#is anyone else making djinn content yet

[eetherealgoddess]

helloo, I just want to tell you I've been your fan since I downloaded tumblr. I can't, your fanfics are to die for. 😭 I'm sorry, I've been the one liking your stories from the start, I hope it doesn't bother you and I'm sorry if it does.

can I request a really really dark supernatural au smut bonten x fem reader? I can't explain how much I love your supernatural au fanfics😭

Although idk who you are specifically, I appreciate all your likes and the request so you don’t have to be sorry!! I embrace all feedback!! Unfortunately, I don’t think I made this dark enough, but I hope you enjoy it anyway!! ♡︎♡︎♡︎

Y’all it’s wild cuz blood actually makes me queasy and uncomfortable. Especially gore and yet I write and read it even though I gotta pause to breathe from time to time lmao. This one is FULL of blood and gore. So be mindful!! ꨄꨄꨄ

ꨄBlood Thirstyꨄ

Oneshot - Yandere Bonten Djinn Au

❦Your blood is enticing to Bonten❦

Sano Manjiro, Hanemiya Kazutora, Sanzu Haruchiyo, & Haitani Brothers x Reader

MY TR FANDOM WORKS ARE ONLY ON TUMBLR, AO3, AND WATTPAD UNDER EETHEREALGODDESS! REPORT IF YOU SEE IT POSTED UNDER ANYONE ELSE BUT ME!!!

The male leads are Djinn, based off of the show Supernatural, though I’ve created my own version for the story. I’ve never watched the show but I searched up supernatural monsters and found Djinn.

In this story, they’re tattooed beings who drink blood and eat flesh. They trap their victims by luring them with their glowing eyes that cause a hypnotic trance. Their tattoos will glow the same color as their eyes. They can only be killed with a silver knife laced with an antidote created by Djinn slayers.

Djinn are not mine nor is this the original type of creature. There’s also another definition that has nothing to do with the show so you should research that if you want to find out because I don’t have enough info on that to be able to explain it.

Not fully proofread

I apologize if I get any Japanese etiquette or culture wrong, I literally have to research the culture for some of my fandom stories so if anything is wrong, please excuse my ignorance.

Notice:

✩Y/n is 18+. I picture her as a black female but you can see her however.

✩Some parts of the story may not be realistic or factual. After all, this is a work of fiction.

✩Although it's a dark 'romance,' I do not condone any of the behavior displayed.

✩Dark content such as: gore, violence, triggering topics, graphic scenes, vulgar language, explicit sexual content, etc.

✩There may be scenes that involve non con and/ or dubcon so don’t read if that makes you uncomfortable

✩That being said, this story is for 18+ only.

Enjoy!

Blood Thirsty

You were quiet, hand covering your own mouth as your eyelids flutter closed. You lean your back against the shelf of books, hiding in an aisle of the abandoned library as you sit with your knees to your chest. You contain your vomit as you listen to the sounds of your friend's flesh ripping apart, the blood splattering against the floors as the putrid smell of death reaches your nose. Your other hand is placed against your pounding heart as your body tenses, hair sticking up as you prevent yourself from having an anxiety attack.

Earlier, you and your friends had gone to a local nightclub just to get out and have fun. Because the night club is owned by Djinn yakuza members, it was a sacrificial night, the full moon being the reason for this massacre. A ritual that was made into an agreement between humans and Djinn. Djinn can survive off of animal prey, which is what they eat until the night it’s time to feed. You had no idea the building was owned by not only a criminal organization but Djinn creatures at that. Not until one of your friends said, “Who knew Djinn could give us such a great time?”

Apparently your other three friends didn’t know either, eyebrows furrowing when they heard the news. It was already dangerous to be out late at night since that’s when they prowl on a full moon, but to also attend a Djinn club is just asking to be somebody’s meal. You smacked her shoulder and asked, “Why did you bring us here knowing that it’s feeding night?”

“They’re hot!” She responds, “If they’re gonna be active tonight then I know I can score at least one in exchange for my blood!” The creatures are known to be attractive, adding to the hype of the tattooed beings. Unfortunately, your friend is so boy crazy that she’ll put everyone at risk just for a chance with a murderous creature.

You all escaped and ran as fast as you could when all hell broke loose, ending in this dark dusty library, choosing your spots to hide in. You knew you couldn’t stay in the same spot for long. You knew you were going to have to move before they stopped feeding. The blood curdling screams of your friends begin to quiet down as you look over to the original friend who put you all in this predicament. She sat at the aisle across from you, eyes wide as well as her own hand covering her mouth as her body trembled. You both eyed each other in terror before you motioned for the door opposite of the sound. It was a few aisles down. You both have the potential to make it as they continue to eat.

You nod at her before standing on your feet, crouching as you peeked behind your aisle, instantly regretting it as you turned back away from the gruesome scene. Holding your stomach you ease your way to the other side of the aisle in front of you, hands trembling as you hold your breath once pausing, listening for any movement towards you. When all you heard was the usual ripping and bone cracking you turned to look at your friend who's following behind on her own side. You both move again and again until you finally make it out of the door, sprinting down the hall until you make it outside.

Your original plan was to keep running until you didn’t hear your friend behind you, turning around you noticed her standing in place, staring to the side.

“F/n! F/n! Come on!” You call out to her, confused as to why she stopped.

“But he’s so pretty.” She says breathlessly, her eyes beginning to glow purple.

You follow her sight, startled when you notice the shirtless man with a large tattoo on the left side of his torso, as well as a symbol on his neck. His purple mullet flowing in the wind as he stands across from her, eyes and tattoos glowing purple. Blood stained his mouth as well as his chest, his hands dripping with the substance as he licked some of the liquid off his fingers. You turn away as you grab her face, turning her to face you.

“Wake up! Wake up now! We’re gonna be killed!” You shake her face as her mouth hangs open, slobber dripping as you shift your gaze back to the male who stood still. You know you should leave her, but you can’t. You know it’s her fault, as well as yours for even being out in the first place on a night like this. Tears fall down your eyes as you contemplate whether or not to leave her to die. The only way she can be pulled out of the trance is by the Djinn releasing her or death.

You could be a savior and offer yourself up, but fear overtook your senses. You couldn’t possibly save her, so you decide to make a run for it while you still can, releasing her face. Before you could run, claws wrap around your wrist, yanking you back as you fall on the grass, bottom making contact with the ground as another tattooed being crouches over you. You noticed the yellow glow against the tiger symbol on his neck as well as the symbol that matches with the purple eyed Djinn on the right side of his chest.

His smile was as cold as his golden gaze, eyes refrained from glowing as he stared down at your fearful face. Blood covered his torso as well as his hands. You could see that his teeth were also stained with red as his smile widened.

“Where do ya think you’re going?”

You could only stare back at his face before you looked over to your friend, your hand reaching out in reflex as you called out to her when she walked over to the male. A hand on your chin forces you to turn your attention back to the brunette with blonde strands hanging over his face.

“Hey! Pay attention to me. I asked you a question.” He eyes you with an irritated gaze, causing you to yelp when he squeezes your chin tightly, claws poking your skin.

“Playing with your food, Kazu?” Another shirtless man walks toward the two of you from inside the building, fresh blood covering his mouth as well as his whole torso while the large tattoo on the right side of his body as well as the one on his neck glows purple.

He stops next to you both, sniffing the air as he eyes you and your friend with a lazy smile.

“Are you radiating that sweet scent, darling?”

“N-no! I don’t know what you’re talking about!” You say as you pull back from the man’s grip.

The purple eyed man’s fingers met his chin. “Hm. Of course you don’t. You smell it?” He faces the crouching man.

“Yeah. That’s what brought me over here. Never smelled blood like that before.” The tiger symboled man pushes himself from the ground, standing over you as their intense gazes study you like you’re a new specimen.

Your eyebrows furrow as you notice their eyes becoming dim, faces turning red as they hold dazed looks on their faces.

“Man, your smell is intoxicating.” Kazutora breathes out, chest rising as he drags a large sniff of the air.

“Maybe we should preserve this one, yeah?” The short haired man suggests.

“You think boss’ll allow it?” Kazutora questions.

“Allow what?” A pink haired man entered the scene, walking until he reached the two men standing above you. His hair covered in blood as well as his face, hands, and chest, as if he rubbed himself against the liquid while feeding. You eye the blue glow of his wrist, the symbol matching the iciness of his piercing eyes. He sniffed the air, facing you as he observed your figure. Bending over, he grabs your arm, pulling you up on your feet and smelling the limb.

His face instantly warms, eyes dazed as he continues to sniff the sweet aroma, using a hand at the back of your neck to pull you closer as he nuzzles your neck. You put your hands on his chest as you pushed yourself away, his hand preventing you from moving as you struggled in his grasp.

“What is that?” He pulls back, turning to the others as he releases your neck only to keep a hold of your arm.

Kazutora shrugged. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

You hear the sound of flesh ripping along with a familiar scream of pain. Turning your head, you eye the gruesome sight. The man has your friend’s detached arm in his hand. A big gash is left where her arm used to be as her legs tremble, her eyes staying wide as they continue to glow purple. Blood drips from the wound as he bites into the flesh of the arm, more blood staining his mouth as he moans while satisfying his hunger.

Your hands shake as you eye the display in horror, tears streaming down your face as you watch your last friend become a beast’s meal. Instincts going haywire, you wanted to run away, but if you did, you knew you’d be easily captured by the Djinn considering their abilities. They have the upper hand against the human species. You’ve always wondered why they didn’t just take over. You could only stand there amongst the men, feeling helpless, weak, and vulnerable. It disgusted you to be so human in this predicament. You were going to die and you had no choice but to accept it.

“Awe, she’s crying. I think you’re hurting her arm, Sanzu.” Kazutora jokes, pointing at your tears. You ignored him as you turned your head away from your friend who’s shoulder just got bitten off, using both of your hands to cover your ears, the sound driving you crazy.

Sanzu releases you just in time for you to lean over and vomit. Bile burning your throat as you gag and dry heave.

“Disgusting.” Sanzu hissed as he walked towards the purple mullet. Kazutora leaned over with his hands on his knees.

“It’s amazing how you still smell sweet. There’s no way boss won’t take you home with us.” He beams.

“He does have a thing for sweet things.” Ran states with a cigar in his mouth, sparking it before shoving the lighter in his pants pocket.

A short man walks out of the building, the men immediately turning their attention to him. The atmosphere darkens almost as much as the voids you’d call his eyes. He gave you an icy glare, causing a rapid chill to run up your spine as well as sending alerts to your instincts. Your body tenses as he comes closer. You hear him sniffing, eyeing the blood on his mouth as well as on his chest, bloody claws by his sides. He stops in front of you, gazing into your soul as you shift in discomfort.

His gaze slightly softens as the familiar red hue forms on his face, panting softly as he drags more of your fumes through his nostrils. You eye the blood staining his platinum hair, the stench of flesh and blood surrounding you. His palm rests on the side of your neck for a moment before he uses a claw to nick the skin, slicing a small cut in between your neck and shoulder causing you to flinch. He leans in, warm breath grazing your neck before his tongue slithers against your wound. His sunken eyes widen as his hands grab your shoulders, pulling you in as you place your hands on his chest in an attempt to push him away before you yelp from the fangs piercing through your skin.

He gulps your blood down, moaning against you as you fall backwards. He lands on top of you, a hand sliding behind your neck while the other balances next to your head. Your hands grip his shoulders as your eyes shut tightly in pain. You hiss and whimper under him as the others, including Sanzu and Rin, watch as if they’re in their own trance. He finally pulls his teeth out of your neck before he grips the back of your neck tightly as he nuzzles against the wound. Your blood rubs along his face as he engulfs himself. He breathes your scent in deeply before pulling back.

He pants as he sits on top of you with intense eyes. You avoid eye contact by looking at your own blood covering the hand that felt the moisture from your neck. Your hand trembles as you look at the men who stood around you. He stands up and walks away from you. He flicks his head, motioning for them to grab you. When you see this, your fight or flight kicks in causing you to hop up and run. The only place you could go was the forest but if you stayed hidden there until the sun rose, they would have to let you go in order to not break the treaty.

“So she wants a chase?” Rin questions with a smirk as all the executives stand and watch you run.

“Bind her and bring her to the car when you’re done.” Mikey says before he hops into the car.

With a wide grin that shows their sharp stained teeth, the four men began to sprint after you, Ran dropping the cigar in the process.

You run as fast as you can, grunting and breathing hard as your heart pounds. Your chest tightens as the pain in your legs form fast from running at a speed you’ve never had to run. You hop off of mini hills as well as passing many trees. The only light allowing you to see in the moonlight shining through the leaves. You just had to find a hiding spot to survive the night. You wouldn’t have run into the forest if they weren’t blocking your way. You knew you couldn’t pass them.

You groan as the pain becomes almost unbearable, the tightening of your body making it harder to breathe. You knew you’d have to stop soon but your adrenaline is pumping and you refuse to let them catch you. At least not easily. You thank the heavens that you hadn’t worn heels, the platforms of your shoes smacking against the grassy terrain, attempting to not fall on loose twigs or branches. As you run, you also gaze around for any mud to prevent yourself from sliding on it.

You pant, mouth wide open as you peek behind you. Seeing nothing there you continue to run as you look for the perfect hiding place. If you were being honest with yourself, there’s a low chance of surviving without being caught. They probably know exactly where you are and just allow you to run because they like to play with their prey. You’re not dumb. You were just scared. You had to try. Before you could plant your feet into the ground, you run into a figure in front of you, slamming into them.

Your friend's blood stains your clothes, mixing in with your own as the man wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you in as he leans over to smell your blood.

“I don’t think we’ve properly met.” A hand covers your mouth, blocking your scream. You’re forced to turn the other way, your back against his chest as he holds you in place. The other men stood in front of you in a curve, staring you down with glowing eyes.

“I don’t think I want to put her in a trance. I like it when they fight.”

“I want a taste. Mikey made you look so good.”

Suddenly, fingers connect with your chin, moving your head to the side as the person in front of you sniffs before leaning into the spot Mikey focused on.

A long tongue glides against your neck, the short haired man moaning softly before his teeth sinks in. You yelp in pain as another bite comes from behind, the man’s younger brother getting his own taste from the other side of your neck. The arm around your waist tightens you in place. You smack Ran’s shoulder as you try to push him away, tears rolling out of your eyes at the pain.

“You guys are hogging her all to yourself.” Kazutora states before snatching one of your arms. He bites into your forearm, eyes widening when the blood hits his taste buds, eagerly draining you. Sanzu does the same to the other arm, shutting his eyes as he drinks from you. You could only cry out in agony as they drain from you. Your body weakens as well as you becoming light headed. This goes on until you begin to see stars, your vision blurring. They pull away from you just in time before you faint, your body weak against the man behind you as you lean back.

Suddenly, your bottom met the ground as the man sitswith his back leaned against the tree. You begin to feel kisses littering all over your neck, lips hitting the blood that continues to ooze out.

“You taste so fucking good.” He whispers as he licks the liquid. Your eyelids are heavy as you sit barely awake. It feels like your black out drunk, going in and out of consciousness from whatever was spiked in it.

You look into the eyes in front of you, the person kneeling before you as two palms hold your cheeks, lips meeting yours as you’re forced to kiss the man. You couldn’t even flinch when he nipped your lip, blood drawing from you as you sat weakly.

“Let me go.” You whisper against his lips, not having enough strength to say much in a louder tone. He pulls back as he smirks.

“Go where? You can’t even walk.” Sanzu says as he crouches beside you, eyeing the wound on your neck and using his fingers to force you to turn towards him.

The red hue is still stuck on all of their faces, dazed eyes as if they’re intoxicated by your scent.

“I wonder what your thighs taste like.” The golden eyed man states before kneeling and pulling your leg open. He leans over and begins licking and sucking your thigh before sinking his teeth in. Another grunt leaves out of your mouth from the pain.

“I wonder how you taste down here.” A hand coming from behind slips into your pants as you try to wiggle out of his grip.

“Stop! Don’t touch me!” You cry out angrily. The hand dips into your panties, slowly rubbing up your slit before landing on your clit.

“I bet your cum is as sweet as your blood, huh?” The man behind you chuckles as he rolls his finger against your clit.

“I think we should find out.” His brother adds on, smiling as they nod at each other. Kazutora moves away from your thigh as he wipes his mouth, licking the blood he wiped from the back of his hand.

Rin pulls his hand out of your pants before reaching under your thighs and pulling them as far back as he could. Ran uses a claw to cut a slit from the zipper of your pants down to your ass. He tears a hole into the pants, stretching them to get a good view of your panties.

“No! Stop right now! Please!” Your head falls back on Rin’s shoulder weakly as you use your hands to cover yourself. Sanzu grabs them, securing your wrists above your head.

Ran leans over as he slices through the middle of your panties. He closes in and takes a big whiff of your vagina. Using two fingers, he gently spreads your lips apart with one hand while the thumb on his other hand pulls the hood of your clit back, revealing the bud.

“What a pretty pussy.” You twitch slightly as you feel a blow of air on your clit.

Your face warms up when you feel his lips grazing your clit, leaving a soft kiss on the bud. He does it once more and then again as he looks at you with intense eyes. You bite your lip, sucking your teeth as you turn away, only for Sanzu to use one hand to force you to look up at him. Leaning over with one hand still gripping your wrists, his lips meet yours. Rin keeps your legs pulled back, piercing his claws into your skin to draw some blood, watching as you flinch in pain, all the while Ran licks up your clit before he gives a few more kitten licks. Finally, he closes his mouth around the bud, sucking and flicking his tongue as he dives in.

Kazutora, who's still kneeling on the ground, licks up the blood dripping from your thighs. You whimper against Sanzu’s mouth.

“I think we should put the bind in between her breasts.” Rin says as you jolt from Ran’s tongue. Sanzu pulls back.

“We should put it on her face, that way everyone knows who she belongs to.”

Kazutora pulls back. “But she has such a pretty face, I don’t want to mark it.”

