky and smiled. "I don't think you have to worry about Thaddeus Ross too much. As for the rest, I'm sure things will look better. How was it visiting with two versions of yourself and a version of your son?"

"Interesting," admitted Bucky. "I should try to get some sleep. Cap and I stayed up all night comparing our HYDRA experiences. I'm glad to see another version of me got away from them."

Dr. Strange said nothing, just smiled his grim smile, opened a portal and stepped through.

March 15, 1938

"So, there's no connection between having your birthday celebration now and the Ides of March?" asked Steve as the two friends headed to the train station. "I was surprised when you canceled out last weekend."

"Nope, unless you're all planning to stab me in the back," said Bucky, waving to Dot and her friend. "Now, Margie is shy like you, but she's into art. Dot says she's always drawing something."

"She looks nice." Steve blushed as his friend put his arm around his shoulder and drew up to the two young women. "Hi, Dot."

"Hey, Stevie," she said, after receiving a kiss on the cheek from Bucky. "This is my friend Margie. She's in the art program at Pratt."

"Yeah?" His face brightened. "I just had a year at Auburndale but couldn't afford another year."

"Auburndale's good," said Margie, liking Steve's blue eyes and ready smile. "I was lucky to get a scholarship to Pratt. What's your favourite medium?"

Steve offered her his arm as they went up the steps. Bucky took Dot's hand, pulling her towards him, and wrapping his arms around her.

"Thanks for waiting until this weekend and finding him a date. I didn't want Steve to feel like a third wheel."

She shrugged; her red hair vibrant under the streetlight. "I don't know why I didn't think of pairing them together before. They're alike in many ways. Steve's a good guy. He just needs to loosen up a bit."

Bucky grinned then his face grew serious as he gazed at her. "I love you; you know. Have for a long time."

Her face changed at his declaration, as she smiled then placed her hand on his cheek. "I love you, too, Bucky. Now let's go dancing."

With their arms around each other they followed the other couple up the stairs to the elevated train station, waiting for the one that would take them to the dance hall at Rockaway Beach, the second dance of the spring season.

April 7, 1971

Jim stepped off the train, placing his satchel over his shoulder as he walked towards the exit. When he stepped back into his time after being in the future, he wasn't sure what to expect. But ending up in the library at Brooklyn College wasn't it. Hopefully, he still lived in the same house with his mother, brother Steve and sister Rebecca. On the train ride to their neighbourhood, he thought over what happened to him. It had been an interesting experience, that was for sure. Perhaps, he could write about it in his journalism class. His stop came up and he made his way to the door, stepping out into the cool spring evening air. It was only a short walk from the station to the house.

"You got mail!" His mother called as he stepped inside.

How she always knew it was him coming in was interesting. He looked at the return address, Department of Defence. Shit, it was his draft notice. His last deferment didn't go through. Stopping dead in the hallway in front of the stairs he stared at the envelope wondering whether to open it.

"You better deal with it sooner rather than later," said a familiar voice that shocked him.

"Dad? I thought ...."

His dad put his finger up to his mouth. "It's me," he whispered. "It's been hard waiting for this day, waiting for this version of you to come home and know the truth. I remembered what you wore that night."

"I thought we couldn't change our past," said Jim, as his dad took him by the elbow into the living room.

"I changed my future and that changed yours, but you had to get back here to know it," said the older Barnes. "I didn't join the 107th. I became a pilot and Steve became a reporter, drawing comics of the various soldiers he met as he covered the war. Some other guy became Captain America. Some other guy became the Winter Soldier. It still worked out for them because they were different guys, and their futures were different than ours."

"But our Steve still lost his arm," said Jim.

"Yeah, but he didn't lose us because I didn't lose your mom and you kids. We got him through it, and we'll get you through whatever that letter says." He placed his calloused hand on his son's face. "I think that's why you were there so that I would know you, know what you went through as a kid because of how I dealt with the things that happened to me in your timeline. I've tried really hard to be a good man, Jim."

