#sticks and stones blades and bones

[rosamelforest]

You know, the first draft of my book is about 50% finished, technically speaking. But with how a lot of scenes are out of order and how I still have a lot to add to fill in the gaps, it's gonna be a while before the whole thing is actually finished. And by the end of it all, I'll have a second draft! And then I get to rework it until it's comprehensible.

[b0mblover]

Greed makes me sick. 

By: J

Woo fucking hoo, gotta love projection! (this was 100% self indulgent, idk how well it actually works with jiro but! Oh fucking well! At least im getting smth done ig) 

Cw; Selfharm, Suicide Ideation, Jiro generally being unhealthy, awful writing

Once again; sorry for your eyes, goodluck

Jiro laid in his bed, glancing at the clock on his phone every so often, around 21:34. Mindlessly scrolling through some of his friends' accounts, he never wanted to admit it, but he does in a way enjoy ‘stalking’ his friends, “friends” being mostly of people he's never met or talked to a day in his life, but that's never really mattered to him. 

Usually it's just to catch up on everything, ‘oh they finally got married’ etc. boring stuff, but why the hell not. 

But other times like today, it made him want to throw up. He was happy for them, sure, but there was a disgusting jealousy spreading throughout his chest, traveling down his esophagus, down to his stomach, and setting there. He’s felt it before, the first few times it happened, he thought he literally had to throw up, resulting in him essentially purging to get the feeling out; it didn't ever work. He gave up on trying, it usually went away on its own, just how long would it take was the question. Minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years. It was all a possibility. The longer he felt it, the worse it became. He’d liked to say that it started off slowly, but it never did. Usually the first thing he jumped to was ‘I'll never be like them, no matter how hard I try, so what's the point in living?’ He wished he could say it was irrational, but it just wasn't. He knew due to one reason or another, he couldn't be like them, no matter how hard he tried, no matter for how long he never gave up. He would always fail. He wished he could also say that he had no desires, that would be a lie too. Seeing people do what you've wanted to do for years of your life, that you never came close to doing, so easily, it hurt. It hurt. It hurt. It. Hurt. and he wished he could say it didn't. He wished something so very mundane didn't hurt. He hated jealousy, he hated greed, perhaps that's why it hurt so much more. Because he was a hypocrite. It's not like he wished that they weren't able to do that, he just wanted to be able to do it too.  

Jealousy, is an odd word. People always assume that if you are jealous- that you wish ill on whoever you’re jealous of. But that couldn't be further from what he felt. Sometimes, it was tiring to constantly work and work for something others have so easily, that you'll never get. Why does life deal such shitty hands to people who care? Or is it the other way? Shitty hands in life make you care? Either way, it still made him sick.  

Somedays, he got off easy, he knew it's not their fault, sometimes motivated by a ‘you'll get there someday, you just have to keep trying’. Days like this though, that wasn't the case. Trying is pointless, not that he just feels like it, but it is. No amount of trying or wishing will ever work. Shitty hand remember? So if he couldn't do what he wanted, what was the point in living? Maybe he was crazy, fucking insane even, no one talks about this sort of thing, there's probably a reason, right?  

He sat up on his mattress, took a look at his phone, then tossed it across the room. He would’ve thrown it, but he didn't see a point in breaking the phone or wall if he was angry. He wasn't even angry either, just like there was a hole in his chest where his heart should be, and that hole was filled with bile.  

He looked down and stared at his hands, disgusting. Failure. He was a failure. He had good grades, sure, but it really didn't mean anything. Grades are just numbers, and numbers that didn't matter to him. If When he gets older, he's probably not going to be sitting on his deathbed thinking about how he got a 100% on a math quiz. But this?  

He stood up and walked over to his ‘desk’, clean for 4 months at the simple request of a friend. It's not like she’d know or find out if he did it. Well, unless he couldn't keep his mouth shut as usual. Even if she did find out, would she care? Would she even remember what was said? Ha. Maybe she’d tell him how pathetic he was, unable to go past a small styro, he is really pathetic, so it’d be fitting.  

Even if she somehow did ‘care’ as much as she said, wouldn't it be tiresome? That was one of the main reasons he stopped in the first place, taking care of people, even if you love them can be tiresome. So she was bound to get tired and bored of it. She’d probably grow to not care, part of him wanted that.  

He admittedly fantasizes thinks about what would've happened if he hadn't stopped, more than he should. 

Maybe she’d grow annoyed of his break/melt downs, maybe she'd make fun of him instead, he couldn't really blame her either way. Part of him wanted her to grow bored of him, but the other selfish part, hated the idea. Even now, he considered reaching out “You don't have to suffer alone, I’m always here, you’ll never annoy me.” but..  

He appreciated it, but it probably wasn't meant for something like this. What was the point? It wasn't like he was gonna kill himself, no matter how badly he wanted to. Sure, it wasn't a necessarily ‘healthy’ coping mechanism, but. It's not like he could do much damage anyways right? This was just like scratching himself when he was pissed off, not healthy, but what could anyone do? It didn't really hurt, so what would be the point in taking it away?  

Without caring enough to think it through, he picked up the blade, and sliced through the mid of his forearm. It stung. More than usual, but who even cares. He spun his chair around, then sat down. He brought the blade to his arm again- he really was pathetic, wasn't he? Slice- even if someone for some reason cared- slice- it's not like they should, he was pathetic and needy- slice- maybe some people in this world are supposed to die? Or suffer at least- slice- but, he didn't really want anyone else to suffer. If he met someone just as himself, would he hate them too? Or would he take pity? Slice- He smiled. His arm felt weak. Hand shaky. No one was coming to save him. No one knew of what he’d done. No matter what, he’s always alone. He deserved it.  

He stared at his arm for a few minutes, the deepest he’s ever cut, after not even 5 minutes, it looks pathetic again. God he's stupid. What if she somehow does find out? She wouldn't outwardly say how pathetic he is, she wasn't that type of person. She’d probably show some sort of concern. Fuck. Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck FUCK. She’ll probably show some sort of care, attention. He didn't want that. Great. Now it looks like he did it all just for attention! Fucking wonderful.  

He glanced at his phone that had been lazily thrown on the floor, part wishing someone messaged, anyone, but dreading having to respond. No matter how much he loved them, responding right after this thing, he always seemed off, too off. 

He took a breath, trying to collect what little of himself was left. He should get something to drink. Yeah, that’ll probably make him feel at least a bit more level-headed.  

But there again, he is a waste of space, failure, etc. he’s heard most of the names by now mostly from himself but that didn't matter, does he really deserve something as simple as drinking? Even basic things do cost money, even if just a few cents. Why waste it on himself? But his throat is so dry still,,  

He walked out of his bedroom, hitting his face on the door, forgetting it was very muchly locked, precaution. He wanted to lash out, take every bit of anger out on it but then…. Nothing. Numbness. He didn't even have a good reason to feel angry. It was his fault anyways. He took a deep breath, unlocked the door, and walked out.  

Walking to the kitchen, slower than usual, he started to wonder again with how he was going to hide his awful wonderful misdeed. Makeup worked.. Well honestly for him it worked awfully. Nothing ever seemed to match in all lighting, plus that was only really an option for scars, tactile cuts didn't really improve much when paired with a powder or creme (?? sorry idk), plus it could run the risk of infection. Right? He's never seen anything warning against it so maybe not? But putting something that has chemicals like that into a cut, it didn't seem correct. Considering what minuscule things could cause infection. Not that he'd mind getting infected and slowly, painfully dying. He just didn't like the look generally.  

What could he do then? Wear a jacket like normal, sure, but she always finds out somehow. Gods know how, not him, but somehow. He could bandage it sure, but that ran the risk of even more questions, it wasn't exactly news that he didn't care about proper ‘aftercare’ like that. Sure, not properly covering it, cleaning the blade etc. could cause infection, but.. Well. He didn't have any excuses, he was just biased in some ungodly way that he never noticed right until that very moment! (Large cough. H e l p.) 

Grabbing a random cup, he decided to just tough it out like usual. Try to not show his arm in any setting but not be weird about it, try to act normaler than usual, sure it’ll suck, but it's between that and in his mind, ‘looking like an attention seeker’. He poured out what wasn't even 1/4th of a cup of water into the cup. His throat was just dry, it's not like he'd die from dehydration any time soon. Sure, he's human, doesn't that mean he just needs the absolute minimal amount of care? Hell, this couldn't even be considered minimal! He has a roof over his head, water, food, there's so much more he could go without, gods he's selfish huh? He sat down his empty glass beside the sink, very quietly laughing under his breath, pathetic, wasn’t it? He’s so selfish, he has it well, yet he acts like he has nothing! What more could he ask for in life? Stability? What a joke. He should really be more grateful. 

He stared at the glass glass beside him, staring into his distorted reflection. Well, at least there was always a way to fix it all. In the back of his mind, he was always running though, listing off methods, quickest, easiest, cheapest, messiest, etc. No matter how hard he tried, he’d never figured out the ‘perfect suicide’ in his own eyes. 

Though, recently, a method stuck his eye. Nitrogen gas. He’d heard it takes one out quickly, but makes them struggle and suffer beforehand. Perfect for himself. No time to back out because of how quickly it takes you, pain before death, he’d never wanted a peaceful one. It was near perfect. But one of the main issues was managing to get any. Or get around any in general. (little did Jiro know; he was only a few letters off from his actual suicide; that being Nitroglycerin!)  

But, he doubted it was realistic, for reasons already stated, so he was stuck with whatever other incredibly fucked method he inevitably decides on. It's not like he probably will anytime soon either, no matter how much he wants to. He walked back to his room, flopping down as soon as he was close enough for at least his face to hit the mattress. Thud totally comfortable.  

He stood up once again, actually closing his door this time. Then sitting on the bed properly, right, shit, his phone. No, no one probably texted, they're all busy. What can only be described as a mantra he mentally spoke, trying his best to not get his hopes up and what left of his heart shattered, even if he was always deep-down hoping, begging for any sort of message.  

He walked around to the far wall, and picked up his phone, quickly turning it around, anticipation and tension always left more room for disappointment. He seen the messaging app icon and- no one. A stupid update reminder. He’d rather’ve seen absolutely nothing than that. But whatever, they're busy, she's busy. He reminded himself, trying to subside the constant idea that they all fucking loath him for everything that he's ever done. But it's probably true though right? Of course it is. They all hate him. No matter how close, they all do. He’ll never change, will he? Why even bother at this point, he loved talking to them all sure, but why do they bother to talk to him? Pity? Perhaps. A disgusting feeling crept back up into his stomach and esophagus, it unknowingly had disappeared some minutes ago. Not like it mattered now. He tossed his phone to the side of his bed, on the ground, not bothering to charge it. It's not like anyone will message anyways. He's an idiot, everytime, everyday, why does he still feel such anticipation anyways? The answer didn't matter. He was tired. He didn't want to sleep, he hadn't gotten anything done, hell he was bored. But he had no energy to do anything. Just because of some stupid post. Sensitive. Weak. Pathetic. Why was he even still here? He's just dead weight to everyone he meets. What is the point. 

He laid there, he didn't know for how long, it didn't matter, he heard a door shut, they're back. He couldn't talk to them or face them like this. No. He’ll fake sleeping, maybe he’ll fall asleep in the process, that'd be nice, or if he never woke up, both seem ideal to him. 

He laid on his stomach, right arm obscuring his face, left in a weak fist. It was a default ‘I swear I'm asleep’ pose, shockingly comfortable too!  

Staring at the back of his eyelids, repeating bright colours and vague shapes started appearing, in a way it always felt a bit soothing, it was always there for him.  

Even when he wasn't there for himself. 

[folkwhoreberry]

Hello hope you are having a warm day! I have a percy jackson x reader request if you don't mind!

Percy mistakenly hurting reader like in a game of capture the flag reader is on the opposite side and when reader is about to get Percy team flag Percy in a fit of adrenaline hurts reader?

If not your writing style you don't have to do it at all! Thank you for your time to!

Snakes And Stones Never Broke My Bones

percy jackson x reader

or... the one where playing capture the flag on opposite teams wasn’t quite the best idea

word count : 605

warning : mentions of a cut and blood, english is not my first language!!!

🔱🌊

sweat dripped down your forehead.

you were so, so close to winning capture the flag. sneaking in behind Percy with the long stick you found in the woods, ready to push him away from here he’s standing in front of his team’s blue flag, guarding it. you held the long piece of wood up, and slowly, as quietly as possible, crept behind him and managed to position the stick behind his back, ready to attack.

but, he could sense you. he could smell you, feel your presence. yet in a moment or an adrenaline rush, he didn’t recognize you right away, too caught up in the game. he turned around in a split second, willing out his pen-sword and pointing it at you before his face quickly switching from being alarmed by the predator to calming down once he saw that it was you.

what he didn’t notice though, was how close the blade of his sword was to your arm.

he cut you right on your upper arm. he reached up to touch it but you push him away.

“shit, shit... you alright, sunshine? I’m so sorry, baby..” he quickly apologized, dropping his gold sword to the ground as you dropped your wooden stick as well. tears welled up in your eyes, your hand coming up to cover the bruise on your bicep, a whimper leaving your lips as the pain of the scrape finally hit you.

“i-it hurt, perce…” you whined, feeling your boyfriend’s arms wrapping around your shoulders, bringing you closer to him. “so sorry, angel. I'm so, so sorry…” Percy mumbled into your hair, leaning his head down to press a few comforting kisses to the top of your head. “is there anything I can do?” he asked, clearly wanting to help you with your pain.

“let me look, yeah?” he said, pulling away from you, taking your hand in his, and moving it away from your injured arm. fixating his eyes on the scratch, he saw exactly where his sword cut through your skin and left an open wound trickling with blood. “this might leave a scar, princess…” percy whispered, letting go of your arm and leaning in closer to your face to kiss away your tears. he reached up to his left shoulder, ripping the hem of his shirt’s sleeve. bringing it to your hand, he slid the fabric over your arm and up to the cut, wrapping it tightly over the wound to help stop the building and keep it as clean as possible. “oh, my angel…” he said with a sigh, wrapping his arms around you once again, resting his chin on top of your head and holding you close to himself. “want me to give you the flag for free as of saying sorry?” he asked, making you sniffle and sob-laugh at his words. “mmh, maybe…”

“go ahead, honey.” percy said while laughing, releasing you from his hold and pushing you slightly toward the flag. reaching out your hand, you take the blue flag in your healthy hand and take it out of the ground, holding it up above your hand just as your game teammates reached the secluded spot with the rival team chasing behind them, the red team chanting in delight as they saw that they won while the blue team audibly sighed in defeat.

“you know I could have done it without your help, right?” you whispered, just loud enough for percy to hear but quiet enough so that the other won’t hear you. he snickered, “sure you would, angel. keep telling that you yourself.”

“now, can I take you to the infirmary?”