Ran continues to suck your clit as he lowers his head to lick some of your slick from the hole itself, his long tongue pushing inside as he uses a finger to rub your clit. He doesn’t pay much attention to the conversation, too obsessed with drinking your juices as your pussy contracts. Your head falls back with your eyes shut tight.

“Fine. Take her arms.” Kazutora grabs your arms as he stands up, Sanzu kneeling to tear the middle of your top open, revealing the lack of bra.

“Wow, you were already ready.” Kazu beams.

Sanzu sticks out a claw as his eyes glow, along with his tattoo. The beam reaches his hand as the claw meets with your skin, Rin holding you tighter as you scream in pain. The claw penetrates your skin as it drags into the shape of their Bonten symbol, blood dripping down as you struggle in his grip.

“Stop! Stop! It fucking hurts!” You cry out, your own nails digging into the skin of your palms. Kazutora forces you to turn to him with one hand, trapping your screams with an open mouthed kiss.

The contrast of pain between your chest and pleasure from your pussy shamefully causes you to near your orgasm as Ran tongue fucks you and rolls a finger around your bud. Your pussy drips with juice as your body convulses, just in time for the bind to complete as it glows a blue color that swirls into all of their signature colors before it resembles a normal tattoo. You yell out as you finally reach your limit, creaming on his face as he laps up the juice. Not long after, you finally pass out from all the overwhelming sensations.

[djinn-sins]

Zagan: What do you do when someone offers you drugs?

Focalor: Take them!

Leraje: Punch them in the neck!

Barbatos: Say thank you!

Dantalion: Offer them more drugs to assert dominance!

Zagan: ...

Zagan: no

[mittensmorgul]

I've been reading seasons 10 and 11 meta and the finale makes less and less sense to me so yea I'm glad Destiel and Saileen are getting married and living life happy. shrug emoji

Anon friendo, congrats on achieving peace!

Seriously, I’ve been telling people I know who haven’t watched the end yet that for happiness, it’s best to watch through near the end of 15.19. Then you can make your own choices about what happens next.

Let them defeat Chuck. Let them have the full win. And then.... know that whatever you most wanted for all of them, for each of their happiness (not just Sam and Dean, but Jack, Eileen, Cas, Charlie, Stevie, Donna, and everyone else snapped away at the end of 15.18), whatever you were hoping for in the ending, that’s exactly what happens!

Congrats! You have won Supernatural!

If your notions are only kinda-sorta vague, and you regret not being able to see it unfold, there’s an ever-growing variety of fanfic endings being posted daily. At least one of them will hopefully give you some happiness and closure.

And if you accidentally saw the final episode and are finding it difficult to unsee, there’s a number of fix its even for that situation! “It was actually a djinn dream” is one I’ve seen used a few times now. And my personal favorite (because I wrote it) is Becky reading Chuck’s draft of the episode they aired, left by him on her computer, unpublished, before he lost his power. So of course none of it could “become real.” She deletes it and then texts Dean to thank them all again. And Dean tells her “Cas says hi.”

(if you want to read that version, i posted it on the ao3 here.  it’s only 200 words. That’s all it took to fix everything for me.)

Either way, you can choose your own ending. You can choose a different ending every day depending on how you’re feeling! And the show has told us this is valid. It’s OUR story now, and they can’t try to tell us how to engage with it anymore.

And in *my* personal version, everyone actually does get to win. Everyone does get a chance to live a life with free will and the family they’ve built around them.

Sam and Eileen get a dog. Dean gets a proper long vacation with Cas to somewhere he can just sit and watch the sunset with his toes in the sand and finally follow his heart. Charlie and Stevie live a long, happy life of hunting dates and cozy breakfasts. Donna, Jody, and the waywards grow their network, and find they’re more about saving people than hunting things now. Claire and Kaia find happiness and balance together. Garth and the garthlets keep on keeping on, because they were already the happiest dang family on the show.

And for anyone who says “well they could have all of that in Heaven! And that’s forever!” Yeah... that’s the point! In Heaven, choices don’t have consequences. You don’t wake up the next day to new things to deal with. The highs and lows of human emotion and life itself are apparently irrelevant there. Not that I *want* any of these characters to experience suffering, but that’s part of life. And once you’re dead... even in a perfect blissful heaven... it’s not the same as being alive. It’s just not the same, and the show has been pointing it out for years. “But heaven is different now!” yeah... in some basic ways, like the walls being gone and being able to make new memories but like... for there to be no possibility of conflict, or of suffering (which... was what Jack was supposed to bring to it), then there has to be some “drugging” effect in this heaven. Something that prevents people from actually fully being real people, because otherwise you can’t have perfect peace and contentment. So no... not interested in Heaven stories. At all. But if that’s your thing (and not an existential horror like it is to me... there wasn’t really much they could’ve actually done to fix the concept of heaven for me...) then by all means enjoy those too!

It’s just... so freeing to accept the end of canon and wander out into the liberated fields of post-canon life in fandom! Like we all were liberated from Chuck’s story the moment his power was zapped, and we are all now in the Impala driving away from that beach to begin living our real lives. So whatever your preferred headcanon, canon itself has said that’s totally valid. 

*something something cry no more*

[niche-pastiche]

John Winchester SPN Meta

I’m about to argue that John Winchester was suicidal so if that’s not a topic you can engage with safely please don't risk it.

TW: Suicide, grief, mental illness

The way I interpret John Winchester, his obsession with hunting YED is less of a quest and more of a coping mechanism. The same is true of his need to protect his boys, especially Sam. John Winchester seems to me like a man who is dangerously depressed and has been since his wife died and their house burnt down leaving him homeless and raising two young boys while living out of his car. Oh and also monsters are real. And all that while dealing with whatever he saw in Vietnam.

[Okay so this post got really long and it involves content that requires a trigger warning so I put the rest of it under the cut.]

John Winchester was raised by his mom from a young age after his dad, Henry Winchester, walked out on them with no explanation. He’s been the “man of the household” since he was a child. When describing John to a time traveling Dean, Mary says “He’s sweet, kind. Even after the war, after everything, he still believes in happily ever after, you know? He’s everything a hunter isn’t.”

And yet so often I see interpretations of the character that match a lot more closely with Samuel Campbell than anything we saw from John.  

Yes, John screwed up as a dad and his kids deserved better. But I’d argue he knows that too and just can’t let himself think about it. This is clearly a man holding on by the skin of his teeth. The two things that have kept him going all these years are the need to protect his kids and kill the thing that killed Mary. If he stops going for even one second, he’s afraid he’ll fall apart.

When he’s crashing on Missouri Mosely’s sofa at the tail end of 1x09 Home, the man clearly has some of the same mental health issues we’ll see from Dean in later seasons. (I’d argue Dean’s successful crossroads deal is symbolically similar to enlisting, with Hell functioning as a pretty good metaphor for war in the earlier seasons. But there’s also that self sacrificial death wish there. The later example with the Ma'lak box is more clearcut.)

This is the scene:

[CUT TO: INT. – MISSOURI’S HOUSE. MISSOURI comes inside and sets her purse on the table.]

MISSOURI: That boy…he has such powerful abilities. But why he couldn’t sense his own father, I have no idea. [The camera pans over to her couch, where JOHN WINCHESTER is sitting.]

JOHN: Mary’s spirit –- do you really think she saved the boys?

MISSOURI: I do. [JOHN nods sadly and twists his wedding ring on his finger.] John Winchester, I could just slap you. Why won’t you go talk to your children?

JOHN: [tearfully] I want to. You have no idea how much I wanna see ‘em. But I can’t. Not yet. Not until I know the truth. [They share a look. The screen fades to black.]

I tried to make a list of all the moments in season 1 and the first episode of season 2 that show John is a suicide risk but I couldn’t because I ended up with literally every moment he’s on screen.

He literally begs Sam to shoot him at one point.

This man needs help and at any time he could have stopped this quest for revenge and reached out to Bobby and I’m sure Bobby would have helped him get some actual real help. But he doesn’t. And he hasn’t. Not since he tried to talk to his coworker at the garage about what happened to Mary.

I think he was afraid his kids would be taken away if he admitted to needing help.

And at the end of Season 1, his boys are on the way to get that help when the truck smashes into them.  (And like, if it had been a one season show I could accept that ending. A rusty nail after 15 seasons is a very different story.)

Okay so I’ve gotten a little off track but I’d like to return to a previous point of mine. I think the primary thing that keeps him going is telling himself that his boys still need him. I think that’s the real reason he freaks out so bad when Sam goes away to college. I think a lot of Dean’s problems were John’s problems first that Dean learned by example. But I certainly don’t think they were necessarily all intentional lessons.

Dean’s story is one of learning not to make the same mistakes his dad did. Up to and including trying to defeat the big bad by sacrificing himself.

John wronged his children by making that deal with Azazel. It leads to Dean making a crossroads deal and spending 40 years in hell, Sam getting locked in the cage with Lucifer and so much more suffering. Not to mention Sam had to find him like that. No, screw that. We’ll later learn that there are so many other ways of bringing people back there’s no reason he had to make a deal with Azazel. He could have taken the same crossroads deal as anyone else but John wanted to die and that makes him an asshole.

It’s not that John deserves to die because he’s a terrible father.

John is a terrible father because he believed he deserved to die and didn’t seek out the support he needed.

And I am so proud of Dean for not repeating John’s mistakes. He doesn’t buy into the idea that dying to the Djinn in What Never Was and Never Should Be is an acceptable outcome. He refuses to play his part in the apocalypse. He shows up on Lisa’s doorstep at the end of season 5 because he knows it’s too dangerous fro him to be alone after losing Sam. He kills Death and yeah sure now he has to face the Darkness but he’s alive and once he works through it Amara is actually really cool.

For all John’s failings, he managed to raise his kid to be better than he was but he’s still a f*cking asshole for not working through his own shit and for dying like that.

[squidpro-quo]

For the prompt : Jaskier is kidnapped and used as leverage against Geralt (I'd be forever grateful if you did this op)

    Thank you so much for this prompt! A perfect opportunity for angst and whump and hurt and comfort, i can only hope i fit it all in here. This was a load of fun!

Jaskier strained against the rope tying his hands together, reminded of another time when the same circumstances had led to his life changing—he’d argue for the better most of the time—and now it might just happen again, except the change to his life will be that it ends. His fingers are turning numb, with how long he’d been held in the stone room it’s no wonder, only a question of how much longer until they figure out that it was all for naught. Bribing the innkeep, getting the herbs necessary to drug him, the fortified hold they’d decided to hole up in? It was all too much effort for a lost cause, but he’d kept his mouth shut for once knowing that if he spoke a word of the futility of their plan, then they’d have no reason to keep him alive anymore. 

    The door creaked; the sound of the key scraping in the old lock had him struggling to scramble as far away from the door as possible, his body protesting every movement even as he knew it wouldn’t help. They’d made up their mind. 

    “How’s the little songbird now? Ready to sing a sweeter song?” The man that entered had a grin with the curve of a sickle, sharp and cutting, to offset the fact that his lisp would have undercut any threats made in anyone else’s mouth. The sharp whistle of his breath through the cracked crags of his teeth accompanied his heavy steps and Jaskier bit back a retort about his singing’s quality in favor of staving off the inevitable by just a few seconds. 

    “No refrain? I’d heard it was hard to shut you up, not the other way around. Guess some things just end up embellished into lies, don’t they?” The look in his grey eyes grew hard.

    Jaskier knew what was coming, he might have found himself in trouble more times than he could count but he’d learned when to expect a punch by the set of a man’s shoulders. This time was no different. The blow caught him across the temple, leaving his ears ringing and the ache in his head redoubled after he’d just started to regain some peace from the pain. He slipped sideways down the wall, unable to catch himself when he couldn’t feel the stone beneath his fingers, to the hoarse laugh of the man he’d realized was the orchestrator of it all. Jaskier rested his forehead against the cool stone floor, hoping it would take away some of the pounding that he felt reverberating through his skull. Like metal clashing against metal, the clanging sounded deceptively close despite the fact that he knew it was only his tired mind playing tricks on him. 

    “Talk,” the man ordered, in a deceptively soft tone, forcing Jaskier to look up at him to read his lips and discern his meaning. “You can talk to that monster, but not to a human?”

“What do you want me to say?” Jaskier couldn’t hold his tongue any longer, though his own voice sounded muted and echoing inside his head. His fear had been a thin veneer before, but now it was being poked through with the usual thorns of irritation and the aching need to be glib. “That I haven’t seen him in months? That I don’t know where he is? That I doubt he knows, or really cares, where I am either? You didn’t understand it the last time I said it, but I guess the constant whistling can get in the way of listening comprehension.” 

“The entire continent knows you’re companions, traveling together, dining together… sleeping together,” the man raised his eyebrows, before continuing, “You know him better than anyone.” 

“Do I?” Jaskier swallowed, to get the dry taste of irony out of his mouth and to keep from retching at the way the world turned blurry before him. “If sleeping together was all it took, I’d have several dozen of those I’ve courted lining up at your doors. So I’d say you’re out of luck on that shaky limb of logic.”

It was a good joke, considering he’d likely die just from the surprise of Countess de Stael riding up so many months after leaving his poems as ash in her fireplace. Or Geralt, who last he’d seen was firmly in the arms of someone Geralt had risked his life for against all odds and against all wishes, her own included. Not that she’d seemed to mind at the end. 

“Is that a note of pity I hear?” 

“I can’t do many things, fight a murderous band of men for example, but I know when I’m not wanted. I don’t begrudge anyone that.” He didn’t, he loved freely and indiscriminately, pouring his affection into the world along with his quips and commentary as an inexhaustible resource. Because what better way to try and stay a memory in someone’s heart long after the flare of passion has gone cold. He couldn’t help it if Geralt had been a never-ending well for him to attempt to fill, not realizing how he’d fallen down into it in the process and the answer he’d been chasing had been merely his own deluded echo in return. 

“He might not come for you now then—” Jaskier had a brief moment of hope at the contemplative look on the man’s face, the sliver of mercy amidst the cold calculation. “But he’ll surely come for your headless corpse. If your songs have even a fraction of truth, he’s the sort to be mad about that kind of thing.” 

Cold ice slid down Jaskier’s spine, because the man was right. Geralt was nothing if not a righteous man, perhaps surly and grumpy to a fault, but he’d fight anyone that threatened the helpless, never mind that it happened to be Jaskier. He’d written songs about it after all, he’d know. Blood pounded in his ears, the sound seeming too loud in the confines of his terror and he could almost imagine the keep itself was resounding with it, the thump of his heartbeat bouncing through the walls in an irregular series of bangs. 

The man snatched his attention back when he slid his axe free of the belt at his waist, hefting it for a better grip and leaning down to yank Jaskier upright. 

“Wait! Wait, what if you just let me go? There’s a new idea, worth considering—”

“Don’t worry, if it really doesn’t matter who ends up dead as long as it’s someone he could’ve saved then we have an endless supply of who to use. As you’ve said, it doesn’t take anyone special,” the man said, rank breath wafting into Jaskier’s face, and he wished that wasn’t the last thing he’d ever hear. 

Axe shining in the flickering light of the torch, the man shoved Jaskier into the right angle despite his best efforts to scrounge together enough strength to resist. The man lifted his arm, already evident that he wouldn’t be able to make it one clean cut and didn’t particularly care, and swung. 

Jaskier had closed his eyes, content with the darkness if that’s all that was left of life anyway, and so the sound of wood breaking from close by and the short gurgle of a last breath was all he knew before there were hands on his face. 

Calloused, rough, and warm, familiar from the many years and he leaned into them so quickly they were all that held him up. He didn’t need to open his eyes to know, but he did anyway because he needed to see, to remember the sight of Geralt leaning over him, engulfing him in his shadow and tracing the bruises on his face with a touch so gentle he could’ve sworn it was a dream. 

“Jaskier,” just the rumbling timbre of Geralt’s voice was enough to make Jaskier realize that he’d been worried, chest heaving and sword bloodied from his rush through the keep. To him. 

“Cutting it pretty close, no?” Jaskier snorted, relief making him lightheaded. Relief that he wasn’t dead, that Geralt was there. “Did you get it? He was about to cut my head off, that  kind of death offers so many opportunities for pithy jokes. Would be a shame to waste it…” 

“I came as fast as I could,” Geralt said, tone not plaintive in the slightest but desperate, as if he thought Jaskier was really doubting him. As if he hadn’t been doing just that not a few minutes ago. 

Jaskier swallowed, this time to keep the words, all the damning and too honest words he wanted to bare before Geralt, down and keep what he’d been willing to carry to the grave with him just a while longer. 

Before he could find anything to say, Geralt pulled him close, palms brushing over his ruined doublet and down to Jaskier’s deadened hands, enveloping his fingers in a grip he could’ve sworn was trembling just slightly. His other hand slipped into Jaskier’s hair, until he felt the spot last touched by the man lying dead at their feet. 

Jaskier hadn’t meant to flinch but he saw the way Geralt’s eyes narrowed at the movement and tried to stand on his own to make up for the moment of weakness. 

“In the area, were you? I don’t think you’ll get much coin for this job.” He wanted to ask, wanted to see if he was more trouble than he was worth but he didn’t want to hear the ugly answer.

“I was already searching for you, when I heard.” Geralt’s hand stayed on his back, just like when he’d carried him around in the djinn’s aftermath. “Last time I saw you, you were covered in your own blood, like now. You left… and I didn’t know where you’d gone.” 

Jaskier stumbled, both from the way the room seemed to spin beneath his feet at the change in altitude as he got up and the fact that Geralt had followed him this time, sought him out and found him. 

“I got into yet more trouble, as you can see. Nothing new there.” He rubbed his newly freed hands and grimaced at the red welts the ropes had left behind. He’d have to wear his longer-sleeved wardrobe to cover those up. He looked up to find Geralt’s gaze still raking over him, the furrow in his brow the one that always formed when he was considering something. “Did you need something?”

“You shouldn’t be alone.” 

“W-what?” Jaskier stuttered. “What does that mean?”