His eyes were glassy as he said it and the two men hugged. Then Jim opened the envelope and pulled out the letter, making a sigh of relief.

"Coast Guard," he said. "They've taken my ... when did I become an experienced sailor?"

"Since I started taking you kids out on sailboats when you were kids," smiled Bucky. "Don't worry, it should come to you, once you integrate into this timeline. Your brother, Steve, ended up on a patrol boat in the Vietnamese river system, lost his arm when he was shot from the shore. With the Coast Guard, you could end up working from home. You don't have to go to Canada, although you'll have to cut your hair and shave that monstrosity off your face."

His grin showed Jim that his dad was joking, and they hugged again. Both men thought back to that night when they went from their respective times into the future and met two other Bucky's who had gone through hell. Something drew them there, to fix both of them, and to fix what was wrong between them. It was meant to be.

May 17, 1998

Bucky was with the team when they located the Valkyrie just under the top layer of the glacier. It had shrunk from when the aircraft crash landed into it in 1945. Since then, the one wing tip was slowly exposed, to the point where it showed up on an aerial survey done by the Greenland parks service, close to the coordinates given to Bucky in 2024. Carefully they had used steam to thaw out the door into the large aircraft, finding it mostly undamaged inside, although a lot of ice had built up from all the water that seeped in from the glacier. Then a corporal called to them when he spied the shield and Bucky hurried over there, brushing the frost away from the body that lay encased in ice under the shield.

"Steve," he whispered, confirming his identity.

The extraction team came in, carefully unthawing the ice several inches underneath the frozen remains, then lifting the icy block onto a stretcher, then into a Chinook helicopter. Bucky sat near Steve's body, watching as the block of ice was wrapped in thermal blankets to slow down the rate of the ice melting so it was gradual and wouldn't put his body into shock. By the time the large helicopter landed in Thule, they had the special medical unit set up, with Peggy and Tony waiting as Steve's body was wheeled in. None of them slept well over that week as they did everything they could to keep the thawing process stable. When the decision was made to start warming the body they waited anxiously, hoping that the information given to Bucky was accurate. Ten days after he was transported there, Steve Rogers opened his eyes and saw himself in a hospital room, with tubes and IV lines coming in and out of his body. He shifted, setting up a bunch of alarms, which brought a number of people running. The person he noticed first was already there, with a head of dark hair, long in length, a several day-old beard, and the blue eyes of his best friend, Bucky.

"Hey punk," said that best friend, grinning at him. "I thought I told you not to do anything stupid until I got back."

"Buck." Steve tried to raise himself, but several hands came out to stop him. "You're alive. You fell."

"Yeah, I did." Bucky smiled sadly. "I'll tell you about it later. The important thing is that we found you. A lot has happened since you went into the ice, but now that you're here, I think things are going to look up."

The two friends looked at each other with affection. Catching up would have to wait, as a team of medical personnel arrived to document the momentous occasion when a frozen body was successfully reanimated after over 50 years encased in the ice. It was one for the history books.

May 31, 2024

It had been almost two weeks since that night when the three portals discharged the two Bucky's and Jim Barnes on the rooftop of the building. Bucky had kept a low profile since then, although he phoned Sam, telling him about Ross's ultimatum to him. Sam was angry about that and raised a very public stink, which made Ross back off, although Bucky still had the feeling someone was watching him from afar. More than likely, he was being paranoid. On this Friday morning, he got up, hearing about a particular motorcycle for sale in Bensonhurst. When he got off the train he began the short walk to the shop. Frowning at the Closed sign on it when he arrived, he peeked inside the window, then noticed a back door was open. Heading around to the back he saw a woman, sitting in a lawn chair, with her feet up on a crate, a coffee on another crate while she closed her eyes in the sun.

"Excuse me," he said, making her eyes open, frowning at him. "I called about the World War II motorcycle. The man said I could come this morning to look at it."

