#sam’s birthday tag

[aelyosos]

birthday boba tea !!!

[niqhtmeep]

Guys I love their relationship sm

Earth seems so drawn to like every eclipse idk… She has such an open mind about people in a way, and I love that because of that she is slowly helping and befriending the soggy feral cat that is Eclipse III or whatever number we’re at LMAO

Same with Solar even though he wasn’t technically bad; she grew a really tight bond with him cause of the opposing nature he and many eclipses have of bluntness, perseverance (good or bad), and stubbornness <3

ANYWAYS HERES A NEW PIECE YALL ENJOY!!

[iguessthisisanewobsession]

On the outskirts of Gotham a farm is made.

No one can pinpoint when it was started but it was clearly bountiful.

New orchards of plums apples and several other fruit whisper promises of fruits in the years to come.

Bee houses buzzed with life and ducks quacked and scurried to and from their pond, coop and the garden.

Vegetables by the rows with seasonal berries brushes spring up at the corners of the property.

Greenery that almost seemed to glow with how lush it was.

It was like a small oasis in the desert of Gotham’s dirty land.

And it was ran by only three people.

The woman’s name was Sam. She was known as an activist who seemed to do the primary care of the plants. The property was in her name and she went out of her way to invite people to take what they need.

Danny was the most well known of the trio. He brought the produce into the heart of the city. Anywhere that would take the food, kitchens, pantries, school cafeterias even people’s doorsteps.

Tucker was the technical mastermind, hidden but equally important. The sprinklers, planning of the pollination rotation, harvesting planning and statistics were his main focus on the farm. Not a single square inch of the the land was not under his watchful gaze.

All the food was fresh or properly stored and most interesting of all free.

Of course people were going to talk.

[rotaryphoam]

happy birthday to one of my favorite hulking dog-men

[nightwingsgirlfriend]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SAM WINCHESTER!!!

[h-didanart]

It is July 16th.

A date known across this world and many more. A day forever marked in the memories of the Celestial bots. A sad day, an omen of struggles to come.

It is also the day a certain pair fully woke up. Deemed to be their date of “birth” if one were to say it so. The twins of the blood moon, though no longer at play, are honored on this day.

The day of the massacre.

That damned day.

The moon is up high, red shine illuminating the deck. A place of importance this was to the twins. A place where many others have agreed to meet.

The feral one starts, calm for once. Under their hood, white eyes look at the sky, pondering on the fate of them who shared their code. They approach a lamppost and place their offering, a giant scythe, for whatever hunts the twins may partake in the afterlife. They lower their head, uncharacteristically silent, and make their way back to the group.

It is a while before anyone else moves, though before long them who’ve retired approach. In truth they hadn’t wanted to come, at least not with the others. They hadn’t seen a point when all they shared was a name. They shake their head and look at the moon. Though not exactly the same, they supposed they still understood. At least the real ones could be at rest now, free of all the shackles and free of any pain. They place the copper dagger at the base, and turn back to the rest, for once their quietness not questioned by the fellow pairs.

The hunter and harvest moons stare up at the stars, hand in hand. They were next in line to pay respects. A basket of flower chains they’ve brought, orange, and pink, and white, they could not find any red. They place them around the lamppost, tying the strings so they wouldn’t fly away. They pause and take a look at the small memorial, wondering if without their family this would be them. They hold one another closer at the thought. They hope the flower smell could reach those separated by death and reunited once again, the not unpleasant smell was one they knew could help.

He took a step forward, then another. He hadn’t expected this to be so difficult, it was a struggle for him just to walk, but he couldn’t just not show up. Not again. Once reaching the lamppost he glances up at the sky, a memory quickly flashing by. He looks down again, trying to keep himself calm. A comforting hand rests on his shoulder, his friend had arrived as soon as he had called. Together they leave the plushie on the ground, the lone twin looking back once more, glad to know at least the other him was no longer alone.

