#waking from a dead sleep like i Must draw the critters

[reegis]

Hi! I just wanted to say I rll love your art!

thank you!! please have this doodle i woke up from a nap to draw

#waking from a dead sleep like i Must draw the critters #the mechanisms #raphaella la cognizi #drumbot brian #marius von raum #the toy soldier #ts #asks #my art #this joke was inevitable and bad

[saphirered]

Hey! I hope you’re doing well. You’re writing is always great and I get excited when I see you’ve posted something new. Would you consider writing a little something with platonic Caduceus and reader where they have similar personalities and interests, but different backgrounds? Maybe the reader doesn’t have any family to speak of? I’m open to any character class or race :) thank you!

I’m doing well. I’m glad you like my writing and thank you. It’s really nice to hear people get excited when I post new things. I never expected people to like it at all 🙈.  I hope you like the way this one turned out 😘

You were typical city folk. Born and raised in the heights of civilisation; the pride and joy of the Law Bearer Erathis herself. Raised at the temple of the Raven Queen as a foundling the clergy were the only parental figures you knew and they were hardly parents. Your relationship with them is less of a parent-child dynamic. They were your caretakers and supported which is more than a lot of people can say but you missed out on parental pride, love and the ability to confide in someone in such a way. You missed out on the relation with siblings. No running around the hallways of the temple, no secrets between just you and them, no protective older sibling or a younger one that gets away with everything. You had no weird aunt or uncle to tell you ridiculous stories or take you on adventures every so often like the books you’d read as a child. 

Your childhood never bothered you because it was good and happy, just in a different way. You found a mother figure in the Matron. You’d get dreams sometimes, waking up with a single black feather on your pillow. She gave you an appreciation of all things living. Death is a sacred thing but it’s the life that counts. You made it your goal to nourish that what needs a little extra attention and preserve what can be saved before its time, conforming to the natural order. The Matron of Ravens taught you death is just as sacred as life and so you valued it and vowed to upkeep her commandments and preserve that natural order of life and death. 

As a child you spent much time within the public parks and gardens. You had an affinity unrivalled. Making flowers blossom in spring and keeping the branches and roots healthy during the colder months, curing diseases, healing ailments as well as returning to the earth what once came from it upon the passing. When you were old enough these habits carried over to ‘living things’; a term you had to disagree with because all that grows lives. You became part of the clergy and continued your life within the temple of the Raven Queen. 

You were never confined to the temple life. Your work took you far and wide, your expertise wanted by the many. You had tended to the ailments of kings as you had commoner, treating no different. You had tended to the pristine gardens of royalty as you had the fields of a farmer. In the eyes of the natural order all lives are equal in the end and so you treated them in life. 

When a group of strangers came knocking at your door looking for an expert you were surprised by the colourful bunch on your doorstep but heard them out regardless. You were faced with the story of a cursed forest, a sanctuary of the natural order to be disturbed, a family missing and a new one found. A story of beacons of endless stars, possibilities and souls of the preserved to be reborn, conflict, war and death. Stories of salvation, resurrection, a fight to preserve the natural order and save the lives of the many. Stories far and wide yet to be told.

You were needed. Your expertise was needed and when a raven landed on your windowsill staring at you, studying you and awaiting your response you knew it was time to leave behind the life you knew and venture into a strange new world of adventure and the unknown. How could you turn them down? Your help was needed and while the venture might be a bit longer and much riskier than your usual ones, the task remained the same. You’d travel with the Mighty Nein for a while and aid them for however long they needed you. 

You grew to love the Mighty Nein like the family you never had but you have to say from the very beginning you felt a natural gravitation towards the colourful firbolg, a radiance akin to that of the life you vowed to preserve. Caduceus did not hide he felt a same sort of gravitation towards you. The two of you were often paired together on watches or went out together to stock up on supplies for the road, spell components and the likes. The two of you while at first glance are day and night, as your respective deities are when compared, but those who look closer know you are in a way, one and the same. 

You’re sitting on the jungle floor eyes closed listening to the nocturnal critters make their way through, searching for food, hunting and finding their hideouts, burrows and nests before the sun rises and morning comes. A smile on your face, as you take everything in over the soft snoring and slight twisting and turning of some of the Nein. You hear someone sitting down next to you. 

“Good morning.” You say peaking through one eye seeing the pink haired firbolg cup of tea in hand. The two of you had always been and probably always will be the early risers of the group. Old habits? Perhaps so.

“Ah, it is, isn’t it?” He offers you a cup of tea. You take it with a quick thanks blowing away the steam and cool it down a little before you take a sip. A good cup of tea never fails to wake you up properly. 

“How are you feeling? Getting closer to where the Wild Mother has been sending you?” The two of you look out seeing the first light barely bleed through the trees. Caduceus waits a little before speaking, contemplating his answer. His brow furrows. 

“I’m unsure.” Caduceus mentally retreats just a little bit, watching his expression you can see the thoughts rush through his head. You know he worries for his family and how you might find them. A lot is unsure at these times. You can only hope for the best and prepare for the worst but you have faith. 

“You’re worried, for your family. For what might have become of them?” He gives you a bit of a smile and nods. It’s clear Caduceus hasn’t directly been faced with the notion of mortality in this sense close to home whereas in any other situation he’d be fine. 

“I’ve been waiting to see them for a long time. While I trust the Wild Mother’s path, I can’t help but find myself doubting if they are well.” You try to find a way to best approach his concerns and ease his mind. The words of comfort either of you would offer to those coming into your respective places of worship do not apply to this situation nor would they be particularly helpful. You’re not dealing with the dead, just the possibility of death of loved ones. 

“You trust her path and you believe she’s at your side?” You ask deep in thought as a light breeze rushes through out of nowhere. The Wild Mother must be listening. Caduceus relaxes a bit more knowing she’s there. Despite what some may think, the breeze may just tell you what you need to know.

“Yes. I believe so.” He smiles watching the leaves blow, the breeze being carried away into the distance of the early morning jungle, a couple of birds scattering as it comes along. 

You take a moment, close your eyes and reach out your senses sending a little prayer to the Raven Queen. You’re met with a sense of warmth, a soft cawing of a raven flying away and a small light in the darkness. 

“Then they’ll be alright in the end. I don’t sense my Matron’s presence in relation to you. You’ll be reunited with your family once more.” You interpret the signs she shows you. While they might not be a certainty you have faith she would not let you down.

“That’s nice.” You return to staring into the jungle in comfortable silence for a while. 

“What do you miss the most? About home and your family I mean.” You ask a bit out of the blue but you couldn’t help yourself wondering with everything drawing closer and the uncertainty of how you’ll find the Stone family, and what you’ll encounter there. 

“Old habits. The people. The simplicity of life. I’d say the piece and quiet but that wouldn’t be entirely true. Just different kind of noise. You know what I mean.” Caduceus reminisces, dopey smile returning at the memory of his family. You’ve heard some of the tales of his shenanigans when it comes to his siblings. He’s confided in you and you vowed to keep those a secret. Who knew Caduceus could be quite the prankster?

“I don’t actually. I never had a family like yours. The Mighty Nein is the closest I’ve ever gotten to the meaning of a family.” You look over to the sleeping shapes. You wouldn’t trade them for the world but can’t deny it’s still not the same. The others can attest to that. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I apologise if I offended you.” You smile at him. You’d stated before you loved your found ‘family’, the clergy but they were never your real family. It just hadn’t come up your dynamic with them was not the same as a more typical even dysfunctional family. 

“It’s quite alright. I never knew my birth family. I knew the clergy at my temple and that’s alright. I always wondered what it would be like to have parents to confide in, siblings to spend time with, perhaps even share interests with and people who love me unconditionally, people like me but also not. Do you get what I mean?” Caduceus nods in agreement and thinks for a second.

“I understand. Though you might come to take back the part about wanting to spend more time with siblings. They’ll grow on you like ivy in places you don’t want it.” He laughs a little and you join him. 

“They can’t be that bad.” You joke the both of you laughing as quietly as you can trying not to wake the others up. 

“I’d love to meet your family. From what you’ve told they’re wonderful.” 

“They are, in their own ways but don’t tell Calliope I said that.” Caduceus bumps your shoulder and you bump back finishing the last of your tea. You’ve heard enough tales of Calliope to know you better not tell her or she might never let Caduceus forget he admitted it so openly to someone else outside of the family. 

“I’m sure they’d like you too. If you wanted to you could come back to the Blooming Grove with us one day. Clarabelle always wanted another sibling. She thinks Calliope is a bit too stoic. The two of you would make great friends.” Caduceus finishes his tea and you’re a little taken aback. You look for any kind of jest. He must be joking right?

“You’re serious?” Caduceus laughs a little at your reaction. 

“Unless you don’t want to. I think you’ll fit in right along. Our ancestor used to be a champion of the Raven Queen. She might appreciate the return of a new Clay. Not by blood but by heart.” You recall the story he once told about the champions Stone, Dust and Clay of the Matron. You feel a pull in your heart out of nowhere and swear you hear a raven’s caw in the back of your mind. She’d be satisfied. 

“I’d like that very much if they’ll have me.” With Caduceus reassurance his family would very much like you and get along with you you’d see where this would go. Perhaps you would become an unofficial Clay. Your friends are just your chosen family after all so why should it be different? 

You’ll see where your path leads and you’ll stick with Caduceus until either of you grow tired of each other. Not that either of you see that happen. You’ve grown thick as thieves to the point where you could call yourselves siblings. If the two of you claiming yourselves siblings extends into his family then you’d love nothing more. 

A place. A purpose. A home. You’ll have to put the world back into tune first but once the Matron and the Mother call you both home you’ll stick to the path until homeward bound you both be. Both of you lost in thought come to the same conclusion. Caduceus pours the both of you some new tea, cooling it down a bit you both take a sip.

“That’s nice.” You say in unison watching the nocturnal critters go to sleep and the early risers come out and go about their daily business. 

#critical role x reader #mighty nein x reader #critrole x reader #caduceus x reader

[otheroutlandertales]

@lady-o-ren​ said: Muy, you could write me a Jenny/Ian fantasy au. 

Philomene I: Homo homini lupus est.

by @ianmuyrray 

Jenny had lived the past several years of her life in solitude. She inhabited a tiny cabin in a shady glen, one room, white-washed with peeling walls. It was self-sufficient and sturdy, often smelling of jerky and bread, occasionally onion. Dill, lavender, bay leaves, catnip -- they all hung from the heavy beams of the cabin ceiling among cloves of garlic.