“I’m trouble,” Geralt continued, looking like he was choosing his words carefully. “And you are too.”

    “Thank you for the astute observations… Where are you going with this?”

    “I already said it. That you shouldn’t be alone.” 

    Jaskier waited, but Geralt stared at him with the same set look on his face as when Roach gave him a neigh instead of a bump in the chest, unsure what to say. But words had always been Jaskier’s forte, even if he swallowed them down sometimes. 

    “Are you saying you think trouble loves company?”

    Geralt nodded, and that was enough for Jaskier. He’d never be empty of what he poured into the world, and so when something spilled into him instead, he overflowed. Geralt’s empty well might just have a bucket of water inside it, and he’d managed to fish it out after all. 

prompts open

[suckmysupernatural]

Comforting Game Night

Word Count: ~1300, One shot

Pairing: None (Dean, Sam, and Reader are all friends)

Warnings: Mentions of emotional abuse, one mention of sexual abuse, relationship trauma, drinking

Summary: After finding out some news regarding her past, Y/N opens up to the brothers. Distraught, she requests a game night from the brothers. 

A/N: Hello loves! Hope you enjoy the fic. -Sarah

------------------------------------------------------------------

Y/N sat at the table in the bunker’s library, on her laptop. Dean and Sam were also in the room, with Dean across from her on his own laptop. Sam, however, was sitting cross-legged in the corner, surrounded by lore books. Glancing over, Y/N smiled to herself at the hilarious view that was an insanely tall man sitting on the floor like a child. The three hunters had been in the library for hours, focused on their tasks.

Dean was looking for new cases and watching some slapstick comedy. His laughter was the only thing breaking the silence every so often. Sam had his nose deep in a book that listed the various descriptions of zombies in literature. The boys hadn’t noticed that Y/N’s eyes had begun to water, breathing shallow. 

Ripping her headphones out of her ears, she stood up and slammed her laptop closed. This led both of the boys to look in the direction of the noise, startled by the abruptness. Y/N cleared her throat before addressing the brothers. 

“Okay, boys. I am going to scream for a second, probably cry a little bit. Who knows, I might even break something. But once it is over, I will be able to calm down and explain the meaning behind it all,” she spoke, eerily calm despite the contents of her sentence. 

The boys stared at her, wide-eyed and silently nodding. Nodding back, Y/N took a deep inhale and screamed through the exhale. Tears began to fall onto her cheeks, though she did not seem to notice or care.

Y/N picked up her glass of water that sat on the table and gulped it down. Once it was empty, she threw the glass across the room. Once it shattered she put her hands onto her knees, taking a couple long, deep breaths. 

“Great. Thank you both for letting me do that real quick uninterrupted,” Y/N said calmly once more, wiping her face dry with the flannel that had been laid across the back of her chair. Sitting back down, she motioned for Sam to join her and Dean at the table. He made his way over, sitting at a seat over from Dean.

 “So boys, I know that I am not very open about my past. Part of this is because it was incredibly boring until the two of you found me in the Djinn’s lair. The other part, well frankly, it’s depressing, and I don’t like to dwell on it. Before we met, I was in a very emotionally abusive relationship. He was a friend from a young age and groomed me, knowing that I was vulnerable. This all led to him sexually abusing me.” 

Dean’s jaw clenched in anger, and Sam bit his lip, looking down at the table. Hearing these words come out of Y/N’s mouth was like a punch to the gut. She noticed the brother’s reactions but continued regardless. 

 “Anyway, I am okay and have worked through it. But today, I found an article about a new up and coming CEO of some sort of company. I didn’t read the article long enough to find out. As soon as I clicked on it, I saw his picture…” Y/N said, her voice filled with pain, “you know, I had always wondered what happened to him. I think I was hoping he was dead in a ditch somewhere or in prison. I definitely wasn’t the only one, so maybe one of the others went to the police. I never looked him up because of this. Seeing that he is this successful, popular, rich man… it just awoke this trauma that I hadn’t faced in so long.”

Sam and Dean had both been patient and attentive as Y/N shared her story. Both of them felt such pain for her, now knowing what life had been like for her before the brothers came along. Coughing, Dean spoke up.

“Name and address?” He requested, looking into her eyes with full seriousness. 

“I know that you want to hurt him…” you began to say before Dean swiftly interrupted.

“I don’t want to hurt him, Y/N, I want to kill him,” Dean said, mimicking the calm voice she had immediately after reading the news.

“I know that you want to kill him,” she restarted, “but it isn’t worth the time. He doesn’t deserve to be sought out. I think that he will get what is coming to him, either now or once he joins Crowley down below. Either way, I don’t want his blood on my hands or yours. He is the villain and I refuse to let that change.”

“Okay Y/N. Is there anything we can do to help you then?” Sam asked. 

“Well, I think I’m gonna sit out on the next hunt. I know we don’t have anything planned yet, but I don’t want to go in and half-ass a hunt. I won’t be able to fully focus for a minute, after getting this news. So…. yeah.” Y/N shrugged. It was tough to admit that she needed a break.

“Of course. Anything else?” Dean said softly. 

“I think that you two just being here and listening to me has helped a lot. I never told anyone, so it’s nice not to carry this alone anymore. I thought that I would have seen the red flags, but I guess it was a gradual increase in behaviors. Nothing ever felt worse than the time before, so it didn’t seem that bad. I know that none of it is my fault, but there is still this sense of shame that attaches to you when something like this happens. I think that what I need now is just a relaxing night with my two best friends,” Y/N gave the brothers a small smile. She didn’t want them to worry about her too much. 

“Done. Sammy, you get the board games. Y/N, you get the snacks, and I, of course, will grab the booze.” Dean decided with a broad grin. 

The three of them quickly went about their job, Sam bringing the largest pile of games his big arms could carry. Dean grabbed a case of beer, a bottle of whiskey and one of tequila. Y/N ran to the kitchen and grabbed popcorn, multiple kinds of chips, and some candy. 

Meeting back at the table, they quickly decided to start playing Jenga. They stacked the Jenga blocks until they had a tower.  Making it into a drinking game, each time one person successfully pulled out a piece the other two were required to take a drink. Y/N took the tequila while the boys used the bottle of whiskey. 

All three of the hunters got their game faces on and their bottles opened. Quickly, they were all tipsy and laughing. The game ended with Dean losing, grabbing a piece, and yanking it out more roughly than intended. 

Next was Monopoly, the three getting fiercely competitive. Dean and Sam repeatedly argued over the rules of the game, with Y/N being the tie-breaker. 

Soon, all thoughts of Y/N’s past had fallen to the wayside, the alcohol and games bringing smiles to their faces. Dean was Zoolander drunk, doing a long-winded impression of the dumb model. Sam and Y/N couldn’t help but crack up every time Dean would motion to the board and say, “what is this, a game for ants?” 

This continued until the early hours of the morning. By that time, the whole case of beer was gone, as well as the entire whiskey bottle and most of the tequila. The three attempted to stumble back to their rooms, only making it as far as Dean’s. 

Taking one of the pillows, Sam cuddling up on the floor like a puppy. Y/N was laying across the foot of the bed, while Dean was at a diagonal. It did not take long for the drunken giggles to be replaced by snoring and slow, even breathing. 

While they may wake up with the worst hangovers in the morning, it was completely worth it. The boys had successfully cheered Y/N up, with them having a game night that they would reminisce on for years to come. 

[fanfic-corner]

Under 10,000 Words

16/12/20 - I can never figure out what my favourite length of fic is, but I think it depends on my mood. Sometimes I want a huge, 200,000 word journey, and sometimes I just want a quick drabble. Anyway, here are some fics which are all between 2,000 and 10,000 words, organised by the word count.

Sleep Deprivation by Honey_Honey on AO3. (2,313 words).

Tags: Cute, First Kiss.

My Rating: 4 stars.

Description: The one where killing monsters leaves Dean without a week of sleep, and Cas has to deal with the consequences.

Notes: This was so fluffy and cute and I can totally imagine Dean overthinking everything while Sam just finds the whole situation hilarious.

That One Time Sam Winchester Googled Something Weird and It Had Pretty Awesome Results by quitepossiblyjanuary on AO3. (2,587 words).

Tags: Romantic Fluff, First Kiss, Stars, Humor, Courtship, Short & Sweet.

My Rating: 4 stars.

Description: In which Sam Googles something and his curiosity doesn’t kill the cat. Or him. Or anyone. It’s a pretty awesome feeling.

Notes: This was so adorable! Gabe was so sweet, and his mind reading skills made me laugh.

What Can’t Be Seen by destieldrabblesdaily on AO3. (2,639 words).

Tags: Soulmate AU, author!Cas, Strangers to Lovers, First Kiss.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: Written for this prompt: Soulmate AU where you first see color after eye contact: Cas is a famous best selling author and he’s promoting his book, so he’s talking to a crowd of people and suddenly his world is in color, and a lot of his fans pretend to be his soulmate. A Cinderella type situation ensues.

Notes: This was really cute and such a sweet and funny idea.

The Tea is Decaf by mnwood on AO3. (3,673 words).

Tags: POV Castiel, Fluff, Sign Language, Castiel in the Bunker, Canon Compliant, Sharing Clothes, Asexual Castiel, Gentle Dean, Non-Explicit Sex, Domestic, Established Relationship.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: Based on this text post from thebloggerbloggerfun: “Listen, imagine Eileen sneaking out of Sam’s room at night to go to the bathroom or something and steps out into the hallway in one of Sam’s shirts only to see Cas trying to quietly leave Dean’s room while wearing one of Dean’s shirts and they both just stare at each other awkwardly for a few seconds before trying to muffle quiet laughter and now they have a late night club where they talk about life and gossip about the Winchesters in sign language"And this anon I received: "what if Eileen and Cas discover there are some things Sam and Dean both do in bed because Dean jokingly gave Sam pointers when they were younger and Sam took the advice”.

Notes: This has to be one of my favourite fics of all time, even though the first time I read it I hadn’t even met Eileen yet! I’m still so pissed off that she wasn’t in the finale (unless we’re counting Blurry Wife?).

surely heaven wants for you by cenotaphy on AO3. (3,782 words). 

Tags: Episode: s15e20 Carry On, Love Confessions, First Kiss, Heaven, Coda, Post-Finale, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Dean, Outdoor Sex.

My Rating: 4 stars.

Description: Cas doesn't come to him. Dean can't really argue with that, given the circumstances. In all the history of balls in courts, he thinks there might never have been a ball as thoroughly in a court as this one is in his. He drives for what feels like a long time but might just be a single sunny afternoon, or maybe years (time's funny here, Bobby had said), just enjoying the music, the shifting landscape outside his window, the hum and creak of the engine. Finally the forest opens up and the road narrows down in a way that he's fairly certain wouldn't typically happen on any kind of earthly interstate, and he glides the car to a halt at the edge of a lake.

Notes: This was so beautiful and such a interesting exploration of Dean’s feelings!

a quick salt and burn by xylodemon on AO3. (4,609 words).

Tags: Episode Related, Cemeteries, Case Fic.

My Rating: 4 stars.

Description: "Fuck," Dean mutters, wincing as pain throbs in his shoulder and neck. After the ghost chucked him into the hedge, he hit the ground like ton of bricks and clipped an exposed tree root so old it was practically petrified. "So much for a quick salt and burn."

Notes: This is adorable and hilarious, so a double win.

Funny Bone by PallasPerilous on AO3. (4,933 words).

Tags: Fluff and Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Skeletons, Bad Pick-Up Lines, Alternate Universe - No Angels, Canon Divergence, Mild Gore.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: It wasn’t even a particularly creepy skeleton; it was in kind of a “just chillin’” pose on the floor. One ankle was still locked up in a heavy iron cuff, at the end of a short chain leading back to the wall. Snoresville, as dead stuff goes; Dean’s seen worse at Disneyland. It was the skeleton’s comment about Dean’s ass that really livened things up.

Notes: This has to have been one of the funniest fics I have ever read, but oh boy did I feel bad for poor Cas.

Grace by july_19th_club on AO3. (5,164 words).

Tags: Fix-It, Episode Fix-It: s15e20 Carry On, Resurrection, Reciprocated Confession.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: A man dies. What happens next will shock you. [script]

Notes: This was written beautifully, and now I really want to see this filmed! So much better than the ending we got.

(un)conventional by imogenbynight on AO3. (6,100 words).

Tags: Alternate Universe, mechanic!Dean, Writer!Castiel, Conventions, Fluff.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: Spec Lit Con--Speckly Con, to it’s regular attendees--is an annual weekend-long event held in Chicago, dedicated to science fiction, fantasy and otherwise speculative literature. This year Dean's favorite author, C.J. Novak, is appearing as a panelist. Naturally, he shells out the cash for an all access pass.

Notes: This was so adorable that I nearly screamed in the corridor outside my computer science lesson. Plus, the writing was absolutely gorgeous! I miss conventions :(

La Vie A Plus by K_K_TiBal on AO3. (6,260 words)

Tags: Punk Castiel, Asexual Castiel, College/Uni AU, Roommates, oh my god they were roommates, College Student Dean, College Student Castiel, Pining, First Kiss, Misunderstandings, Art Student Castiel, Love Confessions, Gabriel is a Little Shit, Tattooed Castiel.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: Dean Winchester is hopelessly, head-over-heels in love with his best friend and roommate, Castiel. Castiel - with his blue hair, and his tattoos, and his artwork, and his perfect everything. Dean never stood a chance, really. It only sucks because, as far as Dean can tell, Castiel is definitely not interested. But love, much like art, has a way of being unpredictable. Even if you think you know where you’re going with it.

Notes: The angst is strong in this one! Again, I feel like many aces have had this conversation or that fear that people (allos, especially) may not want to be with them.

Event Horizon by Winglesss on AO3. (6,442 words).

Tags: Suicidal Thoughts, Suicidal Dean, Depression, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Past Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Texting, Sharing a Bed, Happy Ending, Veteran Dean, Doctor Dean, Writer Castiel, Strangers.

My Rating: 4 stars.

Description: Castiel couldn't have helped his sister. That's why being offered a chance to help somebody else dealing with suicidal thoughts he took it without hesitation. When he gets the first text from someone who needs his help, nothing goes as he expected.

Notes: I don’t know if that kind of suicide prevention scheme exists, but this fic is very sweet.

I Think That’s Mine by palominopup on AO3. (6,804 words).

Tags: Fluff, AU, Reporter!Dean, Writer!Cas.

My Rating: 4 stars.

Description: A mix up at the Atlanta Airport places Dean Winchester's laptop in someone else's possession. A series of calls and texts bring two men together.

Notes: This was so cute, Cas was so sweet, and Dean was an icon.

Nothing Equals the Splendor by RurouniHime on AO3. (7,865 words).

Tags: Fix-It, Post-Episode: s15e20 Carry On, Angst with a Happy Ending, Grief, Explicit Sexual Content, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Declarations of Love, Canon Compliant, Minor Injuries.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: Maybe it’s the cynic in him. The hunter, always under the surface of any quietude he ever found. Or maybe it’s just that he has always had trouble with blind faith. But after a while (a blink? A decade? A century?), Dean raises his eyebrows, looks around, and says—

“Uh. No.”

It’s so close. Just so slightly imperfect. And maybe, he analyzes, maybe that’s the final knell of this bell called contentment. Dean’s experience with happiness has always been that last rise in the road, right before it turns. Right before fate comes barreling around the corner head on. He turns in his spot on the bridge, and suddenly Sam is like a cellophane film through which he can see the light streaming, and the taste of cheap beer on his tongue is much, much older a memory than it should be.

“Oh, you’re good,” he says, and means it.

Notes: What a great idea, and written so well! I always thought the show could have done so much more with djinns, but never mind.

In the House of the Rising Bun by imissmaeberry on AO3. (9,046 words).

Tags: Bakery and Coffee Shop, Baker Dean, Barista Sam, College Campus, Poet Castiel, Mutual Pining, Daddy Issues, Background Sam/Jess, Past Balthazar/Castiel.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: Dean Winchester only has three rules concerning the cafe he and his brother Sam own, “House of the Rising Bun”.

1. Any and all opportunities to make a pun will be taken. 2. Free regular coffee with your student ID (If you want some of that fancy nonsense you gotta pay, sorry kids). 3. Anyone and everyone is always welcome.

Between Dean running the shop full-time and Sam helping out whenever he isn’t in class, there really isn’t a whole lot of time for romance for either of them. But that all changes when they gain a new regular - some writer from London - who may or may not have the bluest eyes Dean’s ever seen.

Notes: First of all, the puns were amazing and I am willing to fight people on that. Secondly, that was so sweet and funny I am afraid I might have to disappear under mysterious circumstances and open my own cafe…

I hope you enjoy these! I haven’t read any new fics for this list and even then there were way too many to put on one list, so expect a sequel at some point in the future!

[let-your-chaos-explode]

Stay With Me

Summary: Not long after the events of Bottled Appetites, Yennefer decides to confront Tissaia.