The vampire walks up to the lamppost. They were the ones who came up with this event. Truth be told they hadn’t expected so many others to agree to it, it was meant as a small ceremony of sorts, though they supposed it was good in the end. To have so many others show their respect. They kneel and place down the charm they had prepared, a ‘good luck in the afterlife’ so they’ve read. They hoped the other them was doing well in hell, they knew how awful it could get down there.

They don’t know why they agreed to this, they really didn’t. The guy was awful, a murderer, a freak. But… it didn’t feel right for them to not show up. With unpracticed care, they wobble over to the memorial, a scarlet ribbon in their hands. They figured the originals would like that shade more than their preferred orange and wine. It took some time but they eventually managed to tie the ribbon around the post, their shared body stumbling back and nearly falling over thereafter. They went back to their place wondering if this is what Kaycee felt whenever she looked at them.

Both humans walk up at once. The older holding a bag close to their chest, a fitting sacrifice for their alternate selves they believed; the youngest had a necklace of a red stone they had found, they weren’t really sure what else they could’ve gotten. They both place their offerings at the same time, necklace on the base and cow’s head to the side. The older stood up and looked at the red sky. Such a pretty view it was, they were glad they could see it together, such luck they had had. Unfortunate the others couldn’t have a fraction of it, to be ripped apart like that was not something easily left behind. Though they were both dead now so perhaps it didn’t matter at all. The youngest stood up as well, talking out loud to themselves. They knew of the twin’s status at their deaths, so upsetting to think they’d had no one but themselves. It was small and they couldn’t answer anymore, but they had still offered a place in their family’s home, they knew for sure they’d leave an open space for them at dinner today.

Death itself was there, or at least one of them. The butterfly god had agreed to let its new soul out, to mourn or grieve or whatever they were busy at. The young god and their still mortal twin approach the place for gifts, still in sync despite the many differences developed. They place the flower down, the mortal tying the previously left necklace around the vase’s mouth. They both look back at the moon and stars, slightly at peace at seeing what will be. This is their future, perhaps not exact, but very close to it. A soul destined to death, and a pair to never separate.

They were last in line, and last arrived, recent arrivals to the group over all. To find so many others with the same affliction had been both surprising and sad, even more when learning of their brother’s reputation. Still, the new twins step forth, moral support sun at their side. They knew little of these alternates, just that they were villains and rejoiced in death, and they loved one another dearly to an immeasurable extent. Such a duality hurt their brain, but they figured they’d still pay their respects. A black cloak in their hands, one of the many they had, a perfect tool for sneaking around in the dark, they figured it’s something the dead killers would like. They step back after placing it down, their brother behind them, and all three let their thoughts wander to what in their future might happen.

Once all were done there was silence. No one really had anything to say, all of them holding their own thoughts over the death of this version of them. And one by one, each pair left, returning to their worlds and their daily lives. Some came home to celebrations of their own, some to quiet halls, some to rotten bark. But in the end, whether better or worse, they all arrived to their friends and family, and, if only for one night, let themselves appreciate what they had, what they could’ve lost.

May the twins find mayhem in the afterlife, may they burn in hell side by side. Happy birthday Bloodmoon,

and please never come back.

full picture below,

[artfartt]

[ro-sham-no]

Sam’s wall breaks, and he won’t stop screaming.

it's his birthday so you KNOW i had to whump my boy

It’s been two days and fifteen hours and Sam won’t stop screaming. 

Blood droplets fly out of his mouth with wracking coughs as he chokes on hurried inhales, mucosal spit gumming up his trachea.

It’s been two days and sixteen hours and Sam won’t stop screaming.

The only times he’s been silent in the last two days and seventeen hours is when he’s unconscious. The first bout - four hours and twenty-three minutes of silence - Dean’d just clocked him in the jaw when it was clear Sam was going to scream himself into involuntary suffocation - diaphragm and abdominal muscles locking up from the abuse. Dean knocked him unconscious for those four hours and twenty-three minutes, after six hours of his weeping and gnashing of teeth.