In the garden, she was digging up turnips. The plant life in the glen did not belong to her; she had not planted them. She did not know how they got there -- she only knew she was now responsible for them. She tended them all, nurtured the vegetables and herbs as they grew, and, when ready, she harvested them. Caring for them in this way was how she paid her debt to them. They had fed her and healed her when she’d stumbled upon the glen several winters ago, brutally injured and in hiding, still covered in rich furs and a heavy brocade dress, though torn and muddy -- a ball gown. The cabin and its garden had become a sanctuary, a bunker protecting her from a world who assumed her dead. She made it her home.

Shaken loose by her work, some hair had fallen out of the braided knot on the back of her neck. She blew it out of her face and brushed stragglers away with the back of her hand, trying to prevent a smear of earth across her forehead, but it was hopeless. Her trowel loosed a turnip, much smaller in size than last year’s. She dusted the vegetable off and turned it around in her hand, feeling for any oddity, before dumping it into her basket with the others. All the vegetables were smaller than she’d assumed. Had she been wrong to harvest today? From the calendar she’d notched into a piece of wood, she’d harvested twice the amount on this exact day last year.

She stood and braced the basket on her hip, shaking her homespun skirts and apron loose with her free hand. It was a warm day, and sunlight filtered through the trees. In the shade, a coolness had settled into the air, filling Jenny’s lungs, rejuvenating her. The sun was setting, however, and the evening was on its way. She needed to finish the day’s chores with the daylight.

Jenny set the basket of root vegetables on her doorstep and went to check her traps. They were always full of critters -- rabbits, mostly. Fat and flavorful ones. She could use more, and she checked the hooks on her belt, ready to come back laden with meat.

She knew every inch of the land, had staked it out in cautious missions when she’d first arrived. She could accurately draw every boulder and landmark tree on a blank map; knew where the fish beds always were in the stream nearby, what patches of clover were most popular with the local herd of deer. She knew precisely where she’d awoken, her body dumped by soldiers, maybe three or four miles away.

She also knew the best places to lay traps. But this time, to her astonishment, there was nothing. They were all empty -- ransacked, looted, and torn to shreds by what seemed like an animal. Large paw prints circled her traps, and around them, the strike of claws in the mud. She knelt, reaching to touch the streak of blood across the leaves on the ground.

And… it was unusually quiet. All the years she’d spent in her cabin, she had never experienced fear or thought something might harm her outside scattered paranoia of being found alive. She lived nestled in the heart of the trees, protected by something beyond herself. She’d always suspected there were protective enchantments surrounding the places she wandered. But now…

Trying to rein in her galloping heart, she scanned the area around her, but she saw nothing. The tree cover made the location she was in seem darker, more menacing.

She strained her ears, listening for the usual chatter of birds or insects. Perhaps she was being paranoid. Even still, she started to double back to the cabin, clutching the strap of her rifle across her chest, when the unusually loud snap of a twig nearby stopped her.

She hardly dared to breathe, deciding to move behind an evergreen tree, slowly. She circled around, looking and listening for any sign of movement. She slipped her rifle around to her front, placed her hands at the ready.

She can kill on sight, she told herself, trying to counter the shaking of her hands. She can hunt. She cocked the gun, drawing deliberate breaths, and stepped around the tree.

But there was nothing. She shook herself and resumed the walk home.

She was unable to shake the sense that whatever it was that had approached her -- if anything -- was following her, waiting. The forest now felt too small, too big, too threatening, and too dark. She didn’t trust the animals or plants anymore and hurried through them. Entering the cabin as quickly as she dared, she shut the door and latched it for the first time in a long time. Despite the heat that still lingered in the air, she shut her windows, the wood of the shutters splintering under her fingers, and latched those, too.

Jerky was laid out to dry on the only table she had. She assessed it with a glance before deciding to get to work, scrubbing her turnips with a rag, sitting on the edge of the bench before slicing them with her dagger over a simmering cauldron of hambone broth. There was only an hour or so before her soup would be ready. She broke off some sprigs of rosemary and dropped them in, ignoring how the herb trembled in her hand.

The night was quiet at the cabin, and Jenny relaxed. She minded her mending and needlework, lulling time away with the repetitive push and pull of thread and yarn.

Even though the cabin provided for her, living a subsistence lifestyle was hard work. Her hands were callused and her body muscled and lean. The scars on her arms and thighs, however, were from before. She was safe here, she told herself resolutely. She was assumed dead -- no one would be looking for her. No one would send anything after her.

The wind blew hard as she tried to sleep, rumbling over the walls and the roof, and rain fell in sheets. She drew the wool blankets in around her, tight, blinking at the orange glow of embers in her fireplace. Sleep, she told herself. It’s just a storm.

A loud crash came from outside. She flinched in her bed, every nerve drawn taut. Had a tree fallen? A prayer came in a rush even as she tried to will herself to sleep, or to wake up -- was this a nightmare?

She felt the rope once tied tight around her wrists; she felt the uniformed man aggressively reaching through her clothing, his hand wandering and pinching while he held her captive in a dark room, no one heeding her struggle. She felt the barrel of a gun as it was held beneath her chin, a finger on the trigger. Her throat closed in on itself as she relived the pain of being dragged into the dark castle yard and beaten in front of strangers, her friends, her brother. How she’d wept and screamed and begged him to stop them -- why hadn’t he? -- but her protests had fallen on deaf, unfeeling ears.

Moved beyond fear and into fury as another crash sounded behind the door of the cabin, shaking the walls, she rolled out of bed and grabbed her rifle. She’d evaded them for years. She’d known that sooner or later, they would track her down. Positioning her gun so she could easily fire, she braced herself and waited, allowing two steadying breaths.

With a crack like thunder meeting lighting, the door shuddered off its hinges, and in prowled the largest wolf Jenny had ever seen. Its coat was black, a reddish-brown where the light hit it, and its eyes glinted yellow. Without missing a beat, she fired, point blank.

Somehow, she missed. A loose shot, and a clay jar exploded on her shelf, sending salt flying everywhere.

The beast snarled and lunged for her as she staggered away. He came for her again, lips tight and hackles raised. He growled and charged, but Jenny was quick; she circled around and ran out the smashed door, the grass muddy and cold beneath her bare feet, her shift sticking to her back as rain pelted down on her.

The wolf moved slowly out of the cabin, still growling and snarling. This was no ordinary beast -- the air around him shimmered like an illusion, and he was too big to be anything natural or wild. She recognized the magic on him -- a wolf made by the king. Her brother must have sent him to track her down and kill her. The wolf’s nails clicked across the wooden porch and stairway as he gathered speed and chased her.

Jenny sprinted into the forest, dodging around trees, breathing wildly. But the wolf was gaining on her; she could almost feel the heat of his breath behind her, could feel his footsteps against the soft, wet earth.

She wiped the rain out of her eyes, squinting to see ahead of her in the darkness. Her legs strained as she ran, her muscles burning.

She leapt over a large tree root and mistook the landing, tumbling to the earth with a yell, her rifle falling out of reach. She backed away, trying to stand, but pain shot up from her ankle and she collapsed. The wolf was there, circling her, watching her every move.

“Stay away,” she warned him as she panted, trying to sound more in control than she felt. “You can’t kill me.”

I must, came a voice, and then he pounced, knocking the wind out of her and pinning her to the ground.

Big paws pressed hard into her shoulders, the pain of his nails excruciating, the stench of him terrible and frightening. Blood, death, terror. Jenny wanted to retch.

He bared his teeth and was about to snap them shut around her throat when she throttled his ribs and chest with every ounce of strength she could muster, willing the fire she knew was inside her to her fingertips. It responded to her call, filling her hands, heat sizzling and popping in the rain, burning him. She winced from pain, too, injured by the flames nearly as much as he was, but she kept her focus until he yelped and jumped away from her. She smelled singed hair and skin and smoke, a sharp contrast to the smell of blood and rain and mud.

Her hands were blistered, but triumph thrummed through her. She rose. Ignoring the shooting pain up her ankle, she raced to her rifle and aimed it as he jumped at her again. With the smell of his burning hair and rancid breath in her nose, she fired her second and last bullet.

A sharp yip met her ears and the wolf landed on the ground. The bullet had hit a hindlimb, and he held it at a contorted angle, the wound gaping and red even in the night. Knowing she’d missed the killing blow and even accepting that she’d lost, she tensed, waiting for him to strike. He could still overpower her and tear her apart like she was nothing.

To her utter amazement, his eyes met hers, and he hesitated. Then he snarled and limped away, leaving her in the pouring rain, alone.

#outlander fanfiction #otheroutlandertales #mod muy #pair: ian x jenny #ch: jenny #au #fantasy au #philomene #oot #*

[monstersdownthepath]

Spiritual Spotlight: Cayden Cailean, the Drunken Hero

Chaotic Good God of Ale, Freedom, and Wine

Domains: Chaos, Charm, Good, Strength, Travel Subdomains: Azata, Competition, Exploration, Ferocity, Love, Lust, Resolve

Inner Sea Gods, pg. 36~43

Obedience: Sing a song in praise of freedom, bravery, and your god’s glory (and good looks). The song must be audible to those nearby—friend or foe. Between stanzas, you must pause to drink from a full mug of ale, wine, or other spirits. When the song is done, drink the remaining alcohol while mentally composing the song you will sing on the morrow. If a creature is attracted by your song, do your best to engage it in conversation about the merits of Cayden Cailean. If hostilities become inevitable, leap boldly into the fight without hesitation. Benefit: Get a +4 sacred bonus to saving throws versus poison effects.

Discussing one of Pathfinder’s more well-known Good Guys has been a long time coming! I just had to get all of the Evil gods out of my system first (which is a lie, there’s still 80+ more pages of Evil to discuss), and what better way to wash them all out than with a pint?

The Drunken Hero’s Obedience prevents you from being subtle about who you’re working for. It MUST be audible to anyone nearby, even party members you want to keep it a secret from, and it MUST be about Cayden Cailean. There’s also the fact you have to start your day with a hearty drink (the mug must be full, and you must finish it), which could prove disadvantageous if you have anywhere to be early in the morning. Alternately, you could drink just before going to bed; I make most of the Obediences sound like they’re something to be done right as the day starts, but that’s only true for casters, who are basically encouraged to do their Obediences at the crack of dawn as they prepare their spells (Obediences can be done alongside preparations, no matter how wild they are). 