————————————————————————————

a/n : was listening to hamilton while writing this lol took some inspiration, try to find the reference!!

[bubblegumgothglados]

You heft the cleaver in your hand. The weight is satisfying, it feels right in your hand, natural, like an extension of your arm. It should do, you've been practicing with this thing for months in preparation. You inspect the edge and feel slightly disappointed when you find no imperfections. You slide it over the whetstone just to her the *shlinnnng* of metal against stone, it rings out and sends a shiver down you spine.

You look over at the girl you have taped to a chair for the first time since you started honing the knife half an hour ago. "Comfortable sweetheart?" Your panties in her mouth muffle most of whatever reply she might have had and the duct tape does the rest. The power drill you used to bolt her arm to the table sits next to the first aid kit, you'll need both once lop off her finger. Her pinky is the only part of her body not perfectly immobilised, it sticks out looking vulnerable.

You vacate your seat at the other end of the table, casually flipping the enormous knife around your knuckles. She does a valiant job of keeping her breathing even but you can smell her adrenaline fuelled sweat, you can see her dilated pupils darting about, you fancy you can even hear the staccato beat of her heart.

The fresh white tablecloth gets its first blood stain as you rest the cleaver on her first knuckle. The keen edge and weight of the blade alone is enough to part her flesh. "Keep very still" you warn her, raising the cleaver high. She screams. The once white tablecloth gets a host of new stains.

A month later you're hosting a dinner part for all your friends. Your love is telling the story of how she lost the tip of her pinky trying to fix her bike, clumsy thing that she is. Everyone loves your 'modern art' table cloth with its patched spots and huge brown splatter marks. And when anyone asks about the new stone adorning your wedding ring you tell them it's a natural pearl. You explain how wild pearls are almost never perfectly round, you don't think anyone suspects it's a nicely cleaned and preserved human pinky bone.

[yandere-sins]

Not to be the monsterfucker y'all know and love but I was running around, clearing the map today a bit while I was waiting for a visitor and I found these absolute UNITS of skeletons (They are called Death Shepherds):

Like HELLO???? I don't even mean that sexually but WHY ARE THEY SO FREAKIN' HOT???? (Sorry for the crap resolution on the first pic, I forgot screenshot's existed and used my phone, but then I remembered.)

Also they were HUGE BOYS (yes, plural, there were 2. Like Gale certainly has BJ height at most next to them, they were MASSIVE CHUNKS OF SKELETON AND ARMOR!!) compared to everyone else, even my Dragonborn Tav, and they kept reanimating the ghouls (which weren't as pretty), so I told my friend who was obviously appalled by how infatuated I was with the skeletons really tickled my inspiration for them, and I was thinking...

Yandere skeletons that are just your scary dog privilege, protection squad.

(And no, we are not sexualizing this time, this is not Sans Undertale.)

You should have died that day you met them, but without any apparent reason, they didn't attack you. They just watch you with their holes for eyes, ever so slightly creeping closer. It's not until the ghouls sticking around them notice you that you get into grave danger. You see those hungry, violent creatures charge at you, their claws scraping over stone and dirt as they come for your life, when, suddenly, the sound of a sharp blade cutting through the air and then flesh fills the crossroad where your unfortunate encounter takes place.

The scream ripping from your throat gets stuck as the head of the ghoul that attacked you rolls up to your feet, a now bloody sword lowering again as you hear the other ghouls whimper—whimper!—before they take off the other way. Instead, the two skeletons stalk closer, their armor rattling as if they were still living, breathing beings going off to war. Instead, one bends down, inspecting you with soulless eyes, its hand coming up to cup your cheek as if concerned with the horror etched into your face.

There's no getting rid of them. After standing around for what feels like ages, you are as confused as you are increasingly in a hurry to get away. Once you take enough steps away to turn your back to them without fearing being struck down, you make a mad dash for your life, running until your thighs burn and lungs beg for a moment to breathe—only to hear their armor rattle behind you.

Honestly, purely from a travel companion point of view, you cannot ask for anyone better. They are swift and skilled in battle, scaring away anyone who dares to come close to you, and incredibly low maintenance, as they don't need food or shelter, really. But they aren't mindless goons either, and that's where things get crazy.

Because one night, they decide they deserve cuddles for all the good they do.

As if being watched by the darkness in their eye sockets while you sleep isn't bad enough, you feel the hard armor press to your back one night, an arm—clothed but mere bones—wrapping around you from behind, face nestling into the nape of your neck. You can kind of come to terms with them trotting behind you all day, never saying anything, never leaving your side. You might even be thankful for their help when they keep robbers and goblins at bay and you out of any harm's way. Hell, you let them watch you do anything like eat, sleep, and—despite feeling unwarranted shame rake its claws down your body—bathe. But this was getting out of hand.

It could have been okay if it had only been a moment, but learning that these creatures sought out contact this intimate freaks you out. And it's never just a moment of putting their souls at ease, no. Because no matter how much you wriggle, they won't let go of you, their scraggy fingers digging into your flesh. You'll have to wait for them to switch if you want to try and escape, leaving everything behind to make a run for it in the middle of the night. But in stark contrast to you, who ran into the darkness without the time to collect things, they have all their belongings on them if they pick up their swords, and they can run endlessly without worrying about aches and stamina, catching up to you quickly. You'll just hang your head and be escorted back to camp when you decide to stop panicking, only for them to take the opportunity to rearrange and occupy both sides of your bedroll as they please once you want to lay down for another sleepless night.

It's not like you can get rid of them. You can't take them both on and if one falls, the other will just bring it back to life in an endless circle. You saw it before; no doubt it will happen again. Even if you talk to them, ask them questions, or shoo them away, they don't budge and cannot answer, getting into motion again only if you do. The most they ever give you to indicate their thoughts is laying their head to the side as if they don't understand you. Or admire you. Or stare at you adoringly. Who knows.

Things turn from bad to worse when you decide to end your adventure and return home. The stares you receive when you enter the city you live in with your hulking, undead companions are mortifying. Some people faint on the spot; others scream. And the two try to fight anyone trying to squeeze past them, seeing them as possible enemies to you. They made sure your life will never be the same. Neither friends nor family can get close to you, and no one dares to talk with you, trade, or even look your way. These two are creating a life where you'll be separated from anyone but them, and you begin to doubt they are doing it unintentionally. You'll never be able to free yourself unless you find a group that manages to actually kill them both.

But then again, as you stare at the night sky, stars twinkling above you, you can't help but feel bad for the two boney companions hugging you and resting their hard heads on your chest. The same ones that are so scarily indifferent, yet swift and merciless in a fight, straight out of a horror story with blood splattered on their white faces and swords in hand. Yet, they pick up flowers for you on the way or clean your equipment while you're asleep, hunting food for you and preparing it so you can cook and eat it right away. They are like needy puppies, putting their heads on top of yours while you read the map or admire the scenery, or hold onto your sleeve as you walk through a dark cave so you don't get lost. Clearly, they have some lingering sentiment, searching for warmth and affection from you. There's nowhere for you to run or hide, as they have all the time and strength to go after you. Maybe you shouldn't have given them names, shouldn't have treated them kindly when you started to travel together. But all these regrets come now when it's already too late.

Because they will let nothing and no one take you from them, no matter who or what they have to fight, just so they can have you all to themselves.

Their pretty, little, alive darling with a heart that races so fast whenever they do anything, be it scare or love you. 

__________________

Bonus points for you somehow dying despite their efforts (traps and magic are a bitch to avoid), so they keep reviving you, and they either... 

a.) succeed, and now you owe them your life and have to live with the knowledge of what it's like to die and that they'll most likely keep reviving you, even if you die of old age. So you'll suffer eternally with them.

b.) don't succeed, and can't accept/don't understand you're dead, so they carry your body around, trying to show you all the pretty things they learned you like as you slowly decay in their arms until you are a mere skeleton like them, so they lay you to rest in a grave with them, coming alive only when someone tries to rob your grave before returning to slumber next to you. You three won't even be apart in death.

Like, sorry guys, that's my emotional support yandere skeleton beloved ♥

[waspsarebetterthanbeesanyways]

Only the Dead 1

Figured I’d post the first scene of my WIP here.

part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10

_____

There’s something wrong.

Bruce wakes up slowly, despite the icy frisson of dread that crawls up his spine. His head hurts. His muscles ache, knotted like stone, to the point where simply shifting position feels like a Herculean task.

There’d been an Arkham breakout again. He’d gone after the Joker -- there’d been a hostage -- and then..?

He can hear voices, murmuring quietly around him on all sides, none of them familiar. He can smell disinfectant, wax, something floral, and a hint of rot underneath it all. A hospital? he wonders, mind sluggish.

“He’s waking up.”

Bruce peels his eyelids open with difficulty; his eyelashes stick together.

It’s not a hospital. It’s a warehouse? Wherever he is, it’s lit dimly, by only candlelight.

“No matter. We are ready to commence with the ritual.”

Bruce rolls his head to the side. He can feel the velvet of an expensive tablecloth underneath his cheek -- he’s on some sort of table -- an altar? Below him he can dark, geometric lines -- a circle, and a diamond within -- and strange symbols drawn around the edges. Above him tower shadowy figures -- people, men and women dressed in dark grey robes, their faces obscured. Batman uses similar scare tactics to frighten criminals, but Bruce still feels frightened at the sight.

He jerks, trying to get upright. Sharp pain blooms in his throat, his wrists and his ankles. He’s tied up -- no, he’s chained and collared, tightly, to the altar.

One of the robed figures approaches him. Her robes are distinct from the others, the seams embroidered with pale silver thread, taking the shapes of cartoon ghosts, of all things. She clicks her tongue at him. “Batman, Bruce Wayne,” she murmurs. “It was a lot of trouble getting you. Don’t think we’ll let you escape.”

Bruce’s heart hammers in his chest as his situation sinks in. He’s trapped, unable to move, kidnapped by a cult he hadn’t even been aware existed.

“Everybody get into position.”

There’s four of them, not counting the vestal. Each of them takes a candle from the corner of the altar, cupping them between their palms. The vestal pulls a knife from her robes. The blade is pitch black, like obsidian, and it gleams in the candlelight.

Bruce squirms, feeling the chains, searching for a weakness. The vestal cards her fingers through his hair as if to calm him. “I am sorry,” she says. “I wouldn’t do this if there was another way. Know that we will honor your sacrifice. The Lord of Screams will follow your footsteps and bring salvation to this wretched city.”

“Don’t do this,” Bruce says.

The vestal tilts her head back and begins to chant. “O king, we beseech you; grace us with your presence.” The other cultists echo her words in Latin. “To you we gift you thus -- an offering of blood to bring you power, an offering of bone to anchor you to this plane -- a life for a life.”

“A life for a life,” the cultists chant.

The vestal lifts her blade, and with both hands, plunges it into Bruce’s chest.

The candle flames flicker out, then return a brilliant Lazarus green.

The vestal pulls her blade back out with a wet squelch and hastily backs out of the circle. The cultists back away at a slow, even pace. The lines of the circle begin to glow that same horrid, beautiful green, and they grow, expanding with each step the cultists take.

Bruce, still struggling, chokes on his own blood. It dribbles out his lips.

The lines of the circle thicken until the entire circle is filled in with that eerie green, and then it begins to swirl. A massive hand pulls itself out of the miasma, and then a flaming crown, a horned helmet, a scowling face. A giant, armored body, barely contained by the warehouse.

“Once again, I am freed,” the being says in a booming voice.

“Lord Phantom,” the vestal says. The glow has intensified enough for Bruce to make out her features -- her glistening eyes, her wide smile. “It really worked. You’re really here...”

“Phantom,” the being says. “Is that who you believe I am?”

“My lord?” the vestal asks, voice small.

“I am not Phantom,” the being spits, face twisting into a rictus of hatred. “I am none other than Pariah Dark, king of the Infinite Realms.”

The last Bruce sees of the vestal is the horror on her face before Pariah Dark slams down his fist, reducing her to a bloody smear. The remaining cultists flee, screaming.

“Cowards,” Pariah Dark sneers. “But they shall be my subjects soon enough.” He turns his gaze towards Bruce, and scoops him up into one of his massive hands, phase shifting him through the chains. “Now you, you must be one of those costumed warriors Phantom emulates so fondly.” He inspects the bat symbol on Bruce’s chest. The blood has spread so much it’s barely recognizable. “But a dying vessel has no use to me.”

With that, Pariah Dark carelessly tosses Bruce to the ground. Bruce shouts in pain, and dark splotches grow in his vision. They do not fade.

“Batman!”

“Dad!”

No. Bruce’s vision is fading quickly, but he can still tell. Nightwing, Red Robin, Batgirl -- his sons, and the girl who is like a daughter to him. They can’t be here.

“Run,” Bruce croaks, but Nightwing still approaches. The other two attack Pariah Dark. trying to distract him. Bruce can’t move, can’t run with them, can’t fight with them, can’t protect them. “Run away!”

Steph screams. Dick reaches Bruce and curls an arm around his shoulders. “We’re not leaving you,” Dick says. He sounds close to tears.

Bruce doesn’t hear him. He is already lost.

[inkyminx]

I couldn’t resist so have a character that appears in most adaptations of JTTW cause I like the concept and that it’d be fun instead of sticking a character to one series.

Experimental & whatnot. R.I.P spine and sleep schedule BUT HEY— IT FUN.

Have Some Trivia ~

The name’s Kaihua Haizi!  开花孩子

Kai Zi for short.

Panamanian White-Face Capuchin.

Gay, He / Him

Is a mystic, not born from stone.

Born on Flower Fruit Mountain.

Be loyal or kneecaps be backwards, sassy, strong-willed, brutally honest, curious & aggressive.

May have broken someone’s bone in an arm wrestle. Or two. Or ten—

A singer & performer: mostly ballet & acrobatics.

Has some kind of romance or camaraderie with Wukong (depending on the version) & often a mentor for successors and young.

This guy will make a sh!t ton of movie references (mostly Emperor’s New Groove) .

Kind of a busy-body.

Pretty much an older sibling type/guidance for the younger monkeys in FFM.

That or the guy that trains said youngins and newcomers, often times the kiddos being dragged back by him unconscious later.

Is a tad older than Macaque and Wukong. (Headcanon: Don’t know if it’s proven, but to me- Macaque is older than Sun Wukong) (more related to LMK) .

Gained Immortality through witchcraft and that one time Wukong stole the longevity peaches.

Possesses appearance manipulation, flora & black magic.

Uses hairpins, needles & a Guandao-like blade.

Was burned with an iron as punishment by the Heavens for being connected to Wukong and taking part in his war against them (hence the mark on his chest) .

Will Lion King his own kid (MK, Destined One, Fruity & Chenxiang watch out) .

And for the adaptations, continue under the cut!

Mei Hou Wang

Was raised alongside Liu’er by the former king after losing his parents as an infant (Headcanon, not sure if proven) .