Yennefer surveyed the raucous party through masked eyes. The frivolities of minor nobles had grown tedious. It had been three months since she had lost her opportunity with the Djinn and destroyed the comfortable lifestyle she had grown accustomed to in Rhinde. Fuck it all. The Witcher had left her without so much as a backwards glance, and though she didn’t have such a deep yearning for the White Wolf, the abandonment still stung like a slap to the face. Much like every other person in her life had done. She supposed she should be used to it by now. Even if you were a beauty, still no one would love you. Yennefer snatched a goblet of wine from the tray of a passing servant and shot it back. Fuck Tissaia too. The thought of their exchange the night before the dreadful events still left her blood boiling. Funnily enough, the cold pit of guilt she felt in her gut did nothing to balance her rage. All the barbs that she carefully crafted and thrown at the other woman left a bitter taste in her mouth. She wanted her to hurt. She wanted her to hurt the same way that she did. Maybe then Yennefer might believe that even a small part of her cared for her. The woman didn’t even flinch and simply left when dismissed. And again Yennefer was left wanting and alone. Tissaia was good at that. She grabbed another glass and started drinking this one slightly slower. She had started to make herself comfortable in the castle of Denesle by charming the young aspiring knight. She had convinced them all of the wealth and power she would bring to their name in exchange for housing and coin. They had thrown a harvest ball in her honor, convinced her arrival was divine intervention that yielded a bountiful crop. Who was she to say otherwise? Yennefer snorted into her goblet. She had her eyes set on her own goals. Whispers of a golden dragon. And yet Tissaia’s words still haunted her. The seductive timber of her voice, the intoxicating smell of vanilla and sandalwood as she stood behind her, the smallest smile in the mirror... Yennefer clenched her teeth against the familiar desire that burned in her veins. Decades of nights spent with other as she pretended they were someone else. Decades of nights alone as her own fingers worked furiously to fantasies of slender fingers, a pale neck, a scathing tongue. This time she grabbed the bottle. How was it that she was always the one who was left so affected? Maybe she could pretend the fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle were actually around her lying throat. Gods, she needed some air. Yennefer stumbled out into the gardens and nearly tripped on the train of her elegant gown. Growling in frustration, she collapsed in front of the estate’s well-manicured rose bush. The potent fragrance did nothing to quell the spinning of her head. Yennefer reaches out and snapped off a rose at the stem, pricking her fingers good on the angry thorns. This too reminded her of Tissaia and goddamn she couldn’t get the woman out of her head! How fitting. Her clumsy fingers smeared blood across the pure white petals of the flower. Did she have any idea of how shattered she left people? Did she even care? Yennefer took another swig from the rapidly draining bottle. Someone should tell her. Someone should tell her just how much of a bitch she is. I’m going to tell her. With unmatched drunken impulsivity, she stumbled through a portal.

Yennefer crashed through the other side and immediately started heaving.

“Yennefer?!” Came Tissaia’s startled gasp. “What, how did you get in here?” Yennefer ignored the loud shout of surprise and rested her forehead against the cool stone as she gathered her bearings. A splash of water and another annoying round of questions. “What are you doing here? How did you get past my security wards?” “Shut up!” Yennefer hissed through clenched teeth. “Can’t you just refrain from lecture for once in your miserable life?” “You’re drunk.” Tissaia surmised. “And you’re a bitch.” Yennefer answered. Yennefer had yet to open her eyes or ascend from her position sprawled out on the floor. Traveling via portal was never comfortable and now she couldn’t get her vision to stop swimming. “You’re a downright frigid bitch. Have you ever loved a day in your life? Or cared for something other than your precious Aretuza? Did you ever care for me?” She continued. Her words were slurred but she figured she got her point across. She heard another slosh of water and felt something solid collide violently with her temple, doing nothing to ease the pounding ache. “Get out.” Tissaia seethed. “Ow. What the fuck, Tissaia?” Yennefer rocked back on her hands and knees and settled on her haunches, cradling the spot where she had been assaulted. Finally, she opened her eyes. Was she in a bathroom? Yennefer scanned the room briefly before her eyes settled on Tissaia’s. The Rectoress lounged comfortably against the edge of a full, bubbly tub. Her hair was piled into a loose knot at the top of her head and her cheeks flushed with the heat. She was the picture of contentment, except for the fire in her eyes and the snarl on her lips. Yennefer dumbly took another look around to confirm her conclusion. “Are you saying these things to try to hurt me or to make yourself feel better?” Tissaia  snaps. Yennefer is still reeling over the fact that she is standing in Tissaia’s bathroom with the woman naked before her. It was almost like she had died and gone to heaven. “Did I die?” The words tumble from her mouth before she can catch them. “How much have you had to drink tonight?” Tissaia asks her through narrowed eyes, anger receding in favor of vague concern. Yennefer shakily pulls herself to a stand using the edge of Tissaia’s tub.  “Oh don’t act like you care!” She didn’t even attempt to hide a peek inside. Unfortunately, the bubbles did a well enough job of keeping things covered. That didn’t stop Tissaia from attempting to slap her away. “Well, you can’t blame a girl for trying!” “How much have you had, Yennefer?” Tissaia asks again as she pinches the bridge of her nose in frustration. Yennefer sways a bit on her feet and sarcastically makes a show of counting on her fingers before landing on a singular, vulgar one. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Grow up!” A snort. A giggle. “Did you just say fuck?” Tissaia does not deign to answer. “Is it for fuck sake or for fucks sake?” “It’s for fuck’s sake. Apostrophe as in for the sake of the fuck.” “Oh my god, Tissaia please go on. Say fuck again, you’re turning me on.” A dark blush climbs up from the cover of bubbles at her chest to her cheeks. Yennefer once again feels the surge of affection she had been trying so hard to replace with bitterness. “You’re so beautiful.” If Tissaia wasn’t caught off guard by any of the other surprises of the evening, Yennefer finally got her with this one. “Why are you here?” Yennefer swayed once more and stumbled closer to the tub, falling to her knees before the older sorceress. She said nothing for a moment, merely letting her fingers swirl wistfully in the water. “I needed you to know how much of a cold-hearted witch that you are.” She states simply. Yennefer does not see Tissaia bristle. Her eyes are transfixed on the shimmering rivers of the soap as they follow her fingertips. “I needed you to know how broken you manage to leave me feeling every time that you leave. How I can’t stand that I’ve never managed to mean a damn thing to you even after all these years. How, despite everything, I can’t get you out of my head.” Tissaia sucks in a shallow breath and Yennefer stills her hands. Slowly, she drags violet eyes up to meet blue. Tissaia had leaned forward and pressed her knees tightly against her chest, her arms crossed in front.  For the first time ever, she seemed vulnerable... and not from her lack of clothing. “But most of all, I can’t stand that I think I’m in love with you.” Yennefer holds her gaze steadily. “You don’t mean that.” Tissaia argued, voice strained. “I am in love with you. And you don’t even see me! Hardly worth the four marks you wasted.” Tissaia grabs her chin and holds it firmly, not allowing Yennefer to escape from the drunken confession. “You are worth so much more.” She relaxes her grip only slightly and runs her thumb over the bottom of Yennefer’s lip. Yennefer can feel the gentle probe of her consciousness against her own walls and cannot bring herself to put up a fight. Instead, she lets all her emotions come rushing through like the waters of a broken dam. She doesn’t know what Tissaia was looking for, or if she found it. But the flood of emotions must have overwhelmed the sorceress who preached control. Tissaia pressed her forehead against Yennefer’s and let out a sob as hot tears leaked from behind clenched eyes. Tissaia pulled back and stroked her cheek gently. “I have always loved you Yennefer. It was you I never dreamed would ever love me. You never gave me one indication, one opening to show you more than I already have. Didn’t I give you any clue? I’ve given you so much of me! So much more than I have given anyone, ever. But you were too insecure to ever understand that!” Yennefer couldn’t control it. She was way past three sheets to the wind and so she just started laughing. Of course the universe would find it hilarious to throw her this curveball. Or she really was dead. That option was still entirely possible. She disentangled herself and once more tripped over gown in her haste to escape through the door. The handle wouldn’t budge and the torches around them grew with a rage. “You don’t get to run from this! Not this time!” Tissaia rose from the tub like a goddess rising from the sea. The propriety of her high-collared gowns betrayed her level of modesty, as she did nothing to hide from Yennefer’s hungry eyes. Eyes that followed every rivulet as it cascaded over luscious curves and planes that Yennefer wanted to follow with her tongue. Tissaia toweled off and, to Yennefer’s disappointment, covered herself with a black silken robe. Uncomfortable with the silent intensity of the moment, Yennefer began to fidget and found a particular stone in the floor to deeply inspect. She portaled in, she could portal out, right? Forget this mess ever happened. She stiffened slightly as the woman prowled behind her. “You stink of vomit and alcohol.” She said into her ear. The whisper of her breath against Yennefer’s neck beckoned gooseflesh to erupt over her skin. The sensation lingered as Tissaia’s clever fingers began to expertly undo the laces of her gown, tips ghosting across her shoulders and back. “You will bathe and get some rest.” Tissaia commanded. And whatever Tissaia wants, Tissaia gets. Yennefer swallowed thickly as the material of her gown slid down her arms. She could feel the gentle brush of the older women’s breasts against her back as she leaned forward to slide the gown completely off her wrists. Her own nipples pebbled in the humid air of the bath and in arousal as Tissaia kneeled before her. The Great Tissaia De Vries was on her knees, naked, except for a thin robe, and in prime position for all sorts of salacious activities. She looked up at her through dark lashes as she shimmied the fabric over Yennefer’s hips and let it fall to the floor. Slowly, seductively, she stood. Yennefer was never more thankful than now to have at least 4 inches on the older sorceress. “You’re thinking so loud, I can see what you want.” Tissaia whispers against her. Tissaia takes a step back and looks back toward the tub. With a wave of her hand, the water is refreshed and steaming. “You will not get that from me tonight, Piglet.” A solid punch to the gut. “You are far too inebriated. You would have regrets in the morning.” Yennefer takes a step toward her and Tissaia mirrors one step back. Yennefer reaches out to touch her, “I could never regret...” “You have already regretted me.” Tissaia interrupts. Yennefer may be drunk, but even she could hear the undercurrent of hurt. “Bathe. I trust you can manage that. You may sleep in my chambers tonight, I worry about the stability of your portals in your state. If you are still here come morning, we can discuss what has happened tonight.” With a nod of finality, she took a wide step around her and slipped quietly through the door into her bedroom. Well, this was not how she imagined this night going. Yennefer let out a long exhale and stepped carefully into the hot tub. The scent of lilac and gooseberries surrounded her and a smile stretched across her cheeks; Tissaia remembered. The warm, wetness that enveloped her did nothing to quell the throbbing between her legs. A devilish smirk pulled at the corner of her mouth. If Tissaia was going to leave her wanting, she would suffer the same fate. Yennefer dunked her head below the surface and made quick work of washing her hair. She surveyed the soaps and oils and settled on a sweet vanilla, a scent entirely Tissaia. She palmed the oil and slowly started massaging it into her arms and down her legs, lowering her mental barriers as she worked. Her fingers skimmed back up her thighs and ghosted over her breasts to work the kinks in her neck. The pressure in the juncture of her shoulder was just right, and she allowed herself a small moan. A sharp knock at the door followed. “Are you alright?” Tissaia asked behind the door with mild concern. “I’m doing quite fine, thanks! I haven’t managed to drown yet!” Yennefer called back, voice laced with sarcasm. She could almost see the Rectoress roll her eyes through the door. If she only knew what was coming. Yennefer let her presence expand and open up to Tissaia, should she reach out in curiosity. And she let her fingers continue. Gathering more oil, she liberally applied it to her belly. Practiced fingers swirled the viscous fluid up to her chest and around her erect nipples. She circled them slowly, grazing dusky peaks with her fingernails before giving firm tugs. She envisioned Tissaia over her, hair unpinned and flowing freely down her naked form. Her clever mouth sucking and biting at the sensitive flesh of her breast. Another pleasured moan escaped her lips. And the sound of something crashing to the floor. A book maybe? Yennefer didn’t let it stop her. Her fingers voyaged south and teased the outside of her folds. She pictured it clearly and pushed the images forcefully out: She threaded her fingers through chestnut locks and guided Tissaia downward. Licks, nips, and kisses in trails from her chest to her mound where she firmly held the sorceress right where she wanted her. Tissaia nuzzled the trimmed nest of curls before diving in. A slow, tantalizing lick from her base to her clit ending with a firm swirl of the tongue around her pearl. Yennefer’s fingers worked tirelessly to the images she conjured. Her breaths came in quick pants and she was already so close to the edge. “Oh, Tissaia!” She moaned once more. This time, the scandalized gasp was perfectly clear from behind the door. Yennefer slid a finger easily inside, and then another. A sigh, a gasp, a plea. ‘You are being entirely inappropriate.’ Tissaia interrupts in her head, breathless and strained. Yennefer pushes through more explicit images. She imagines taking all of the control from the rigid Rectoress. She shows her vivid images of binding her to the bed using silken scarves, blindfolding her, and pleasuring her with her mouth. She shows Tissaia visions of herself crashing into orgasm after orgasm and screaming Yennefer’s name. This was enough to push Yennefer over the edge and she came hard around her fingers, Tissaia’s name on her lips like a ringing hallelujah. ’Oh!’ Very well satisfied on all fronts, Yennefer drained the bath and walked out into Tissaia’s bedchamber. The older woman sat perched stiffly at the edge of her bed, cheeks blazing and shifting uncomfortably. Yennefer stood tall in front of her with a salacious smile wide across her face, nude, and dripping water all over the floor. Tissaia rose to the challenge and glared up at her with her chin jut out. “Are you proud of yourself?” Yennefer takes that final step forward and straddles her lap, wrapping her arms loosely around her neck and twirling  the wispy hairs she finds at her nape. She can feel the heat radiating off of Tissaia through the thin fabric of her nightgown. Boldly, she thrusts her fingers into Tissaia’s chignon and with a quick pull, her long hair tumbles free. Tissaia fists the sheets in a white-knuckled grasp to keep her hands still as she drops her head against Yennefer’s shoulder. In a rare moment of vulnerability, she lets her hair fall in a curtain to shield her face. “Yennefer, please.” And even Tissaia is uncertain if she is begging her to stop or continue. Yennefer grinds her core against Tissaia’s thigh and forcefully pushes her back into the bed, pinning her wrists above her head. “Touch me Tissaia.” She commands as she nuzzles the column of her throat. She can feel her swallow hard before she is jolted backward with a conjured electric current. The shock is only mildly painful, and gives her enough of a hint to remove her person completely from above Tissaia. “If you don’t want me, all you have to do is say so.” Yennefer bites out with the sting of rejection quite clear. Yennefer turns her back and scoots to the very edge of the bed. Tissaia follows and gently rests her hand at her shoulder. “I will not be responsible for taking advantage of you. Please don’t put that on me.”  She whispers. She is met with a brooding silence and she sighs. Tissaia conjures a black nightgown and passes it over wordlessly and Yennefer snatches it angrily from her hands. “I’m sorry.” Tissaia tries again as Yennefer yanks the fabric over her head. Again she is met with stubborn silence. “At least stay tonight. Tomorrow, you may leave if you wish. Yennefer, I just want you to be safe.” Yennefer huffs, but crawls into the bed and snuggles deep under the covers. Tissaia lets a small smile pull at the corner of her mouth at the childish antics. She returns to her designated side and begins the process of plaiting her hair when a hand at her elbow brings her to a halt. “Don’t.” Yennefer whispers. “I like it down.” Tissaia concedes the request and settles in next to Yennefer. The air between them is measurably tense. After what seemed like years, Yennefer closed the distance between them and wrapped her pinky around Tissaia’s. “I feel like steaming horse shit.” Tissaia rolls over to fully face her. “Come here.” Yennefer scoots in and snuggles deep into Tissaia’s open and waiting arms. Her much larger frame tucks under Tissaia’s chin and curls around her legs, enveloping Tissaia entirely. A contented smile graces her face as she feels slender fingers begin to scratch her scalp. Tissaia begins to hum a slow, calming melody beneath her and its effect is instantaneous. Yennefer feels her eyes grow heavy, and for once, she is happy in the arms that hold her. Just as she’s about to fall over the edge, the thinks she hears Tissaia whisper, “Stay with me, please. It’s time to stop running.” She thinks maybe this time she will.

[deliontower]

Hard to love - part 5

title- hard to love - 1, 2 3 4

Pairing: fem!reader x Sam

Word count: 4.6k Square filled: for @spnquotebingo​​ - “___. Good to see you. But if you’re here, who’s guarding Hades?”

Warnings: angst , swearing, mention of blood and mention of death A/N: one more part left until i move on to my dean fic! Not as edited as i’d like but i hope you like it.

MAIN MASTERLIST | REQUEST OPEN | series masterlist

  Black soon turn to white, soft light casted shadows over the soft surface you were lay on. Your mind buzzed, pulling yourself up you looked around the room. It w as a bedroom with two huge windows casting sunlight everywhere.    

You felt heavy with weight of your dream, hunting monsters and being with someone or was this the dream? Everything was mixing together.

"Y/N? You're going to be late if you sleep any longer" You froze that voice it felt like years since the last time you heard it. Confused you ran along the house, unsure of your path but positive of the destination.

There he was standing in the living room, going through the mail, "You still not dressed?" he looked up laughing but he's face dropped to worry when he saw your face.

"Danny?"   you chocked out, running into his arms. He was almost knocked off his feet by the sudden impact.

"Morning I guess, what's got into you?" he cocked his head to the side looking concerned.

Things went fuzzy, you had to blink before you could answer. "I had the weirdest dream" you drew away and tried to think but hit another wall of confused.

Danny kissed your cheek, "go on and get dressed, I'll drop you off".

Weakly smiling you nodded and headed back to the bedroom. This felt like the first time you had been in the house but it couldn't of been, the whole place was filed with your things and pictures.

One caught your eye more than the others. You were standing there in a white vintage dress , Danny with his arms wrapped around you. Both smiling, not even looking towards the camera but to whatever part of the other they could see.

A outfit was already laid out along with a ID badge.  'Ph.D. Y/N  Y/L/N. mythology and folklore'.

Half way through getting dressed you looked over to a mirror and looked at yourself. It was like you were looking at yourself but not really. You swore you hair was slightly longer and your skin missing key features, scars, buries , mark and tattoos. Why did it feel like you had a tattoo.

"What is wrong with me today?" you muttered as you finished getting ready. Something was weighing down on you but you couldn't say what it was.

Shaking away the feeling you took a bag from the floor, you didn't even need to think about it, you did it everyday.

Danny was waiting by the door in his own work clothes. Normally messy hair was tidy, he wore a suit which brought out his blue eyes. He's a manger. A voice said it the back of your head.

Everything was so different from when you were 22 living in a tiny apartment, now you were both older and doing what you both dreamed.

"you good?" he looked up at you as you walked up to him.

"Yes, I'm so proud of us" you kiss his cheek and link your arm with his and leave the house.