A martial character can have a nice tall nightcap and sing everyone to sleep--the song has to be audible, not ‘ear-cracking’--and enjoy their benefit and Boons for 24 hours, waking up with a mild hangover (easily cured) rather than going about the first few hours of their day like a drunken fool. If you ARE a caster, however, I hope you didn’t dump Constitution, because you’ll need it! Especially if a baddie does overhear your singing and come investigating, because Cayden requires you to leap into the fray no matter what.

Benefit is nothing we haven’t seen before. Ironically, since alcohol itself is considered a poison for the purpose of game mechanics, this benefit actually helps keep you from getting too sloshed. I just hope you remember not to drink your strongest stuff in your first mug, because the bonus won’t apply then!

Boons are gathered slowly, typically obtained when a given character has 12, 16, and 20 hit dice. Unlike fiend-worshipers, servants of the Eldest, and devoted of the Empyreal Lords, characters worshiping Good gods do not seem to have catch-all classes (though I could very well have just missed it)… but Good-aligned characters can enter the Evangelist, Sentinel, and Exalted Prestige Classes earlier than Evil characters, classing in as early as level 6 (they need +5 BAB, 5 ranks in a single skill, or the ability to cast lvl 3 spells); entered ASAP, one can gain the Boons at levels 8, 11, and 14.

----------

EVANGELIST

----------

Boon 1: Liberation. Liberating Command 3/day, Knock 2/day, or Dispel Magic 1/day.

You all should know by now how useful Dispel Magic can be, even at 1/day. It shatters more or less any magical effect that doesn’t require another specific spell to undo, and can shave buffs off enemies and debuffs off allies in the middle of combat.

So lets look at the other two! Knock, in particular, seems pretty fun. It can open just about any locked object you can think of and can even go so far as to loosen welds, knock nail-studded boards away, and undo bars and chains holding something shut. You use your caster level +10 versus the DC of a locked object, and since your caster level is equal to your HD for spell-like abilities, you can only fail on a 1 when opening simple locks and have a pretty good chance of unhinging more complex locks as well. It takes SERIOUS effort to keep someone with Knock out of a particular door, because most means of shutting someone out count as ‘simple locks’ unless you invest hundreds of gold into it.

Liberating Command is a pretty nice spell, really. You can target any creature in Close range (25ft + 5ft/lvl) to grant them an immediate attempt to escape a grapple, binding, or restraint with an Escape Artist check... Which get get a bonus to equal to twice your caster level (+18, when you first get this Boon, but it only goes up to +20). One thing I missed on my first pass over it was that it was an immediate action, allowing you to use it in response to someone near you getting grappled, or if you yourself get snared.

Liberating Command is a pretty terrible spell to prepare, but it’s an amazing spell-like to just have at 3/day. The number of critters with Grab in the game is worrying, and many scrawnier players more or less become dead weight the moment they’re grappled, so giving them an instant chance to escape with an enormous boost to their attempt can let them wiggle right out of the grip of a troll/octopus/worm monster.

Boon 2: Drinking Buddy. 1/day as a standard action, you can create an illusory duplicate of yourself in an adjacent square next to you. The duplicate moves on your initiative count and has your movement speed. It automatically moves to try and flank enemies you designate, avoiding Attacks of Opportunity using your Acrobatics bonus if needed. Anyone interacting with the double can attempt a Will save (DC 25) to see through it, and anyone who realizes it’s an illusion cannot be flanked with it. It has your AC, but vanishes instantly if it successfully struck. Otherwise, it lasts 1 round per HD you possess.

Ugh. Cayden, what are you doing? What is this? This is just awful!! I mean, if you’re a class with Sneak Attack or someone who’s built to flank others, this is passable, but at 1/day? Instantly vanishing if damaged? Granting a flat Will save to disbelieve (it does not rise as you level)?

I suppose it makes for a decent distraction, if nothing else. Boosting your own AC before sending in the clones works fairly well, possibly drawing numerous enemy attacks in, and the ability does note that the double only vanishes if hit with an attack, meaning AoE won’t clear it out, and many spells which don’t rely on an attack roll simply fail as well. That gives this ability a bit more utility than it otherwise would have.

But it’s a standard action to perform, at 1/day, and you can’t even send the double into a room alone, since it only exists to try and flank enemies and the description doesn’t mention if it’s usable for anything else. For characters who don’t want to be flanking enemies, this ability is essentially useless.

Boon 3: Intoxicating Strike. 1/day, you may declare one of your attacks to be an Intoxicating Strike. You must declare this before the attack rolls is made. If the attack is successful and deals damage, the victim becomes supernaturally soused for 1 round per HD you possess; a soused creature takes a -4 penalty to AC, attack rolls, and skill checks, and their movement speeds are all reduced by 10ft.

Honestly, this one is kind of pathetic as well. You all probably know that I don’t like 1/day things negated by a successful save unless they change the course of a battle, and this is one of those things and it sets my teeth on edge. I do, however, admit that the fact you can use it on ranged attacks gives this a bit more reach than it otherwise would. A -4 penalty to attacks and skill checks usually won’t matter at such a high level, though there’s always the cases where they turn a certain blow into a near miss, so I won’t talk down too hard on this. A -4 to AC, however? Now THAT’S something special! Especially since there’s a good chance it’ll last the entirety of the fight!

This intoxication, by the way, is entirely supernatural in its intensity. It affects ALL creatures, even ones that can’t get drunk, such as Constructs, Undead, and most Outsiders. And it’s not technically a Save-or-Suck since there’s no save! All you have to do is get past someone’s AC! Which, eehhhhhh, can be just as iffy as firing it at their saves... Unless you’re using a firearm, of course, which hits touch AC from certain ranges.

All in all, Evangelists of Cayden don’t really win this round.

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EXALTED

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Boon 1: Libations. Gain Bless Water 3/day, Delay Poison 2/day, or Create Food And Water 1/day.

And Exalted is already off to a bad start, too! Yeesh! Holy Water stops being useful roughly around level 3 except as components for beefier Divine spells and certain rituals, and Delay Poison is a niche pick rendered useless by the fact Neutralize Poison exists and is within a level 9 party’s reach.

That being said, because spell-likes don’t require components, you don’t need the ridiculous five pounds of silver to transmute a singular pint of water into Holy Water via Bless Water. Holy Water doesn’t fade from day to day, either, so you can just slowly rack up an entire lakes-worth of the stuff over time to dunk Undead and Evil Outsiders in, or sell it by the bottle to churches or other adventuring parties for a tidy profit.

I would still just take Create Food And Water and never have to worry about rations or using resources to bribe hungry enemies again, though. Hell, at level 9, CFAW creates so much stuff that you could reasonably carry it to the next day and just alternate between CFAW and Bless Water (you can even bless the water you create!!!!) to keep everyone fed and armed. You won’t make much money by selling the excess food, but feeding the hungry without expecting profit is something a goody-good person like you should be doing anyway. Just uh, make sure at least one person on your team knows Prestidigitation, because I can speak from experience that a party will quickly grow tired of CFAW’s bland food.

Boon 2: Freedom’s Ally. 1/day as a standard action, you can call a pair of Bralani Azatas to your side. You have telepathy out to 100ft when communicating with them, and they serve you perfectly for 1 minute per HD you possess. They will not fulfill any orders which would cause them to commit evil acts or restrict the freedom of another purely for the sake of law, and asking them to do so may draw their ire. They may attack if your commands are especially vile.

Oops, nevermind, Exalted is Good, Actually. Bralani Azata are CR 6 creatures from the realm of Elysium armed with +1 scimitars and +1 composite longbows that they get two attacks with each round, and have such interesting spell-likes as Mirror Image, Wind Wall, and Charm Person at will, as well as Lightning Bolt and Cure Serious Wounds 2/day each. Against an army of foes, the Bralani can assume Wind Form to grant themselves an enormous 100ft fly speed and the power to deal 3d6 bludgeoning damage in a 20ft line with their Whirlwind Blast ability.

VERY powerful critters to have on your side, even if you’re twice their level! The defensive options they have via Mirror Image and Wind Wall alone make them tenacious even against enemies of higher CR, and their Wind Form turns them from gorgeous humanoids into nondescript clouds of fog, letting them run stealth missions if needed... Or use their massive movespeed to deliver curative spells to far-off allies.

I’m not sure how far away they’re summoned, since this ability doesn’t use any preexisting Summon Monster spell and doesn’t say where they pop up. I assume they appear adjacent to you, which limits the shenanigans you can pull with them, but not enough that I’d consider it worth worrying about.

Boon 3: Wine to Water. As a full-round action, you may transform a single serving of an alcoholic beverage into either potent Holy Water or a potion of Cure Serious Wounds. The potion option cures 3d8 HP, +1 HP per HD you possess (max +15). The Holy Water you create deals 4d4 damage to the Undead or to Evil Outsiders, and 2d4 to such creatures within 5ft of the initial target. Both the potion and water last for an hour. You can use this ability a number of times per day equal to your Charisma modifier (min 1).

Ohoho now this is something special... Provided you have a Charisma modifier of 3 or more, because at 1 or 2 a day? This ability’s kinda pitiful. The maximum healing it can do is 39, which is GOOD, but you’re likely never going to roll maximum healing.

Yes, the emergency healing is nice. You can turn even common 1-copper swill into an emergency healing potion, and “a serving” can be as small as a shot glass (which potions are traditionally served in), but it’s a full-round action to do, which means you can’t actually use this ability and then hand it to an ally in the same round. They’d have to use some actions on their turn to take it and drink it. After-combat healing is usually the way to go unless desperate, pouring a quick shot into an unconscious ally’s throat to get them back on their feet. If you know combat is coming you can make the potions ahead of time since they last an hour, but know that if the potion ‘expires,’ the ability is wasted. The use is limited, but it helps your healer’s spell slots stretch just a bit further.

4d4 damage to an undead or fiendish enemy is also pretty lackluster at level 15, the earliest you can get this ability. The best trick you can pull with it is to trick such a creature into drinking it, burning them inside and out and likely preventing them from speaking from the searing their throat just took. This ability is even more hilarious than typical Holy Water in that regard; you can instantly detect shapeshifting Evil beasts by spritzing them with a bit of the stuff, but that likely won’t work against more cunning monsters. This ability, though? It makes suggesting a drink for your friend MUCH less suspicious than handing them a vial of water. You’re just pouring them a cold one to enjoy!

It’s like you’re testing your party for The Thing, only instead of them exploding into a tentacle monster and killing everyone in the room, it’s a secret mystery test that’ll expose them while also debilitating them! That’s about the only use it has at high levels, aside from being used as material components for spells that actually matter.