She ran her eyes over him, then sighed. "That was likely my deadbeat brother. He's taken the bike. Said he had a buyer for it in the Bronx. Personally, I think he took it to his loan shark, to pay off some of his debt. Sorry that you came all this way for nothing." She shook her head, seeming to fight off some tears. "Hell of a way to run a business but what do I know? My dad left it to both of us and he's running it into the ground, while I'm trying to make it a going concern."

"Well, I guess the price he quoted was too good to be true," said Bucky. "I'm sorry to bother you."

He turned to leave but she called out to him. "Hey mister? There's another classic motorcycle in there. Needs some work but whatever price you want to pay for it, I'm willing to let it go for that. Otherwise, the bank will just seize it when they foreclose."

"I don't want to take advantage of your situation," said Bucky.

She stood up, surprising him with her height as she was only a couple of inches shorter than him.

"Come in and have a look at it, you never know," she replied, walking towards the open door to the shop.

They stepped inside and right away, Bucky felt comfortable with all the motorcycles in various states of repair. He saw several from the 1940s as well as some 1950s models. She stopped beside a silver motorcycle that seemed to be complete, a 1958 Triumph Tiger 100. He kneeled down, looking carefully at the engine, then stood up and examined the finishings.

"She's beautiful," he said. "What's left to do?"

The woman shrugged. "Honestly? I'm not sure what I'm missing. She starts up fine, then about a mile into the ride she starts running rough and by the time I get her back here she gives up the ghost. I've put a lot of time into restoring her but I'm missing something."

"You're the mechanic?" He noticed her look of dismay at his comment. "I'm not being critical. I'm impressed." He stuck his hand out. "Bucky."

"Angel," she replied, shaking his hand, then noticing his smile. "Yeah, it's my real name. I guess my great grandpa took one look at me when he came to the hospital just after I was born and said I was an angel. He's the one who started this shop, after World War II. He was responsible for the motor pool for the Howling Commandos, Sergeant Bruno Moretti."

She pointed to a large, framed photograph on the wall. With a smile, Bucky went over to it, grinning at the picture of the Howling Commandos as he bent closer to it. That's when Angel saw him in the picture, then looked back and forth between the man standing beside her and the man on the old photograph.

"You're Bucky Barnes."

"Yeah," he replied, then straightened up. "You're Sarge's great granddaughter. Did you know him?"

"No, he died when I was about a year old. Grandpa told me his stories about the Howlies ... that's what you called yourselves, right?"

Bucky nodded his head, feeling nostalgic at the moment. "They were a good group of guys. Sarge always kept us supplied with working vehicles. Didn't even mind when I would tinker with the motorcycles. Showed me a few things as well. Sometimes, I'm amazed I still remember it."

"Well, you've been through a lot," replied Angel. "It must be hard at times, stuck in a future that is so different. Sometimes .... Never mind." She looked away, slightly embarrassed.

"No, it's okay," said Bucky. "What were you going to say?"

"Well, sometimes I feel like I'm out of my right time," she said. "I mean, I like the old music, and even though I'm a mechanic, I'm kind of a girlie girl when I'm not knuckle deep in a greasy engine. It must be worse for you sometimes. I imagine you missed out on a lot of things because of what happened to you." She looked away again. "Sorry, I'm babbling."

"I don't mind. You're honest without being cruel and that's a good quality."

They stood without talking for a moment, comfortable in the silence, then their peace and quiet was shattered by the arrival of Angel's brother, Tony. Right away, Bucky didn't care for the guy, wondering how he was such a jerk compared to his sister. Eventually, he found that he had to leave before he was tempted to punch Tony and headed out the back door. Before he got very far, he heard his voice being called and turned to see Angel walking towards him. She handed him her business card.

"Stay in touch," she smiled. "We can go for coffee or something. If you want."

"Yeah, I would like that." He looked at her again. "Do you have your phone with you?" She nodded. He phoned the number she gave him, making her phone ring. "Save my phone number. We can talk about the different things you can try to narrow down that problem with the Triumph. Or maybe you can talk your brother into selling his share in the business to someone else."