By the time he had woken up, Dean had shots of sedative and they were two hours into a twenty-eight-hour drive to Bobby’s - if nothing else, Dean’s efficient. Sam didn’t take notice.

And if the sounds he won’t stop making can be described as screaming, then the sounds he makes when Dean has to touch him while he’s awake can only be described as a death wail. Wailing and scrambling to get away from Dean with a fervor that earns them both violent shades of bruises.

It’s been two days and twenty hours and Sam won’t stop screaming.

During the drive, whenever Sam’s anguish would escalate back into hair-tearing, along with beating his fists against his arms and thighs and threatening to bash his head into the windows of the Impala, Dean would pull over to force another dose of sedative into him. 

The sounds he makes while Dean tries to subdue him… Well, even in the most remote location on their route, Dean was afraid the farmer whose house they could just barely see in the distance would be able to hear. It had to have been at least three miles away, with how flat the land was, and Dean was still worried that someone would hear. 

Sam won’t stop screaming, and his screams are deafening- except when he’s unconscious, from the shots Dean gives him, the screaming is just in Dean’s mind. A haunting kind of tinnitus that rings in Dean’s ears, just as nauseating as the real deal, but a touch less heartbreaking.

He only allows himself to sleep for the first few hours of Sam being down for the count, despite the catatonic state that seemed to have taken over him. Dean wasn’t about to risk Sam waking up without him. They sleep together in the car, in the weeds and the bramble off of back roads, hidden from view. Baby’s paint has never been so scratched up.

It’s been two days and twenty-three hours and Sam won’t stop screaming.

They’ve been at Bobby’s for the last twenty-four of those, trying to hold back on the sedative, because god knows they can’t keep it up forever or Sam’s heart is liable to just straight up quit, so they’ve been rationing it. Walking the nerve-wracking line between acceptable amounts of incomprehensible human suffering and causing an overdose that could just kill Sam, for good this time.

On the 72nd hour - that’s two days and twenty-four hours, or three days and zero hours, or 4,230 minutes and zero seconds, or 259,200 seconds and -

It’s been three days and zero hours, and Sam is awake, but he stops screaming.

And on the third day he will be raised…

Dean rushes over to check on him, but Sam is still breathing, heart still beating, body still holding itself upright, and he’s stopped screaming.

Now, though, two lines of salty tears trail down his face. For all his hysteric shrieking over the last three days, through all the rocking and swaying and the occasional distinct syllable of “no” over and over again, he hadn’t actually shed a tear, until now.

It’s been three days and zero hours and Sam’s tears are silent. 

He’s staring far off into the distance - into the wall that’s four feet in front of him - and he is silent. Even his gasps are inaudible. No sniffling, not a single huff or quiver of breath. Just tears.

It’s been three days and zero hours and two minutes and both Dean and Bobby are in the room now, staring at Sam with undisguised fear-horror-confusion. 

They stare at him and he begins to shake. Lightly, at first, but it grows. It always grows. Sam is silent, and he’s shaking, and his eyes stream tears with the consistency of a downpour, and Dean moves back in front of him. He’d stepped away to yell for Bobby out the door when it looked like Sam would live after his abrupt descent into silence. Dean steps back in front of him and reaches out to touch Sammy, and now Sam’s not silent. A three-minute silence and now it’s broken by Sam scrambling backward with a gasp that’s really more of an inhaled moan of fear, hastening back so far that he pushes off of the bed he’d been sitting on.

He crashes to the floor, out of Dean’s reach even as the man leaps forward with a cry of, “Sam!”

But Sam’s flight had been too fast, so he crashed to the ground and has now fallen silent again, but Dean can’t tell if there are still tears because Sam has wedged himself into a ball in the crease between the floor and the wall, form-fitting his back and ass over the baseboards hard enough to bruise. He’s hiding his face in his knees, still trembling, but still silent, so Dean can’t tell if the tears have stopped. He isn’t sure if that would be better or worse.