Nicknamed “Hua Hua” by Shihou right after meeting him.

In a kind of love triangle with Liu’er & Shihou as they got older.

It’s unknown how their ending will go but it remains lighthearted and fun regardless (fvck off Nine Headed B!tch) .

Close friends and dance partners with Yutu.

Accompanied Liu’er during his training with the deer master (more so to keep an eye on him/babysitting) .

May have spied on Liu’er much after noticing something was up after his first encounter with the Nine Headed demon (can’t remember his name, sorry) .

Definitely hung Ginseng on a tree branch a few times as discipline.

Likes to tease Havoc and the monkey generals for days on end.

Nicknames Shihou “Shidi” for fun.

Started wearing his hair with a braid after Liu’er started it one day while enjoying the sunshine.

Played a LOT of pranks on the generals as a cub.

Was born with the mark on his chest as a symbol to his power in flora in this version.

Was taught singing and dancing to “ease his buffoonery” by the former king.

Kinda went the other way but still kinda worked?

Owns a flower-made promise ring Shihou made for him.

~

LMK

Calls Macaque “Shidi” to mess with him in this version.

In their youth, Kai & Sun Wukong were in a relationship for a couple of years (basically a friends-to-lovers situation) .

PET NAMES ARE A TRADITION.

Introduced the shy Macaque to Wukong.

BOI this version’s chaotic tendencies go through the Heavens compared to the others (minus one) .

Was friends with the Brotherhood and often hung around together, getting drunk most times (minus Peng) .

Sorry Macaque, gonna have to drag TWO drunk primates back up the mountain this time.

Pranked tf out of Peng and lesser demons in his youth.

Got into an argument with Wukong right before the Brotherhood’s attack on the Heavens, leaving some strings torn.

“I’m not gonna stand on that battlefield and watch you die!”

Stayed with Macaque on FFM until his fight with the King.

Left FFM after his friends’ battle.

Now lives in the mountains of The Red-Buttocked Horse Monkey (Headcanon as seen in Sheng’s story) .

Plays a similar role to Macaque with MK in S1 but doesn’t try to uppercut the kid.

In fact, this guy is a pretty frequent customer of Pigsy’s Noodles before this but hid his history during that time.

Kinda.

Tang: YOUR THE MONKEY KING’S LOVER! 🤩 Kai: Ah sh!t, here we go again.

Makes up with Wukong after season 3, seeing him interact with MK and Macaque, and his change.

While not back together completely, the two go DAYS being menaces & buddy-buddy once more.

MK: Your technically my fifth dad, right?  Kai.exe Stopped Working.

~

Reborn

Is Sun Wukong’s close friend & comrade instead of pursuing a full relationship.

Appeared briefly in the town during their search, covering most of their face to hide themself.

Was caught by Fruity at one point in the town but the monkey not carefully shoved the baby in the pile of a vegetable stall.

Was hinted by Wukong when Fruity asked if he had someone waiting for him back home.

This guy is a lot more…mysterious & dark vibes in appearance than the usual chirpy but still holds that prankster/fun vibe.

Aside from that, there’s not much about him in the movie since he only appears in the background and is only mentioned verbally once.

~

1996

TBA

Will be created once I finally find a decent translation without signing for a subscription and whatnot.

~

Black Myth

Like most, Kai and Wukong were close comrades and eventually started a somewhat more intimate relationship before the Journey.

MANY years later, Kai plays a supporting role and guide for the destined one (similar to Zhu Bajie) .

In this version, Kai does appear as an elder (though not as much as the old monkey in the beginning) but does revert back to his true age near the end.

Age Appearance Manipulation do be like that.

Lost his right arm & left eye a period after Sun Wukong’s death.

Kai, to The Destined One: “When I was your age—“  Zhu Bajie: *repeats in spongebob mocking*

Despite not actually being able to be so GOD does this guy have a great time being an old man/monkey.

To Destined One: “FVCK ‘EM UP, SONNY!”

~

Havoc In Heaven / Lotus Lantern

This version doesn’t really do much in the story of both aside from what’s already been said, including an intimate relationship w/ Wukong, mentoring and taking care off the young monkeys, etc.

Their romance is more subtle in this version.

His design is more of a mix of the opera & ballet, but simplified to match the style of the animation.

If you thought LMK PeachSong (yea) was a chaotic pair, BOY LET ME TELL YA—

In the latter, Kai is sometimes seen either behind the lotus Wukong sits on doing his own thing (mostly just listening & basically giving off the “old married couple vibe” or being a guardian type to Chenxiang as he trains.

Grandpapi & Grandpapa be here wrecking so much havoc (badum chsss) .

[kickingitwithkirk]

If I Gave You My Soul, Would You Wait Eternity For Me?

Pairing: Dean Winchester X Sam Winchester

WC: 8218

Warnings: Show Level Violence, Wincest

*Written initially for Wincest Reverse Bang 2023 *Inspired by the artwork A King and his Knight by @bluefire986 *Thank you to @mrswhozeewhatsis for being my last-minute Beta

Sam walks down the empty hallway feeling tired. 

Not the kind of tired one gets from the physical work of hunting, but a type from being one of heaven and hell's favorite chew toys for so long it has worked its way into the marrow of his bones.

He opens the door to Room Eleven and flips the lights on. He scans the scant possessions in his brother's personal space, illuminated by the antiquated lighting around the room, all having some meaning to Dean. Weaponry hanging on the walls, the antique furniture he can’t stop rearranging, his favorite Busty Asian Beauties magazines, and last but not least, a slice of discarded pie sitting on the telephone table.

Sam frowns at the representation of how much of a sloth his brother always was… is . Picking up the leftovers, he notices some photographs sticking out from under a scribbled-on notepad and pulls them out. He sits on the unmade bed flipping through them, each containing a distinct memory; some taken before he was old enough to remember, others throughout their years together. 

He pauses at the last one. Bobby had snapped the candid picture in his kitchen sometime between Death's restoration of his soul and Castiel breaking The Wall. Sam tries to remember the last time he’s seen his brother smiling like that. 

Leaving all but that one photo behind, Sam is determined to save Dean from damnation, no matter the cost.

****

Unbeknownst to Sam during his absence, Dean regains consciousness and, ironically, feels a helluva lot better. His blood feels more fevered than boiling and notices his flesh is no longer burning like it had been since Sam slapped the demon cuffs on him the other day.  

Manipulating his left arm, Dean bends his hand and hisses when the holy water-infused ropes sting his fingertips like a swarm of wasps. He quickly loosens the knot, slips free, then tackles the rest. Unlacing his left boot enough to toe it off, he sits it on his lap and removes the leather insert, fishing out the hidden lock pick and using it to release his cuffed wrist. 

Shaking out his hand, Dean feels the cuffs' inhibiting effects diminish, gets up, crosses to the painted edge of the demon trap, and comes into contact with the trap's front edge. It shocks him with what feels like a hundred cattle prods simultaneously. Growling, Dean backs up a bit and springs forward using his superior strength, forcing the invisible barrier to bow outwards like an overinflated balloon. It gives way when it hits the maximum curvature, and inertia carries him on until gravity grabs hold and drops him like a stone onto the concrete floor.

Dean lies there, momentarily breathless, and mirthlessly chuckles at what his little brother considered a brilliant idea, pumping so much blessed blood into him that it fooled the wardings’ capabilities. Climbing onto unsteady feet, he staggers for the door and traverses up the first set of the building's stairwells. The residual effects from the physical restraints finish wearing off and Dean fumes at Sam’s audacity. How dare Sam force a cure Dean didn’t want on him when he had been downright benevolent in offering to spare his life by walking away. 

Twice

But now Dean is free and pissed off. The Mark burns on his arm, screaming for The Blade and vengeance. Soon, it’ll finish overriding the bit of humanity that had struggled to return. Usually, Dean goes straight for the kill and heads for some no-name bar to drink and hook up with whoever caught his eye, enjoying their charms until he gets bored. 

But it was Sam . His too damn intelligent and resourceful little brother who’d flagrantly discarded his last request.

Sammy, let me go.

But no, Sam hauled him back to the bunker and forcibly injected that poisonous cure into his body, knowing he hates needles, knowing it’d never been successfully used on a knight of Hell.  

Yes, Dean had to teach his little brother a lesson. And there were plenty of implements of war and other things around the bunker to employ. 

Using his mortal self’s knowledge of how his little brother processes various scenarios, Dean runs through all known versions of Sam’s A-Z planning. In all versions, calling the angel would be step one. He knows he’ll need new tactics but doesn’t have much time to implement them before that dick in the trench coat shows. 

Even if he is running on borrowed grace, Dean isn’t ignorant that Castiel could still be a threat to a knight of Hell, possibly overpowering him now that that cure has temporarily sullied his blood. He starts formulating countermeasures while traveling the stairs toward the second floor and, upon reaching the level, goes straight to the lab in Room Twenty-Eight for a few items.

Part II

Sam returns with two more packs of the cure and slowly walks to the dungeon’s entrance, mentally guarding himself against the next barrage of verbal attacks from the demon, his big brother. He notices the door is open and feels adrenaline-fueled fear saturate his system. His heart races, standing in the doorway, finding the chair empty with the restraints dangling off the arms. 

Sam reaches into the back of his waistband, pulls out the demon blade, and scans his immediate area. Realizing his brother has moved on, he cautiously heads back up the stairwell toward the upper floors.

Clearing each is time-consuming, making Sam’s fear grow that the demon has escaped the bunker. It’s almost a relief when he hears a door open and quickly close, then footsteps moving up a back staircase to the main floor. 

Peeking around the map room, Sam stealthily crosses to a desk drawer where the master keys are stored and freezes at clattering in the kitchen. He quietly picks up the metal ring, hoping Dean can’t hear him. 

Sam heads downstairs as he hears Dean bellow, “Come on, Sammy! Don’t you want to hang out with your big brother? Spend a little quality time?” 

Sam reaches the electrical room and flinches with every jingle of the keys as he unlocks the door. He has to keep Dean from escaping or everybody Dean leaves behind will be blood on Sam’s hands. With a switch flick, the bunker turns dark, kicking on the red auxiliary lights as the claxon announces the lockdown and covers the sound of his steps.

“Smart Sam, locking the place down, doors won’t open. I get it, but here’s the thing. I don’t want to leave, not till I find you.” 

The relief Sam feels at knowing no one else will be hurt anytime soon is balanced by the spike of fear caused by the murderous tone of his brother’s voice. He’s heard it plenty of times, just never aimed at him . Refocusing on his goal, Sam quells his fear and quietly moves to find a place to hide, wait for Dean to show, and shut off the lockdown to silence the claxon so he can trail Sam’s steps again. Sam hopes this will be his chance to trap him and escape alive.

“Sammy, just making this worse for yourself, man. You can, uh, blame yourself for me getting loose. All that blood you pumped into me to make me human--well, the less demon I was, the less the cuffs worked. And that devil’s trap--well, I just walked right across it; it smarted. But still….”

Dean enters the hall heading into the electrical room and heads down the steps to the junction box. A flip of a switch powers the bunker up. “That’s more like it.” Dean says loud enough for Sam to hear as he slams the door shut from the outside.

Obviously unimpressed, Dean yells through it as Sam again tries reasoning with him to finish the treatment. He jumps at a loud, thumping noise from the inside and backs up when the wooden door splinters, sending pieces flying at him. 

“You act like I want to be cured.” 

Sam is shocked as more chunks burst outwards, revealing his brother's pissed-off face.

“Personally, I like the disease, ” Dean taunts, knowing how those words will bother Sam.

“Dean, stop that!” Shaking his hand, Sam lobs what they both know is a baseless threat. “I don’t want to use this blade on you!”

“Oh ! That sucks for you, doesn’t it? ‘Cause you mean that,” Dean sneers.

“Look, if you come out of that room, I won’t have a choice!’

“Sure you will!  And I know which one you’ll make. Isn’t that right, Sammy? But see,” Dean resumes his demolition, “here’s the thing. I’m lucky. Oh, hell, I’m blessed. ‘Cause there’s just enough demon lift in me that killing you ain’t no choice.” 

Knowing he has no choice but to run, Sam tears down the passageway as Dean finishes wrecking the door and walks through what remains. “Come on, Sammy, let’s have a beer, talk about it. I’m tired of playing. Let’s finish this game!”

Sam peers down the hallways Dean will have to pass through and finds them empty. He turns to double back but in his peripheral, catches a flash of red flannel and instinctively ducks. He feels the prongs of the swinging object snag longer strands of his hair before its momentum buries it in the concrete wall where his head was milliseconds ago. Sam swoops upright, placing the sharp edge of the demon blade against Dean's throat.

The chuckle that comes out of Dean is truly evil. “Well, look at you.” 

Sam’s hand trembles as Dean peers upward into his eyes and challenges, “Do it,” before tipping his chin downward and leaning into the blade’s edge.

“ It’s all you.”   

If Sam had a better poker face when lying to his big brother, he wouldn’t have given away that Cas appeared behind Dean, and what happened next would’ve been impossible. Sam watched, horrified, as Dean sliced his throat on the demon blade, the cut sparking orange and dousing him and the wall in a venous spray revealing a hidden sigil.

Time ticked in slow motion as Dean pushed Sam away, sending him sliding down the hall with unnatural force. He then smoothly turned toward the angel with demonic speed and did it again, sending Cas flying through the air. Sam watches as he swipes his left hand across the cut before slapping it on a now glowing sigil, dispatching the trench-coated angel to who knew where. 

Sam’s still-shocked brain immobilizes him long enough that Dean is on him before he can get up and run. He tries, but his bum shoulder gets in the way, leaving him floundering. Dean grabs the lapels of his flannel shirt and pulls him to his feet, instead. One evil, cocky smile, and Dean slams Sam and his head against the wall then leaves him to slide back down to the floor. Sam’s fading vision registers the knight of Hell squatting down and, before losing consciousness, hears his gravelly voice utter, “Should’ve picked that beer.”

Part III

When the first glimmers of consciousness return, the cold air rolling over his skin tells Sam he’s in the dungeon. He quickly figures he’s shackled and bound to the chair by the blessed ropes, wrapped in their rough embrace. He’s still doing an inventory of his position and possible injuries when a thirst hits him. 

Not thirst from the lack of hydration but that unique, unforgettable, insatiable craving Sam has vehemently resisted for years. This thirst was reignited by the higher-level demon's blood, making his body yearn for more of the substance that’s left a thick, rich coating, laced with a smoky aftertaste, on his tongue.

Horrified by his reaction, the little blood in his stomach rolls upwards, slipping past his lips onto his shirt, followed by copious amounts of foul-tasting, pink-tinged bile.

“You always were an over-sensitive bitch.” 