They were looking at more than each other's eyes when he said that. Then Angel smiled and saved Bucky's phone number to her contacts. They began to walk away from each other then both turned to look back at the same moment, making them chuckle. With a wave, Bucky headed towards the subway station, feeling pretty positive about his prospects.

Please support the author by reblogging. Comments are also appreciated.

One Shots Masterlist

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes au #james buchanan barnes au #bucky barnes oneshot #multiverse #james buchanan barnes oneshot #1930s bucky barnes #what if #whatif bucky

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songoftrillium · 10 months

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Meet The (Updated) Writing Team

Hello Kinfolks! These last two months have been quiet for y'all in terms of updates, but BUSY in terms of the work being done by the sept of contributors to this project!

At the start of October I put out the call for help, saying that this project cannot succeed without the help and support of the Werewolf fandom. I'm happy to report that you as a fandom have responded phenomenally, and production on this series is now underway! These last few months have been dedicated to recruiting team members, and researching our book framework. We've about filled in the main core of the team, and have already gotten started writing Book 1: Cliath!

October through November has been dedicated entirely to research, both putting together a collection of citations we'll be using in this first book, and passing out initial writing assignments. This list is sure to grow in time, but for now we have plenty of work to do!

With that all said, I'd like to introduce you to the team that are showcasing the Gaians.

Amy Waller (she/her)

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Ms. Waller is a freelance writer and massage therapist based in not-quite Northern Virginia, and is a contributor to D.W.A.R.V.S. . Werewolf the Apocalypse was her first RPG, and she loves the themes of shapechanging as self-actualization and of trying to balance instinct and wisdom.

Amy has joined the team to depict the journals of Cryptobiologist Esme "Leaping Ghost".

Bek Andrew Evans (He/They)

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Mx. Evans is a freelance writer and illustrator from Jackson, Mississippi. He explores themes of mental illness, disability, abuse, poverty, queer themes and the intersection of these statuses. He uses body and psychological horror, meticulous attention to medical details, and deep character dives as some of his favorite methods to achieve those goals.

Bek has been indispensible in book research, and will be taking his experience with M20 Sorcerer and writing for the Hearthbound, and fictitious news article citations.

Evie Emerson Smith (She/It)

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Evie is a programmer and designer of video games living with her pack in Pittsburgh, PA. She uses primarily anthropomorphic characters to tell stories about identity, queerness, and the power of community.

She has joined the team as a technical writer, and contributor to the opening comic: Cracking The Bone

Excelgarou (She/Her)

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She's been described as a Werewolf: The Apocalypse academic, and wears this title proudly. She labors at all hours on resources for Werewolf fans - particularly as regards aggregating otherwise obscure information - such as the Build-a-Veteran tool or (especially) the Werewolf Index Project.

Excelgarou is our lead researcher, ensuring our book citations and narrative voices remain consistent through all editions. She has also been conscripted to write the introductory passage on the World of Darkness, and to redraft the Children of Gaia.

James E. Deeley (He/Him)

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Jim has been playing, running, and writing for tabletop roleplaying games since he was first introduced to them over twenty years ago. Jim has presented on the subject of writing for games since 2010, and has been contracted to write mechanics and to do character design by the likes of High Level Games, Lostlorn Games, and Renegade Game Studios, but is equally skilled at writing lore and narrative, skills honed over two decades of running roleplaying games and medieval studies, lending a deep historical context to his writings.

Jim will write the Western Concordat, showcasing the Silver Fangs, Fianna, Get of Fenris, and Glass Walkers.

J.F. Sambrano (They/He)

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J. F. Sambrano is an author of horror and (urban/dark/depressing?) fantasy and an advocate for indigenous rights. He lives in Washington (the state) and is originally from Los Angeles (the city); the differences are staggering but the ocean and the I-5 are the same. He is Chiricahua Apache (Ndeh) and Cora Indian (Náayarite). He may or may not be a believer/practitioner of real world magic. If he were, he would not be interested in your hippy-dippy, crystal swinging, dream-catcher slinging garbage.But magic is real, let’s not fuck around.