Because now it’s been three days and five minutes, and Sam’s curled up in sublimation. 

He’s crammed against the wall, his knees are up in front of him, spread only far enough to shove his head between them - but down quite far, uncomfortably so, contorted - but his hands aren’t curled up like the rest of him. Instead, his hands are held out around his legs, stretched around them and then upward, palms out like he’s receiving something sacred. Or like he’s giving it away.

It’s been three days and six minutes and Sam is trembling in sublimation.

The room is silent, Dean and Bobby don’t know what to do, but he isn’t hurting himself and he isn’t screaming so they wait him out.

It’s been three days and thirty minutes, by the time anything happens.

At first, Bobby thinks it’s the creaks of his house. At first, Dean thinks it’s the creaks of his soul. They’re both wrong, they realize, as the sound is actually coming from Sam, but it reverberates in such a way that it’s equally loud from every corner of the room. Dean wonders, faintly and somewhat hysterically, when Sam learned ventriloquy. 

It’s a low but resounding utterance, indistinguishable at first, but becoming more distinct with every syllable, losing its eerie ambience and beginning to actually come from Sam as its focal point. Whatever Sam is saying, deep into his chest in a tone that aches, becomes clearer, but neither of the other two men can understand it.

Sam’s palms are still held up in front of his shins. His head is still shoved between his knees, and he’s still trembling. He finishes his recitation but doesn’t fall silent. Instead, he switches to a language that Dean realizes with a jolt that he can understand the words, seconds before Bobby realizes it, too. 

“Pater noster, qui es in שְׁאוֹל, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in שְׁאוֹל et in terra.”

A sickening aura falls over the room as both lucid men hear the exceptions to the otherwise familiar prayer. “On earth, as it is in שְׁאוֹל,” Sam had said. Sheol, the subterranean final resting place. The pit. “The place of no return, the land of utter darkness and deep shadow.” 

Hell.

Our Father who art in the pit of utter death and darkness…

It’s been three days and one hour by the time Sam finishes his contritions. 

By then, he’d recited that first chant in the same unknown language twice more, alternating it with the Latin rendition of the Lord’s prayer.

Hallowed be thy name…

Dean has a gnawing, sinking feeling in his gut that he knows exactly what that other language is.

Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on earth as it is in שְׁאוֹל, the deep shadow.

The cadence, the tone; they’re the same. Distorted by the foreign, guttural tones of the other language, but they cut through Dean with the same taste. Sam is repeating the same thing over and over again, just in alternating tongues. The familiar Latin combined with the unfamiliar, grating timbre of the other. 

The repugnant language of the wretched Divine.

Those accursed, winged beasts, just like the one his brother, his Sammy has been locked up with for an earth-year. And who knows what that timeline looked like, in the depths? Nothing sears in your mind quite like the crushing realization that virtually no real time has passed when you return from it, Dean remembers. The rock constantly lodged in the base of Dean's chest, taking up space where his lungs are supposed to go, which screams out, your pain was never real.

Did time distort further the further down you went in hell? Was Dean’s 40-year stint a mere blink in the face of the time Sam had been locked up with that thing that did this to him?

The only reason Dean’s stomach isn’t on the floor in front of him is because his stomach is empty, the pervasive ache of the last few days locking it up tight. Sam has been screaming and Dean hasn't been eating, but he's never been less hungry in his life.

It’s been three days and one hour and Dean’s been crying for every single second of them.

The wailing and screaming had gouged at him, in that way little baby's cries gouge at unsuspecting figures passing by, striking that deep, maternal cord within them. The same way little toddler-Sam’s cries had always gouged at Dean. The same way, too, that not-so-little teenaged Sam’s sniffles into his pillow that he thought were muffled had always gouged at Dean. 