----------

SENTINEL

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Boon 1: Devastating Duelist. Bless Weapon 3/day, Brow Gasher 2/day, or Greater Magic Weapon 1/day.

By level 9, most people in the party should have magic weapons anyway. Not always, but usually you’ve got enough of a mystic arsenal to make Bless Weapon redundant. The fact it overrides magical enchantments already on a weapon also means that it becomes weaker as you level up and gain access to better equipment, putting it firmly in the Niche of this list.

Greater Magic Weapon is almost always the better choice when choosing to buff a weapon, though I will admit that Bless Weapons’ ability to auto-crit against Evil creatures is pretty nice. GMW, however, makes any weapon hit harder and hit more easily. The fact it also lasts for 1 hour/level means it’ll likely last your entire adventuring day.

Brow Gasher is also an interesting choice. It forces you to use a slashing weapon (which you already likely do, if you’re a Sentinel of Cayden) but heavily rewards you for doing so; discharging the spell as part of a successful attack slashes the poor fool across the forehead, bleeding them for half your caster level (4 damage a round, which rises as you level) and potentially blinding them if they can’t get it cured in time. The list of creatures who are immune to resistant to this ability is long, but it’s certainly worth taking anyway on the occasion you find yourself against targets capable of bleeding.

Boon 2: Light Weapon Master. Whenever you battle with a light bladed weapon, if you have the Weapon Training (Light Weapon) ability, you get a +2 deflection bonus to AC. If you do not have Weapon Training, instead you get a +1 sacred bonus to attack rolls with light bladed weapons.

Here I thought Evangelists were hogging all the bad Boons this time, but it turns out Sentinel is the one who got shot in the leg here.

This ability basically reads “unless you’re a Fighter, get a lame benefit.” Don’t get me wrong, on an actual Fighter (or a Swashbuckler, if your DM is nice enough)? This ability is amazing. +2 extra AC for a character already loaded with AC makes them that much better at tanking, and it’s a DEFLECTION bonus to it even applies to touch attacks!

But if you’re not a Fighter, this ability is basically worthless. I know I’m being a little harsh here, but a Boon should be ABOVE the power level of a feat, not on part with a feat you can take as early as level 1 (Weapon Focus). Even Drinking Buddy is better than this.

Boon 3: Critical Luck. Each time you roll a natural 1 on an attack roll, keep a tally, up to a maximum of your Charisma modifier. Whenever you threaten a critical hit with an attack roll, you can ‘trade’ one of your tallies to automatically confirm the critical hit. Your tally empties out every 24 hours.

If you roll enough natural 1s to make this ability useful, you’re likely either dead or dead weight. Seriously, you may need to exorcise your dice if you roll three or more 1s in a single day of combat. I think the first thing that would need to go is the Charisma mod limitation, followed by the fact it empties out every 24 hours. Unless you have a weapon with a high critical range, you might not even get to use this ability at all, let alone in the same combat.

I know a lot of abilities rely on luck, but this is one of the only Boons I’ve seen that specifically relies on YOU, personally, having absolutely terrible luck, followed by absolutely fantastic luck. It’s just... not good. I would go as far as saying that this ability could realistically be a simple feat anyone could take, and not even one locked behind particularly terrible prerequisites.

Exalted of Cayden win this round by a long shot.

You can read more about him here.

#Spiritual Spotlight #Saintly Spotlight #alcoholism// #alcohol #Pathfinder #Dungeons and Dragons

[kenzieam]

Surrender to the Call - Chapter Four (Bucky X Lev)

Rating: M (language, violence, mentions of torture and abuse, eventual smut, angst)

Genre: Drama/Angst

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**Potential Triggers, please read with caution**

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Bucky and Shuri work to bring Lev back but, when she wakes up, can she deal with all the bad shit she did as HYDRA’s pawn?

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Shuri glanced up as Bucky entered the room and smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. If front of her, frozen and unconscious, was Levi, face twisted in a final rictus of terror, her scar standing out a harsh purple against her pale skin. A large holographic display hovered in the air in front of the princess and she frowned at the intricate web before her, playing with her bottom lip.  

Bucky had awakened not long ago, compelled to check Shuri’s progress even though it twisted an agonizing knife through his heart to see Lev, especially with her ghastly final expression, her plea of ‘please’ still fresh in his ears.  

“Sleep well?” Shuri asked, concentrating on the image of Lev’s mind and consciousness in front of her.

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck. “How long was I out?”

“Almost 2 days.” Shuri flicked a look at him. “You obviously needed the rest.”

There was no use denying it and, even if he did, Shuri was too smart to be fooled, and too good a friend. “It’s been rough.”

Shuri nodded, turning her eyes back to the display. She knew the whole story. 

“It is deeper this time.” Shuri murmured and Bucky moved closer to look. “The tendrils of influence, they’re deeper and stronger. Parts of her brain have been altered, the impulse control centre shrunk, the area of aggression nurtured and grown. I read the full report from Dr. Banner. He believes they used cognitive subversion and I must agree.”

“What does that mean?”

“If I had to guess, she was restrained and made to watch multiple images of violence and depravity, and pumped full of steroids and adrenaline at the same time, essentially rewiring her brain. I’ve read reports of this type of torture, it’s quite effective, and devastating to the subject.”

“Can you fix it?”

Shuri paused. “I don’t know.”

Bucky swallowed hard and moved to turn away to hide his sudden tears but Shuri gently rested her hand on his shoulder. “I will try my best.”

Bucky nodded, not able to speak.  

“Is it possible to obtain records of her treatment?” Shuri asked hesitantly, biting her bottom lip as Bucky turned back to look at her incredulously. “I have no desire to learn the degree of misery Levi suffered, but if I knew exactly how and what they did, I may be more successful at reversing it.”

It made sense but Bucky had no desire to read the reports himself, it would be his final undoing to know the details; the end result was enough to break his heart. “I’ll see if Bruce or the team can get them.”

“They are trying to take down HYDRA now?”

“Yes. When we recovered Lev, the government team managed to grab an agent too. I don’t know what they did to him, but they seem to think his information’s credible.”

“Perhaps,” Shuri offered tentatively. “If this results in HYDRA’s fall, Lev’s capture and corruption will have had some value.”

Bucky wiped at his eyes. “I’d rather have Lev whole and with me, even if it meant HYDRA was still out there.”

Shuri nodded silently. After a moment her hand rested gently on Bucky’s forearm, his skin hot, the muscles beneath rock-hard. “This will take time, go out and clear your head, Lev will need you when she wakes.”

********************************************************************************************* The warm sun on his face was indeed relaxing and, as Bucky leaned back against the rock behind him, he did feel his mind beginning to clear. It hurt, the way your hand will ache if you’ve been gripping something hard for a long time then released it; his very being hurt right now. Bucky hadn’t felt this way in a long time, not since he’d first begun to reawaken and remember, relive the horrors HYDRA put him through and the lives he took.  

Lev would be in similar agony... if she woke up. Shuri didn’t sound very confident

Maybe, even if they were taken down, HYDRA did win after all.  

The tears came hot and sudden, feeling like blood as they streamed down his face. He’d given his entire heart and soul over to Lev, she owned him, she had the power to break him. He should have stayed away, stayed unattached, preserved himself; not fallen so desperately in love; for what was life, except for suffering, at least for Bucky? He should have known this wasn’t his life to have, fate would snatch it away sooner or later.  

For a time, his anguish took hold, and the sun had moved across the sky before he was in control again, slumped back against the rock, weak with exertion and emotion.  

He couldn’t leave. No matter what happened. Even through the worst of his agony, when he could hardly draw breath between sobs, that thought had glowed bright in the back of his mind. Lev needed him, regardless of his pain, regardless of his regrets, Lev needed him to be there when she woke up. His words to Steve came back to him, how he‘d wished Lev were dead to save her from the sorrow and pain that awaited her when she awoke, and he knew he hadn’t truly meant them. He was too selfish, too attached, too fused to Lev to separate. He would help her crawl through her hell, be there for her on the other side because that the only option. It was too painful to leave her.

A fresh ache started low in his abdomen. His body craved release, craved the warmth of Lev against him, the feel of him inside her. Once they’d begun being intimate, they’d never stopped. Both were serum-enhanced and insatiable, it was not unusual for one to take the hand of the other when they were home in the Tower, and tug them quietly to their quarters, ignoring the hooting and laughing of their teammates behind them, the teasing that ‘this is the third time today!’. The first few days after a mission were always shot to hell, neither one emerging from their room except to grab food, then back inside. It made the others roll their eyes and tease Bucky and Lev about their ‘sex den’, but they couldn’t help it; they were addicts, each other’s favourite drug.  

Yet, despite his anxious need, there would be no relief. Taking care of himself in the shower barely took the edge off and, even if he wasn’t completely abhorred at the thought of being with another, his body failed to respond to anyone else but Levi.    

Groaning, Bucky scrubbed his hands over his eyes, then pushed to his feet. He needed to exercise, go for a run, hard and fast, exhaust his body to try and temper his mind, then maybe he’d be strong enough to check on Lev again.  

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Shuri was indeed as good as her word to Steve, and had devoted her entire time to Lev, barely taking time out to rest or eat. She ignored both T’Challa and Bucky when they tried to pull her away, flapping her hand dismissively at them, stubbornly focusing on the display of Lev’s brain. She’d ran infinite scenarios, trying to figure out the best way to untangle HYDRA’s corruption, but so far, every simulation resulted in something vital to Lev’s personality being stripped as well.  

Shuri was getting frustrated. As one of the most brilliant people on the planet, she wasn’t used to being unsuccessful at a task she was putting her full attentions to and that in turn made her even more stubborn.  

At both royal sibling’s urging, Bucky was reclaiming himself, taking time to decompress and relax, reflect and think on everything like he had when Shuri had first helped him, and later when Lev had been brought here as a scared, reflexively violent girl, damaged by HYDRA’s mistakes and left to fade away and die in Siberia.

She’d awakened a woman, able to shrug off those chains and grow into a valuable member of the team. No one else, not even Bucky, could get Steve to laugh the way Lev could, no one else could tease the same delighted grin from Bucky or shut Sam down so effectively that even he enjoyed it.

Bucky missed her. He wanted her back.

There had been nothing but radio silence from the team so far, eight days of nothing. Even Bucky’s relay 0f Shuri’s request had been unanswered, and while this unnerved Bucky, he knew the team was too busy to drop a line. They needed to be successful this time; Bucky, Lev, the whole team couldn’t continue on with the spectre of HYDRA still out there, waiting to swoop in and steal Lev or even him, away again; HYDRA needed to be put down like the rabid dog it was.  