Beloved Indigenous World of Darkness author J.F. Sambrano is joining our team to depict the Bastet in the Dawn Tribes! A friend and frequent topic of discussion on this blog, we are honored to have him on the team to bring the Werewolf: the Apocalypse he's long-felt the world deserves to life!

LeeKat (She/Her)

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Lee is a freelance artist, writer, and English teacher based in Brazil. The bulk of her content is furry, homoerotic, and TTRPG-centric works. Her writing focuses on exploring the depths of emotion with tales of self-discovery, queerness, and finding hope in a desolate world.

A huge lover of Werewolf, themes of generational trauma and rediscovering oneself in a world of turmoil resonated deeply, as well as themes of spirituality and ancestry. Writing for this project, she hopes to bring others the same catharsis she felt through exploring the books and their many themes.

Mórag (it/its)

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Mòrag is a writer and botanist from Te Wai Pounamu. It writes both botanical articles and horror stories, the former to raise awareness of ecological issues and the latter to explore what it means to be human, represent trans and autistic experiences, and addiction. It's horror writing is best recognized for its use of visceral first-person perspectives, body horror, and the grotesque. It is influenced heavily by works such as the Hellraiser films and the philosophies of Georges Bataille.

It has joined our team to write the story portions of the Song of Trillium, showcasing the legend of Tawatuy.

#world of darkness #werewolf: the apocalypse #dead mountain #werewolf the apocalypse #werewolves #w5 #werewolf the essentials #indie games #indie ttrpg #horror ttrpg #queer writers #queer ttrpg #witers #ttrpg #indigenous authors #brazilian authors

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toaarcan · 6 months

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Every now and then I see the Capitalism Ruined Tieflings post float past and my brain just goes "Skill Issue."

For context, this is a popular post that states that in D&D's second and third editions, Tieflings had a huge variety of appearances and then in 4e they were homogenised into generic devil-people because Hasbro was calling the shots and demanded that Tieflings all look relatively the same because that way it was easier to sell minis of them, and now Tieflings are ruined forever because you can't make one with greasy skin that smells like farts.

But here's the thing: You can absolutely still just do that.

"But the book says-"

Fuck the book! This hobby is 50% improv and the highest authority you'll ever have to deal with is most likely going to be your friend Jim, when it comes to pure roleplay things, there is literally nothing stopping you. The D&D Police aren't going to kick down your door and haul you off to RPG Jail for the crime of not playing a Tiefling like they're described in the PHB, because there is no D&D Police.

The PHB is great for telling you what you get mechanically (or the "crunch") and can be entirely ignored for everything in terms of lore (or the "fluff").

I've been playing 5e for something like seven or eight years now, and during that time, across all those groups, we've used vanishingly small amounts of official lore, one official setting, and precisely zero Hasbro miniatures (largely because all of those games have been online).

If I had gone to any of those DMs, both the good and bad ones, and said "I wanna use the Planescape Tiefling tables for my character's appearance", I don't think any of them would've said no. Now, that's not something I personally would ever do (I'm not leaving my character's design up to the RNG that hates me), but I don't doubt that the option would exist if I wanted it.

Additionally, people have always broken from the official limitations of the books with these things, and a few really obvious ways.

Per the books, Tieflings have the full range of human skin tones, plus varying shades of red. Now, how many people actually keep to that limitation? I've seen blue, purple, orange, green, yellow, bone white, grey, black, pink, etcetera. Even the Planescape table only gives you red, green, and blue, random 5e players going "What if it was purple!" and disregarding the PHB is fully and openly accepted.

Hell, two of the most prominent Tiefling characters in the current era of D&D are Jester and Molly from CritRole's second campaign, who are blue and purple respectively. "Tieflings are just red" says Hasbro, and "No they aren't" says literally everybody else. Even Hasbro themselves don't care too much about it, there's an official Lego D&D Tiefling minifigure coming out this year, and they're orange, not red, when Hasbro could easily have demanded that Lego make them red.