Everything passed in a hazes, doing things without thinking. Teaching classes to students who were where you once were. Full of love for lore and the unknown. Everything felt perfect but something was missing. Through out the day you would get flashes from last night's dream. Flashes of a kind face and a pain that would come and go within seconds.

"Dr Y/L/N?" you looked up from your desk and found two men in suits standing at the door. They were both tall, though one was a bit taller than the other.

"Yes. Can I help you?" you looked closers at the two men, something about them was so familiar but whatever it was wouldn't pop up in your mind.

"I'm agent Sam Mosely and this is my partner agent Dean Moscone, FBI" The taller one said, both quickly showed some ID.

"sit please" You jested to the sits in front of you. "I'm confused to why the FBI want to speak to me".

Sam smiled, "We were wondering if you could help us with something"

Dean cut in, "of course we can't tell you any details with it being an investigation"

"of course" you nodded, "mm so what's your question?"

"What do you know about hades?" Dean  asked very seriously.

You let out a small laughed half from awkwardness and half from confusion. "Like the Greek god?" They both nodded keeping their serious faces. "Well he's the god of the dead, many people think he's the god of death but they're wrong. He's also the king of the underworld" you spoke from your memory.

"and how would you kill him?"  Dean  asked, writing something down in a notepad.

"Kill him?" your eyes were wide when you answered. "why do you need to know that?"

"like we said it's under investigation" Sam seeing the confusion on your face and tried to calm things down.

Something about him, when your met his eyes you felt the same tug you had felt all day but even stronger. "I'll have to look through some books to find something" you were still looking at Sam.  "You can wait around or I can call you?"

Dean pulled a card from his pocket and pushed it over to you. "calling us would be better. Thanks for your help".

They both stood up to walk away but before they could you called after them. "Wait!" you stood up and walked to the other side of your desk. "This is going to sound crazy but have we met before? Something about you two is so familiar, this whole day has been crazy really" you sat down on the edge of the desk and sighed.

Sam and Dean looked among themselves, seeing if either remembered anything. "we travel a lot with this job so maybe we've passed each other in the streets before"

"Maybe" you tried to remember yourself but everything turn into fog.

Sam POV The next morning had come and passed since Y/N last called.  Of course he knew she would be just find, he had seen her handle two vampires in one move, if she was hunting a Djinn then she'll have it over with fast. But it had been an whole day and she hadn't called or texted. He also knew she didn't have to call him but she had been doing it because he wanted her too.

He had called her god knows how many times, at first it would ring but now it went straight to voice mail. "Hey you've reached Y/N  Y/L/N. only a few people have this number and they know who they are so if I didn't personal give you this number hang up."  

"Y/N still not answering?" Dean asked from his doorway. When it came to Sam's feeling Dean was quick to pick them up.  Then again Sam thought even Cas would of picked up on the way Sam was acting. Also having his phone in his hand and contently looking at your contact number on his screen.  

"I think something is wrong" he said rubbing his face.

"you know her better than I do, Sammy" Dean sighed, he walked  into Sam's room. "If you think something is wrong, then we'll go and check it out"    

"Thanks Dean" Sam smiled, knowing he could count on Dean with anything. He didn't know if Dean understood everything that was happening between him and Y/N. He told Dean about the first kiss but nothing about the two days they had together.

They didn't wait long till they were on the road. "So I hacked into Y/N's laptop to see what she was looking at" Sam said going through Y/N's history.

"What was she even looking into?" Dean asked eyes on the road.

"last time she updated me , she was thinking a Djinn, she had just checked out the newest vic" Sam  said checking the records. "the same thing has happened in 3 states"

"So this Djinn knows what they're doing" Dean sighed. "I mean she could of just lost her phone or something"

"She would of found a way, but Dean if this is a Djinn then she's in trouble" he couldn’t met Dean's eyes. "She said once that she'd give anything to get her old life back and the Djinn will use that against her"

"She'll know then. She'll fight her way out" Dean patted his brother's shoulder.

"But what if she doesn't want to get out" Sam could feel his chest get tighter. He hated he let her just walk out on her own.

"look Sam, I don't want to pry into your personal life but I know you care a lot about her, I guess don't want to see you hurt" Dean sighed and briefly looked towards Sam.  

"I just- I don't know what it is about her but just being in the same room as her makes me happier than I've been in a long time but I don't know what she feels, she's been through a lot and I don't think she can handle this" Sam jested  with this hands.      

                                               ***

Sam flipped through a file while Dean talked with the coroner about the victim. Y/N's research and theories match up to what they were seeing.

"I was waiting for you guys to show up with the other kills across the states" The coroner said as she covered the girl's body up again.

"Someone has come yet?" Sam turned around fast.

The coroner looked confused, looking for Sam panicked face to Dean's worried face. "No you guys are the first. Was someone else supposes to come?"

"We got feedback back from one of our partners that she might of found a lead" Dean cleared his throat getting the attention off Sam.

"is there anyone else here who would of shown her the victim?" Dean asked, glazing at Sam who was looking more and more sick as the seconds went by.

"No. we're a small town, it's just me down here" The coroner was starting to look worried too, "You're welcome to check the CTV".

"Thank you that would be great" Sam said, his voice was far to high, he held himself  higher too.

They were left alone to go through  the footage, after going through a fought timeline of Y/n's day they found the right time. Sam swore his breath stopped when he saw her.

First she stood waiting for whoever was coming, from the way she was standing she must have been texting. Checking the timestamp and their text history, she was texting him.  He watched as she took a heavy breath and smile sadly.

"Look" Dean's voice made him draw his eyes away from Y/N, Dean was pointing towards a man walking closer to Y/N, then his eyes looked into the camera and they glowed blue of a second.

"he's the Djinn" Sam exhaled standing up, "He must be the reason she's missing"

                                                      *** Reader pov

"You never guessed what happened today?" You said while washing dinner up, everything had been ready when you walk in the door after work.  

"You found a cool lore fact?" Danny joked from the other side of the kitchen.

You laughed and turn to watch him wiping the table down.   "yes but also The FBI came to my office today and asked about Hades"

He sent you a look that said he didn't believe you, "The god of death?" he was defiantly trying not to laugh.

"God of the dead actually, and they did! They couldn't tell me what it was about but it's just weird" you didn't mention the fact you recognized them.    

"well that's something  you don't hear everyday" Danny said. "Did you give them an answer?"

"actually I need to call them back" you said, pulling your phone from your pocket.

The whole researching into Hades and a way to kill him had taken longer than you thought. You had ended up pulling out every book about Greek mythology and everything in between. You got an odd thrill from researching into something so weird, why would you need to know how to kill a god? After hours of searching, tired from reading you found a few things that could help.

"Hello this is agent Mosely" his voice was clear and once again you felt a tug.

"Hi, this is dr. Y/N, I'm calling about what we talked about today" you looked away from Danny, something wanting to be alone while you spoke. "hope this is a good time".

"Yeah, of course. What did you find out?" he asked.

"Well not a lot but I found a few things. Firstly to kill him you need a stake from a dead tree, soaked in salt water. It needs to be through his heart as well" you explained.

"And the other way?" he asked keeping an serious tone.

"This one is less violent, you could summon his wife. Persephone  goddess of  vegetation.  I read a few tales that said she's the only one who can handle him. You know what love is like" You looked briefly over to Danny.

"well now we have a back up plan" his serious voice went away for a second and you caught a glimpse of who he really was. God I love his smile.

You mind spoke before you could actually think, how could you love a smile you had never seen before or had you, you thought he looked familiar but couldn't name the place.

"Yeah, you do" You smiled wishing you had told him in person. "Call me if you need anything".

"we will, thanks Y/N" he was still smiling when he spoke.

You couldn't help but smile when you put your phone away, something inside of you felt glad, complete with everything you had done today.        

"You okay, love?" Danny was next to you, holding your hand in his. You looked down to your joint hands, the jester made your heart skip but you also felt the same tug you had felt all day.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm good" you try to keep the same smile but you both saw it waver. "I just feel a little lost today".  

His hand moved to your cheek, you sighed letting yourself absorb the feeling. The weirdness of the day went away the longer you stayed under his touch.

"come on, lets go to bed" his voice sounded miles away, your breathing sounded heaver but you couldn't feel it moving as fast. The room flicker from the moonlight lit kitchen to a dark room you didn't know.

You were dragged out of your train of thought by an alarm ringing. You shot up in bed, looking all around the room, moments ago you were standing in the kitchen. What happened in the time since.

"rise and shine" Danny came into the room, carrying breakfast on a tray. "you're up in time to have break fast in bed".

He placed the tray on your lap. Your favorite kind of egg with beans and toast with coffee. "thank you" you blinked still feeling dazed.

This overwhelming feeling was getting worse as the days went on, everything should be perfect but it felt wrong like you had gotten use to life being hard and it being a fight to survive that things being good were worst.

While eating your food, you tired even harder to remember something other than the last day. Glimpses were all that showed up, flashes more like pictures.    

The morning pasted like it did the day before, you looked at yourself for far to long, not knowing who was looking back. Danny drove you to work , you taught and then sat in your office not knowing what was next.

Just then the same agent from yesterday came in. Sam, the one with the smile you knew but didn't at the same time. This time instead of a suit he wore jeans, a flannel shirt paired with a jacket.

"Sam. Good to see you. But if you’re here, who’s guarding Hades?” You joked, it felt right like the right thing to say.

You were rewarded when he laughed, turning his face to the side. "I just wanted to thank you again in person. You were a lot of help"

"I think if I didn't then I'd have the FBI on my case" you said still smiling.

"It was just a strange question to ask" he came closer and took a seat.

"I enjoyed it actually. Recently everything feels the same but looking into something weird was amazing" you smile still remembering the feeling. The rush.

"you'd like what we do then, it's always the weird stuff"  he chuckled shaking his head.

"oh I bet, Winchester" you say, not knowing what you said until his face changed. Winchester.      

"I think you have-" he started but stopped when you rose to your feet.

"Oh god. I remember. I was- am a hunter, I was hunting a Djinn and then I woke up here" you back away fast, knocking over a drink on your desk. "And I know you and your brother, we were I don’t even know"

Sam looked panicked that your sudden changed in emotions.

Then it drawn on you, if this was some crazy Djinn dream then it wasn't read. "No. Oh god, he's dead" you whispered it, fear gripping into your bones.  

"hey, just calm down" Sam was at your side, holding you.  

"No" you pushed him away. "I need to go" you left Sam and the room behind before you were hit with more confusion.  

                                                      *** Sam pov After seeing Y/N and the Djinn their next stop was the farm she had mention before. They both knew how Djinn worked,  this Djinn would lock its victim it a perfect world while it drained all their blood. Y/N could days or hours left. He prayed that he would find her alive and fighting. She could of won against the Djinn but too hurt to move, he didn’t know if he liked that anymore.

"Isn't that her car?" Dean pointed just ahead of them,   there it was her green aston martin.  It had a light covering of leafs, it was untouched.

"Yeah, she must be near by" Sam was already looking around the near by area trying to spot her. It was mid day, Dean had wanted to wait till night but Sam couldn't.

They came to the farm next, parking closer so they could get a quick get away if needed. Pausing to get what they needed before going looking around.

Dean took the old house, while Sam went to the barn. The farm had obviously been a busy one. The barn had dozens of old tools, even an old tractor. Apart from all that it had nothing that would help them.

"Sam!" Dean yelled was distance but he could still make it out. He ran towards the house, towards Dean. Once he was inside he searched for Dean and Y/N. "Sam" Dean called again, his voice was coming from the top floor. Sam ducked his head into two rooms before he found the room Dean was in.

It was a small bedroom, the bed was in the far end of the room and slummed on top of the bed was Y/N.  Her back was against the head board, both arms tired to it too. Hanging by her head was a bag of blood attached to her neck. She was dirty with hollow eyes, from losing blood and being without food or water.

Sam went straight over to her and cut her free, pulling the needle from her neck. She fell against him, still unconscious. Her breathing was slow and intermittent. Even though she was in a horrible state she still felt warm.

"I see you found your friend" Both Dean and Sam spun around, shocked to find the same man from the CTV watching them. "she probably does have long left"

He walked closer to them. Dean pulled his knife out, silently threating .  

"I'll give her this, She's very strong. Took almost all my strength to keep her fooled" He looked to Y/N in Sam's arms with a smug smile. "too bad you won't make it out either"

"you've got our places mixed up" Sam pulled away from Y/N, she fell limply onto his lap. He moved fast, pulling his own knife covered in lambs blood from his jacket and threw it start at the Djinn. It was a risk but it paid off, the knife hit it's target.

                                                      ***

Reader Pov

You ran  as fast as you could, you kicked off the stupid heels you chosen to wear after tripping 3 times. You needed to get back to house before you forgot again. Your chest burnt and your body screamed for you to slow down but you carried on.

When you finally reached the house you threw yourself in. Only then did you allow yourself to breath. Danny came into the hallway looking confused. "What are you doing back this early?"

"This isn't real" you chock out as you caught your breath. "You aren't - I'm not really here".

"what's going on Y/N?" he tried to came closer but you moved away. "Of course you are"

"No. You died. And I found you and it broke my heart" You tried to hold back your tears. "and now I can't love the person I should"

"love someone else" he took a step back, looking hurt.

"I still love you, I do but something else is starting and I want to- I want to jump into it" You couldn't hold it in any longer. You walked teary eyed to the kitchen knowing what you needed to do. Danny followed you.

"Y/N, you're not well, Come on I'll take you to the doctors" He was so close, you had to push yourself to keep walking.

"I was hunting a Djinn, it must of caught me and put me here" You know you sounded mad but it didn't matter, you'd be gone soon.  "I've already been here for two days, who knows how long I have left"

"You making no sense! I knew this lore nonsense would lead to nothing good" Danny said, he sounded tired and angry.

"You think I'm mad and god I know I am but not about this. You died years ago and I never got to say goodbye, I thought I wanted this life back but I don’t. I want my old life back" your eyes  darted       around looking for a knife.

"Y/N just calm down" his eyes widen when he saw you pick up a knife. "Just put the knife down"

"I miss you so much but I can't stay, if I do I die too" the weight of the knife was alien and familiar at the same time.  Closing your eyes, you mused all you had and brought the knife to your chest. You gasped as the knife went in.

Your eyes shot open, your hand went to your chest to see if there was blood. "Y/N?" Sam was above you, lifting you into a sitting position. You felt weak and could hardly force.

"we should get out of here" You turned and saw Dean watching you both.

"My car, I can't leave it" you tired to move from the bed but your legs failed.

"It's okay, I'll drive it. You need to rest" Sam stood up, then lifted you in his arms.

"I've basically been asleep for days" You weakly try to fight the suggestion.

"yeah but you're missing a lot of blood". When you left the room you saw the coroner lay dead on the floor.  "why is the coroner here?"

"he's was the Djinn" Dean said walking over the body.

"Okay" you kept your eyes on his still form until you left the room.  

 Dean was walking just ahead, he kept looking back at you in Sam's arms. You were aware of just how Sam was watching you and so was Dean.

You stopped the impala close to the house, Dean got in and sent a nod over to Sam. Your car was just where you left it. Seeing it gave you a feeling of shame, it was his car, it was the only thing left of his in the world.

You silently handed the keys to Sam, he helped you get in the car before circling around to the drivers side. "Try and sleep until we get to the bunker"

You nodded, you couldn't find the strength to do anything else. It was easier than you would of like to fall asleep, even though that’s all you had been doing, you felt like all your life had been drained away.  

The next time you woke up, you were back in the bunker. You had no idea how much time had pasted but you guessed it had been at least a day or two by how much better you felt and how hungry you were.

Sitting up, letting your cover fall off, you saw that you had changed out of the dirty suit you were last in. You guessed Sam was the one who did it.

You were sure o f your answer now, even being in a dream world your problems still came up. This was something you needed to do, to say. Your heart knew what to do with Sam.

Thank god you were in the same room as your things, it would make things so much easier. You pulled on some jeans and got to putting all your things in a bag. There wasn't much in there, everything else was in your car.    Shit. You bit your lip, you gave your car keys to Sam he could still have them.

Your phone was sat on the bedside table,  4am. Leaving with no goodbye would send the messages but why did it hurt so much. You told yourself this was the better ending, if things carried on one of you would end up dead. You had nearly died just the day before.

You had everything ready, only then did you noticed you were crying. When you picked up your bag, you held back a sob when you saw Sam's shirt alone on the bed. Another message.

You walked slowly so no one who hear you. The library was empty and so was the war room, which is what you expected it was 4 am. You luck stuck again, you keys were on the table. But your luck didn't last for long.

"Y/N? what are you doing?" Sam walked through Library and up to you. His eyes took everything in, the car keys in your hand, your bag at you feet and you standing there dressed.

"I thought you were asleep" You said, throat sore from holding in tears. "It would have been better that way"

"what would be better? Leaving without saying goodbye" he sounded so hurt.

"This isn't a good idea" you sobbed, just letting everything out now.

"you're saying what I feel, what I thought you felt isn't a good idea" his eyes were glassy with tears, his voice high but no enough to wake Dean up.

"It doesn't matter what I feel! This will only end one way" You cried, chest heavy. "I can't do this"

"I don’t understand" he shook his head.

"I can't lose someone again. I already lost Danny and that nearly killed me" You were crying harder. "And i- oh god I love you more than I have ever love anyone"

"if you love me then why are you leaving " he was crying too.

"Because this will hurt less, I'll lose you but you'll be alive and I can live with that" you chocked on your words, fighting to get them out.

"what about me? Don't my feeling matter?" he was closer now, you could feel the warmth coming from his body.

"You'll thank me in the end" you said, throat sore as ever. And without looking at him again you left. Feeling horrible and also dead inside, you got into your car and drove anyway.  

LAST part 

[dlkardenal]

The Qrahr - An excerpt from Shackles of the Storm

Hey there, traveler!