The gravelly voice bounces off the concrete walls to ricochet inside his skull. Struggling to open his eyes through the pain from the back of his head, Sam fuzzily sees the outline of his brother sitting with one hip hitched up on the edge of the table, suddenly smiling peculiarly. “I gotta hand it to you, Sam. You were this close,” he holds up a thumb and forefinger an inch apart, “turning me back. Know where you fucked up? Come on, take a guess. No? Okay, I’ll throw you a bone. Where’d you store that blood?” 

Dean smirks as the answer dawns on Sam. “I’d have put it on ice in a cooler. No wonder Dad never trusted you to do anything right.” 

Sam remains silent, partly not wanting to vomit on himself again as his head mercilessly throbs in time with his heartbeat. The other part doesn’t want to take the bait because the demon who is his brother holds all the cards.

“What? No pithy comeback? No, Dean, you’re wrong, blah blah blah?” The demon grabs a beer bottle by his hip and takes a swig.

 “That night I left with Crowley, he asked why not kill you and be done with it 'cause you’d never stop searching for us.” The demon chuckles. “Told him we had an agreement to do normal. And how do you repay my benevolence? You drag me back here, torturing me in ways far worse than Alastair ever dished out because you can’t let go!”

“Are you telling me that Dean Winchester, my brother, wouldn’t have gone to the ends of the earth if it’d been me? I don’t believe that!” Sam pushes down the pain. “You want a pound of flesh for doing the same thing you’ve repeatedly done for me?”

“Ohh, I’ve already got ideas running through my head.” His mood shifts, and presto chango, he’s Dean again. “So, I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

"Man, you hung out way too long with that low-rent Vito Corleone wannabe,” Sam snarks.

“Maybe. But I learned more about The Mark when he was in his cups, whatever that means. He admitted not telling me everything before I took it and related a little-known story. Cain couldn’t deal with what he’d done and committed suicide using the First Blade. But The Mark wouldn’t let him go, changing him into a demon.”

“Here’s the kicker, though.” Dean goes to a storage cabinet, removes an object, and then walks over to him. “What none of the lore, oral histories, or rumors say was that he became a demon with a soul.”

“Wha..what are you saying?” The scent of the rich blood under Dean's skin tortures him the closer he gets. “You’ve had your soul this entire time, and you still—” Sam broke off, the thirst clouding his thoughts.

“The Mark wants what it wants, but I’ve had time to figure out how to keep it appeased, and right now, my soul is the only thing keeping you alive.” Dean stops centimeters from the devil’s trap’s outer ring. “Here's my proposal. I’ll stay till you heal, care for you like I always have.”

“In exchange for what, Dean? I look the other way while you go out and slaughter people.”

“You returned The Blade to Crowley, so The Mark is pissed and wants your blood, which brings me to the second part. I need you to feel what I feel, see what I… Jesus Fucking Christ, I’m starting to sound like that wanker Crowley!” 

Dean moves around as he used to when shaking things off. “I need you to understand I want this, and the only way is to spend time with me as is. So, to wrap your big brain around it, I’m going to give you a bit of my blood every day, just enough to bring out that demonic side Azazel created.”

“You have lost your fucking mind, Dean! If you think I’d let you—”

“Before finishing that sentence, imagine me shutting the power on and off to watch you suffocate for the fun of it. Or locking down the bunker, letting you slowly starve. Remember, I also was Alastair’s most promising, and I can do things to your body without killing you, make you wish you’d never left the Cage.”

Sam doesn’t respond, so the demon crosses the trap smiling coldly. “It doesn’t work on me anymore.” He walks behind Sam and leans close to whisper, “Remember feeding from Ruby? How that warm blood slipped down your throat, heightening your senses, making you powerful? And she was just a common demon. Can you imagine what a higher-level demon, a knight of Hell, will make you feel like?” Dean holds up a mirror before his face, revealing Sam’s kaleidoscope eye colors are gone, now replaced by a liquid gold color, making him resemble the yellow-eyed bastard who’d destroyed his family.

“After all, Sam, you're foreordained to be the Boy King of Hell.” 

The demon's mood shifts again. “Well, I don’t know about you, but all this talk of blood and mutilation made me hungry,” his brother says, heading towards the door. “I’ll let you sit there while I run to town and grab some food, followed up with a slice of good old-fashioned murder.” 

Dean turns and smiles like his human self. “I’m kidding, Geesh; gotta work on that sense of humor, Sammy!” Flipping off the lights, he shuts the door.

“See you later.”

Part IV

“... the heat of the moment

Telling me what your…”

“Rise and shine, Sammy!” 

Sam’s eyes fly open as the room lights flicker brightly on, squinting at Dean stuffing the last bite of a burger into his mouth.

“...The heat of the moment showed in your eyes.”

“ Whooh , dude, you fucking reek!” Dean mumbles with his mouthful, dramatically waving his hand as the cell phone continues blaring that Asia song Sam hates. ”What is that smell?” He glances down at his brother's lap. ”Oh yeah, I forgot about bodily functions. Sorry.” 

The demon’s audacity to look contrite pisses him off. “You're sorry ?!” Sam hoarsely snaps, “You left me here for so fucking long that I pissed and shit myself like a fucking baby! Was that whole spiel about caring for me another one of your games? If this is your way of convincing me to accept anything you propose, fucking kill me now!”

“I said I was sorry!” Dean grumbles as he stomps over. “It's only been thirteen hours.” He curses while untying the ropes with his bare hands. Unlocking the demon cuff from the chair arm he snaps, “I’m not taking any chances.” Yanking on Sam’s cuffed wrist, he snaps the manacle to his slung-bound wrist, “So you’re keeping these on. Let's go.”

Dean drags Sam up the multiple levels to the communal showers. “Time to get yourself cleaned up.” Dean goes over to his brother's usual area and turns the knobs, warming up the water.

 “How am I supposed to do that? You just said I had to stay in these,” Sam inquires, jingling the silver manacles. “And my shoulder’s stiffened up so much there’s no way I’m getting my shirts off.” Dean momentarily frowns, then grabs the facility's rubbish bin and pulls out his butterfly knife. 

“What’re you..?” Sam begins, but then Dean slices through his flannel and T-shirt, pulls the strips off, and kneels to unlace his boots before reaching for the button on his jeans. Sam's weak protest of you can’t is met by the demon's black eyes and a growl of, “Knock it off!” 

Hooking his fingers into the waistband, he yanks them to Sam’s ankles, blinking in disbelief at his brother's emaciated body. Sam didn't take time to care for himself in the weeks since Dean died, and it made Dean’s eyes shift back into their normal chartreuse. Sam can’t look at this perverted version of his brother supposedly caring for him, so stares at the tiled wall. As he did when still a child, he automatically lifts each foot for Dean as expected, then cringes as his destroyed clothes violently slam into the bin.

“Keep your arm still.” Unsnapping the sling, Dean tosses it towards the bench, then backs him up till the warm sprays hit his back, running over it, cleansing off the days of filth. 

In his peripheral vision, Sam notices Dean stripping off his clothes. “What are you doing?”

The only response is a washcloth roughly scrubbing over his good shoulder and down his back. “Don’t think you can feign ignorance about starving yourself!” Dean snaps as he continues bathing him like when they were kids. “How much time have I invested in caring for you over the years, too? Once again, you’ve risked your health.” He squeezes Sam’s injured shoulder. “No wonder I was able to outthink and outmaneuver you.”

Part V

His buzzing alarm clock wakes Sam, and he gazes at his ceiling like every morning, or is it night? He’s lost track of time since his brother, the knight of Hell, got loose. While lying there, he rehashes what has transpired.

He’s tried several times to escape, and the demon kept his word. Sam involuntarily shudders at the muscle memory of those punishments, so now he does everything Dean instructs, including waiting in his room until Dean shows up with his “daily tonic”, the term he gave to the blood he makes Sam drink directly from his wrist. Thinking about it makes his mouth feel as dry as the Sahara Desert, so he switches his thoughts to compare all the changes he’s found in his brother again.

It’s funny how the demon is still, well, Dean. Retaining his childish humor but with a darker edge at times. His drinking habits haven’t changed, but the whole extended periods of not eating had taken a while to get used to. The biggest change is that the guilt that used to permeate his being is nonexistent; as if becoming a demon freed his soul, is now as he should have been all along.

He also knows Dean is up to something. There are strange phone calls when he thinks Sam has dozed off while watching TV, or the few times he’s unexpectedly left in the middle of the night when Sam has gotten up to go to the toilet or get a drink of water. Then there are the times he catches Dean looking at him. Sam would swear he was looking at him with desire if he didn’t know his brother was strictly into boobs.

Whatever’s going on, Dean will eventually slip up somewhere, and Sam will have the chance to get out. Until then, Sam plays the obedient little brother.

****

Sitting at the library table working on the archive database he created for easier access to the bunkers' collections, Sam searches for a file that has somehow disappeared, checking one place than another, and catches his brother with his feet propped up on the table's end watching him. Again.

Unnerved by the intensity in his eyes, Sam finds himself subconsciously fidgeting like he did when puberty kicked in and realizes his feelings for Dean were developing into the not-brotherly kind. His feelings had become so intense that it was the number one factor in his decision to go away to college.

During those years, and after returning to hunting, he watched his brother evolve from a twink to a very sexy guy and buried his feelings of jealousy when Dean used his perfect features to his advantage in and out of the bedroom. 

“How come I’ve never noticed you’ve got this hot, librarian vibe, little brother?” 

Sam snorts. “Because you're straight.”

 “I’m serious, Sam.”

“Yeah, whatever, dude,” he replies and gets up, resuming his search.

Dean purses his lips. “Spending this time here with you, not worrying about the rest of the world. I realize I’ve spent my life denying I’m Samsexual.”

Sam turns in shock and stares at his brother, unsure if the demon is playing him for malevolent kicks or if Dean is telling the truth, knowing he has to tread carefully. Perching on the other table, Sam asks, “What triggered this confession?”

“Seemed as good a time as any.”

“That’s not an answer, Dean. I know you are technically you and it’s still hard to be honest with me. But I’ve also seen your other side trying to be more open, so please don’t shut me out again. I’d like to know how long you have felt this way about me?”

Dean shrugged. “It was my job to take care of you. Hell, Dad said it often enough. Watch out for Sammy. Those words are ingrained into my bones, deeper than that Enochian warding etched on our ribs. Then you grew, changing from my snot-nosed brother into this wondrous creature, and how I felt about you became something twisted and ugly. Old me never wanted you to find out about my sick desires, so I buried it in those girls I fucked.”

Sam listens to his brother spinning his tale of how, as a teen, he thinks maybe he was born wrong because he’s in love with his baby brother, consumed by thoughts of wanting to touch, caress, and kiss Sam’s pretty pink lips when he smiles and his mind spirals back to those years. 

He thinks maybe he was just born wrong.

Those words trigger a long-treasured memory of Sam, being sixteen and in another nondescript motel room. He’s lying in their shared bed with just enough moonlight filtering in for him to make out the features of Dean's face so close to his. Sometimes, it physically hurts how beautiful Dean is. Broad shoulders and strong hands and gorgeous fucking mouth, and Sam can't release the ache in his chest with Dean's body pressed against him. Slipping a hand beneath the sheets, he starts stroking himself and trying not to think about Dean. But like always, he fails, and clenching his teeth, Sam comes silently. 

“I thought you'd hate me if you knew how much I loved you because I always thought I was what's broken. Now you’re saying you always felt the same? It's not all about wanting or sex or desire. It's just that we’ve never had anybody to care for except each other.” Sam bursts into a laughing jag and falls, landing heavily on the floor. 

Dean falls onto his knees and, in that moment of mutual clarity, says, “You are mine.”  Gazing into his brother’s eyes, he knows Sam's feelings and smiles.

Unrepentant.

Dean's fingertips brush his lips, and it feels like a gentle breeze. Sam leans in to kiss his brother's palm. At that moment, Sam hopes. He hopes, but he also subconsciously knows, that everything they want will come crashing down at some point. 

****

Sam’s flipping through the card catalog when he comes across one out of place. He’s positive it hadn’t been in this drawer the last time he opened it and not recognizing the number enters it into his database but doesn’t find it. His curiosity piqued, he heads for the garage to let Dean know he’ll be hunting down the mystery item in the archives.

Hours later, huffing in frustration, Sam tosses yet another book on the pile cluttering the table in the center of the room. Tracking a Wendigo through the woods is a piece of cake compared to the maze someone’s created for this item. He briefly closes his blurry eyes and rolls his shoulders, working the kinks out from sitting in one position too long. 

Reopening them, he notices the mortar around some of the bricks in the wall next to the shelves he’s been scanning has a different patina. He crosses to the wall and runs his fingers over the area when one gives. He pushes on it and the front of a book-filled steamer trunk sitting next to the wall pops open. Squatting down, Sam can see warding inside and removes a cloth-wrapped item. He feels something sinister emanating from it and sets it on the floor. He reaches to unwrap it, but hears Dean's boots echoing down the hallway and quickly shoves it back in shutting the compartment. 

“Hey, I’ve been calling. Dinner’s ready.”

“Ahh, guess I was in the zone, sorry.”

“Geek,” Dean teases. “You’ve been down here for hours. Find that wherever it is yet?” 

Sam stands. “No, I’ve searched everywhere but it must have been misplaced at some point. What’d you pick up for dinner?” 

Dean's demeanor shifts and Sam knows he’s picked up on the item's lingering essence and comes in. His peering around the shelving makes Sam so nervous he starts fidgeting with one of his cuffs. 

Dean warily eyes him. “I cooked. Made that chicken fettuccine you like.” 

Sam seizes the opportunity to distract him. “Look at you, going to all that trouble, making my favorite. How am I ever to repay you?” He bends and kisses Dean, relaxing when his brother leans into it.

Completely distracted, Dean murmurs against his lips, “Dessert first, and you're on the menu.” 

****

Sam has lost all concept of time.

Mostly, he finds he doesn’t care anymore, whether it’s from the small amounts of blood sating the craving that never goes away or being the center of Dean's universe again. For his birthday, he surprises Sam with a cupcake and they celebrate as if time rolled back twenty years, except for the phenomenal sex they have afterward. 

Sam’s concluded that he’s found contentment, albeit in a completely different way than he ever imagined. He deserves it and doesn’t want it to end. 

Of course, it’s not perfect.

He can sense that item hidden in the trunk, even with demon cuffs inhibiting his blood-fueled abilities. By his brother’s reaction, he knows it's important. Much to Sam’s chagrin, Dean tossed the archives room several times, leaving him to straighten up the aftermath. He’ll have to be patient and wait for the right time to unearth it again. 

****

Sam unwraps the mystery item and feels his heart rate accelerate, realizing what it is. 

The Book of the Damned. 

An ancient manuscript created from flesh and blood containing various dark spells to break curses. Flipping through it, Sam understands some of the obscure Sumerian dialects, remembers a footnote about an encrypted codex, and searches for it. 