If the screams had been gouging at him, this reverent recitation was gutting him. Viscerally, like a fish being pulled sharply off of a too-big hook that it had somehow managed to swallow down too far. Catch and release turned into a pitiful horror.

But it’s been three days and one hour, now, and Sam’s finished his latest round of the Lord’s prayer - Latin this time - and he’s fallen silent again.

His hands are still held out, despite how bad it must make his shoulders and wrists ache with the tension of his stillness. Before Dean can think to do anything, though, Sam continues, but he breaks the pattern. Instead, his voice is much shakier now, and he starts to plead, the only term applicable to the tone of voice Sam has taken on: wretched, and full of supplication. Pleading, in Latin still,

“Elohim, Messiah - Please take this temptation from me. Please, as you have so graciously promised, benevolent Savior, tempt me not with this Sin of the Flesh. I am too weak, Father. This temptation is too great and I cannot bear it.

Temptation? Father?

The formal tone rankles. The self-deprecation vexes. The use of Father to refer to the most foul being to ever walk above and below the earth seethes and horrifies. Dean is rankled. Dean is vexed. Dean seethes, and he is horrified.

“Take Him from my sight, יהוה, keep me away from His fraternal presence, please, Lord. Balm though He is to my soul, grateful though I am for this offering, I am too weak to refrain from Sin.”

Fraternal? Sin?

“I would naught but bastardize this precious gift, and thine hand wilt be forced against me, as thou shalt flay me apart; dissect me to make penance for my transgressions. I do not wish this, Father, so please: Take Him from me, do not allow my wretched Sin to pervade in thine realm.”

Just because Dean’s stomach is empty doesn’t mean it isn’t trying valiantly to make an appearance. At the word “fraternal,” Bobby had started pushing him out the door. Stunned, Dean hadn’t fought back. There’s bile on Bobby’s hardwood floor outside the bedroom Sam and Bobby were still in.

Sam spoke as if Dean’s presence was the temptation, one too great to bear. And he spoke as if to God, but Dean knew better, he knew where Sam had been. Where Dean let him go. No gods to be seen, not there. What Sin had Lucifer contrived between them, to make Sam pay penance for? What occurred between them for Sam to be… Flayed alive. Dissected. 

Dean’s not stupid enough to believe that's anything but literal.

Bobby swings the door mostly-closed just in time for Sam to finish his pleas and lower his arms.

It’s been three days and one hour and ten minutes, and Sam raises his head.

Dean watches through the crack in the door, concealed in the darkness of the hallway. He’s holding his breath and he’s not sure he’ll ever forgive himself for not rushing right back to Sam's side. But something is holding him back, and he doesn’t want to name it. 

(Fraternal… Sin?)

Sam raises his head but keeps his eyes scrunched shut - tears and snot are dripping down his face, which is a blotchy red but somehow still pallid with fear. He’s shaking worse than before as he straightened his back out, sitting up and letting his legs fold down so he’s cross-legged. Not relaxed, but no longer contorted. Finally, he releases a shaky breath and opens his eyes, pointing down at the floor.

Bobby shifts his weight purposefully and Sam’s eyes fly to him with a wild flinch of fear. It hangs in the air uncomfortably long before he recognizes the man in the room with him, and he lets out a sob of what Dean hopes is relief.

He quickly bows his head and shifts up onto his knees in a simple prayer position, hands pressed together in a booklet of gratitude as he sobs out, “Thank you, Messiah, Morningstar. Thank you.”

Then, with a big sigh, he allows himself to look back at Bobby, but his gaze is clinical, observing. He whispers, through his hitching, wet breaths, “He did it. I can't believe he did it. He’s gone. I don’t have to do it again, not yet.”

Sam’s face crumples as he’s hysterical with relief, and Dean’s clawing his own arms raw and bloody outside the door, desperate to get to the crying baby and soothe it, desperate to kiss toddler-Sam’s scraped knees, desperate to tell teenage-Sam that nothing will ever change the way Dean feels about him, despite whatever darkness he seems to think is inside of him. But still, he’s held back by that unspeakable Sin between them. Lucifer didn’t contrive it, Dean knows that. He holds himself back.