It's excerpt madness , especially since I've just finished the self-editing of our second english draft. To celebrate, I'd like you to meet a yet unknown but very important character, championing the political subplot within our desert fantasy WIP, Shackles of the Storm. He's Kherim, younger brother to the prince, commander in chief (or as they call it, the qrahr) of Kahlaran and according to one of our betas, a character with bick dick energy. Enjoy!

The Qrahr

Kherim turned around a corner and walked by the shady traders populating every inch of the roadside. They were an interesting bunch, somewhere between a charlatan merchant and a beggar. Some of them mongered bijoux, fake jewelry, or miracle ointments, others sold more dangerous things from behind tight-knit jackets, eyes flashing back and forth. The lord stopped, squatted down in front of a man and gently picked up a small vial of translucent liquid.

“What did we agree on, Jashmid?” he asked, but the man just wrapped his arms around himself. He was thin, only thickened by the dirt to make him look vaguely human. He could be twenty or two hundred years old, Kherim would have believed both.

“That I won’t cause any trouble. But that doesn’t mean I can only sell my knowledge and my goods to you!” he lashed back, but the qrahr let it fly this time.

“So you know what happened. It’ll spare us some time, which is good. But you’re going to waste this time apologizing for yourself, which is not good. I’m not here to drag you to prison, nor to judge you. I’m here for answers, Jashmid.”

Kherim gave up the squat and sat down on the ground in front of the man with his legs crossed.

“If time is so important to you... Tell me what you want.”

“Who ordered the choking air?”

Kherim doubted he’d get an honest answer, but he had to try. He knew Jashmid too long and too well, from the day he stepped in front of him at the war camp near Qajar and waved that milky white, mist-filled bottle in front of him.

“What do I get for renting out one of my customers? You know I’m sensitive to that.”

The man was hesitant, his smart and lucrative brain cogs clicked back and forth, weighing in on the risk and profit. Kherim didn’t have time for him to decide which one would be worth it. He needed answers, quickly.

“Delicateness is a luxury for you, Mixer. Can you imagine what Charta would do to you if he knew you poisoned Saleel? Do you even know who he was?”

Jashmid shook his head. “I know Charta. Naturally. But not this Saleel, only that he was some important man.”

“Quite important,” Kherim nodded at the poisoner. “Important to the city, and important to my brother. Whoever set you up knew his business, or got unlucky in picking targets. Four years ago, someone who was equally important died in a simple robbery.” Kherim leaned back and pointed towards the city’s border, causing several heads to turn towards them in the process. “If you walk enough outside the east gate, you can find the skeleton of that killer. The falcons still wear their claws on his skull.”

Little by little, the lord leaned closer and closer to Jashmid’s horrified face, while his own reflected disgust and pity. “To tell you the truth, I don’t like that sound, it’s like they are scratching on my own skull,” he whispered as if he didn’t want anyone else to hear it. When there was only an inch-wide gap between them, Kherim poked the poisoner’s forehead with his finger, causing him to snap back. “It’d be a shame for your head.”

“Well…” Jashmid began very slowly. “That sounds like a fair offer. However, the customer only messaged me through a servant. He called himself the Marid.”

There was a short pause, short enough not to let the general interfere.

“Listen, I don’t want to stick my nose in demons’ business. Maybe you shouldn’t either, qrahr.”

“The Marid?” Kherim said, raising an eyebrow. “Kahlaran hasn’t had a djinn since my grandfather’s time, Jashmid. It’s not a demon, it’s a street rat with a showy name. Although he knows what he’s doing.” Kherim scratched his beard. “What did this servant look like? Did he have a name?”

Jashmid shook his head. “He was like every other boy at the docks. He didn’t introduce himself, but he brought a lot of money so I didn’t ask questions.”

“Since when don’t you ask questions?” the qrahr asked leaning back, then let the conversation drop. He knew well enough how to recognize a lost lead.

“Tell me something about this Marid. Is this the first time he’s bought from you?”

“Not before, not since,” the poisoner answered shaking his head. “He paid fifty golden suns for that bottle. I mean, for the contents, the boy brought the bottle with him.”

“And you didn’t get suspicious then?” Kherim looked disapproving and repressed an emerging sigh into an angry snort. Loafers and ne’er-do-wells sighed at everything.

“Have you heard of him before? Did he do business with anyone else on the street?” the lord asked, tilting his head towards the other quacks, poisoners, beggars, and pickpockets. Some turned aside with disgust, but some looked back at him with a killing intent. Jashmid looked around as if he thought hard about something before he gave up and leaned closer to Kherim.

“I don’t know exactly who, but I’ve heard things about him. They say I’m lucky he knew I wouldn’t ask anything if he paid well, and I’ll do what he wants. But others... He made them do despicable things, mostly through extortion. The people here believe he’s a demon because he always knows how to cause the most harm. He knows everyone’s secrets.”

“Secrets...” Kherim said, humming to himself while he pulled a leg up to rise. “A pile of golden suns lets you learn a lot of secrets. He’s not a demon, but he’s dangerous. Next time he sends a boy from the docks to you, you’ll remember his face. Scratch a mark into his forehead if you must, but I want to know who’s delivering his mail.”

The lord reached into his pocket and pulled out two shimmering gold coins and threw it in Jashmid’s lap.

“Choose your customers better from now on, Jashmid. It would truly be a shame for your head,” he said as he walked away. From the corner of his eye, he saw the mixer sink the coins in his bag with relief.

“It’s always a pleasure doing business with you.”

[gryneos]

“Djinnkin”

I choose that title because some of my Otherkin friends seemed to like it the first time I mentioned being Djinni-Otherkin, and it’s playful, like a djinni.

This post is also about the kind of djinni-content I want to see online. Search engines these days have turned to utter and useless crap. Algorithms ignore search terms, including when you’re trying to be absolutely specific. Maybe some of y’all have figured out how to game them to make them search on exactly and only what you want, but after over twenty years online, the current ones refuse to work for me.

So, I now make my own online content about Djinn of the Otherkin variety. I also ask any fellow djinn, no matter your type or origins (good, neutral, evil) reply or reblog as you like. My known djinni-lives only include one evil-type, and the other djinn of his realm dispatched his existence out of theirs.

A little about my connection to Djinn is in order. They have been part of my life in some way or another (all from fiction) since I was young. That’s much like for my Centaurkin side as well. Yet, I never knew or would have acknowledged being Otherkin for either back then. It was all “just stories” and I didn’t even know enough about things like synchronicity to see where it might all lead eventually.

The djinni-kintype has also taken me the longest to recognize as real. The primary reason for this is that much of why I accept it as a kintype is due to a large portion being of the fictionkin or related variety. That is, I Dream of Jeannie for one major source. Not Jeannie specifically, but others within that reality, and none from the show. Thus, as some fictionkin would say, “non-canon”.

It’s still hard to admit that due to how people who know me would react upon reading this. Yet, I must be open with my beliefs in order to be at ease with them myself. That’s not a necessary action anyone who identifies as Otherkin must do; it’s just what I must do for me.

Yet, due to my beliefs in Other Lives (“past lives” in the common vernacular) it’s not a stretch at all to have a djinni-identity. I know the lives I’ve glimpsed and detailed (such as Arjhan, a djinni-centaur in a reality unlike IDoJ). They are as real to me as the past-lives of anyone else who believes in them and has discovered some of those other human lives which their higher-self has experienced.

Yes, some of the lives I have seen and written up within the IDoJ reality are female (I am male in body and mind), but they are all djinn, whether in the service of humans or living in their home reality of Old Baghdad. And yes, I know that city isn’t as old as the djinn, but who are we mere humans to judge beings which are beyond our knowledge or experience?

All of them work their jin-powers by blinking the eyes (jin is their word for ‘magic’ and relates to what they are: djinn, of the Jin and made of jin). They can also manipulate jin by force of will (ujja) and other bodily gestures (fingers, nods, similar head-motions) and through their smoke. Their smoke is the physical manifestation of Jin, and I capitalize that because it is not only the energy they manipulate, but with sentience as an all-encompassing energy.

Jin also comes to me in meditation because as Djinnkin, it’s natural for all djinn to talk with it. She is how they learn their powers, the names of each power, and how to serve. What I have perceived is that Jin is “the veil” which humans must cross to get from this physical life to the next and non-physical realities in store for them.

The ‘veil’ is everywhere, and is only crossed during death, near-death, and by means of meditative help (such as binaural frequencies). It is a barrier, yet I don’t recall anyone ever going into any kind of detail about what is its composition, if any. My belief is that humans cannot perceive it; the ‘veil’ is merely a hurdle, a step in frequency, though it’s really more like a jump from the frequency of this life and the next.

That frequency they jump past still exists, and I believe it’s the jin. I suspect humans might call it astral, but I feel it’s past that level, too. The frequencies of spiritual energy are without limit, so this isn’t out of line with such thinking. It may simply be unimagined up to now. I only hope I am describing it in a way others can also imagine it.

These ‘Persian’ words I’m using all came to me in meditations and channeling as I detailed these various lives, whether within a fictional reality like IDoJ or not. It’s their form of “Djinni-Persian”. Persian is their culture, though their version of it predates that known by humans. Basically, they invented it.

Now then, with regards to all of the other Djinnkin out there, I do not intend that any of you adhere to my notions even in any minuscule amount. You do you, however it has come to you. Yet, other than one person who has admitted to me they are more like a demon than specifically a djinni, I haven’t come across any other members of this kintype. While it isn’t uncommon for a kintype to be a community of one, it would still be nice to find others out there.

I’ll detail Arjhan soon as I did promise to do that for at least my Tumblr page. He’s an interesting character and related in some way to an older centaur-djinni of his world. But, all of that is another story.

this same post on my WordPress blog: https://chironincarnate.wordpress.com/2020/09/20/djinnkin/

[angst-fairygodmother]

Sing Once Again With Me: Madame Giry’s Tale (The Witcher; A Phantom of the Opera AU)

A/N: Alternate title: Yennefer explains. This was a hard chapter for me, and a turning point in the story, because I had to decide if we were dealing with a man or a monster. Word Count: 1370 Content Warning: None; Exposition heavy Taglist: @ficsandcatsandficsandcats​ @joz-stankovich​ @sennextheassasinkingoflight​ Previous Chapter: Masquerade/Why So Silent Cross-posted to AO3: here

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Yennefer stared the guard down with a look somewhere between wry and the kind of bored where people start disappearing without a trace. He appeared to be reading the papers she brought with her for the fourth time.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” she snapped. “Are you going to let me see the prisoner or not?”

“You know, we don’t allow…conjugal visits until the person has been condemned.”

“You know,” she mocked his tone near perfectly. “I could make your death incredibly painful.”

The guard swallowed nervously and rushed to stand and lead her back into the heart of the prison. Geralt sat, head bowed over his knees, on the rough straw pallet in the darkest, dankest cell in the building. He was still in his party clothes, though the doublet was unbuttoned, his hair unbraided, and in general he looked worse for wear. In fact, as she inspected the witcher, Yennefer guessed that he had been subjected to torture, or at least a harsh beating, more than once in the days since his arrest.

“There is to be a trial,” she told him without preamble. “Jaskier’s spent a year’s worth of earnings to find you a defense.”

Geralt looked up, startled by her voice as it echoed against the stone, briefly considering that she was just an illusion. Only the nonsense she spoke told him she might, might be real.

“Whose earnings?” he asked, voice cracking with disuse. “I know well enough that he doesn’t save money.”

“He took an advance. He indebted himself to the music hall for you. So you had better not screw it up.”

Shame made Geralt drop his head once more, staring at the hands he saw stained with blood even if no one else did, before turning back to the sorceress.

“Tell me what’s going on here Yennefer.”

“There haven’t been any new sightings or events since the masquerade…everyone is rehearsing the Phantom’s show because they’re too frightened not to. Most people don’t believe that you’re him, but there’s still enough people pushing the narrative that they won’t just release you.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it. The creature, spirit, whatever. Tell me about it.”

“What makes you think…” she was cut off by Geralt’s snarl.

“Your wife implied that you know more than you’re letting on Yennefer. And when she wasn’t busy vaguely threatening me with piscine nicknames, she also told me how much you’ve come to care about Jaskier. I can’t protect him, or Y/N, or anyone else, if I don’t have answers. Please Yen?”

She sighed. “Very well. I hate it when you’re right.” She rubbed one hand against her temple in frustration. “I don’t know Valdo Marx, though I spent enough time in courts to be familiar with him by reputation. And of course, from listening to Jaskier’s stories.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow expectantly.

“He used to perform at the music hall; he was their lead for years. Until a few years ago when the city was sacked…”

“Nilfgaard,” Geralt growled, unsurprised that the empire was the root of yet another problem in his life.

“By Cintra.” Yennefer corrected pointedly. “And the music hall was all but destroyed. Valdo Marx was listed dead after everything was over, but they never actually found his body.”

“So you think that the thing beneath the music hall could actually be Valdo Marx?”

“Well no. Not just him…”

Geralt sighed in frustration. Even after all this time, with everything at stake, she was still holding out on him.

“I think, and I could be wrong, I haven’t been able to find proof, that Valdo Marx merged with something much eviler, or was taken over by it. I might even know the creature that is…inhabiting him.” She turned away from Geralt’s piercing gaze, wrapping one arm across her chest to grip the folded elbow of the other. “I brought it here when I was younger and…stupider.”

Geralt sighed, knowing that she was referring to the years of her desperate, reckless quest to undo her sterilization by Aretuza.

“I came here chasing a rumor, and because it wasn’t a city considered important enough for the Brotherhood to bother with. There was supposedly a creature here, a spirit older than the city, maybe even older than humanity. It was said to be made of pure chaos, to be dark and powerful, to hold sway over the fabric of reality, to play with life and death like one might light matches just to let them burn out. I thought…if I could bind the creature to a single place for a while, I could bargain with it.”

“Yennefer…” the tone of Geralt’s voice bored a little too close to pity for her taste and she shot him a glare.

“It worked. I was able to bind the spirit, to a point in the catacombs that is now long buried under the basement of the music hall. When I left, I didn’t bother to consider the spirit; I had no more use for it, and didn’t care what happened. That is part of why I took the position here, to make up for that. But when I went down, it was gone, and it left behind no violent sign of escape. I thought it must have been freed. So I waited. And now all of this happening, I can’t buy as a coincidence.”

She began to pace, the swishing of her skirt highlighting her agitation.

“I didn’t bind the spirit alone though. I had help. It would have been too powerful otherwise, overwhelmed me. And after the djinn…well I did learn. There were three other mages who helped me do it, but I don’t think we can turn to any of them to help undo it. Sabrina is dealing with something of her own; Istredd’s lost behind Nilfgaardian lines. And Triss …is soft. I think she would view the creature as a something to save instead of destroy. We have to do this ourselves.”

She stopped, facing Geralt head on and meeting his gilded eyes in all their anger.

“I don’t know how or why it merged with Valdo Marx. He may have been trying to escape or survive the attack and accidentally released or he may have done it intentionally. But it is some shadow of his memories that is why the creature has fixated as it has. Having human vessel is making it more dangerous and unpredictable than it would have been alone.”

“If something happens to Jaskier…” the threat did not need to be finished, his tone said enough.

She laughed, harsh and mirthless. “I am less afraid of your wrath than I am of my own self-hatred, should anyone else come to harm from this.” She met his sharp gaze with one of her own, burning equal parts rage and fear. “I’ve no love or loyalty left to the spirit Geralt. And if you seek to destroy it, I’ll help you. But if at any point it comes to a choice between you or her, I will not lose Y/N.”

“I understand Yennefer. I would never ask…” his shoulders slumped, knowing that he was probably lying even as he spoke.

She reached through the bars to give his hand a gentle squeeze before turning sharply on her heel and returning to the prison office.

“You have a single piece of easily planted evidence,” she accused the guard captain before she was even through the door completely. “The rest of your case is based on conjecture and prejudice.”

“Excuse me?” the guard captain snapped, standing from his desk and blustering, fat walrus-like mustache wobbling. “How dare you barge in here?!”

She looked him up and down and narrowed her eyes. “Do you really want it getting around that you arrested and held a man for murder based on a single word from the lyrics of a ballad?”

“The trial hasn’t taken place yet. What would you have me do, Mistress…?” he waved his hand as if waiting for her name.

“Yennefer of Vengerberg.” She smiled somewhat smugly as he paled. “Release the witcher…into my watchful custody. I’ll ensure he shows up for the trial, and we can put him to use in the meantime.”

[drkoestersmithrpg]

But Obey?

Peter started a little, confused at the sound.  He was certain he had never heard Tony knock before.  He went to the door and opened it.

Tony entered the room with a tense and frightened look.  Peter tried to smile in a comforting way as he took Tony by the hand and led him to the bed.  Tony was nervous.  But Peter already knew that.  Knew it when Tony knocked instead of just entering.  Peter thought they might kiss for a while, might hold each other before they talked.  But it hurt Peter’s chest to see the worry in his friend’s eyes.  There was no more putting it off.  He sat down on the bed, but Tony chose to stand.

“All right.  You want me to tell you why I asked you to meet me here.  Although you didn’t have to knock on your own bedroom door…”

“Your bedroom,” Tony corrected softly.  “This is your chamber.” 

“…oh.  Yeah… I guess… okay.”

Tony stood at attention, although his head a little bowed.  He waited.

“Tony,” Peter said, his voice breaking.  How he longed to just hide in his lover’s arms and forget about all of it, or else just hide under the blankets until it went away.  But it was too late for that.  He took a deep breath and plunged forward.

“Tony, I’ve been reading Abe Sexton’s journals for the past four days and I’ve… I’ve been learning things.  Disturbing things.  Like… the seal of Incêndio?  When each Post Patriarch inherited you, they put you under a seal that would burn you if you disobey them?  But each man had to one-up the Patriarch that came before him, so that his seal would burn you worse than the seals that came before?  So the new Patriarch could force you to disobey old orders because the new orders hurt worse?”

Tony was watching his face carefully, warily.  Now he was making tiny movements, shaking his head, just barely, to say “No.” 

“No?”