Placing both books on the table, he ignores the evil emulating from them and concentrates on finding and translating the spell needed to remove The Mark. 

****

Something made by God, but forbidden to man:

The Forbidden Fruit.

Something made by man, but forbidden by God:

The Golden Calf.

The caster's heart: The life of the thing the spell caster loves most:

Dean.

“This can’t be,” Sam says out loud, staring at the ancient tome. “This can’t be the only way.”

He’d give up his soul without a second thought to talk to Bobby mirthlessly chuckles, knowing Bobby would call him an idjit after everything Dean’s done to get it back. Wearily running his hand over his face, Sam frowns. He’s had energy to spare with Dean feeding him small doses of his demon blood, only needing short naps every few days.

So why the hell is he so exhausted?

Sam goes to the nearest bathroom and looks in the mirror. Sure enough, liquid gold eyes stare back as they have since Dean splattered him in blood. Absorbed in his pondering, Sam walks back to the archives and discovers everything he’d been working on is missing except a folded piece of paper. Picking it up, his heart pounds reading the message.  

Following his brother's instructions to meet in the library, Sam finds him with his feet propped up, a beer in one hand and the book in the other, reading. Squaring his shoulders, Sam sits in his usual place and waits for Dean to acknowledge him. Instead, he continues, occasionally referring back to the codex. Suddenly, out of nowhere, he says, “I gave you a taste of what it’d be like, being together, unburdened by our reality and this is how you repay me.”

“I wasn’t going to let you sacrifice yourself again!”

“It’s different this time! I turned you back into a blood junkie so you’d get some understanding that my remaining a demon is what I need! It’s helped me believe not everything in this fucking universe is my fault, that I’m not 90% crap!”

“I know I’ve done things over the years that’s made it difficult to trust me but to be with you like this, it’s gone against everything I believe in!” Sam gets up, pacing around, and runs his cuffed hands through his hair when Dean gets up, too. 

“Still amazes me how gullible you are Sammy. Those cuffs are strong enough to restrain me but you, with the powers you possess? No way in hell they’d ever actually work.” 

Sam’s brow furrows at what Dean said. 

“You became so absorbed in this that you never noticed I stopped giving you my blood months ago.” Dean closes the distance between them and peers up. “It’s been all you, Dumbo.” Ruby had said something similar: he didn’t need the feather to fly, he had it in him the whole time. 

Dean continues. “My carrying The Mark is the only foolproof way to stop The Darkness from destroying the universe.” 

Sam dreads his brother’s answer but still asks the question. “What are you talking about? What is The Darkness?”

Dean recounts during one of his middle-of-the-night excursions being summoned by Death. The horseman told him a story about God and the archangels imprisoning The Darkness with a mystical lock and key. God gave it to Lucifer, but it corrupted Lucifer so badly that God cast him out. The fallen angel eventually passed it to Cain and so forth.

“For us to end the cycle of Heaven and Hell using us, you gotta accept this is the only foolproof way of averting another one of their apocalypses.” Dean taps the book. “Stop trying to turn me back!” 

His brother is the strongest person Sam has ever known, and as a knight of Hell, a higher-level demon, Dean could carry the burden that came with the curse. Sam’s eyes shift back into their kaleidoscope array, and closing the distance between them, he places his hand over his soulmate's unbeating heart.

“This is it, then?”

Sam's voice is so broken, and his face, nothing has changed since infancy. His baby brother always was the ugliest cryer, almost making Dean cave. Instead, he grips his hand and leans in, touching his forehead to Sam’s.

“Now, I need you to give you what YOU want, Sam. I know you want an ordinary life that I can’t give you. Maybe you'll realize where you truly belong once you’ve had it, get out of your system.”

“Dean….” 

Dean's strong hands cup his face and Sam flashes to the smell of his sleep-warmed skin, to his sweat and his breath and the feel of him, so close and all he wants is Dean to take the upcoming hurt away but knows he won’t.

“Don’t worry Sammy, I will behave, mostly. Now, walk away and live that ordinary life and when it’s time, I’ll be back for you, little brother.” 

Part VI

One year later

Sam locks the door to his apartment and heads down the building’s exterior stairs, abruptly stopping when he hits street level. His hunter senses engaging, he automatically reaches for the back of his waistband, palming the demon blade. He scans the immediate area, looking for something or someone out of place but finding nothing.

He subtly flips the weapon around so his jacket hides it and proceeds down the sidewalk toward his place of employment. As he approaches the door, he slips the blade back into his waistband, enters, ducking under the clanging brass bell, and smiles as Mr. Clark pokes his head out from the store room.

“Hey Sam, perfect timing. We got a delivery needing unpacked.”

“I’ll get on it, sir,” he says, pulling off his backpack and jacket and stashing them under the counter. He grabs his apron and heads to the storeroom, stopping to see what’s on top of the cellophane-wrapped pallet.

An oversized cupcake with a lit candle reminds him of last year’s birthday, the last one he’d ever spend with Dean.

“We weren’t going to let you skip your birthday,” Mr. Clark says. “It’s your favorite, spiced applesauce, and I’m taking you home for dinner.” Sam tries to interrupt but Mr. Clark talks over him. “ I know you use your dinner break to study, but we’re closing early tonight, so you don’t get behind. Marianne is whipping up that vegetable lasagna you like and….” 

Sam doesn’t hear the rest of Mr. Clark’s plan for the evening as the memory of his last birthday replays in his mind. He feels unshed tears prickling, hearing in his mind the whiskey-roughened voice he sorely misses.

“Sammy, make a wish.”

“Don’t have to; it’s come true.”

Laying on Dean's bed curled against his big brother's flannel-clad side, they split Sam’s birthday cupcake like when they were kids, He sighs in contentment as calloused fingers trail down his cheek, and he turns, wrapping his arm tightly around Dean's waist, reiterating, "I love you."

Dean pulls his head down for a slow, sensual kiss, then murmurs, "This is good, right?"

Sam speaks against his lips. “We’re together; that’s all I need.”

***

Sam places the leftovers in his fridge, grabs a beer, sits at the kitchenette table, fires up his laptop, and begins rereading the last paragraph he’d written for class. Sometime later, his phone vibrates. Glancing at the lit screen, Sam sees it’s 11:59 PM. His heart rate speeds up when he recognizes the number. It stops, but then the screen flashes again, and he picks it up.

“Hello?” There’s nothing but silence on the other end. “I know it’s you. What do you want?” The line goes dead. 

Sam gets up and walks to the window, and there she is, her black and chrome exterior gleaming in the streetlight's glow.

Baby.

Sam scans the street but doesn’t spot her owner. He grabs the demon blade and unlocks the door cautiously stepping onto the top step to find a four-pack of Margiekugels lager, minus one. The Impala’s engine roars to life and he watches her peel out, disappearing into the darkness.

With that offering, they start their new yearly tradition of celebrating Sam’s birthday.

Epilogue

Decades later 

11:59 PM

“Come on, Sammy, where are you?”

Something is off. Sam is always punctual for his annual visitation. Dean crosses his arms as he leans against his latest borrowed vehicle and frowns as a strange emotion crawls up from deep inside.

He’s antsy, a thing he hasn’t been in decades. He knows something is wrong when his watch beeps on the hour.

Pushing off the fender, Dean does the one thing he promised himself not to do all those long years ago and walks toward the house. 

Getting closer to the two-story home, it dawns on him that the warding he usually senses surrounding the structure is lessening. As he places one booted foot on the front porch's bottom step, someone opens the front door but remains inside, shadowed by the light cast from another room.

Dean climbs the steps and cautiously crosses the wide porch to the threshold. He’s not greeted by his younger brother but, for the first time, he comes eye-to-eye with his namesake. Dean feels pride that the younger man shows no fear as they study each other.  

His nephew resembles their late father, John, and has his mother's dark eyes. All the golden-hued skin and that hair , though —right down to those stupid flippies at the ends— is all Sam.

“Dad’s been agitated all night. I’m glad he remembers what today is.”

The demon ponders his words, watching Dean Jr. pick up a flathead screwdriver and hammer, squat down, and pry up the threshold to reveal a solid salt block that looks like it’s been under there for years. He starts to use the implements on it when Dean interrupts. “Don’t be stupid, kid. You know what I am, right?”

“Yeah, a knight of Hell.” The kid pushes up his sleeve, revealing an anti-possession tattoo in the same spot where Dean carries the Mark of Cain. “Dad taught me about the things that exist in the dark.”  

Crossing his arms, the demon watches his nephew knock a piece loose, wondering what game he’s playing. 

The kid stands up and places the items on a small table. “Please, Uncle Dean, I know Dad wants to see you.” He turns, leaving the door open.

The prickling from the warding within the house's walls stings but doesn’t stop Dean from crossing the threshold into the foyer. He suddenly becomes overwhelmed by the presence of his Sammy, as if his essence has adhered to the home's structure.

A rhythmic beeping pulls Dean out of his wonderment and, venturing further inwards, he peers around in curiosity. The wallpapered rooms have various patterns but the same theme running through them: some variety of sunflowers, Kansas’ state flower and Sam’s small way of honoring their birthplace.

He follows the beeping down the hallway, hearing it suddenly speed up, then his nephew's voice carries out of the room. Low and soft, the kid says, “Dad, I’ll reestablish the warding afterward. I wasn’t going to let you miss his visit.” 

Dean moves closer, eavesdropping on the conversation, and can’t help smiling at his brother's response. While sounding faded and worn, he still has an edge to his words. 

“I remember Dad saying that to you, Sammy. Never thought I’d hear it from your lips,” Dean recalls, stepping into the doorway quickly suppressing his shock.

Sam, his ginormous little brother, the obsessive health nut who jogged every day and drove him batshit crazy with his lectures about unhealthy habits while chomping on salads like a rabbit, is lying on a hospital bed. He looks so…fragile.

He watches Sam’s eyes quickly shift to his son, then back, using the pleading, puppy dog expression he’d always used radiating from them. “Dude, calm down before you stroke out! I’m not going to try anything. Remember our deal?” 

Sam’s eyes narrow slightly, conveying loud and clear, shut the fuck up, Dean!  

Their silent conversation makes the kid blink. “Wow, those books weren’t exaggerating. You two do that whole secret communication thing.” Gently laying his hand on his father's arm, he says, “And I know you two made some kind of deal years ago. Mom told me I wasn’t to interfere, no matter what.”

Sam sighs and smiles fondly. “Your mother somehow always knew things.”

“That’s because she was a witch,” the kid jokes. “I’m going to give you guys some privacy.” He sets a phone on the medicine-laden table next to the bed. “Text me when y'all finish.” 

They stare at each other as the front door closes and the porch swing begins creaking. Sam points his long finger toward the adjacent dining room. “You want a drink?”

“Nah , I’m good. So how long,” Dean asks, waving at the medical equipment.

“Doctors transferred me to hospice a few days ago and said it could be anytime now. And would you sit down,” Sam huffs. “It hurts my neck having to look up nowadays.”

“Sorry.” Dean sits on the chair by his bed. “So, what you got?” His eyes widen, and he drops a hand to cover his lap. “It’s not…testicular cancer?”

“Oh my god, Dean, seriously? No!” Sam spits out in his exasperated tone, but his eyes contain amusement, looking pointedly at his hand. “Remember when we didn’t think we would make it past thirty, let alone get old?” Dean nods, and Sam exhales tiredly. “All those years of hunting finally caught up with me.”

The feelings of sadness and elation simultaneously slam Dean. His soul is mournful that Sam’s mortality is ending, but the demon is gleeful that he will soon become what he was originally destined for and rejoin him for eternity.

Sam turns his head toward the fireplace, looking at the photographs of memories they shared and new ones created after they separated.

“I’ve had a good life. Some experiences I definitely could have done without, but in the end, it was worth all of it.” They sit silently, like they used to, neither needing anything more than each other’s company.

“What was her name?” Sam asks out of nowhere. “Made you try on her panties?” Sam’s lips twitch at the unasked question flashing across Dean's face, then answers. “Cas. He never could keep a secret when he drank a liquor store.”

“That dick ,”  Dean harrumphs, then says, “Rhonda Hurley. They were pink. And satiny. I kinda liked it.” Dean decides turnabout is fair play and asks, “Did you let Becky punch your V card on your wedding night?”

The brothers continue their teasing reminiscence until Sam starts fading. Dean texts his namesake, enters the dining room, pours himself a drink, then goes outside to sit on the porch swing. Sipping on the whiskey, he hears Sam’s son.

“Dad. It’s okay. You can go now.”

****

His shifting makes the Impala's leather creak loudly as the scant images from his dream dissipate with consciousness.  He hears his brother moving about but doesn’t open his eyes yet. 

“Dude, I had the weirdest dream,” Sam drowsily says, stretching out his long legs and freezing, his brain screaming something isn’t right. He hasn’t been able to fully extend his legs across the backseat since he was fifteen and shot up three inches in as many months.

Opening his eyes, Sam stares at a ceiling that isn’t Baby’s roof or the popcorn kind commonly found in the dingy one-star motels they frequent. He sits up, figuring out the creaking is from a medical bed, gazes around, and his memories come rushing back. He turns his head, finds Dean sitting in the dining room with his boots on the table, and gives him bitchface #104. 

‘Sorry,” Dean apologizes and removes them from the antique table. 

Sam examines his hands, rubbing his skin and flexing his fingers. “Dean, how…?”

“Remember that witch bitch Rowena?” Sam’s brow furrows at the name. “Turns out she’s Crowley's mother. I discovered she created a resurrection spell and persuaded her to tweak it to include de-aging you back to 2015.”

Sam slides off the bed. “I wouldn’t have been surprised if she didn’t set it to 1995 for whatever you did to get it from her.” He pauses and finds the house is too quiet. “Where’s my son?”

“He said he couldn’t say goodbye twice and decided to visit Claire and her wife, Kaia. I’ve arranged to have everything straightened up before he returns.”

Sam closes the distance between them and, wrapping his large hand around the back of Dean’s head, bends down to kiss him in thanks.

“If that’s my reward for hiring a cleaning service, what do I get for bringing you back? Fifth base?” Dean asked, waggling his eyebrows.

Sam ignores the question and takes his brother's hand, entwining their fingers and tugging for him to follow. Dean grumbles, “I’m not a thirteen-year-old girl,” but follows Sam like always. 

Leading his brother to an outbuilding on the back of the property, Sam opens the door and gallantly says, “After you, mi’lady.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Dean sees a familiar shape under a draped canvas and turns back to Sam. 

Happiness exudes from his yellow eyes and he’s smiling so hard that those dimples Dean sorely missed are on full display. “I kept her in the exact condition when you gifted her to me.”

“Had to do something monumental for your fiftieth birthday,” Dean says, ripping the canvas off and strolling around to inspect the Impala. “You did a decent job caring for her. Not as good as me, but, you know.” Running his hand up her polished fender and over the roof, Dean asks, “Did you miss me, Baby?” 