Additionally, the book says Tiefling eyes are a single, solid colour, with no visible iris, pupil, or sclera. Yeah that one gets ignored a whole lot too. In fact, that one gets ignored more than it gets followed. I've made at least ten of these fuckers and one of them followed that rule, and only did so after her Sorcerer bloodline activated, and nobody, DM or player, has ever called me out on it.

The book says nothing about them having weird legs, I've still seen plenty with varying forms of digitigrade gait, whether it's with hooves or something else at the end of them.

If you want to make your Planescape Tieflings, then you absolutely still can. And if your DM says no, then they're probably just still in their Rules Stickler phase. Give 'em a little time and they'll loosen up, it happened to most people in this hobby.

That's the great thing about playing D&D. Most of the time, you really can just do whatever the hell you like as long as it doesn't futz with the mechanical side of things (and sometimes you can do it with that too).

Capitalism didn't ruin Tieflings. Sure, you can argue that it tried, but the only thing letting it succeed is a lack of imagination and an unwillingness to go "Hey, can I just do X instead" on the part of the players.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go make a character that's mechanically a Tiefling and lore-wise a completely different species, because nothing can stop me doing that.

#D&D #Dungeons and Dragons #Dungeons & Dragons #Tiefling #Tieflings #D&D 5e #D&D 4e

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itsbenedict · 1 month

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From the beginning | Previously | Coin standings | 5/23 | 0/9

Is their main problem hunger? Their chest cavity is being torn apart by some kind of steampunk salad, and their STINGY OUTLIER is down to like, 5%. Still- dammit, Jim. You're a hunter, not a doctor! You PICK UP THE GUN, turn, and FIRE at the oncoming monster.

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You fire the DENIAL OF SERVICE attack at the thing, and it stops in its tracks, frozen. You've bought yourself some time- but you can tell it's not spending much processing power on each of the requests from that bullet. You've got to move!

You hoist your partner onto your back, trying not to make contact with the churning gears, and as you do so you notice they're clutching what looks like the letter O. Not important- you run, you dash down the hall, you wall-jump up the damn elevator shaft, you get out of there.

You've bought yourself a moment to breathe- but that thing might be back. And with your unconscious partner... what do you even do, right now? You're starting to get seriously hungry, yourself...

The FILIAL TWINS have followed you, again. Persistent little fuckers. What do they want from you, anyway? Twin chow? Is that a thing?

There's a FLAP DISPARITY between you and your partner, who has wings but can't seem to move them. God, what happened to them? Can you even fix this?

The NON-WHITE TOAD is hopping along behind the twins. You guess it was afraid to follow you down there, but now it's back. Fair-weather friend, apparently.

There's a wizard with a little house, here. You're glad it's not homeless and it's A HOMED SORCERER, you guess. Is it going to help you?

Hey, someone's slaughtering endangered birds! Or extinct birds, even! You object to this course of action- what's with all the DODO OFFING?

Continued

#lost in hearts

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speculativepages · 3 months

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I recently started world-building for a new story idea (I know—bad when I'm supposed to be in the middle of revising my current project) and in trying to figure out the level of technology and feeling of my new world I got lost in google searches about the different punk genres.

So I decided to make a master list.

According to Wikipedia (a highly reputable source by all accounts) a punk genre can be described as “a world built on one particular technology that is extrapolated to a highly sophisticated level (this may even be a fantastical or anachronistic technology, akin to retro-futurism) a gritty transreal urban style, or a particular approach to social themes.”

There are so many (so so many) and some people roll their eyes at every new addition but I think the names and distinctions are interesting and fun (I mean, Magicpunk may just be regular fantasy, but it sounds so much cooler). I love the idea of scientific fantasy, and of blurry the lines between the sci-fi and fantasy genres. Who’s to stop you from mixing the culture of the Japanese samurai with an epic space opera in the stars?