“Yes…” Tony struggled to explain.  “But the seals fade in time, after the death of each magician, the seals fade… the pain fades…”

“So they didn’t even have to… oh god… that makes it worse Tony, not better.   All these seals… they’re just there to put you in more pain than the pain that came before.  And that thing that Thomas Post did to you, when they gathered the three black animals to force you to tell the truth about what you did to Tom Dylan.  That was to make it hurt three times worse than whatever command Tom Dylan gave you…”

“And to strengthen me three times,” Tony said, almost too quietly to hear.  He clearly didn’t want to argue, but he also clearly disagreed.   “To make me strong, three times stronger than Tom Dylan’s command…”

“That’s NOT what Abe Sexton said!” Peter argued.  Although, secretly, he hoped it was true.  Maybe Abe Sexton had gotten it wrong.  “I’ve been reading his journals, Tony, and he said some terrible things.”

“Sometimes… novice magicians… make mistakes….”

“So… so if Tom Dylan had commanded you to not tell anyone what you had done, and then Thomas Post put you in the seal and commanded you tell the truth…”

“I would have spoken the truth.”

“And it would have hurt.”

“Yes, but I would be stronger within the seal.”

“And to disobey Thomas Post would have hurt worse…”

“To disobey Thomas Post, inside the seal, would have been impossible.”

“Because the most powerful magician is the one who can hurt you the most.  Can hurt you so badly that you’ll be too distracted to notice your being punished for disobeying the first magician.  That’s what all this is about, that’s what I wasn’t getting…”  Peter almost doubled over with the pain of it all, his hands fisted on the edge of the bed.  He had eagerly reached for Abe Sexton’s journal when he thought he recognized the name.  Poured through blocky, perfectly spaced handwriting of dozens upon dozens of journals, benefiting from Abe’s compulsion to document everything that happened in his family.  Peter thought he had discovered the ultimate treasure – until Abe turned 16.

Some of it was impossible to understand.  Abe liked to write in German and Latin, and sometimes in a language that Peter suspected he made up himself.  But his disgust saturated every page.  He was livid as he described “magician’s duels” that, in essence, subjected Methuselah to various types of pain, forcing the demon servant to serve the strongest magician.  And yet Abe also seemed hell-bent on becoming a powerful magician himself, in order to force Tony to defy his father to break… something.  It wasn’t clear.

His revulsion filled up years’ worth of journals.  And now, one hundred years later, Peter sat at his kitchen table and shared that teen’s outrage. 

Tony, on the other hand, remained baffled. 

“Tony,” Peter hissed, trying to make his friend understand.  “Did you know how terrified all the Post girls were that Judah Post would someday use the 300 League spell to kill their father?  And not because they were afraid he would die...  but that they were convinced Judah had the power to force you to kill your master and then destroy you when you just refused?  That they lived in fear of waking up to find him, or you, or both of you, were just dead?”

He was almost in tears now, and that wasn’t good.  Because Tony was looking very compassionate about the tears.  But not particularly concerned about the facts Peter had uncovered.

“Tony…”  Peter took a deep breath and tried again.  “When Abe turned 16 you were sent to his bedroom, do you remember?”

Tony nodded solemnly.  “Yes.”

“And he tried to kick you out, but you said you didn’t have the authority to leave, and he wasn’t a powerful enough magician to hurt you enough to force you to leave.  You had to stay and.. make him a man…”

Tony nodded.  His face was gentle with the memory.  “I could have taken any form he wanted, a woman or a girl or a man or a boy, but he wanted none of them.  But I could not leave; his father tasked me to stay until it was done.  Master Peter…”  He moved as if to reach out and stroke Peter’s face, but changed his mind and turned to the book.  With two hands he pulled the massive tome closer to them and opened it to a page in the middle. 

As Peter leaned to look down at the woodcut, Tony reached out to stroke the back of his head.  “We reached a pleasant accord.  He and I.  Why does this vex you now?  Abe Sexton found it most satisfying…”

Peter recognized the hillock where the two boys lay on a quilt, looking up at summer stars.  An odd looking boy with very wide eyes and old-fashioned clothes was lying on the quilt next to an identical boy in identical clothes.  They were talking.  Peter realized that Methuselah had found a “form” that Abe found pleasant, a boy exactly his age.  The boy’s hands were laying very close to each other.  Sometimes, Peter knew, their knuckles would brush against each other.  Maybe, by the end of the night, they would be holding hands.  Sometimes they smiled and pointed when they saw shooting stars.  It was a lovely picture.  No wonder Tony called it an “accord.”  Both Abe and his companion looked perfectly content.

They were probably talking about outer space, Peter realized.  Tony was probably explaining what he had been taught in the monastery and Abe was explaining what he had learned in his books.

“But…” Peter said, confused.  It was hard to justify the picture he was seeing with the vitriol of Abe’s journals.  “But he said… you couldn’t leave… until… until he had penetrated you…”

Tony smiled fondly.  “It is a secret, Master Peter.  Can I tell you?  You bade me ‘Be polite and keep their secrets.’”  But even as he spoke he turned the page.

On that page Abe, eyes wide, had his hand completely inside his doubleganger’s chest.  Abe’s hand, Peter knew, was planted firmly on the quilt beneath them.  Tony, having taken the form of Abe, looked back at the 16-year old calmly.  Then Abe withdrew his hand, and Tony’s chest grew solid again.  They would spend the rest of the night talking about the nature of solids, gasses and liquids.   

“Oh,” Peter said.  He took a breath of relief.  Of course, he should have known.  Following the letter of the law without actually doing what he had been ordered to do.  It was an artform.  And Tony was quite the artist.

“Can you… help me understand why Abe Sexton was trying to become a master magician himself?  He seemed to hate all his… but he seemed to really want to learn how to be able to force you to break something, but I didn’t understand that part because he always wrote it in another language.”

Tony bowed his head.  Still, he couldn’t help but smile fondly.  “The Tongue of Jephthah’s Daughter, he called it.  It is his own invention.”

“I should have known you would know.  What is the ephod nodum?  What did Abe want to force you to break?

Tony sighed heavily.  His shoulders sank.  He couldn’t seem to lift his head.  He looked as weary as Peter felt.  “It is a nothing.  There is no nodum…” he said, shaking his head.  He looked both broken and defeated, as if he were losing an ancient argument.  “Abe Sexton forever tasked me to find the ‘bottle’ or the ‘ring’ or the ‘lamp.’  Insisted I was a djinn of Solomon and I had to be set free.  It vexed him full sore that I knew nothing of djinn or Solomon.  I tried to tell him.  He did not like my answer.  I tried to tell him that the only ‘bottle’ to break would be the books of Ezra and Nehemiah Post, but he would have none of it.  He was my learned Doctor, but once he had learned, he could not be corrected…”

“But you did destroy those books.  It took you until Evan Post to do it…”

Tony smiled wistfully.  And not without a little pride.  “Yes, Abe Sexton had tasked me to it.  It took three generations, but I did succeed.”  

Another deep breath,  another stab at being understood.  “Tony, When I was fifteen I heard you say, in this room, ‘When the master commands, what else can the servant do but obey?’ And…”  Peter dropped his eyes.  “...and that there would be no secrets…” 

“Yes,” Tony said, nodding.  “It is your chamber, Master.  You have no secrets here.”

“And now I’m trying to make you understand my secret.  Tony, please try to understand that I love you.  And there are some things… I’m sure they made sense to the Post men and maybe to some monks in the 4th century but they do not make sense to me.  I can’t… I can’t ask you to… do things with me in bed, or do things to me in bed, if you don’t have any choice.  If it’s just one of your duties, like keeping me safe from snakes.  I can’t ask you to do anything… intimate... if you can’t tell me ‘no.’”

Miserably he reached out and pulled the huge leather book to him.  Grimacing, he tried to turn to the glossary at the back, where the words were, along with the definitions that made him tear up.  But the book refused to cooperate.  Instead the huge pages turned themselves until he was looking at the last picture he wanted to see, the picture of Nehemiah Post using Methuselah’s body before going to sleep.   

“Tony,” he said as factually as he could.  “When I was fifteen you asked me to ‘make me your beloved’ and I had no idea what that meant.  I thought it meant ‘special’ like ‘a beloved poem’ or ‘a beloved story.’  I had no idea you wanted me to do that to you…”  He shook his head in disgust.  Just now it was occurring to him, in Tony’s world, offering his body to the horny fifteen-year-old was more normal than not offering up his body.  Peter shook his head hard and tried to push forward.

“And then on the night before you left for the Dark Trinity, you asked me ‘Shall I make you my beloved,’ and you smiled like it might be a funny thing.  A silly thing.  I said ‘yes’ because I didn’t know what I was agreeing to.  And you’ve made it clear that you… I mean you created a body part just for me just to do it… and I appreciate that Tony, but…”

Peter recognized the look on Tony’s face now.  He didn’t look sorrowful anymore.  He looked baffled.  Baffled and frustrated.  He didn’t understand, and he knew he didn’t understand.  But he was trying desperately to understand.

“There’s a glossary in the back of this book.  I found out that “beloved” and “lover” aren’t the same thing, but I guess I always knew that.   Does this make sense?  Can you know my secret?  I don’t want to do that thing to you.  And I don’t… I can’t ask you to do that thing to me if you don’t want to…”

Tony walked quietly up to the book and turned the pages.   There, on the settee lounged Lysander and his two sturdy men with identical faces.  He turned Peter’s chin to face him with gentle fingers.

“Lysander was my beloved.  He made me his lover, made both of us his lovers.  It was his desire… his desire that I should ‘do that’ to him...”

“And you couldn’t tell him ‘no!’  Peter insisted, almost shouted, twisting his face away from Tony’s hand.  “That’s what I’m trying to get you to understand...Tony, how can I ask you to make love to me if you can’t tell me ‘no’?”

Tony no longer looked exhausted.  Now it was almost angry.  Maybe he did understand what Peter was getting at, and he just didn’t like it.  He actually glared at the book, as if he wanted to destroy it.  They stayed that way in silence for a while.  Tony’s mouth was working, although he said nothing.  His jaw was hardening and he was obviously trying to soften his expression, but couldn’t.

“Tony,” Peter said as gently as he could, “You were a slave in this house, in the Post house.  That changes everything for me.  I know Lysander tasked you to be his ‘lover,’ I figured that out,” he said, touching the book where three handsome men conspired.  “And all the other Post-men tasked you to be the… to be the ‘beloved’ but that is not the right word for it.  And I’m glad you and Abe Sexton found a way around all of that.  

“But these are things they ordered you to do, Tony.  And that’s why I can’t… we can’t… it was wrong for them to make you… what?

Tony had made a frustrated sound, so quiet Peter barely heard it.  Only when he insisted did Tony speak.

His voice was very quiet.  He spoke through a clenched jaw as he glared down at the carpet.

“You curse the poachers who commit crimes in Ethiopia, over 2,000 leagues away.  And you curse the name of the men in your book whose crimes are more than a score of years old.  Will you also now curse the generations as well?”  There was no patience in his voice, no understanding.  When he finally looked at Peter his eyes were dark.  “My angry Master.  Angry at crimes in far away lands.  Angry at hunters in far away climbs.  Now, will you be angry at the dead?”

“I have the right to be angry!”  Peter shouted.  “Mortally angry!  I’ve read Malcom X, I know how this works.  I inherited you, Tony, the same way I’m going to inherit the house some day.  And that means I inherit all the debt, too.  And yes, this is my debt.  I have to take care of you, Tony.  Not just because I love you but because it all falls on me now.  That’s just the way it is.  And now…”

Peter tried to breathe but his lungs were aching.  He didn’t want to argue with Tony (dear god was he actually yelling just now?)  All he wanted to do was bury his face in Tony’s neck and hide in the man’s arms, hide under the covers.  He wanted it so badly it hurt.   The temptation was overwhelming and making him sick.  Still, he fisted the creamy-white covers of the bed and pushed forward.

“Abe Sexton was trying to free you.  That’s what he keeps talking about in his journal, it makes sense now.  He was writing it in a language he invented because he couldn’t let his family know.  That’s what the ephad nodum was about.  He must have thought you were a genie, like in the Arabian Nights.  The genies were trapped by Solomon, that’s a legendary wizard from a long time ago, in bottles or lamps.  When he told you to destroy the ephod nodum he wanted you to destroy your genie’s bottle, but of course there isn’t one.  So you can’t destroy it.  You did destroy the German books, but that didn’t set you free, did it?  You still call me ‘Master.’  You still get hurt if you disobey me.  I asked you why the noisy room was so noisy and you didn’t know the answer and still got hurt because you didn’t answer the question right.  You’re still a slave and I guess there’s nothing we can do about that.  There’s no ephad nodum to destroy.  And that’s why we can’t be lovers… or lovers and beloveds or… whatever.  That’s why.”

“Will you…”

Peter waited patiently.  He didn’t look up at Tony as he waited for the words.  He would have said something, but didn’t.  He had never heard Tony sound so choked before.

“Will you send me into the ground?” 

“No!”  Peter said suddenly, loudly, startling them both.  “No, no no that’s not… no.  I never meant…”

“Will you cast me out?” Tony asked, his voice broken and pained.  But he was looking into Peter’s eyes now, his jaw unclentched, his face filling with relief. 

“No, no, of course not,” Peter said as gently as he could, realizing for the first time what Tony had been worried about.  “No.  Never.  You’re my best friend, Tony.  I love you.  I always want you with me.  Always.  Oh god… you think that’s… Tony how could I even… Tony that’s not what free means…” 

“He ordered me to leave, to leave Lysander and my princesa....to leave the land that I protected, the land I had made plentiful.  He said someday he would have the power to cast me out and I would never return.  I told him he would never have that power, that I would never let him inherit the spellbooks.  He thought to best me for he had been chosen by Nana-Justina.  He vowed to send me to the ends of the earth.

“But then the sheriff's son came to us, he who Lavern had healed and brought back from death.  His body was healed but his mind was ill.  When he left here Abe Sexton left with him.  Left with him, and did not return.”  

“But… didn’t he?  Didn’t he live with the sheriff's son for 50 years, and then come back to live with his family?

“He returned, but he did not return.  He lived on the land, but he never spoke to me again.”

His voice was quiet and relieved, but his face was solem.    Peter could see it just as easily as if he saw the woodcut in the book;  Tony’s relief that the man who seemed hellbent on casting him from the Homestead finally leaving the Homestead himself.  Tony’s confused longing when the man who had frightened him so badly was now ignoring him.

Peter knew that feeling.

“Probably…”  Peter said as gently as he could.  “I think he was… Abe Sexton was an abolitionist.  Like all the girls were.  Abolitionists and suffragists went hand in hand.  I think he was trying.. I know this must have sounded terrifying to you but I think he was trying to be kind to you.  The words he was using… they meant different things to him.  Damn!  No wonder he made up his own language, sometimes there just aren’t WORDS for things!  Tony, listen…”

And with that, Peter stopped talking.

Closing his eyes and bowing his head he pictured it.  Thought it as hard as he could.  

First he pictured the two of them holding each other in bed, the way they always did.  Kissing and touching each other.  Letting Tony feed until he fell asleep.  Knowing Tony would feed again as he slept.  Plotting together, working out spells and plans and schemes and sweet dreams and revenge.  

But then he let his mind wander to his plans for the future.  Tony as a small black dog that could walk in the woods with him in the mornings and evenings.  Sitting on his lap beside him on the couch as they watched TV, Peter explaining all the jokes in his favorite cartoons.  Or as a black cat, curling up in Peter’s lap, being stroked with Peter’s left hand while he did homework with his right.  Visiting Peter in dreams as he attended college in New York City.  

But so much more than that.  Peter thought of the years to come, when he grew up and took responsibility for the house.  Taking care of May and Ben in their old age with Tony at his side.  Walking hand in hand through the forest at night, looking at actual stars instead of dream stars.  Touching each other beside the lake-by-moonlight.  Rebuilding the cottages so that artists could come and live and create, feeding their light to Tony.  Creating works of art.  Inviting painters to create paintings of the underground chapel.  Rebuilding the South House.  

He could picture it so clearly he could almost taste it.  Someday the house would be his, and he could live opening with Tony.  Talk about the days’ events at the kitchen table.  Shout at politicians on the television as they snuggled on the couch.  Build a huge back porch like the DeSlaughters where they could sit and watch the sunset like Matty’s mom and dad.    

He saw it in his head, then he opened his eyes and looked at the man standing beside him.

“Do you understand?”

Tony’s face was calm and serene.  He looked at Peter longingly, but he didn’t move from where he stood.  “Yes, master.  I will always serve you well, until the end of your days.”

“Please try to understand Abe Sexton was… oh nevermind.  Maybe you can’t understand.  The words we use and the words you use have different meanings, oh dammit…”  He covered his eyes with both hands.  He growled at the ridiculousness of it all, then said a few obscene words to boot.  “But that’s the problem with all words, isn’t it?!  Words just have lots of meanings, and it’s impossible to anyone to be understood,” he moaned.    

He realized, for the first time, what it meant when Tony had been sent to “vex” people.  The impossible storm in his brain was vexing him now  

He took another deep breath and tried again.

“I always want you with me.  I’ll always take care of you.  And you can feed, and when you feed we will still kiss and touch, you can still make me feel good… I know you like that.  But we can’t be… we can’t be lovers, Tony.”

He snuck a peek back up at Tony’s face, only to see that hopeless confusion again.

“I love you, but that can’t happen.  Can you understand?” he said helplessly, knowing Tony couldn’t.

“Because there is no ephod nodum.”

“Yes!  Yes, Tony, you get it!”

“There were the German books, and I have destroyed them.”

“Yes!  But that didn’t set you free.  You’re still the genie in the bottle, and there is no bottle to break.”

“But if there were, you would take me as your lover.”

“Yes.  But there’s isn’t, so you can’t.”  Peter said, relieved that his friend finally understood.