Bobby speaks up then, gruff and wary, “Don’t have to do what, yet?”

Sam startles before finally, really looking at Bobby like he’s a human on the same plane of existence as him, not like he’s a mildly interesting fixture on a non-existent wall.

“Nothing, don’t worry about it, Bobby. It’s good to see you,” Sam cracks a smile, and it encapsulates one thousand shades of grief.

Sam continues quieter, once again to himself, “I wish it wasn’t like this. I’m sorry. So, so sorry. But you’re not Him, so it’s fine, it’s fine…”

Bobby squints at him long and hard, eyeing his more relaxed posture and at least somewhat lucid speech - odd though it may be - before he glances at the crack in the door and gives a tiny eyebrow raise that says, get your ass in here.

Dean slowly cracks the door open and calls out to his baby brother, just as he comes into view, “Sammy?”

His reaction is violent. If Sam was pallid before, he’s now a putrid shade of green, face twisting up in horror as he shakes his head, wringing his hands and mumbling out at first, devolving quickly into yells into the aether, into the corners of the room, “No! No, no- please, you promised, no-”

He collapses into himself on the floor, half hidden behind the bed, putting it between him and Dean. The trembling returns with moans and cries incessantly pouring out of Sam’s mouth as he buries his head in his hands, gripping at his face and whatever hair is in reach with too much force, wailing out a constant stream of no, no, no!

Dean takes an involuntary step forward into the room, drawn in by that maternal wretchedness. Desperate, always desperate, to comfort his baby brother. 

When his boot sounds on the carpet - muted but oh-so-loud to Sam’s ears - the cries lose their shape, hiccupping wails of no quickly becoming unintelligible and increasingly frantic, building and building until it can only be described as a howling scream.

It’s been three days and one hour and fifteen minutes, and Sam won’t stop screaming.

[kimodraw]

animated a sammy walkcycle for his birthday because im just a little insane about him

[adeliadrawstuff]

Happy early birthday to Sam Winchester!!! I decided to take a shot at realistic painting again and what a better way to do so?

Please be nice to me I rarely draw realism XD

I originally drew this image super large and had to down size it by 3 times it's size so enjoy

As a bonus because it is Sammy's birthday, I did a screen recording of the process since I normally draw cartoons thought id would be fun to show my realism

I did add some more touches to the drawing after the finished speed paint <3

[aelyosos]

happy birthday sam! <3

tysm sweet halk !! ;u; 💛

[iheardyourprayer]

Most people think I burn hot. It's actually quite the opposite.

Sam + Be Your Own 3am by Adult Mom for Suncaptor's birthday event

[moonbasealpha]

if they had known you were coming, they probably wouldn't have baked you a cake.

[ID: a digital illustration of sam and max as humans. sam is depicted with medium skin, curly dark brown hair, and a mustache. max is pale, with white curly hair tied into a bun. he is wearing a yellow button up with a tie similar to sam's and a red and yellow striped party hat, which sam is holding. they are both smiling. /end ID.]

[innerchorus]

Arslan Senki Chapter 124

I've cooled off a little bit after the intense experience that this chapter was, so here are a few thoughts! (I read the official simulpub on Kmanga, apologies that I haven't looked for the raw this time but it may be out there if you check.)

The chapter opens in the underground waterways and I am immediately relieved because this means that we did indeed backtrack a bit from last chapter, meaning that we are going to see the fighting there that reveals exactly how Andragoras reached Hilmes

Sam, when speaking of the existence of these tunnels, saying that if he'd known about them he wouldn't have 'helplessly surrendered the royal capital to the Lusitanian army'. Sam, please don't blame yourself! If the royal family chose to keep that knowledge to themselves, it's their fault, not yours. The fact that he's still blaming himself for this... That he thinks of himself as a failure in this respect... 😭

The Kishward-Sam fight was less nervewracking than the one the anime included in the battle for the Keep of Saint-Emmanuel, but only because I didn't know the outcome then. I think it's hard to get some of the nuances of this fight across in manga format but as usual Arakawa did a good job with it, and I want to discuss it a bit!