“If you two need a minute,” Sam snarks, and Dean flips him off, continuing to examine his — their— car, halted by a calling he hasn’t felt in decades.

“What…?” Dean instinctively catches the keys tossed to him. 

“Under the seat,” Sam replies, watching with glee as his brother, the last remaining knight of Hell, unwraps the cloth from around the old jawbone. 

“You gave it to Crowley. How’d you…?”

“Locator spell I concocted.” 

Dean appears confused.  Wasn’t the whole point of their separation that Sam wanted normal?

“Turns out I had a talent for spell work. I couldn’t get it myself, and finding someone powerful enough to retrieve it took a long time. But they owed me a favor, so,” he nods to Dean's hands.

“Speaking of owing, I’ve got a big ass list of those who’ve screwed us over and over,” Dean says, going to the trunk. He unlocks it, lifts the hidden compartment, and reveals their monster-hunting arsenal. It’s grown since John Winchester first put his guns and ammo inside. During their active years, his sons continued adding items to the collection. Dean drops the First Blade next to the Demon Blade as his brother joins him. Gazing into the trunk, Sam reaches up for the lid.

“We’ve got work to do.”

Finis

SPN TAGS: @donnaintx  @lyarr24 @flamencodiva   @lassie-bird  @nancymcl @spnbaby-67 @leigh70 @b3autyfuld1sast3r @elmolovesw33d

Dean/Jensen: @thoughts-and-funnies @stoneyggirl2  @beabutterfly987 @smoothdogsgirl

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Tagging if interested: @slamminmine @ladysparkles78 @ilovetaquitosmmmm @strawblueberrys  @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @kazsrm67 @deans-spinster-witch

[marigold-hills]

Dunes & Waters, part 18

PART 1 • PREVIOUS PART • NEXT LART

They finish the dishes. Remus tries to stretch out his bad hip without making it obvious.

“Does it hurt?” Sirius asks because he’s too observant for Remus’ good. Remus is too tired of lying and being called out for lying so he says yes, it hurts. Maybe he wants to be fussed over. Not that he thinks Sirius would fuss over him – still, what a thought.

Sirius goes into the bathroom, leaves the door open. Comes back out surrounded by sounds of water hitting the porcelain of the bathtub.

Sirius never makes tea (he’s just always somehow there when Remus does), but he sticks the kettle on now. Finds the good teabags. Mutters spells above the heavy mug Remus has a preference for.

“Here,” he puts it in Remus’ hands, “go sit on the sofa, you’ll be more comfortable there.”

The tea is the perfect drinking temperature straight away. “What did you do with it?”

“Why, afraid I’ll poison you?”

Remus takes a deep drink to show absolutely not at all. Figures it sends more of a message than words.

“You should be more careful, Remus. You found me in a prison, remember?”

“There are a hundred ways to hurt me that don’t require you to make tea, I’d think you’d have done it by now,” he drinks more. It’s excellent tea. “So? What did you do?”

“Just a couple strengthening spells. Effie uses them when we’re under the weather.”

“Effie?”

“Potter.”

“Ah. The one that made the Head Auror cry.”

Sirius looks so proud at the assessment it’s almost blinding. Remus drinks the tea, sinks into the sofa. Sirius busies himself, runs into the bathroom and back out again.

“You sent the letter, then?”

Sirius stops, bath towel in one hand and three vials of colourful liquids held precariously between the fingers of the other. “I did,” he says, and it’s quiet like he expects to be told off.

“That’s good. I’m sure they’ll be glad to hear from you.” It nags on him, so he ads: “I’m sorry you had to sneak out to do it. Next time I’ll take you. Just tell me when.”

Sirius resumes his bustling around. The sounds of the running bath are soothing. If Remus closes his eyes, he can imagine he’s in a forest, near a river or a waterfall.

When he opens them, Sirius stands above him.

“Come on,” he says, taking the empty cup from Remus’ fingers. “I’ve run you a bath.��

“Why?”

Sirius doesn’t answer.

The bathroom is steamed up. Smells like lavender and spellwork. The water has a slight reddish tint to it. Sirius points out a fluffy towel for him to use (it’s under stasis, charmed to keep warm).

Remus sinks into the bath like a stone and feels human for the first time all week.

That night, Remus has a dream:

He unlocks the wards at the museum. Touches his wand to the lips of the limestone but the mouth is Sirius’ and the wand is Remus’ fingers. Sirius opens his mouth and opens his legs and Remus touches him at both points, fingers dipping in and hooking. Remus is a forked blade, splitting him.

Thinks in ancient rites: I have come as your embracer, I am Horus, I have pressed your mouth for you. I have balanced your mouth and bones for you. Thinks in current moment: take me and let me.

He doesn’t speak.

NEXT PART

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[y-rhywbeth2]

Considering gemstones do have meanings and magical properties on Toril, I decided - while organising some kind of Faerûnian Crystal Bible for some reason - to look up what the sacred stones of the gods present in BG3 mean and do (the Dead Three, Shar, Selûne, Jergal, and Mystra).

So here's certain gods being boring; Why Bane announces he's pissed by throwing a broken carnelian at you; and maybe ideas for what gemstone Gale's earing is made of? idk.

Bhaal:

Is a boring bitch who doesn't have any sacred stones. Ffs dad, stop disappointing me. Impractical for sneaking around and stabbing people? What about organic materials? Bone? Bone jewellery? Is amber acceptable if it has a dead thing in it? It's tree blood! You love dead trees and you love blood! Coral? Jet?

Bane:

Black sapphire (approval), Red carnelian (disapproval), hematite, emerald, bloodstone

Black Sapphire: Locks time, preventing magic that tampers with it from functioning (time stop, for example). tbh I think Bane just likes them because they're very rare (thus luxury items) and, oh yeah, black.

Carnelian: Dreams of carnelian are believed to forewarn of danger to come, but the stone itself has protective magics against harm and evil. Which explains why Bane only considers them sacred when destroyed and informs his followers he's pissed at them by crushing them in front of their faces.

Hematite: 'prized by fighters and often used in magical periapts.' Such as periapts of healing. In case we forgot that the fighter of the trio prizes martial might and war.

Emerald: When somebody lies or hides their ill intentions/'concealed hatred' emeralds will break, essentially acting as lie detectors and alarms. 'many kings have worn rings carved entirely of emerald to parleys to detect treachery and deceit without the use of spells.' ...no comment.

Bloodstone: If laid over a wound it staunches the bleeding. It's used as currency on the Sword Coast, the Moonsea, and amongst mercenaries in particular. Serves as a component in invisibility and divination magic.

In conclusion, Bane's jewellery chest spells out 'paranoia.'

Myrkul:

Jet, obsidian, onyx

Jet: 'A deep black gemstone, this fancy stone is a tough variant of bituminous coal that can be facet cut and displayed either as a pendant or inset into a larger setting. It is the stone of mourning and sorrow in wealthy cities (such as those in Amn, Calimshan, and Sembia, as well as Waterdeep and Westgate), and remains a preferred material for magic jars, a use contributing to its fell reputation. Certain treatments of a jet stone (or specific spells cast too close to one) may well unintentionally free a furious, long-imprisoned mage or strange magic-wielding beast from its depths or summon a wizshade to the spot. Some such imprisoned beings can use their magic in limited ways to try to bring about their release but possession of their prison gemstones rarely gives one any influence over them.'

Onyx: 'Contact with onyx aids in safe, relatively painless childbirths, but the stone is otherwise considered unlucky.'

Obsidian: Nothing too fancy. It's magical properties are limited, but it's a material component in arcane variants of blade barrier and can be used to make an ioun stone. Waterdhavian parcel-binders make rings out of them that allow them to cut twine on their fingers for ease of work.)

We got it, you're a goth edgelord too.

Shar:

Minerals are a symptom of planets daring to exist and thus are sinful or something. idk, regardless Shar doesn't care to manifest as anything much past 'tentacles made of darkness.'

Selune:

Moonstone. She knows her theme and she's sticking with it.

Moonstone: Moonstone absorbs ambient light and will glow with faint white light in total darkness when all other lights are gone. Dreams of moonstone forewarn oncoming danger. Moonstone is useful as components in barrier magics, deflection of spells, and other abjurations.

Jergal:

Grandpa cares not for pretty trinkets. Or joy. Or anything that isn't personal amusement and the apocalypse. Grumpy bastard.

Mystra:

Rainbow tourmaline, amarantha, beljuril, blue and clear gems of any kind

Rainbow tourmaline: Absorbs magic, turns it into electricity, and then fires it back as a lightning bolt.

Amarantha: Or Shieldstone. A mineral unique to Toril that forms deep within the earth, typically mined from the Underdark. A sparkling jewel that comes in ‘greenish white or very pale green.’ The stone attracts, absorbs and stores ambient electricity. Normally this means static charge, but it can be used to protect against weaponised magical electric strikes, with the forewarning that the stone has limits and if it breaks from overload it may discharge all the electricity into everyone and everything around it.

Beljuril: Another mineral unique to Toil. Also known as 'fireflashils,' due to their tendency to periodically flash with blazing fluctuating light, described as 'dazzling' at night. Generally the stone is a deep, sea green, and is hard enough that cutting it will go through several sets of tools. Never found in sizes more than 5 inches in diameter. Beljurils replicate ambient heat, light and vibration (not disrupting or taking away from the actual surroundings), which is what causes them to light up when they discharge. They don't do much, but they are popular as security lights for the wealthy (as they will react to heat and movement in their vicinity).

Aventurine (blue): Used to penetrate magical disguises, as touching it will dispel illusions and shapeshifting.

Azurite: Absorbs heat in a fashion that prevents or mitigates harm from said heat. Calishites often wear azurite while dealing with fire, such as if cooking.

Iol (iolite): Has a strong symbolic association with magic in Faerûnian legends.

Diamond: Can be used as a universal ingredient for any form of spell ink. Well suited for divination magic. If worn at the throat or on the head it protects against seeing visions (as it prevents the individual from dreaming at all, making it useful to avoid nightmares too) and keeps one from being enchanted by others

Euclase: Explodes into a fireball if it comes into contact with magic.

Flurospar: Glows with a green radiance if there are invisible things/people nearby.

Sapphire: Widely used in the making of magical items, especially swords. Linked to magical prowess, the mind, and air (the element.) Protects against and soothes negative emotions, such as fear, despair, and corresponding mental illnesses.

There are a lot of blue and clear gemstones and I'm not listing them all, and I'm wondering if some gods don't have gemstones because somebody is hogging them all. Suffice to say they do something-something magic. Like glowing when somebody's scrying on you or exploding if you use the wrong spell. That kind of pattern.

[haggishlyhagging]

Although there have been exceptions, the evolutionary model of man the hunter-warrior has colored most interpretations of Paleolithic art. Only in later twentieth-century excavations in eastern and western Europe and Siberia has the interpretation of both new and old finds gradually begun to change. Some of the new researchers were women, who noted the female genital imagery and also leaned toward more complex religious rather than the "hunting magic" explanations of Paleolithic art. And as more scholars were secular scientists rather than monks like Abbé Breuil (whose "moral" interpretations of religious practices colored so much of the nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Paleolithic research), some of the men who reexamined the cave paintings, figurines, and other Paleolithic finds now also began to question tenets once accepted by the scholarly establishment.

An interesting example of this questioning relates to the stick and line forms painted on the walls of Paleolithic caves and engraved in bone or stone objects. To many scholars, it seemed obvious that they depict weapons: arrows, barbs, spears, harpoons. But as Alexander Marshack writes in The Roots of Civilization, one of the first works to frontally challenge this standard interpretation, these line paintings and engravings could just as easily be plants, trees, branches, reeds, and leaves. Moreover, this new interpretation would account for what would otherwise be a remarkable absence of pictures of such vegetation among a people who, like contemporary gatherer-hunter peoples, must have relied heavily on vegetation for food.

In Paleolithic Cave Art, Peter Ucko and Andrée Rosenfeld had also wondered about the peculiar absence of vegetation in Paleolithic art. They further noted another curious incongruity. All other evidence showed that a particular kind of harpoon called biserial didnt appear until the late Paleolithic or Magdalenian age—even though scholars kept "finding" them in "sticks" thousands of years earlier in the wall paintings of prehistoric caves. Moreover, why would Paleolithic artists want to depict so many hunting failures? For if the sticks and lines were in fact weapons, the pictures had them chronically missing their targets.

To probe such mysteries, Marshack, who was not an archaeologist, hence not bound by earlier archeological conventions, thoroughly examined the engravings on a bone object that had been described as pictures of harpoons. Under a microscope he discovered that not only were the barbs of this supposed harpoon turned the wrong way but the points of the long shaft were also at the wrong end. But what did these engravings represent if they were not "wrong way" weapons?

As it turned out, the lines easily conformed to the proper angle of branches growing at the top of a long stem. In other words, these and other engravings conventionally described as "barbed signs" or "masculine objects" were probably nothing more than stylized representations of trees, branches, and plants.

-Riane Eisler, The Chalice and the Blade: Our History, Our Future

[perlen-gold]

Something in Fenris stirs too like ash inside a ruin.

It is already too late, by then.

A prodigious silence, crinkling inertly, has melted the air like the blunt edge of an axe pooling silvery on the ground. A word, a stunned noise smoking somewhere to his right.

Too late.

They have never learned. They have never learned what true fear is, let their senses become jaded by power and arrogance; they have never learned how to fight, genuinely fight, whatever they are believing of themselves, Fenris’ mind flashes with a stroke of disgust.

He hears the arrow’s singing aim, let loose from the only fingers not hopelessly lost in almighty trust, just when his own inexorable feet slap onto the first step before the throne.

Fenris lets the arrow strike right through him, allowing the lyrium’s flaring blaze of pain to breeze his physical form away and it sticks fast driving right into the wooden throne, quivering with the force of the impact.

The figure is half-rising from her throne, hair shining in a long ink-black sheen, reaching, when Fenris already grabs her shoulder and her neck and the glass inlay of the magnificent window sprays as rainbow drops with vibrating shatters as both he and she collide with it.

Fenris knows a human, elven, dwarven body as well and precisely as a surgeon. Place veins and bones he can, muscles and hearts and lungs and livers as though they were palpitating and pouring blood into his very own throbbing body. But it is his sword’s silver he has summoned, sizzling and darting like lighting’s verge.

She cries out not but narrows her widening eyes upon the impact, a myriad of color-bright shards of glass, a shimmering glitter fleeing in all directions, in unforeseen shock and confusion and something else Fenris cannot quite place as his blood-dried, dirt-streaked, hollowed face stares into hers. From the broken windows’ mosaic icy mountain air gushes inside, whipping her dark hair afly in a furious storm, surrounding the grief-whettled blade pressed against her slender throat. Fenris’ gray-skinned face, so distorted as to be monstrous.