This is an incomplete list. I've organized it by time period (loosely, because some overlap or can go anywhere). I've also provided an example of a published work (for those that have them).

Established Fantasy Punk Genres: An Incomplete List

Magicpunk/Dungeonpunk: Fantasy punk genre where the “one particular technology” that the world is build on is magic. You have trains running on lines of sorcerer-fueled energy and ships powered by wind magic and computers running on sub-dimensional energy from the demon realm. Popular examples include The Sleeping Dragon by Jonny Nexus and The War of the Flowers by Tad Williams.

Aetherpunk: Subgenre mix of Magicpunk/Dungeonpunk where the magic source of the technology is specifically the element of Aether. Often, if not always, also has Steampunk elements. The Aeronaut’s Windlass by Jim Butcher is the only example that comes to mind.

Mythpunk: A punk genre that is inspired by or incorporates myths and legends. These aren’t usually a retelling of a popular myth, but rather one that includes elements of the myth, or twists and changes the story around to it’s own ends. Popular examples would be American Gods by Neil Gaiman or Deathless by Catherynne Valente.

Stonepunk: Set in the stone age, this genre is characterized by the use of non-technology as technology, creating pseudo-tech and modern inventions with natural, basic resources like stone, wood, water, fire, clay, and rope. The Flintstones would be the best example.

Sandalpunk: Sandalpunk is on thin ice as a punk genre. Rather than being inspired or defined by a technology, it instead focuses on the period of time of the ancient world before the Middle Ages, often set in Greece or Rome. There aren’t many examples of it. But the name is cool.

Steampunk: Arguably the most popular punk genre (after Cyberpunk) featuring science fantasy stories set in Victorian era, with advanced technology powered by steam engines and clockwork mechanics. Doctor Who perhaps described it best, “The Victorian Age accelerated. Starships and missiles fueled by coal and driven by steam.” There are many examples, both in literature and film, including His Dark Materials by Phillip Pullman, Mortal Engines by Philip Reeves and The Parosol Protectorate by Gail Carriger.

Clockpunk: Close-cousin subgenre of Steampunk, characterized by a lot of clocks and inspired by the pre-steam energy period of the Renaissance and Baroque eras. Pasquale’s Angel by Paul J. McAuley is more Clockpunk than Steampunk.

Silkpunk: Silkpunk is another subgenre of Steampunk, one generation removed. While steampunk is defined by it’s Victorian era brass and steam aesthetic, Silkpunk is inspired by East Asian culture during the period of the Silk Road. Examples include The Dandelion Dynasty by Ken Liu and The Tea Master and The Detective by Aliette de Bodard.

Cattlepunk: Yet another subgenre of Steampunk, Cattlepunk is the across-the-ocean-bastard-cousin set in the wild west of early America. Cowboys, bank robberies, and train heists meet robots, warmechs, magic, and super-weapons. The Wild Wild West and Firefly verse are classic movie examples. Book examples would be the Mistborn Era II series by Brandon Sanderson and The Dark Tower series by Stephen King. (And I didn’t realize until I just did all this research but based on examples this is like my favorite punk.)

Dieselpunk: This genre is set in the aesthetic of the 1920s-1950s era and is characterized by the use of diesel-powered technology. Commonly incorporates alternate history elements, as well as themes surrounding the Great Depression and World War II. It’s been called the darker and dirtier version of Steampunk with an emphasis on air travel and combat, dirigibles, and air pirates. Examples include The Iroon Dream by Norman Spinrad, Dreadnough by Cherie Priest, and Pirate Utopia by Bruce Sterling.

Atompunk: A retro-futuristic punk genre set in during the Cold War and characterized by atomic nuclear technology, ray guns, robots, hover cars, and interdimensional travel. Atompunk often deals with the themes of nuclear power gone wrong and alternate versions of the Cold War. The most popular example of this would be the Fallout games by Bethesda.

Capepunk: Capepunk is just superhero fiction set in the modern-era world where people have powers. Example would be any superhero story ever. I just think the name’s cool.