Sam's eyes here... He looks so sad, you just know he longed for that to have been him instead of leading the life he's living now

...and with that expression, the fight resumes. Kishward has already come to the conclusion that what Kubard said about Sam looking for death was true, and that's what we see when Sam next attacks, right after this line about envying Shapur and Garshasp. It's obvious that he's trying to force Kishward into a position where he has to kill him. He won't surrender, he won't switch sides, but he is willing to die like the warrior he no longer sees himself as.

If Kishward met him as he would someone he sees as a true enemy, he would have killed Sam then. He could have done so with his other sword while Sam is open after that strike. But he doesn't, because he doesn't want to kill his former comrade!

And Sam IS NOT WILLING TO KILL KISHWARD EITHER. If he had, Kishward would surely already be dead for what looks like seeking only to stand firm rather than land a fatal blow of his own, and that's why he only receives a broken sword and a shallow cut to the face. The... choreography (?) of the fight at this point is slightly different in the novels but I think the manga did a good job making a small change to show both of their attitudes more clearly.

(For the curious, in the novel Kishward's sword breaks on Sam's armour when Sam deliberately doesn't evade his slash, but as Kishward never intended for it to be a killing blow, it only cracks his armour. I'm not sure that would have come across from images alone so thumbs up to Arakawa for her modification.)

Sam still calling Andragoras 'Your Majesty' showing his inner conflict (Hilmes would hate it just as he did when Sam said 'His Highness Arslan' in his presence, but I find it understandable) but HE STILL DEFENDS HIS POSITION

and this is another small change from the novel but Arakawa's Sam is much more vehement here, much firmer in his conviction to not let Andragoras past and I love that because I can't deny it bothered me a bit in the novel scene where there's a lot of hesitance in his dialogue and he just says "Even though it's Your Majesty...' but here we get THIS:

And if that doesn't confirm that despite any inner conflict he feels, he will never betray Hilmes for Andragoras, I don't know what does. So I was thrilled to see this, honestly.

In the novel it feels as though it's Andragoras's imposing presence that oppresses Sam's will to resist him but that's not so here. I can only believe that Sam allows him through precisely because he wants to avoid the situation he mentioned earlier; 'more slaughter between kinsmen.' If Hilmes and Andragoras talk, will fighting between Parsians be averted? This must be his hope. I do wonder whether he ends up having his suspicions about precisely what Andragoras wanted to tell Hilmes, though... after all, he already knows part of it himself.

(I had some mixed feelings about this moment, so I did quite a lot of thinking about it before, but honestly, it makes sense for Sam's character and what we know is important to him. I'm just very, very glad Arakawa allowed him to face Andragoras down like that first. I do wonder how Hilmes would see things, though.)

Anyway Hilmes's expressions in the following scene wrecked me and just watching him sweat and tremble in position and be on the verge of vomiting was hard. Anyway, the sordid details come to light, and we know who the sorcerer who supplied Gotarzes with the prophecy that caused all of it was...

Some more images of Hilmes's (very beautiful) mother!

Gotarzes, though... The way he's drawn when he's grasping Osroes's wife shows how repulsive his decision was, and it's clear she doesn't want this, but she would have had no choice.

Hilmes tries so hard to believe that this is all a lie, but... you can tell that he can't. It's difficult to watch him go through this. And I can't believe we didn't even conclude this scene (unless Andragoras is just going to leave now in the manga; he didn't in the novels but we'll see, moving things around here could work but equally splitting it with the parallel conversation between Arslan and Tahamenay is a nice touch and I'm glad Arakawa is devoting the necessary time and attention to all of this).