A loud rush in the sky grabbed his attention and Bucky looked up from the rodent family he’d been sitting with. He and Lev had sat out here often before, befriending the gerbil-like critters and the little buggers seemed to have remembered him, tentatively sniffing at his large fingers before allowing him to stroke their tiny backs, scurrying along his legs and up his shoulders to tug at his hair and sniff along his jaw.                                                                        

With a jolt, Bucky recognized the quinjet as it hissed past and he stood, gently disentangling and setting down the little creatures before turning and sprinting back towards the palace. It had to be Steve, returning with word of the mission, hopefully with files that could help Shuri with Lev.  

It was indeed the blond captain, talking with T’Challa when Bucky sprinted up, the sweat gleaming on his skin more from anxiety over what Steve was about to say then from the exertion of the run and stopped short when he saw his friend.  

Steve looked like he’d been put through the ringer. Fading bruises and cuts marred his face and the tense way he held his shoulder spoke to an injury his enhanced body hadn’t yet been able to heal fully. Regardless, upon seeing Bucky, Steve strode towards him and pulled his oldest friend into a crushing bear hug. Pulling away slightly, he slapped his hands onto Bucky’s shoulders.  

“We did it.”

Bucky let out a breath he didn’t realized he’d been holding. “HYDRA?”

“All but dead. We cut off the head, Buck. We did it. What’s left is just crumbs.”

Bucky’s heart jolted painfully. This seemed like a dream. “Everyone okay?”

Now Steve’s eyes darkened. “Mostly.”

“Who?”

“Wanda, Sam.... Clint. They’re not dead but Bruce is going to be busy in the medical lab for a while. Tony got busted up pretty bad but his suit took most of the force, he’s walking around like he just got in a car wreck, but at least he’s walking. Nat’s far from 100 % but her, Bruce and Tony are holding down the fort okay.”

“What about the government guys?”

Steve winced. “Not so lucky. What’s left of the teams are being organized to track and kill the last few HYDRA hold-outs.”

“So... it’s really over?”

Steve shrugged, looking exhausted. “I really hope so, but who knows? HYDRA was huge and they lasted so long because they were secret. But we definitely dealt them a critical blow.” He jumped slightly, as if remembering something, and slapped his hands against his chest, resembling a man looking for his missing pack of smokes. Triumphantly, he dug into his front breast pocket and brandished a small thumb drive, holding it out towards the two men. Bucky backed away instinctively, having a pretty good idea what it was.  

T’Challa reached out and accepted it.

“I got your request.” Steve glanced at Bucky before looking back at the King. “That’s what we found regarding Lev. I couldn’t look at it, but Bruce glanced at it and said it all fits his theories.” His voice darkened with grief and sadness.  

Bucky felt his gorge rising and swallowed hard.  

“There’s more.” Steve looked hesitant.

“Just say it, punk.”

“There’s some old files on there. Either we missed them the first time or they weren’t there but....” He took a deep breath. “It looks like Lev wasn’t meant to be your hunter if you went rogue. She was to be your replacement.”

Bucky jerked in shock. What?

“I’m guessing if her cryofreeze hadn’t gone wrong she would have become HYDRA’s new Winter Soldier.”

This was unexpected. Would HYDRA have just left him in cryofreeze to eventually fade away, like Lev? Or would they have released him one last time, just for Lev to track and kill?  

T’Challa spoke up, breaking the gloomy silence. “Come, you must be exhausted, Captain. There is a room ready for you.”  

Steve hesitated, but accepted at Bucky’s slight nod. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

Bucky held out his hand. “I’ll take the drive to Shuri, if you want.”

T’Challa nodded, handing over the drive then turning to Steve, gesturing him to follow.  

Bucky watched them leave, then strode away.

Shuri glanced up from the table she was slumped at and rubbed her eyes. Her expression brightened as her gaze fell on the drive in Bucky’s hand. She yanked a small laptop towards her and held out her hand. Bucky hesitated after giving it to her.  

“Are you staying?” Shuri asked, sounding surprised.

It was morbid, it would be heartbreaking, but Bucky felt compelled to stay and witness at least part of Levi’s torment; she’d lived it, his pain would never compare to hers, it seemed the least he could do. He nodded and Shuri seemed to understand.

The first parts that came up on the screen were written reports and Shuri scanned them quickly, nodding and mumbling to herself, making notes on a small tablet beside her.  

“Just like we speculated, cognitive subversion.” She continued to read and make notes. “I’ve been talking with Dr. Banner and, based on what we were assuming was done, were going to try a direct reversal, in essence, a cognitive affirmation. Show Lev clips of calming, peaceful footage and inject endorphin stimulants, other ‘feel good’ hormones, try to reverse the damage; shrink her overgrown aggression centre, grow the impulse control area again. These reports only confirm that is the best way to try.” Her fingers hovered over the touch pad, a video file had appeared and was waiting to play. After a pause, she tapped the pad.  

A grainy video came up but Bucky had no problem recognizing Lev and his breath hitched in his throat. Lev was twisting in a chair as much as her restraints allowed, the memory suppressor attached to her head. Her devastated, garbled scream came through the speakers and stabbed straight into his heart.    

“Bucky! Buc-” Lev cried, her voice breaking.  

Shuri closed the video, sniffling. A second video came up and her fingers shook slightly as she tapped the pad again.  

Lev was unmoving and blank faced now, secured in perhaps the same chair. Her head was strapped tightly and strange, painful looking devices held her eyes open a la Clockwork Orange. At least four IV lines ran into the crooks of her bruised arms, pumping the steroids and adrenaline into her veins. Her hair had already been shaved, the scar through her eye still bleeding fresh. Screams and bangs sounded over the speakers, light playing over Lev’s cadaverous face. A monotonous voice droned in Russian and Bucky’s fists clenched unconsciously as he listened.  

“What is he saying?” Shuri whispered.

“You belong to HYDRA. Your mind is HYDRA. You are death and pain. You live only to kill and maim...” he broke off with a trembling exhale, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Kill or be killed. No mercy, no pity. You will slaughter all who stand in your way. You are alone, there is no one to save you. You are death, you are death, you are death. And then it just repeats.”  

“Oh, Lev.” Shuri’s voice held near bottomless sorrow. She wiped at her eyes before hitting the pad and pulling the drive free. She tossed it aside with a shudder.    

Bucky took a deep breath, fighting with everything he had to not break down. Shuri’s hand rested briefly on his, then pulled away. She stood suddenly, channeling her horror into action.  

“I will reverse this.” She vowed. Seemingly renewed with fresh energy, she turned away and almost leapt from her chair.  

Bucky watched for a few moments but Shuri was completely focused on her work and he slunk away quietly. He found himself wandering outside again but, rather than returning to the rock formation and gerbil family, he decided to collapse not far from the palace. A convenient rock provided a seat back and for the longest time, Bucky had no energy or drive to do anything. The sun moved across the sky, shadows playing across his face, voices and laughter of Wakandian’s nearby drifted on the wind to his ears, but he stayed motionless, mind churning, trying to chew the newest information about Lev’s treatment into swallowable chunks, but they would never be palatable.  

He was encouraged by Shuri’s newfound confidence, and if there was anyone smart enough on Earth to help Lev, it would be her, but the footage of Lev’s torture played across his mind’s eye on a devastating loop. Eyes forced open, face bleeding, while death and chaos played out in front of her; the disembodied Russian voice, hooking it’s claws deep into her mind.  

No doubt the President will want to see the footage for herself, but it would definitely clear Lev of any guilt for her actions. There was no way she could be held accountable for what she did now. As hard as the footage was to see, and the reports to read, they would guarantee Lev’s clemency.                                    

But, what then?

Shuri reversed the damage, removed HYDRA’s corruption and Levi woke up, then what happened? Lev’s guilt at her actions, involuntary as they were, would still eat away at her. Nearly a thousand people dead, millions more disrupted as their country burned and staggered, how did you recover from that? Bucky would do all he could to help, would love and support her unflinchingly, but how much was too much? Maybe it would be better, for Lev at least, if she simply-

“Buck?”

Bucky startled, muscles creaking and popping after hours of immobility. Steve stood a few feet away, looking tired but still much more refreshed than before. He sat at Bucky’s side with a groan.  

“T’Challa says you’ve been out here for hours.”

Bucky nodded, not looking towards Steve. He cleared his throat. “Shuri and I, we.... reviewed some of that drive you brought.”  

“Bucky, you shouldn’t have-”

“I needed to.” Bucky interrupted, voice strengthening. “Levi lived that; the least I could do was witness it.”

“Was it as bad as we thought?”

“Worse. I don’t know if you can come back from that.”

“Lev can.”

“She’s not bulletproof, punk. She’s only human.”

“And she’s strong, and she has you, and me, and the whole team behind her.”

“Will that be enough?”

“It has to be.” Steve replied quietly. “You’re not the only one who misses her, who wants her back. She’s like a sister to me. Shit, we’re a family, she is my sister.”

Bucky was silent for long moment. “I don’t know, if Shuri removes all that... shit from her mind, what Levi will want. If she’ll stay here for a while, go back to the Tower-”

“Hide out in Bucharest and try to buy plums?” Steve teased gently.

Bucky smirked wryly, reaching over to punch the punk’s shoulder. “Wherever she goes though, I’ll be with her and... if she decides to leave the team, I won’t be staying either.”

Steve nodded silently. In truth, he’d been expecting this. It wouldn’t surprise him at all if Lev just dropped everything and disappeared, started living completely off the grid and away from civilization. The brief image of a small cabin, wood smoke trailing from the chimney and Lev emerging from the front door, holding a tin cup of steaming coffee as the sun glittered through the trees hit him then.  

Whatever Levi decided, she deserved peace and tranquility after all this. And Bucky deserved it too.  

The men went quiet and reflective then, lost in their own thoughts. Finally, Steve cleared his throat and broke the silence. “I’ve got to head back. Bruce and Nat need help. I just came to bring the drive and check in.”

Bucky nodded absently, his attention still elsewhere when Steve stood, despite himself reflexively standing as well. Only Steve’s hand slapping his shoulder pulled him fully out of his own head.  

“Get some sleep, jerk.”  

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Shuri’s message had been cautiously optimistic and Bucky’s heart pounded in his chest as he entered the lab. Shuri looked up and smiled widely.