Gothicpunk: Gothicpunk is also usually set in the modern-era, but incorporates The Goth. Generally characterized by an underworld of supernatural creatures lying in wait and secretly controlling the workings of our world where humans are but cattle. This is basically dark Urban Fantasy, but it’s popular enough to get a distinction. Anne Rice’s Interview With a Vampire is an okay example. The movies Priest and Daybreakers are much better ones.

Cyberpunk: Cyberpunk, the grandfather of all of the punk genres. Characterized by dystopian and cynical future world in which technology has brought about cultural nihilism and a crap society. Often combined with Film Noir or detective fiction. (Fantastic Noir is a fantasy version of Cyberpunk). Heroes are most prone to be some form of hacker, rebel, or antihero fight against a totalitarian police state or corporate empire oppressing the people. Examples Neuromancer by William Gibson and the movie Blade Runner.

Post-Cyberpunk: This is Cyberpunks chipper, more optimistic sibling. It has all of the vision of a scientifically advanced cyber-culture without the gritty, dark, and edgy world elements. It still share’s the Cyberpunk elements of analyzing how technology interacts and impacts with society, just without such a grimdark view of humanity. Examples would be Agent G by C.T. Phipps and The Peace War by Vernor Vinge.

Biopunk: Biopunk is Cyberpunks genetically engineered half-sibling. This punk centers around organic technology with a healthy smattering of bio-augmentation and biotechnology. Examples include In the Courts of the Crimson Kings by S.M. Stirling, West of Eden by Harry Harrison, and Wolfish Nature by Vladimir Vasilyev.

Nanopunk: Also a subgenre of Cyberpunk with characterized by the use of nanites and nanotechnology as the predominate form of technology. Examples are Tech Heaven by Linda Nagata and Micro by Michael Crichton.

Solarpunk: Solarpunk is a genre characterized by it’s environmentally friendly technology meshed with African and Asian cultures and an emphasis in community, art, and a bright solar future where humanity has found a balance between technology and nature. Can also include many elements of Biopunk, but with a much more optomistic, for-the-future-of-species-and-environment outlook. Example works include Zahrah the Windseeker by Nnedi Okorafor, Maurai by Poul Anderson, and Songs from the Stars by Norman Spinrad.

Apunkalypse: This genre is defined by the collapse of civilization where society is replaced by lawless bands of roving scavenger gangs or cities collapsing into decay or the rise of punks overthrows the rules of the past. Examples include Mad Max and Mortal Engines by Philip Reeves (which is also Steampunk, so it’s a good example of book incorporating more than one punk genre).

Desertpunk: Punk genre characterized by sand. Who doesn't love a good desert planet? Often features roaming tribes, wandering heroes, desert bandits, and sand storms. Can be combined with Cattlepunk, for a Western desert, or Apunkalypse, for an-after-the-end-of-the-world setting. Examples include Dune by Frank Herbert and Railsea by China Mieville.

Oceanpunk: This punk is set on the high seas. Often features floating cities of wood and iron lashed together and mighty nations fighting for dominion of the watery world and may also feature civilizations and cultures below the waves in underwater cities. Sometimes called Pirate Punk, because nothing breed pirate stories like ocean cities and sailing ships. Examples include The Scar by China Mieville, Tranquilium by Andrey Lazarchuk, and Dark Life by Kat Falls.

Did I Miss a Punk? Can you guys think of any other punks to add? Either ones you've thought up, or any you've heard of that I don't have listed. I'd love to keep this list updated. I find it's useful to look through when creating a new world to get the overall feeling of what I'm going for with the story and world-building.

What punk are you writing in for your current WIP?

#worldbuilding #fantasy writing #steampunk #cyberpunk #punk genres #fantasy and science fiction writing #worldbuilding advice #writing resouces #worldbuilding inspiration #fantasy worldbuilding #fantasy magic systems #magic and technology #my stuff #worldbuilding stuff

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