You know... I'm exhausted lmao, someone else please post about the Team Arslan section that came after this.

[tllgrrl]

Happy Birthday Captain America!

The Favor by @tllgrrl aka Nefertiri Jones

Sam Wilson , (Bucky Barnes quoted) | SFW

* * * * * * * * * *

Sam touched the biometric pad on the case, and heard three soft clicks. He also heard…

[“I called in a favor from...”]

The last time he was in Wakanda, he was on a battlefield just outside of Birnin Zana. The Golden City.

He and his friends were fighting to save…everybody…everywhere…but before the battle he’d gotten a glimpse of the Blackest nation he’d ever seen.

A nation that had never been touched by colonization.

Sam also saw technology he’d thought only existed in Sci-fi movies and books…or maybe in Tokyo, but even far more advanced than that.

T’Challa, the king, introduced him to General Okoye, leader of the elite Royal Guard known as the Dora Milaje.

Sam was also briefly reunited with Steve’s friend Bucky Barnes, who Steve had taken there to Wakanda hoping they had the technological wherewithal to remove HYDRA’s super-assassin programming from his brain.

Apparently they did. They were successful, and two years later, there he was. With what looked to be a brand new arm, Bucky was joining the Wakandans and the Avengers in the fight against Thanos and his forces.

And Sam met T’Challa’s younger sister, Princess Shuri. A Black, teenage, African Princess tech genius who, with her team of scientists, doctors and engineers, freed the brain of mildly annoying, staring, grumpy supersoldier Barnes, who is now his “co-worker”.

(…and who is also now trying to aim those blue eyes of his at my baby sister! )

Shuri was also responsible for, among other things, developing the newest versions of T’Challa’s Vibranium-infused, nanotech, fighting suit.

[“I called in a favor…”]

Sam thought about that battle. How it ended with half the universe, including him and Bucky, turning to ashes one minute, then waking up the next minute…

5 years later.

Like a film clip, images started speeding through his mind: Things he’d experienced, people he’d met, places he’d been from the moment he met Steve Rogers—as they both were doing their morning run around the reflecting pool at the Washington Monument in DC—to now.

All of that…ending up here, back in the house he grew up in, staring at this fancy, high-tech case.

[“I called in a favor from the Wakandans.” ]

(I’m actually gonna do…this.)

He opened the case and took a breath to steady himself.

There was a schematic on the inside of the case’s lid, and what almost looked like some kind of hieroglyphs. Sam couldn’t decipher it, but he immediately knew where it was from.

He lifted the piece of handwoven fabric that seemed to serve two purposes: beauty and function, and he could see metallic threads woven throughout the rich, surprisingly dense protective cloth.

The fabric had Vibranium woven into it, and under it there were three items:

A wing pack like his broken StarkTech one, but lighter in weight. By feel he immediately knew that these wings, like his shield, were made of virtually unbreakable Vibranium.

A neckpiece that was similar to the one he saw T’Challa wear, but not nearly as large, also far less traditional and ceremonial in design.

And a pouch made of the same fabric as the protective cloth. Inside of it was a beautifully carved wooden box holding a bead bracelet like the kind worn by nearly everyone in Wakanda.

He also found a large envelope containing some official-looking paperwork, and a manual for the items in the case.

On the front of the envelope were Wakandan glyphs, and underneath them, it read:

Samuel Wilson - Captain America

He read the opening paragraph of the manual, slipped the bead bracelet (called “kimoyo”) onto his left wrist as instructed, and shortly felt the beads lightly vibrate as his cellphone rang…

* * * * * * * * *

I wrote this a little ficlet a couple of years ago when someone onhere wondered if Sam’s new Cap suit was nanotech, and this was my reply. (Well, this is the slightly longer version of my reply, which was: “Of course it’s nanotech.”)

Thanks for indulging me and reading. (Or rereading.)

[brinkle-brackle]

been a hot minute since I've posted art but uh. so. new AJR album huh