“I was just about to bring her out of freeze. T’Challa’s on his way too.” Even as she spoke, the King entered, Okoye silent at his side.  

“Did it work?” Bucky asked hesitantly, hating the faint quiver in his voice. Shuri had been working non-stop for the last ten days, stopping only to sleep and eat.  

“I’ve removed all traces of HYDRA’s indoctrination and managed to restore Lev’s brain to her pre-corruption state. But... I can’t do anything about how she’ll feel when she wakes up. I’ve just taken away her killer attitude.” Shuri’s confident tone faltered slightly. T’Challa rested his hand on her shoulder.

“You have done well, better than anyone else could. It is up to Levka now.”

Shuri bit her lip, eyes flicking to Bucky’s as her fingers flew over the controls. With a whoosh of air, the cryofreeze was reversed and the containment cylinder retracted.  

Lev blinked, her twisted expression jerking, her teeth clacked together. Her eyes fell closed again and she sagged against the restraints. Bucky leapt towards her, catching her upper arms and T’Challa was there as well when the restraints retracted, helping Bucky catch Lev’s limp body. Okoye watched on high alert as they guided Lev towards the nearby gurney and laid her down. Shuri was there instantly with a thick blanket, pulling it up to Lev’s chin as her teeth started to reflexively chatter with residual cold. The siblings stepped back, giving Bucky some privacy, but Okoye stayed alert and T’Challa was tensed to react as well if Lev woke up swinging, literally or figuratively.  

“Levi?” Bucky murmured, leaning close. His fingertips burned as they stroked along her cheek, jolts shooting up his arm. It had been so long since he’d touched her. “Baby, are you there?”

Her eyelids fluttered, and Bucky caught the faintest whisper from her chapped lips. “Bucky?”

“I’m here, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”

Her lids fluttered again and Bucky finally got to see her beautiful amethyst eyes, unfocused for a breath before locking on Bucky’s. Gone was the hard, razor’s edge of violence darkening her iris's to bruises, left was confusion and the beginnings of relief.  

“Bucky.” Her voice was stronger and her hands lifted weakly, brushing against his broad shoulders. Bucky wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close and she half-crumpled, half-snuggled against him, her body beginning to shudder. Bucky’s body trembled in answer and tears started to course down his cheeks.

“I missed you baby, so much.” He choked. His lips brushed her forehead, groaning at the sensation. Lev whimpered and clawed weakly closer, nuzzling into his throat. Bucky closed his eyes in bliss, a bone-deep peace coiling through him, fuck, he’d missed this, he’d missed her.

“Bucky, I...” Lev stuttered and Bucky felt her go rigid in his arms. “Oh god, Bucky. What have I done?”

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky and lev #bucky and nika

[theladyfangs]

Reflections/The Other Part 13

Green Eyes  

Merkin in her arms.

Three lifts, down into the lower decks of the ship until she comes to a place she hasn’t been in months - Gabriel’s lab.

The doors open and she steps through. Everything is as he left it, save for the dead and dissected creatures that someone has removed. The weapons and other specimens remain pristine in their cases, the metal tables shine like new.

Nothing has been touched.

But some things are missing.

The man himself.

Once again, she finds herself thinking of Gabriel as she settles onto a chair, Merkin’s gentle purring just enough to take a piece of the edge off her sorrow.

A touch of a smile, as she remembers his reaction when she told him about the tardigrade. Two eyebrows raised, arms crossed.

“Well, as long as there’s a plan B in place,” is what he finally said when he spoke, surprising her with the gentleness of it.

“Don’t worry, Michael,” Gabriel told her. “A mind is a terrible thing to waste. And yours is priceless. That was decent of you. It was a good call.”

Now, she looks at the space where the tardigrade was. The creature she set free.

Maybe it’s what Lorca needs, too…she thinks.

This must have been what Gabriel felt when he learned of her and Ash.

She hears the doors open behind her but doesn’t turn. Hears his heavy footsteps, the swish of the uniform, but doesn’t move.

Not even when she feels the heat of him behind her does she glance up. Just stays still.

It’s quiet between them, the only sound is the cooing of Merkin, asleep in her arms, the plump body expanding and contracting with every breath it takes.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“I don’t know.”

Merkin wakes, and gives a small mewl, wriggling in her hands. She places him on the table in front of her, and he begins to inch his way toward the edge as if anticipating. Waiting.

“Michael? Talk to me? Look at me?”

But she shakes her head and wipes at her face.

Lorca’s brows furrow, lips curl into a frown.

This won’t do. So, he takes a step back and comes around the table to see her, since she won’t look at him.

Only then does he get to see her face. Eyes downcast. Hands in lap. A trace of a tear on a soft cheek.  Crying?

New. Something he’s unsure of whether she’s done before. Likely not. Probably not—since she was a child, at least.

“I can’t fix what you won’t tell me I broke,” he tries again. Years of experience has taught him more than a few lessons about women and emotions.

At that, there’s a flicker of something.

“Is Admiral Cornwell…well?”

Oh.

She’s still not looking at him, but she doesn’t have too. She’s told him all he needs to know.

Lorca scoops Merkin up in an arm.

“Computer,” he says “beam two to room 2-1-1-2.”

.

.

They materialize in his quarters, and he sets Merkin down on the desk before coming behind Michael and wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her close, and nuzzling her neck.

“It’s called jealousy,” he tells her, mildly amused now that he knows what’s wrong. But for her sake, he won’t smile. And she can’t see the tiny hint of a smirk that’s playing on the right side of his mouth.

She starts to protest.

“I am not…it’s not…,” but she can’t quite formulate the denial. He’s put a name on what she was feeling. It’s…new.

“You don’t have anything to worry about,” his lips graze the side of her neck, gently.

He loves Katrina. Always will. But what he hopes to make Michael understand is that there is a difference between loving, and being in love.

The explanation is long. It’s careful too.

“She wanted to know if I loved you,” He says, resting his hands on her body, speaking softly. “I do.”

The tickle of his breath on the back of her neck, makes the tiny hairs stand. He feels so good. So right, so everything.

Love.

Beside them, Merkin lets out a small squeak, interrupting the moment. Michael looks to the creature, now clinging over the edge of the desk, having somehow slipped off. Its haunches wriggle, body stretched out as it tries to pull itself up, making Michael laugh at the sight.

Lorca sees the critter’s struggle and lets her go, and they both reach for Merkin. Hands touch as they pick him up together.  

“Merkin loves you too,” Lorca says, holding the tribble up to her and giving her eyes.

At the expression on his face, she laughs again, the uncertainty falling away, replaced by something once again solid. Michael takes him into her arms, and buries her face in the soft fur, as the animal trembles, having been frightened by its mishap.

“Sh… it’s okay,” she whispers to it, stroking its soft fur and walking toward the bedroom, to settle on the bed. Lorca sits beside her, and they whisper to their pet, calming it. He thinks Michael would be a wonderful mother.

It’s a stray thought and Lorca blinks a bit and dismisses it.

That night, Merkin sleeps between them both, purring contentedly alongside its adoptive parents.

.

.

Battle Cries

With Katrina’s tacit acknowledgement, Discovery presses on.

Most of the previously Klingon-occupied Federation territory has now been regained.

Most. But not all.

The two sides are drawing closer to a bitter, bloody stalemate.

Klingon incursions and attacks deeper into their territory have slowed, but not ended. And he can see from the battle maps, that the ones still happening are growing riskier—a sign that one side may be growing more desperate than the other. It can be either fortuitous or dangerous, he knows. A desperate enemy is a deadly enemy.

“Captain Lorca to the bridge.”

Saru’s voice floats over the comm, reaches him down in the bowls of the ship, in Gabriel’s lab. The holographic map floating around him disappears as he logs out of the system.

“Acknowledged. On the way.”

When he arrives, Saru turns.

“Incoming distress message from the U.S.S. Cole,” the first officer says.

“On screen.”

Before them, a blurry, glitching image. The bridge of the Cole[AR1] —its commanding officers voice fading in and out, as sparks fly.

“Under attack…critical….help.”

The screen goes blank.

“Saru, do you have their location?” Lorca asks.

“Aye, sir.”

“Specialist,” Lorca turns to Michael. She nods and begins to make her way down to engineering.

“Black alert,” he tells the remaining crew.

The siren sounds and crew members begin to break from their present tasks and quickly report to their battle stations.

The air in Discovery has changed. Electrified.

No one would ever admit it. War is supposed to be couched in tragedy. But these are the moments they all live for.

“Engineering to bridge, set to go,” Burnham’s voice comes through, and Lorca feels the familiar tingle of excitement in his hands.

“Lieutenant Detmer,” he commands, “let’s go get our friends. Lieutenants Owosekun and Rhys,” he calls to them, eyes focused straight ahead, “Proceed to fire at will as soon as we drop in.”

The Lieutenants grin at each other.

“Aye, sir!”

.

.

Discovery emerges in a blaze of fire.

Her captain stands in front of the viewer, quickly taking assessment of the battle scene in front of him. Two Klingon cruisers advancing on a crippled, listing U.S.S. Cole. One of its thrusters has been blown off. Scorch marks on its sides and belly. Gaping holes in various places allowing them to see clear through. A debris field surrounds it. Bodies floating too.

He pushes that off to the side for the moment and raises his arms in front of him, squinting and using his fingers to form two, interlocking circles—marking targets. Trajectory.

He gives the coordinates for the first of several shots.

“Fire!”

The first cruiser explodes. Discovery doesn’t take on prisoners of war.

The second cruiser turns toward them, preparing to charge.

A new position. One eye squinted shut as he moves his arms just slightly, getting a lock.

“Fire.”

Voice hard. Set.

It blows up in front of them, to a cheer.

But Lorca doesn’t.

“Mr. Saru, assessment. Can you reach the Cole?”

The crew go silent, as Saru works on hailing the battered Antares-class vessel.

It’s audio-only. A static hiss.

Lorca feels his stomach clench. Were they too late?

“Discovery to Cole, respond,” Saru tires again.

Still nothing.

“Are there any life signs?” The captain asks.

“Scanning now, sir.”

They wait. The silence agonizing.

“D..D…Discovery…you there?”

It comes across faintly over the comm, couched in static, barely audible. But it IS there.

Lorca hits the comm quickly.

“Name and position,” he barks.

“Ensign Liu…bridge…”

All he needs.

“We’ve got life signs,” Saru says. Redundant. All Lorca needs is one.

The doors to the bridge open and Michael walks in.

“Saru, Specialist --” he tells them. “Assemble a rescue team. “Ready sickbay. We’ve got injured.”