“Let go of her or death be upon you!”

The words are meant to be a lash.

A woman spears them, pointed with the tint of lands Fenris’ remembers wandering through, the color of people who, in that language of their own, call themselves dragon slayers.

Too late.

Fenris has seen them already, his senses meticulously having studied them in the hitches of time it took him to stride up the hall, every single one of them.

The warrior woman who stands at the base of the stairs, prepared to take him on, slim and slender, sword raised high like her cheekbones – tight and skilled with strength, the only one, perhaps, to truly match his own ineluctable skill, fiery and determined, but unsuspecting of lyrium sorcery flying through her guard.

On the other side of the hall a Qunari warrior who swears in perfect Qunlat as the Tal-Vashot he is, so mighty and broad he could snap Fenris’ body into splinters, and way too powerful like so many of his kin to match his swiftness.

Talking in the filthy tongue of the alienages, on the balcony above the far gates, an elf girl, faster and quicker than the others, whose knife-edged arrow-point has whirred through him already.

Behind the Qunari a mage, a woman, proud and high-faced, whose carriage is different from other mages and not defenseless, no, against the swings of a silver blade, but prey to her own pride.

Next to her, another warrior, less proficient than the Nevarran woman, though alert, rimmed, sharp.

Left is an apostate mage, neither reclusive Dalish nor subjugated city elf, the only one Fenris has not assessed thoroughly yet, a man who carries himself like a servant but smells like smooth stone, like an age-old statue of a deity found in immemorial woods among fallen winter leaves.

And, at last, behind the Nevarran woman with the sign of the seeker, one last mage.

Fenris can discern it in the sheen of his garments. Taste it on the man’s rolling tongue. The gleam of his well-oiled hair. Fenris can stroke it, an answering call to the aching, pulsating lyrium inside his skin. The magic pulsing through the man’s limbs taught in prideful night-long lessons without any restrain or cover.

Every inch of him cries it. Magister.

But even this, that man whose skin reeks of the Imperium cannot permeate the strangulating screams inside Fenris threatening to tear his skin.

“Oy, elf!” Out of the color-blurred haze, Varric’s voice. Fenris senses his weapon, Bianca, grabbed in Varric’s white-knuckled fingers.

The second arrow croons like a siren’s song.

This time Fenris is almost too slow, its sleek point nicks his shoulder muscle before he lets it pass through his body, and it lodges into the Lady Inquisitor’s right shoulder instead. This time, she gasps.

The sound of another arrow, the bow strung, magic humming, deviating the air. Fenris grasps her neck and whirls her around until she is facing the crowd and her ink-sleek hair seems to be touching every inch of Fenris’ skin. Within the immediacy of the motion he lets his sword’ hilt sink against her upper body, pressed hard against her clothes, her back against Fenris’ chest, holding her body length to length to his like in a lover’s embrace.

Fenris’ hand, however, clings to the lower part of her neck. With a blinding azure-light glow his fingers sink beneath her skin. Veins and bones.

They stop, they all stop.

“Open the Fade and take me where you left him to die!” To say it, speak it, is too much.

His voice has become a feral thing, too beast-deep – fangs caught in on themselves – thrashing and clawing and coiling – winnowed and bare, too deep – yet quiet, quiet, quiet as a dead tree – too deep, catapulting the light thrown from under his skin into a thousand different directions, draining down upon him – too deep, and this is when the lyrium slips past him, past his control.

This time her screams pierce the roiling winds.

Whoa, wait, you're bringing up that angstful monster of an angsty fenhawke fic?! AGAIN??

I'll run fast enough this time!!!

Shameful self promotion AGAIN?!

Forget it, I'm not clicking on one of these stupid links!

[the-pen-pot]

Winter's Bite

Frigid air ached in his lungs, burning all the way down as Merlin huddled deeper into his coat. It was a frost-cracked, star-struck night. The moon's crescent smirked, low and fat on the horizon, and every breath escaped him in a cloud of steam. A north wind sliced through Camelot, whipping around the street corners. It was as sharp as any blade, and he flinched from it as the braziers guttered and danced.

Anyone with an ounce of common sense would be safe indoors, stoking the fires high and curling up in a nice, warm bed. Gaius had, at least, sounded apologetic when he'd sent him out gathering frostwort: a delicate flower of potent properties that only bloomed on nights such as this.

He had filled Merlin's pockets with roasted chestnuts, now long gone, and promised to stoke the fire high for him. Still, that didn't change the fact that he was numb to the bone, and his poky little room in Gaius tower was a long way from the hearth. It would be warm only in comparison, and he grimly resolved to put on every piece of clothing he owned before he climbed under his blankets.

The cobbles of the courtyard had turned treacherous, each rounded stone capped with ice. He had to pick his way across, and more than once he almost slipped to smash himself on the unforgiving ground. Not that he would feel it, numb as he was. He could see the glow of candles from Arthur's chambers, and a flicker of a frown crossed his brow. He'd handed off his duties to George. Even Arthur couldn't argue that his comfort trumped the medical needs of the populace. Still, he would have expected him to be in bed by now.

His ears ached and his face felt stiff. Even his eyelashes were strangely brittle. He winced and swore his way up the castle steps, gasping gratefully as the stone edifice sheltered him from the clutching fingers of the wretched wind. The soldiers on guard were huddled in the cradle of the arch, and they both shot him sympathetic looks as he stamped his feet and chafed his palms together before giving up and sticking his fingers under his armpits.

'The prince requests your presence in his chambers.'

George at least managed to sound apologetic as he emerged from the shadows, his hand held out to take the bag of herbs from Merlin's possession. 'I'll see that these get to Gaius.'

'Thanks,' Merlin managed, wincing as the word slurred through his lifeless lips. 'Any idea what he wants?'

'I'm afraid not. He has been tended for the night but he seemed – out of sorts.'

Merlin managed a grunt. He didn't much relish the idea of Arthur in a mood. His body wasn't the only thing frozen stiff. His mind felt like an icy river, glassy and motionless. The few thoughts he did have moved achingly slow in his thick skull. More than anything, he wanted to climb into a nest of blankets and stay there until spring. Instead, he bullied himself up the sweeping staircase towards the royal chambers, grumbling as he went.

The castle may be out of the wind, but the masonry was tomb-cold. The torches, candles and braziers were small pools of fleeting warmth in the long corridors. Merlin flitted from one to the next, lingering as long as he dared in their brief respite. It meant by the time he arrived at Arthur's chamber door, he had only been shown a brief flavour of what it was to be warm: enough to set the shivers marching through his so fiercely that every breath stuttered.

His fingers felt sausage-thick around the latch as he shouldered his way inside, shutting the door in his wake and trying not to whine in relief as warm air folded around him like a cocoon. The fire had been stoked high and tended for what must have been hours. Arthur's chambers were not as grand as the King's, but nor were they modest. In the winter they sprouted extra rugs on the flagstones and additional blankets on the bed: all the comforts a prince would require. Merlin was almost sick with envy.

'Took you long enough.' Arthur complained, rising from where he was sat in his fur-draped chair. He wore a long sleep tunic and a pair of plain breeches. His feet were unshod, with only thick socks to protect his toes as he strode towards Merlin. Firm hands grabbed his shoulders, bullying him and shoving him every closer to the hearth before practically man-handling him down onto the rug in front of the roaring blaze.

'I had to get –'

'Frostwort. I know. George was very thorough in informing as to me why you were not attending your duties.'

There was a heavy dose of reproach in Arthur's words, but his heart didn't seem to be in it. If he meant to chastise Merlin for leaving George to deliver the bad news, then he missed his mark. It was enough to make Merlin consider him from beneath his thawing lashes, reading all the little signs he suspected Arthur didn't want him to see. 

A couple of years as his man-servant meant that Merlin had swiftly learned to look beneath Arthur's words. His lips often said one thing while his expression said another. His actions often embellished the truth, rather than contradicted it. Now, he saw how that brow was furrowed with more concern than genuine annoyance, and how Arthur was looking him over like he was a horse at market, more than a little bit critical of what he was seeing.

'What?' he managed defensively, stretching out his hands towards the flames as a fresh shiver rumbled through him from head to foot.

'Did you go out in that?' He gestured to Merlin in general, indicating his outfit.

'Yeah,' he replied, dragging out the word. 'They're my clothes?'

Arthur made an angry noise in the back of his throat: a brief pulse of sound before he turned to the table, pouring himself some wine. A moment later, he hunkered down at Merlin's side, gripping his wrist and pressing something into his palm. Merlin blinked stupidly at the metal cup and the rich, red drink steaming softly within its confines.

'Drink it,' Arthur ordered, like a prat. 'It'll warm you up. If I send you off to Gaius' now, you'll wake up with a cold and be no use to anyone.'

Merlin hid his grin behind the rim as he lifted it to his lips, obligingly taking a sip and closing his eyes as the hot drink warmed him from his belly outwards. It was a blessing. He felt like he was slowly coming back to life, and he savoured the rich flavour of spiced wine.

It was not the first time that they had shared a drink in front of the fire. It had happened more and more, these past few months, as Arthur sought to work through the latest challenges of the court. Merlin didn't flatter himself in believing he wished for his advice, though he offered it anyway. Sometimes Arthur even listened.

This was different, though. Arthur didn't seem to be lost in the latest diplomatic entanglement or plotting how to get the best out of a new batch of knights. Instead, he was watching Merlin as he sipped from his own cup, his expression calm but for the hint of worry that clouded his gaze. More than once, he parted his lips as if to say something, but each time he swallowed his words back.

'Thanks,' Merlin managed when the cup was almost empty. His voice sounded rough to his own ears. Now that he was warming up, he felt heavy and lethargic. He loathed the idea of stepping outside of the haven of Arthur's rooms and into the frigid hallways with all his heart. 'I needed that. It was colder out there than I thought.'

'Did you actually think before you went wandering off into the woods in the middle of one of the coldest nights of the year?' Arthur looked at him sharply, his eyebrows raised. 'You didn't even take a cloak. It's not like there aren't plenty going spare.'

'It would have been more trouble than its worth in the woods. They get tangled on things!'

'Gloves, then!' Arthur gestured to his fingers, which had turned bright pink as the heat came back to them. 'You must have some!'

'Not... really?' Merlin pulled a face. Gloves were something that every member of the court had, fine things of leather and nubuck, elegant and lined with fleece. Gaius had a knitted pair with no fingers to help ease the ache the cold brought to his knuckles without limiting his dexterity. They were old and tatty, falling to pieces, and his need was far greater than Merlin's. 'It's all right, Arthur. I'm fine. I'm all warmed up now. See?'

Arthur managed to convey with a mere look how much he disbelieved Merlin's claim. 'You're still shivering.'

Merlin pursed his lips, not quite able to stifle the way his body had stirred itself into a fine, all-over tremble. It was as if it had been reminded of heat and was now lodging its protests that it had been made to suffer.

'Stay there.' Arthur commanded, setting his empty cup aside and getting to his feet. 'You can go when your nose has returned to a normal colour. It's practically glowing.' 

He moved with the same steady grace as always as he padded across the room, leaning over his desk and reaching for his quill. Gods alone knew what kind of paperwork he had to be doing at this time of night, but Merlin didn't argue. Instead, he drew his knees up to his chest, draping his forearms over their peaks and propping his chin atop them. 

He watched Arthur through drooping lashes, admiring the way the firelight played across his skin and struck sunlight through his hair. The sleep tunic he wore was hardly the sturdiest garment. It clung to his shoulders and hung open at the laces, revealing strong collar bones and the golden hair that gleamed, downy, upon Arthur's chest. It was nothing Merlin hadn't seen before when he helped Arthur with his bath, and yet there was something almost coy about the sight: artless and appealing. 

Merlin huffed, shoving those thoughts down as he had numerous times in the past. Arthur may be a prat, but there was no denying that he was easy on the eyes: a classic golden prince – Camelot's pride and joy.

It was all most people ever saw: a valiant knight who would one day be their king, with all the arrogance that went with such expectation. They never witnessed Arthur's uncertainty or regret, nor his well-hidden compassion. Arthur had been trained all his life to see caring as a weakness, yet it had not made him hard or cold. Instead, he showed his care in stealthy, subtle ways, like plying a freezing manservant with warmed wine.

The thought made Merlin smile, warmed more by Arthur's action than the alcohol slipping softly through his veins. He barely noticed his eyes drifting shut, nor the deepening lethargy sweeping over him. At some, dim point, he thought he sensed a hand on his shoulder, something urging him to lie down on the thick rug before the hearth. Someone murmured something, but he hadn't the strength to do more than grumble in response. A weight settled over him, and the smell of clean wool filled his nose.

There was a moment of breathless hesitation before a warm hand rested in his hair, ruffling it with exceptional care. The bit of Merlin that clung onto the waking world by its fingertips knew that it was Arthur. If he so much as twitched, Arthur would flee like a deer bolting from a hunter. Instead, he kept his breathing slow and steady, hovering on the cusp of blissful oblivion as a whisper reached his ears, so achingly tender that he could almost believe it was nothing but a hopeful, desperate dream.

'Goodnight, Merlin.'

***

A week later, there was a large bundle for Merlin sitting on the workbench in the healing rooms. A fine, long coat made of dark-dyed wool, and a pair of hide gloves lined with rabbit fur.

He wasn't sure what warmed him more: the garments designed to keep winter's worst bite at bay, or the subtle, crooked smile that tilted Arthur's lips the first time he saw Merlin wearing them.

[jacksdinonuggets]

~Bandages~

Summary: Can Charlie bandage vaggies hand up from When lute stabbed her in the finale and vaggie age regresses?

Requested by Asher bowls of cereal on Ao3

The day had been exhausting. They had fought and defeated heaven in battle. Tons of exorcists verses a bunch of rando’s, the princess of hell, and all of cannibal town who weren’t even trained in combat. It was so tiring that all Vaggie wanted to do was go to sleep but the stabbing pain in her hand made it hard to make her brain sleepy. The hotel was wrecked so she couldn’t even rest. However, Lucifer offered to let them stay at his palace while they rebuilt the hotel. She would be able to fix up her wounds there. Surprisingly, not many wounds were sustained during the battle. Vaggie might’ve gotten the worst since she had a 1 on 1 battle with lute. Her nose and face still hurt from being smacked into a table two times.

As they were walking towards the palace, Vaggie remembered the feeling of the blade against her bones in her hand. It made her want to puke just rethinking about it. Now that the adrenaline was gone, she had to force herself not to cry out in pain. Gold blood leaked out from her glove and onto the ground as they walked.

Charlie’s dad quickly got everyone set up in their rooms so they could rest. Vaggie and Charlie were allowed to share so they got one of the master bedrooms. Vaggie immediately grabbed the first aid kit and tried to open it, but any sudden movement of her hand made her pain ten thousand times worse. She hissed in pain and dropped the kit, taking her glove off. Some fuzz from her glove made its way into her wounds. Charlie overheard and came rushing in.