Injured, but alive.

.

.

Later, after breaking down the initial battle report, he beams over to the Cole to join Michael.

The ship’s Sick Bay is largely intact but full of wounded. The doctors are working frantically, and Discovery is aiding with overflow on his ship as well. The two vessels are now anchored together, side-by-side, with Discovery’s crews working with what’s left of the able-bodied on the U.S.S. Cole to make patch repairs until other help arrives to help the ship back to safer space.

Lorca’s personal assessment of the situation is grim. The interior damage far outstrips that on the outside of the ship. Collapsed bulkheads in several areas, temporary containment fields in others — the only line between death by suffocation and the artificial life supports sustaining the ship.

The bridge has been completely destroyed and the backup area, deeper in the body of the Cole isn’t in much better shape, but at least it’s functional—sort of. The vessel had a crew complement of 187…now down to 96. And its Captain and first officer are both dead, leaving a young Lieutenant Commander Liu, the voice on the comm, now acting-Captain.

These are the casualties of war, Lorca thinks grimly. So many of these people…just children…barely adults. Still so young…

Sickbay is full of aching and moaning, soft sobs. He hates this—seeing so much pain, but it is his duty to offer comfort when he can. First, here on the Cole and then to those on Discovery, where the more dire situations are being addressed.

It takes 19 hours for the closest Starfleet ships to reach them, providing relief for the exhausted and beleaguered crews of the U.S.S. Cole and U.S.S. Discovery.

 Like You’ll Never See Me Again

The longer it goes, the more he becomes convinced there’s only one way for it to end.

“Tell me, again,” he asks, as Michael rolls over beside him, eyes bleary.

“What?”

“Again. Walk me through what you were thinking. The mutiny.”

He keeps asking about this. The questions began a few nights ago, following the Cole Incident, and haven’t let up since.

Michael sits up, bringing the sheet around her chest. He’s looking at her with a certain kind of intensity that…

“Tell me. I need to hear it again.”

She does.

.

.

He’s spending more and more time now down in Gabriel’s lab, studying battle maps. Well, it’s more like Lorca’s lab now.

Here, he ruminates over what’s known of the Klingon Empire. Q’onos, the home planet. The data is outdated, but the war has helped fill in some of the gaps. And there are the historical records of the Vulcan encounter as well.

The more Lorca studies it, the more certain he becomes--there really is just one way to bring this to a close.

Michael was correct in the beginning. And as he considers and analyzes, Lorca knows exactly what he and he alone must do.

.

.

“You’re out of your fucking mind and I won’t allow it!”

Katrina looks incensed, eyes wide as she stares at him through the viewer.

But he knows she’s not angry. She’s afraid.

“Gabriel…it’s a suicide mission,” she whispers when he pushes past her protests and finishes explaining.

“It’s the only way this stops,” he tells her. “You know that. I know Michael know it, too. We missed our chance at the beginning to prevent this war. We have to shut them down.”

“And you? WHY must it be you?”

“You know why, Trina.”

Because he was presumed dead months ago. And he’s not supposed to be here, anyway.

She sinks into her chair and lowers her head, arms on her knees, quiet for a long moment as she absorbs his plan.

It’s crazy.

Like a fox.

But she also knows he’s right. The Klingons won’t respect any other type of assertion. They have to show force. If they don’t, there may be a short truce until the Klingon forces regroup—and then the war will rage again. To bring about a permanent, lasting peace, the must be decisive. Strike with precision. And it must be deadly.

“Gabriel…”

“Trina, please let me do this.”

He’s asking. Intellectually…she knows she has too. Emotionally though…

“Are you going to tell Michael?”

Lorca looks at her and then down.

“No. In order for this to have a shot at working…”

She nods.

“I understand.”

They move on.

Begin to map it out among themselves. And when they’ve finished, they go quiet.

“I love you ‘Trina.”

A tired, wan smile.

“I love you too, you crotchety bastard.”

He laughs then grows sombre. “I know I shouldn’t ask…”

“Then don’t. I’ll take care of her, Gabriel.”

.

.

Every bit of her is screaming that something is wrong.

But he keeps saying everything is fine.

“You’re lying to me.”

She sees through it a mile away and he doesn’t try to counter it. Instead, he just slips his arms around her and pulls her body close to his.

“Let’s just stay here, like this, okay?”

They’re in his bed. In his quarters. The hour is late.

Beside them on a nightstand Merkin sleeps, making the usual quiet rumble.

“But we can’t just stay here,” she protests, trying to turn to face him. He squeezes her tighter, to keep her from getting up.

“I’m leaving tomorrow for a meeting,” Lorca tells her, finally, knowing she won’t take his silence.

“How long will you be gone? Where?”

“Where. How long.”

“Starbase 49. Just a few days. I’ll be back. Just taking a shuttle.”

A partial lie. He does have a …meeting. And he will be taking a shuttle.

Michael’s eyes search his face. He meets hers with a quiet gaze of his own. They watch each other silently, until, she speaks. “You’re still lying. You’re a worse liar than he was.”

This makes him chuckle, and he rolls them together until she straddles his lap, the covers falling away, allowing him to take her in. Instinctively, Michael’s arms come up to cover her bare breasts. Lorca  catches her hands and pulls them back down, looking up at her.

“I want to see you.”

“You’ve seen me.”

“Still so shy. I love looking at you.”

He’s focused now, taking in all of her. Every curly strand of hair, the delicately arched eyebrows, the wide-set eyes, her heart-shaped face and delicate chin. Her mouth.

Calloused hands trace each curve, each crest and she stays still as he does, the touch almost plaintive, worshipful. Like she’s fragile and he’s afraid to break her.

In a single, fluid motion, Lorca sits up, hands lower, lifting her and settling her back down. She wraps her arms around his shoulders as he lays his head against her chest.

“You never said it back,” he tells her quietly, lips on the space between her breasts.  “I know you don’t really know what it is. But maybe one day you will. And you’ll be able to love that person too.”

Tears come unbidden to the corners of her eyes, and she blinks rapidly as he begins to blur in front of her face.

“I…don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.” It’s shaky. Uneven, matching the flutter of her heart. He can hear it all. He can feel the quaking of her hands on the back of his neck. In his hair.

“It’s okay, Michael.” The voice is muffled. His breath warm against her chest. “It’ll be okay.”

“I don’t believe you,” she whispers a tear betraying her, escaping right before he lifts her again and sets her down on his erection, thrusting up, and into her. She gasps at the entry, eyes closing, the feel of him inside, expanding her walls, makes her shudder, her hips beginning to move against him, the desire of closeness, of need, taking over. She wants what he willingly gives.

And, she loves it. Loves him. But she can’t say that.

The words just won’t come, even as she rides on his lap, the stretch, the friction, the sensation of his fingers stroking her clit, make her body sing with pleasure.

He whispers to her that this is what making love feels like. It’s the first time Michael thinks she wants to die.

Here.

Now.

With him.

They’ve done this before but it feels different this time.

Something is wrong.

This feels like goodbye.

Like she’ll never see him again.

Please don’t leave me….

#star trek: discovery #fanfiction #ussarchangel #michael burnham x gabriel lorca #gabriel lorca x katrina cornwell #michael burnham #gabriel lorca #katrina cornwell

[doctor--idiot]

Rabbit Hole

Dean starts being honest with Sam when Sam is asleep and it turns into a habit.

“You remember,” Dean begins conversationally, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel, “when we were young and dad was the one driving? I was never any good at sleeping in the car but as soon as we hit the road, you’d drop off right away against my shoulder in the backseat.

I remember that one winter — you must have been eight or nine… The heating didn’t work and we wrapped ourselves into that god-awful excuse of a blanket. It was so scratchy and stiff and literally did nothing to keep us warm, and you still managed to sleep like a dead person.”

He pauses, glancing over at his brother’s sleeping form. Curled into himself, his breath fogging up the window where he’s got the side of his face pressed against it, he makes the occasional sleep noise and barely even stirs when the car hits a pothole on the uneven road.

Dean can’t stop the smile that’s tugging at his mouth from growing wider so he doesn’t try, giving in to it instead.

It’s too easy to lull himself into a false sense of security. Even if the world is studiously headed for damnation, in these quiet moments, nighttime on the road, nothing to keep Dean company but the engine and his brother’s breathing, it’s easy to have hope. Hope that everything is going to work out after all in the end.

Dean doesn’t believe in fairy tale endings.

“Sometimes I wish we could go back to that,” he says out loud, “To broken heaters and scratchy blankets being the problem instead of Heaven and Hell and all the critters in it. I wish you could still be that small and innocent. I wish … you’d still let me hold you like I did back then when you were cold and tired.”

Sam sighs in his sleep, arching his spine a little — it’s got to be hurting with how it’s been cramped for the past hour and a half —, before he settles back down, face turned toward Dean now. His eyes move behind closed lids and his fingers twitch against his thigh.

Dean wonders if Sam dreams. If he still has nightmares. For now, though, Sam’s face is smooth, his mouth slightly open, and he looks practically peaceful.

Dean makes an effort to go around the potholes for the rest of the way.

+

It looks uncomfortable, the way Sam lies slumped over the table, dead to the world with his cheek smushed into the pages of a lore book. He is drooling a little on the writing and Dean can barely suppress a snicker.

He grabs the blanket from his favorite armchair in their library and unfolds it, covering Sam’s back and shoulders. He cradles Sam’s head, supporting it, while he carefully moves the book to the side and closes it. He folds the corner of the blanket to slide it under Sam’s face so he isn’t lying on the hard wood.

“You know,” Dean addresses Sam’s unruly mop of brown hair, “I used to be able to carry you to bed when you fell asleep. But you had to go and get all Gigantor on me. It’s you’re own damn fault if you get a crick in your neck.”

He could always wake Sam but the guy gets less sleep than is healthy, even for Winchester standards, and Dean can’t bring himself to.

Acting on an impulse, he cards his fingers trough Sam’s hair for a moment, gently so as not to wake him, before he grabs the lore book Sam was drooling on a moment ago, and gets comfortable in the armchair.

“Research really isn’t my strong suit, Sammy,” he says as he flips through the pages, “You’ve always been better at this than I am. You always think I’m trying to get out of it when I say that but that’s not true.

Well, maybe it’s a little true. But mostly it’s just that I overlook things. It’s hard to focus for me sometimes and you, you never miss anything. It’s kind of scary really. Makes me wonder what other kind of stuff you notice. You’ve always been more perceptive than me. Makes you the better hunter. Better person, too, probably.”

He’s hardly made it twelve pages far when Sam stirs awake.

Dean closes the book and grins at his bleary face. “Hey there, Sleeping Beauty.”

Sam makes a tired grunting noise, shaking his hair out of his eyes. He looks around as if he’s trying to figure out where he is and why he isn’t in his bed when he so clearly was asleep.

Frankly, it’s adorable. Dean doesn’t say that, though. What he says is, “It’s late. You should go to bed.”

Sam nods at him and gets up, rubbing his neck. Dean opens the book in his lap back up and returns his attention to the segment about summoning spells, even if the words are starting to swim before his eyes.

He startles a little in surprise when Sam pads over to him and drapes the blanket over Dean’s legs. His hand hovers near, slightly outstretched, and Dean stares at it, waiting for Sam to do something with it — maybe pat Dean’s shoulder or take the book from him and demand he go to bed, too.

Sam’s hand drops and he says quietly, “Night, Dean,” before Dean can hear his bare feet retreating down the hallway.

+

“I love you,” Dean says as he sits by the hospital bed, “I know I don’t say it and I’m sorry for that. I don’t know why it’s so hard for me.”

They pumped Sam full of antibiotics and painkillers and he knocked out from exhaustion roughly two hours ago. Dean still hasn’t moved from the uncomfortable plastic chair.

“Actually, that’s a lie. It’s hard for me because if I say it … I feel like everyone will know. And they’ll use it against me. Against you. And I can’t … Sammy, I can’t lose you again, not ever again, and saying it, saying that … it makes everything so much more complicated because I’ve already got so much to lose and I just—“

He turns his mouth into the back of his hand, muffling a sob that’s threading to spill over his lips and he can’t let it. Sam might be asleep but that doesn’t mean Dean gets to fall apart. They’re not out of the woods and Sam still needs him.

He takes a deep breath. “So I’m sorry I can’t say that to you. I just have to trust that you know.”

The walls are too white and it smells like blood and disinfectant. It’s not often that a hunt goes so bad that it requires a visit to a hospital and Dean is grateful for that. But now and then it does happen. It always hits Dean harder than he feels like it should. It’s hardly the closest call they’ve had but he still can’t seem to make his hands stop shaking.

Sam doesn’t wake up for the rest of the afternoon and the night. The nurses assure Dean that it’s a good sign, that his body needs rest to heal, and they try to convince him to go home and get some sleep.

Dean is fairly sure they only let him stay because he looks like he is about to break down and start crying right there in the room.

He falls asleep in the chair with his head pillowed on his arms next to Sam’s hip and wakes up with Sam’s fingers, bruised and weak but alive and moving, in his hair.

+

It feels almost a little like old times when Sam falls asleep on Dean during movie night.

Dean can’t even be mad that Sam only barely makes it through the first two Highlander instalments before his head sinks heavily onto Dean’s shoulder.

The warm length of his body is pressed against Dean’s side and, in his sleep, he turns his cheek, presses his nose into the fabric of Dean’s T-shirt. His small puffs of breath are hot against Dean’s skin, making him shiver.

“You always do that.” Dean can’t keep the fondness out of his voice. Not that he’s trying very hard. “Fall asleep on my when we’re watching my movies. I suffered through that terrible Star Trek remake for you without snoozing off and this is how you repay me.”

Sam makes a sound, coming from low in his throat, that could have been agreement if he was awake.

“Alright, Sasquatch, just let me…” Dean grabs for the remote and switches off the DVD player and the TV. Without jostling Sam too much, he fishes for the blanket and draws it up over the both of them.

He is still wearing his jeans but taking them off would require getting up and that would probably wake his brother up. So he stays where he is, angles himself more toward Sam so he can pull him in and wrap one arm around him.

“I wish we still slept in the same room,” Dean confesses after a minute of silence. Predictably, Sam doesn’t respond. “I don’t know what it is, habit I guess, but I always sleep better when I know where you are. And I only ever really know where you are when I can see you, when I’ve got you right here next to me. It’s stupid, I know. But it is what it is.”

Sam shifts against him, rearranging his limbs in his sleep, and Dean rests his cheek on top of Sam’s head, closing his eyes.

+

“Remember when I told you I loved you?”

Sam hums in his sleep, his legs propped up against the dashboard, his head lolling on his shoulders with the movements of the car. Dean’s eyes flicker between Sam and the road. Rain is coming down heavily and visibility is low but they’re only another half hour from Lebanon and Dean wants nothing more than to be home.

The wind picks up again and Dean tightens his grip on the wheel.

“That wasn’t all I wanted to tell you,” he says, too quiet against the pounding of the rain if this were a real conversation, “Because there’s more. I’m not sure I can even say it now, but … I really want to. Just gimme a minute.”

The windshield wipers barely make a dent in the sheet-like downpour and Dean grudgingly reduces his speed. No point in risking running them off the road.

“I can’t tell you when it started now but … maybe when you got that acceptance letter for Stanford. I’d always thought I can’t live without you because it’s too scary, being your big brother and all. Not being there to protect you, it killed me. Always being afraid that something’s gonna happen to you and I won’t be there to stop it.

I really thought that’s what it was about. But then I realized that I don’t just want to protect you. I just wanted … you. I-I missed you like crazy, Sammy, I can’t even tell you how much.”

The rain begins to ease up slightly and Dean presses the gas harder again.

“And then dad disappeared. It was the last straw but I think … I was waiting for an excuse to see you all along. To get you to come with me. And I wish I could be sorry, I wish I could apologize for that because it ruined your life. But shit, it was the best fucking day of mine.

And you were all grown up. I hadn’t seen you for four years and you weren’t that scrawny kid that got a full-ride straight out of high school anymore, and it hit me so hard back then, Sam. I almost did something stupid. I almost told you right then and there, almost ruined everything before we even had a chance to get a fresh start.

I’m glad I didn’t. Tell you, I mean. I don’t think I could’a handled the look of disgust on your face. Big brother telling you he’s in love with you, that’s not something you just get over. There. I said it. Dean Winchester’s got the hots for his little brother. Ain’t that something, huh, Sammy?”

The car hydroplanes for all of two seconds and Dean’s knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. They whip past the sign that announces ten miles to Lebanon, Kansas.

“If I’d told you, it would’a ruined the chance of us ever being together again. And then I just sort of never got a chance to tell you. To be honest, I think I forgot about it for awhile. There’s always so much going on, one big bad after the other. No time to sit around moping and pining for your brother. But it keeps … coming back. Or maybe it’s always been there and it just sometimes gets overshadowed by all the shit.

Some days I wanna tell you but then I never do. Some days I think, just for a moment, that you already know. It’s that look you sometimes get … like you’re waiting for something. For the other shoe to drop, I don’t know. I already told you, I’m not very perceptive. I wish I could read you better.”

The rain slowly lessens to a drizzle. Dean’s hold on the wheel relaxes and he shakes out his shoulders.

“You’d kill me if you knew this but sometimes — actually, no, most of the time — kind of all of the time, it’s really embarrassing — I think about you when I … when I jerk off. Or have sex with women. It’s not that I don’t like them, it’s just … I can’t control it, it’s just a always there. I’m pulling her hair and I can’t help thinking about what it would be like to pull your hair. I think about how your moans would sound different from hers. No matter how tall she is or how hard she’s ridin’ me, I always …”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before refocusing them on the asphalt, staring straight ahead. He is half-hard in his jeans and entirely unsure why he is going down this road, now of all times.

“I always think … about how you’re bigger. Stronger. Shit, you gotta be stronger than me by now and I don’t know why that turns me on so much but it does. You don’t have to worry or anything, I’m not … gonna do anything. Because I know you don’t want me that way. Just, Sammy…”

It’s too much and Dean breaks off.

It’s been helpful, talking to Sam this way, getting all the things out in the open that Dean wouldn’t say otherwise, but today somehow it has the opposite effect. Naively, he thought he would feel relieved, as if after confession. But all he feels now is lonely. Horny, too, a little bit because he is nothing if not predictably. But mostly he’s tired and lonely and he feels … dirty. He supposes he ought to. It’s only right with all that wrongness inside him.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, finally, and pulls up in front of the Men of Letter’s bunker. Home.

He turns to his brother, raising his voice, “Alright, wake up, we’re—”

Sam is already facing him, eyes awake and clear, nothing to indicate that he just woke up. His face is expressionless, giving nothing away, but he’s staring right at Dean as if he is looking into him.

Dean goes rigid with sudden terror. He really should have checked that Sam’s still asleep but he was so wrapped up in himself and… God, how stupid. He can’t know when exactly Sam woke up, how much he actually heard, but whenever it was, Dean is monumentally screwed.

“S-Sam?”

There’s a tic in Sam’s jaw and for one split-second Dean thinks his brother is going to cry.

Trough gritted teeth, Sam asks, “How could you?”

And of course Sam’s angry, how could he not be? He’s the one who’s been living with Dean for over a decade while Dean hid this … disease from him.

“I’m sorry, I never would’ve done anything to you, you gotta believe—”

Sam grabs for Dean’s wrist, lightning-quick, and Dean falls silent. His hands are trembling with lingering shock and he keeps himself tense, tries to twist his arm out of Sam’s grip, fighting to keep his distance.

“You motherfucker!” Sam spits at him then, “You fucking asshole, I can’t believe you.”

Dean closes his eyes and lets the insults hit him full-force because they’re still less than he deserves. He—

Vertigo strikes when Sam practically yanks on his wrist and with a surprised gasp Dean tumbles forward into the space Sam is currently occupying. Sam releases him then, only to clasp his palms around Dean’s face, the tips of his fingers digging into Dean’s temples and the sides of his head.

Dean’s eyes fly open and he doesn’t get a chance to ask what the fuck Sam thinks he is doing because Sam’s mouth crashes down on his, no finesse, all desperation, and Dean’s body jolts with the sudden feeling of want that slams into him.

He’s stunned speechless, motionless for the time it takes Sam to bite down on his lip and lick into his mouth, and then Dean’s hands clamp down on Sam’s shoulders on their own accord.

This can’t— This is—

“You goddamned idiot,” Sam says in between frantic kisses, sounding breathless and choked up, and Dean thinks he gets it now.

Maybe he said that out loud because Sam makes a sounds that is close to a growl, coming all the way from the back of his throat. “Took you long enough.”

Chapter Two

#i should be writing a prompt #not this #wincest #confessions #i might write a second chapter for this #spn fanfic #supernatural #my writing