“You okay?” she had a concerned look on her face that made Vaggie start to slip.

“Oh my god! What happened to your hand?!” Charlie rushed over and grabbed her hand, looking over it. She could see how deep the wound was. The flesh from the inside was easily seen through the golden blood and bits of it were starting to slowly peak up and out of her hand like little worms.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?!” She said in a loud voice that kind of scared Aaggie. She was already teetering between headpsaces, now was not the time for yelling

“I w-was going to tell you-”

“Yeah, just like how you were going to tell me about being an angel and then waited until Adam spoiled it!” she bellowed. She was just really stressed. She had to try hard not to puke when looking at the ripped up flesh sticking out of her lover’s hand.

Vaggies lip quivered before she started bawling.. Charlie realized what she had just said and the tone and immediately took it all back. She also knew that if Vaggie started crying this easily from a little bit of yelling, she was slipping right into her little headspace. 

“Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell, I’m just worried,” Charlie put a hand on her back and tried to soothe her. However, Vaggie kept crying. She already had so much on her mind as it is, as well as the pain, the yelling just made it worse.

“Sh, shh, I’m sorry, baby. I’m not mad,” Charlie promised, going over to her and giving her a side hug. She cried and cried and Charlie knew she needed to bandage her wound before it got infected. 

Since she was already crying, she decided to kill two birds with one stone and clean the wound so Vaggie wouldn’t have an intense headache from so much crying. She wailed when Charlie rubbed her hand with the cotton swab that had alcohol on it.

“I know it hurts, but I need to clean it,” She told her. 

By the time the bandage and gauze was wrapped around her hand, she was half asleep. She seemed to fall deeper into headspace too.

“Wan Bucky ‘nd paci,” she mumbled when Charlie was finished. Charlie didn;t have the heart to tell her that Bucky was… well gone. He was either blasted from existence due to Adam’s ray of disobeying the law of conservation of matter, or buried in rubble.

So Charlie pulled out her phone and quickly texted her dad.

<”Random question, can you summon a replica of Vaggie stuffed goat and purple pacifier? She’s regressed and asking for them”

Luckily, two moments later, Lucifer barged into the room, carrying three rubber ducks, an exact replica of Bucky, and a pacifier inside of a plastic case in his hands. He set them on the bed and walked into the bathroom. He saw Vaggie trying to curl up on the bathroom tile while Charlie was waiting for a text back. She turned around and saw him standing there.

“Oh, you’re here! Did you get the stuff?” she asked.

“Yup! Take good care of her,” he patted her shoulder before disappearing in his puff of smoke. He could’ve just used the door but it was more aesthetically pleasing to just disappear.

She realized how sweaty and kind of smelly Vaggie was, indicating that she hadn’t showered yet. Charlie showered right when they got there which was why she wasn’t all that smelly.

“You need a bath. I think there’s some bubbles,” Vaggie looked up happily at the mention of a bubble bath. She was still extremely tired but wanted to feel clean.

Charlie grabbed the rubber ducks from the bed and towel and began to fill the tub. After she made sure it was the right temperature and put the bubbles in, she helped undress Vaggie and put her in the tub. Luckily, she was very cooperative and didn’t even splash. She just played silently with the duckies and bubbles while Charlie washed her body and hair. She made quick work of it too because she didn’t want Vaggie to fall asleep in the tub either.

When she was done, she took out Vaggie before drawing the tub because she knew how scared she was of the drain. She took out the toys before pulling the plug out too. Couldn’t risk any of them getting stuck. That would make both Lucifer and Vaggie have a heart attack.

After drying her off, she helped her get dressed in some of Lucifer’s old pajamas. They were about the same height so it worked. 

When Vaggie was lead out of the bathroom, she squealed with delight as she saw her favorite stuffy, Bucky. She grabbed him off the bed and hugged him tightly. Charlie washed the pacifier in hot water before giving it to Vaggie. Then she tucked Vaggie into the bed before exiting the room since it was still early and she wanted to check on everyone else before she went to sleep. As a flip with a caregiver lean, she always found herself needing to check on everyone. It was just part of her personality, I guess.

[turtles-invoked]

I keep thinking about different ways Cas could potentially escape the empty and find his way back to Sam and Dean.

The scenario that sticks out the most to me is that Sam and Dean would be driving along the highway, dead silence, after finishing a case that Sam dragged Dean along too but then got mad at him when Dean nearly kills himself going into the fight alone.

So they’re driving along, Dean’s face stone cold, Sam pouty and angry at Dean when Cas just appears at the side of the road.

No big deal. Dean’s been seeing Cas a lot lately. More so during exhaustion.

Sam bolts upright and looks in the rear but Dean keeps driving.

“Dean!” He shouts when Cas appears again, nearly hit in the process and this time Dean slams on the breaks because ‘Sam can see him too?’

They barely pull over before Sam springs out of the car, angel blade aimed and ready, Dean’s gun locked and loaded despite potentially being useless.

“What are you!” Dean yells at him

“It’s me, I’m… me…” Cas would say weakly, voice strained, hands up surrenderring.

“Yeah right,” Dean says and shoots the ground next to him as a warning, “start talking!”

Cas’s eyes open wide and panic floods his face.

“Dean, maybe it-”

“Cas is dead, Sam!” Dean interrupts.

Sam goes to the trunk and opens the duffle, grabs the flask of holy water and a silver knife.

Gun still aimed at Cas’s face, Sam walks up to him and splashes him with the water. Cas holds out his arm to allow Sam to cut him with the silver. Cas then drops his angel blade and cuts along right next to it, small blue electric beads of grace glistening at the opening before sewing the skin back together.

Dean swallows, hope weighing the pit in his gut down.

“He checks out,” Sam says stowing his angel blade away.

“How did you get out?” Dean questions, still defensive, still in disbelief.

Cas’s deep blue eyes bite into Dean’s soul “I honestly, I have no idea. I woke up on a shore in Brazil. I had my grace, my wings, but my geographical locationing was… off…”

“… and you’re warded against me, that’s why it took so long to find you… the both of you…”

Dean swallows, as Sam embraces Cas, welcoming him back, exclaiming how happy he is to see him but Dean still isn’t sure.

“Dude, what more do you want?” Sam says stepping aside.

“You’re buying this? The empty spat him out somewhere exotic and he just happened to get lost finding his way back, I’m sorry, but I’m not,” Dean says, not allowing himself to believe that Cas really is here and in front of him, mojo and everything, “Remember what Billie told you? No one comes back from the empty!”

“I remember everything…” Cas starts slowly.

Deans breath catches in his chest.

“The empty, our fight… our- our goodbye. I remember it all. Every word,” he says.

‘I love you’ Casteil’s voice plays rewind inside Dean’s mind. He remembers every word, every micro expression, every feeling as the words were said to him. He’s replayed them every day since he’s been gone.

Deans eyes sting with unshed tears instantly, a lump in his throat. His mouth opens and closes a few times, mind racing, body tingling. He swallows the emotion building up in his throat and frowns.

Cas starts to walk towards him but his holds the gun firmer in his grip.

“You really did change me, Dean. For the better. I thought about you… and-and Sam, every day. I, quite literally, fell in love with you. And whether you feel the same or not, I still mean it,” he finishes.

And that’s all Dean needs to flick the gun on safety, shove it in his waistband and storm over to cas, pulling him into a bone crushing hug, allowing the tears to silently roll down his cheeks.

He holds Cas, allowing himself to breathe and hope, and feel Cas in his arms, ‘he’s back’.

But his then he moves into the anger and it gets the better of him. He lets go of their embrace and grabs Cas by the lapels of his trench coat and shoves him without letting go, because he doesn’t think he could ever let go despite how angry and upset he is now.

“How stupid are you!” He yells and shoves him again, still holding on, scared to lose him again.

“You don’t just say crap like that and then-and then leave,” he shoves him a third time.

“You needed to know,” Cas says, letting Dean push him around, “I needed you to know,” he corrects himself, eyes never leaving Dean’s own.

“I-” Dean starts, but he chokes on his words. Can’t quite get those last three out, “I-” he tries again but something deep in his chest won’t let him say want he wants nothing more than to.

But Cas gives him a knowing smile, “I know,” he says gently.

Dean starts to feel overwhelmed. Still angry and upset, but warm and tingly and that hopefully flutter is back in his stomach. He stares at Cas’s sympathetic smile and his heart pounds hard behind his ribs.

Dean pulls Cas into him and their bodies crash together and he kisses him, hard, short, and sweet. Cas’s arms wrap around him, holding him flush against him and Dean swears he sighs into the kiss.

Sam clears his throat behind them and chuckles and suddenly Dean is very aware of Cas’ hands on his waist.

They pull away, Cas is practically beaming, in fact he is glowing ever so slightly, eyes shining brighter than normal.

“You okay, Cas?” Sam asks nervously.

Dean takes a step back as Cas starts to vibrate ever so slightly, a soft high pitched whine radiating off of Cas.

“It’s just… m-my grace,” he stutters and squeezes his eyes closed.

Cas takes a couple of deep breaths, his fists clenched at his sides and within a few seconds the aura around him dims and the whine silences.

“What the hell was that?” Dean asks concerned.

Cas blushes, “sorry… I was… overwhelmed…”

Sam chuckles behind him and Dean turns around to glare at him.

“Are you alright?” He asks not moving closer.

Cas nods, “very much so,” Cas says genuinely and now it’s Dean’s turn to blush.

Sam chuckles again and claps Dean on the shoulder, “let’s go home.”

Dean watches Sam walk to the drivers side but get into the back of the car.

Cas smiles at Dean and they slide in too, Cas in shotgun and they head home. And if Dean’s hand rested on Cas’ thigh the whole way there, well, he needed the physical reminder that Cas was back and sitting next to him.

I dunno it’s just a thought I keep having. I Love the idea of Cas losing control of his grace / powers when Dean shows affection towards him. I also haven’t seen the later seasons I’m up to season 11 episode 6 or 7 I’m getting there though just very slowly 😅

[nyxthejinx]

ʀᴇᴄᴏʀᴅ 1 | ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡ ᴡᴀʟᴋ

Wowowow another short and cryptic chapter!! If it doesn't make sense it means it's working :) it will- in due time. For now I just wanna smooch my loves 😔

[ ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ ] You're not part of the script, they must get rid of you. But will the Hunters become the hunted once your true nature is revealed?

[ ᴛᴡ ] talking about dying in the beginning with some graphic description (lots of nihilism on reader's part), generic description of blood, smoking, Kafka lil kissie mwah, lemme know if I'm forgetting anything (it's 5 am 🙃) finally baby Blade enters the scene!!!

[ ꜰᴛ. ] Kafka x GN!Reader x Blade

[ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ ] 718

ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ | ᴊᴏɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ ʜᴇʀᴇ!

ʏᴏᴜ’ᴠᴇ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴡᴏɴᴅᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ʟᴏᴏᴋꜱ ʟɪᴋᴇ.

If it wore a sword’s, a knife’s or a gun’s clothes. If it appeared as a bottomless pit, staring at the depths of existence, or if it looks like the ground inching closer the more you lose altitude.

You think of sidereal space and the cold it harbours, of those fifteen to thirty seconds necessary to run out of oxygen, of those twelve to twenty-six hours it takes for the body heat to disperse, in the lack of atmosphere.

You imagine how it would be to be torn apart, choked, burned, have your flesh chewed to its bones. You imagine a pain that finally ceases, once the body has been slaughtered.

Going to sleep without the risk of waking up again: you project the image in your mind.

Before Kafka bursts your little bubble, dragging you back into the elevator.

“Your death will not be vain, Drifter. It serves for a greater cause."

She smiles in the corner of your eye, pristine and serene as if she wasn’t asking —ordering— you to die for her cause. Kafka is an amazing dancer when it comes to sticking to the choreography, lest the outcome steer away from what her master foresees.

No matter what it takes. Who it takes: the script has been set in stone already.

Too bad death is the last of your concerns, and so are her empty, poorly crafted words.

“I don’t really care.” You shrug.

Kafka’s brows shoot up in mild surprise, but she’s chuckling the next second already. Her eyes wrinkle at the sides, her shoulders shake gently— the radiant darkness of her soul glows brighter than ever and she’s just something else, straight out of this world.

“Are you mad at me?” She inquires, unfolding her arms to run a knuckle over your cheek.

Trying to process her words feels so impossible under her touch. Your feelings have long faded like cheap colours, brush strokes watered down by time, flowing into a grey puddle at your feet. There’s something stirring inside your chest, you know it- but how can you name it when your skin tingles and your knees go weak?

It’s not fair. But you lean in anyway, letting your eyes fall shut briefly. “Does it matter?”

“Not really, no.” She sighs. “Frilly words won’t change a thing, especially yours.”

“A kiss would, though.” You place a hand over hers, flutter your lashes gingerly. “I’d die with a silly grin on my face.”

“That can be arranged.”

Her smiling lips lock on yours, gentler than last time. There’s no love, no passion, no longing nor lust— it feels like a sorry kiss, a consolation prize, a sop to prevent rebellion. But it’s also one to be broken reluctantly, as both her hands drag you deeper by the jaw and trace your cheekbones with unexpected tenderness.

Maybe there was personal pleasure hiding behind her sense of duty, that night. But it ends all too soon and you will never tell.

Kafka leans back, cleaning the smeared gloss from the corner of your mouth. You glance at the panel in the elevator, see that you’ve almost reached the final destination.

If the Hunter is saddened, she doesn’t show it.

She's busier rummaging through the pocket of her coat now, as she pulls out a cigarette tin you know very well; it’s yours, just like the smoke she extends to your lips. You hold it gladly, waiting for her to light it.

“It wasn’t my choice.” Kafka whispers, voice delicate like the flame of your lighter.

Once the cigarette burns to life, you don't waste time— you inhale until your lungs are full of cloves with a hint of cinnamon, until it invades your senses and makes your mind dizzy in a way that never gets old. It tastes of memories you can’t remember, dreams yet to be dreamed, but most of all nostalgia you have no reason to experience.

"I know." You exhale eventually, as your shoulders sag. “Just remember me, even if it’s meaningless.”

Kafka smiles yet again, brushes your cheek as her other hand returns the two items to you. Inside the pocket above your heart.

And your lips quirk in the slightest, before the elevator stops at the floor where your blood will spill.

-

"Another one like you, Bladie." Kafka ponders, staring at the merging skin of your freshly wounded neck.

The puddle growing at your knees and the crimson path staining your clothes would convince anyone that a life was taken, today.

But the iridescent purples and blues lining your blood tell another story.

The story of someone who's walked across this universe for many years. Centuries, millenniums even.

Someone just like him.

Who Blade sees smiling at him, as if his sword wasn't dripping with their blood.

"Not yet, so it seems."

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