[accidental-ducky]

Like Fire in Your Blood--pt 1

He walks through the halls and doesn’t even realize he has a destination in mind until he stops outside of a closed door and his fingers are grazing the cold wood. His claws itch to come out, but he stamps down on the urge to wrench the door from its hinges and throw it with a raw cry of pain.

“That was Scott’s room.” Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin, too absorbed in his thoughts to hear the ‘wolf approaching. “He was my second-born.” Stiles meets Peter’s gaze over his shoulder but can’t quite meet his stare. It doesn’t matter anyway since Peter’s gaze is focused on the door with something like desperation making his lips twitch.

“But he wasn’t your baby, was he? Not your youngest.”

“No.” Peter’s eyes flick to the room directly across the hall and Stiles can recall a little girl’s laughter as she dances around her room with an older boy that had some serious eyebrows. “Don’t ever go in there. It’s not for you.”

“Of course.”

You can also read it on Ao3 here. 

XXI

Stiles remembers the thrill of his first ride, the way clouds burst like droplets of water against his cheeks and wind howled in his ears like wolves. He isn’t even scared of the specters surrounding him, green and translucent and wicked. He isn’t scared because he has his mother right behind him, arms around him with nimble fingers clutching at the reigns. His blood sings in his veins as they gallop through the stars, searching for any lost souls for the Hunt to claim as theirs.

The horses turn as one when a dazzling silver light shoots up into the sky, like a group of embers after a piece of wood collapses. Stiles can’t hold back his laugh when they dive, hoofs connecting with a dirt path that leads into dense woods. He knows without having to look that this is Beacon Hills, the information zipping into his head straight from his mother. This is Hale property and there’s a man lying half-dead near a ravine.

It doesn’t take long to reach the man with a soul like silver, the Hunt surrounding him in a tight circle of Fae horses. Stiles slips down off his mother’s horse and moves closer to the ravine, looking down to try and make out the tiny river at its bottom while his family claims the soul.

He never notices the first of the hunters until he’s got a hand at the back of his neck that’s wrenching him to his feet with enough speed to make him dizzy. “Mama,” he cries out, instinctive. Claudia’s head snaps up, the rest of the Hunt following suit with low rumbles that make Stiles’s bones vibrate.

“Have the Fair Folk learned nothing,” the hunter asks, voice rough and too loud. “You should never bring your young out before they can defend themselves.”

“Your code doesn’t let you kill children.” Claudia’s voice is firm as she takes a step forward, commanding like she talks to her riders.

“No, I suppose not.” Other hunters are coming out now, and Stiles can’t help the way he’s shaking when he realizes his family is outnumbered. Even the Wild Hunt know better than to underestimate humans when they’re all riled up like this. Hunters are cold the way most humans aren’t, Stiles is almost convinced that they’re bred that way. “Adults, however, are free game.”

“We haven’t killed any innocents.” And Stiles knows that tone, is intimately familiar with it; it covers her happy kill-you-with-kisses voice with a layer of ice so thick Stiles is half-convinced the words should be visible.

“And what about poor Alec there?” The hunter uses his free hand to gesture at the corpse, its skin waxy in the moonlight, eyes glazed like marbles. There’s bruising over his heart where hands had reached in and taken his soul, above that is a gash where his throat had been savagely torn open. “Was he not innocent?”

“He was already well past saving, Gerard. You and your men saw to that.”

“Oh no, that wasn’t my work.”

“It was mine.” It’s a small voice, feminine, as two children appear from the greenery. The one that spoke is a little girl that looks around nine, harsher than the older boy that keeps a protective hand on her shoulder. The boy doesn’t fit in with the other hunters, Stiles can see the faint wisps of his soul behind his heart, silver-gold and vibrant instead of dull. It’s not a pure thing even at twelve, but it’s not the soul of a true sinner yet.

“My Katie is a natural, isn’t she?” Stiles can hear the pride in the old man’s voice, sees the way the girl puffs her chest out while her brother stiffens. “Christopher, would you like to make the first kill?” There’s a bow in his hand and a full quiver strapped to his back, but the blond boy gives a jerky shake of his head.

“I’ll do it, Daddy.” And she does, there’s no hesitation as she raises her own bow and fires a silver-tipped arrow into the ghostly crowd. The rider makes a choked noise and drops to their knees, grasping at the shaft only to have their fingers sizzle when they make contact. “Rowan wood, silly. So beasts like you can’t heal around it.”

The Hunt is riled up just as much as the hunters now, growls and hisses filling the air only to be cut short as more arrows fly. Everything seems to happen too fast for Stiles to comprehend, a blur of greens and silvers until the Hunt is bolting into the sky with three dead left behind on the ground.

“Remember this lesson if nothing else, boy,” Gerard says, breath sour as he bends down to hiss into Stiles’s ear. “You are a monster, a foul thing that belongs in hell, and I’ll let Kate hunt you down the next time you come within a mile of Beacon Hills.” He shoves Stiles away from him and urges his children back through the woods, Christopher sending one last glance over his shoulder before the bright Autumn leaves hide him.

Stiles is left alone with only the corpses for company, his mother lying limp on the ground with green smoke slowly curling from her body. She did well with her human guise, but it falls away now and glassy eyes stare up at the full moon.

And Stiles howls.

 XXII

Stiles is raised solely by his father after that, a Reaper that’s dedicated to his job and doesn’t spend nearly enough time with his son. Stiles is loved, though, he knows it in his bones that his father would die for him if need be.

Stiles doesn’t ever plan on watching someone he loves be murdered again.

 XXIII

Gerard Argent is hard to track down considering he’s human, but Stiles finds him when he’s gone gray and sickness is eating at his body. He’s lying in bed as Stiles comes into his room, out of his mind on laudanum and God only knows what else. It doesn’t matter to Stiles, only the fear that lights up the old man’s eyes does.

“Remember me, Hunter,” he asks, low and even. It’s cold in a way his mother couldn’t manage, hard enough to make the old man’s body jerk violently in an attempt to get off the bed. Stiles is faster and he’s on Gerard in a single leap, pinning the human to the bed with ease.

“Faerie,” he growls, teeth bared in a wolfish display of hatred.

“Not quite.” Stiles lets his eyes flare golden and blue ones go wide in fear and realization. Stiles hates blue eyes, they make his stomach roil and anger burn in his veins like fire. “I’m a Demon, a half-breed of powerful parents.” He sits up, straddling the old man’s thighs so he can pull up his shirt and reveal his Mark. It’s simple compared to others he’s seen, crossed scythes inside a golden circle that glows faintly.

“It’s not possible. The Fair Folk can’t breed with other species.”

“Reapers are technically part of that species, Gerard. That’s what my dad is, a Reaper.” Stiles laughs low in his throat, almost sub-vocal as he grins down at the hunter. Too many teeth, too feral and unhinged to be considered gleeful. “He was pretty angry when he found out you made me watch my mother being killed.”

“I imagine he’ll be furious when I kill you then.” Stiles’s grin falls away as he grabs up one of the bottles on the nightstand. He knows what’s in there, that it’s becoming more and more popular with the rich and poor alike. Opium, the humans call it, deadly if too much is used.

“How much of this do you take? I know it can kill humans, but that’s about it.” Faeries liked opium as much as any other species, they use it for the young ones when they can’t sleep or get sick. It doesn’t kill them, just numbs them to the world and allows them peace for a few blessed days.

“Get off of me. Christopher!” Stiles uncorks the vial and pours out a dab of murky brown liquid on his finger, studying it in candlelight. It smells disgusting to his oversensitive nose, but it looks red in the light, almost like blood. “Christopher!”

“Did you know one of my little powers is to grant wishes? Not like the Djinn do, I mostly deal with anyone who has a grudge against hunters. I wonder why that is.” It’s sarcastic and Gerard sneers at it despite the pain that makes him shake. “Want a taste?” He holds out his finger, rubbing it over Gerard’s lips.

“You little bastard! I’m going to take my time with you, you’ll stay alive just long enough for me to cut your father’s throat.” And that? That’s not going to happen. Stiles grabs Gerard’s jaw and forces his mouth to stay open, dumping the vial’s contents straight down his throat. His eyes flare again and Gerard swallows on instinct, then grunts when he realizes his mistake.

It’s almost funny watching it happen; pupils contract to pinpricks, vomit bubbling up in his throat and going back down as he swallows convulsively. It takes longer than Stiles originally thought, it’s messy and smells awful.

Stiles stands up and goes over to the window, opening it enough to get a breeze inside so the smell doesn’t make him sick. It’s a sweet scent, like old candy left out in sunlight for too long. Gerard is gurgling on the bed, trying to roll onto his side and not quite succeeding. Christopher comes in just seconds later, dressed in his night clothes with his blond hair mussed and gaze hazy.

In the bed, Gerard’s breathing goes ragged and then stops entirely.

“You didn’t actively participate so I won’t kill you,” Stiles tells the younger hunter. He’s a man now, probably in his late twenties and married if the gold band on his finger means anything. Handsome too, with a stubbled jaw and muscles that would make a lesser man swoon. “You didn’t try to stop your father either.” Christopher’s jaw clenches and Stiles can almost hear his teeth grinding. “You can clean up his last mess as repentance.”

 XXIV

Stiles gets used to being summoned and he even accepts some contracts once every few years, but none of them are truly interesting. Gold, love, and drugs are what most summoners want and Stiles finds himself wishing for the old days when people summoned the Fair Folk for good harvests and the life of a loved one near death. His mother lived for those requests.

(always demand a price, my little mischief. otherwise these humans will get too greedy. but what about others, mama? the supernatural ones? everything comes with a price. don’t do anything for free even if they’re unhuman)

 XXV

Stiles is a fox when he encounters Werewolves for the first time; an adult and his pup out in the woods to observe the wildlife. The young one is crouched low, brown eyes wide as he takes in the small colony of rabbits not far from where Stiles is hiding. The adult is the one that spots him and Stiles darts away, tail flicking back and forth lazily.

He has blue eyes, that ‘wolf, and Stiles feels sick.

 XXVI

Stiles is growing bored in his long life when he’s summoned again, the darkness of his realm a comforting thing that lets him hide in his other skin. There’s a Werewolf waiting for him there, burned and angry and wishing hard enough to make Stiles’s head spin. Calmness spreads through him slowly, though, this realm suiting his rage and easing the pain of loss if only a little.

He’s pretty in the way that most Weres are, no delicate façade on this one even before he was ravaged by fire. Stiles moves closer, just a couple of feet, and he studies the fresh scars and the Alpha spark that turns the man’s soul a bright, pulsing crimson. Stiles wants to see those eyes opened, the power that drives him.

“Who are you,” Stiles asks, curious. The ‘wolf’s head snaps in Stiles’s direction, not expecting for his call to be answered. His eyes are closed, but Stiles is kind enough to project the images of what he would see. Only Stiles can open his eyes here, only he truly belongs in this realm of frigid cold and void. “Why does a ‘wolf summon me?”

“Revenge.” His voice is hoarse, throat still healing after breathing in acrid smoke for almost an hour. The scent clings to him, like a second skin he can’t quite shed.

“That’s all anyone ever wants.” Stiles moves closer to him, letting his fur caress blistered flesh to give it some relief. No one should hurt here, not with unimaginable loss like this man is. This is a place for healing, a place for wishes. “What makes you so special?”

“Nothing, I’m sure. But I’ll pay whatever price you demand. I’ll give you anything.”

“What if I want the soul of your firstborn?” The man goes rigid and it’s agony that etches its way into the lines of his face, claws raking through the air as they shoot out from previously blunt nails. Stiles knows that reaction well, the anger singing in the man’s heart, but he laughs all the same to break up the pain clouding the air. “Relax, ‘wolf, the souls of children are hardly interesting. Besides, you have that particular scent of loss that means your firstborn has already passed. What was its name?”

“Jackson.” The name passes his lips on a broken sob, the sound of a man that’s lost everything that he’s ever cared about. It makes Stiles think of twenty-four years ago when the same sound made his throat raw, brown eyes stuck on the rowan wood shaft sticking out of his mother’s chest until his father showed up and carried him away. “His name was Jackson and he was just murdered by hunters along with the rest of my pack.” Stiles’s tail flicks before he can stop it, anger flooding him and leaving a sour taste in his mouth.

“You want revenge on those hunters?” Stiles doesn’t mean to phrase it as a question since he already knows the answer, knows the outcome. Hunter blood is something Stiles loves to watch flow in the streets and he’s heard of a particular hunter that enjoys setting fires. “I’ll help you.”

“What’s your price in return?” Stiles lets a claw run along the thin skin beneath the man’s eye on the unburnt side of his face, watching in fascination as the red line heals just as quickly as Stiles makes it.

“This I’ll do for free. Hunters killed my mother and I take a special sort of glee in watching the life leave their eyes.”

He uses his magic now, feeling it flow through his body like water as it douses the phantom flames that licks up the ‘wolf’s side. The darkness of his realm is slowly replaced with starlight, tiny pinpricks of light against an endless sky that’s nothing compared to how moonlight makes this man’s face look a marble carving from ancient times.

“You need to wake up, ‘wolf. Open those pretty red eyes for me.” The man’s eyes open with a flutter of curled lashes, the vivid red of an Alpha that slowly fades to a blue that almost makes Stiles regret this contract. Eye color doesn’t determine loyalty, though, and Stiles knows he has his own issues to work out. “What’s your name? I can’t exactly call you ‘wolf for however long this takes.”

“Peter Hale.”

 XXVII

“Can you heal my scars?”

“No.”

“You can’t or you won’t?”

“I can only give you your revenge, ‘wolf, not physical perfection.”

 XVIII

Peter Hale craves touch that Stiles can’t freely give. He notices the way Peter’s fingers twitch as though to reach out and pull Stiles closer, the way he leans closer into whatever gesture of kindness the Demon allows. Stiles gets it, Peter is touch-starved and ‘wolves are tactile, but Stiles just…. Isn’t.

Foxes are mostly solitary by nature, it’s literally ingrained into Stiles’s instincts to shy away from pack behavior, but he’s trying. He’ll touch when Peter looks like he’s about to fall to pieces, remembers the little touches his dad would give him when Stiles was still a child that helped to ground him back in reality. Little things, but not often and not lingering.

Peter seems like he has an understanding of that, he doesn’t try to force any touches which Stiles is thankful for. There are nights, though, that Stiles wonders what Peter’s stubble will feel like against his fingers. He even goes so far as to perch on the edge of the hotel bed and stretches out his fingers, but then Peter’s eyes will open and the blue of them always makes Stiles think of bad things.

(you are a monster, a foul thing that belongs in hell, and i’ll let kate hunt you down the next time you come within a mile of beacon hills)

Stiles shakes his head and goes back to the window, looking out over the deserted streets of the town and the lone figure that prowls over rooftops with the curved metal of his scythe flashing under the starlight.

“Are you okay,” Peter asks, sitting up with the heavy blankets pooling around his waist. His chest is bare to Stiles’s gaze, a faint smattering of hair that’s the same dark blond on Peter’s head. “Stiles?” His eyes can’t quite meet the blue ones, but he nods an affirmation and goes back to watching his dad protect the territory the Stilinskis claimed before the Argents were ever conceived.

There’s a rustle of cloth and then snores that are just loud enough to keep Stiles from being lost in his past. If nothing else, he can appreciate that.

 XXIX

Stiles is pretty sure that his father is worried. He’s pretty sure because the Reaper is currently pacing around the sitting room and ranting about how a certain Werewolf needs to work on controlling his temper on occasion. Peter, for his part, is lounging in a chair near the window, turned so that his left side is facing the others.

“You’re lucky the Viscount is too scared to retaliate,” John snarls, spinning on his heel and wagging a finger at Peter. “You can’t just hang men over a balcony by their feet! What the hell were you thinking?”

“That he shouldn’t press up against young ladies without their consent.” The tirade dries right up and Stiles has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. Peter sees that he’s gotten the upper hand and straightens in his seat. “I’ll bet Raeken will remember what I did to him every time he looks at the Tate girl.”

“He’ll also remember that she goes for the eyes,” Stiles adds, grinning. Malia Tate was a sight to behold, all wild energy and bared teeth as she launched herself at Viscount Raeken as soon as Peter had the leach back on his feet.

John sighs and drops into a chair of his own, raking fingers through his short-shorn hair. Stiles used to keep his hair short like that, but he likes to fiddle with it when he’s stressed and that works better when it’s long.

“Alright,” John sighs after a long while, blue eyes wary. “Alright, fine, Raeken deserved all the threats and he’s lucky that Malia didn’t tear his throat out with her teeth. Can the two of you at least promise me not to go around looking for trouble?” Peter and Stiles share a look, gazes meeting from across the room and a silent conversation passing between them. It’s a new thing, this exchange of looks and eyebrow signals, but it makes something inside of Stiles start to thaw.

From the way that John slumps in his chair, it’s pretty clear that he understands the trouble won’t end until Kate’s blood is staining the ground.

 XXX

The newly rebuilt Hale House is a sight to behold, reminding Stiles of the old human fairy tales his mother would tell him on cold nights. There are no turrets or moats, but it’s refined like he always imagined castles to be, silence laying harshly against stone and wood alike. It’s too big, too quiet, and Stiles thinks of the boy that freed him from a trap in the woods.

(i’ll take care of you until you can walk again, don’t worry. my father says we shouldn’t name wild animals, but i think you look like a travesura)

He walks through the halls and doesn’t even realize he has a destination in mind until he stops outside of a closed door and his fingers are grazing the cold wood. His claws itch to come out, but he stamps down on the urge to wrench the door from its hinges and throw it with a raw cry of pain.

“That was Scott’s room.” Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin, too absorbed in his thoughts to hear the ‘wolf approaching. “He was my second-born.” Stiles meets Peter’s gaze over his shoulder but can’t quite meet his stare. It doesn’t matter anyway since Peter’s gaze is focused on the door with something like desperation making his lips twitch.

“But he wasn’t your baby, was he? Not your youngest.”

“No.” Peter’s eyes flick to the room directly across the hall and Stiles can recall a little girl’s laughter as she dances around her room with an older boy that had some serious eyebrows. “Don’t ever go in there. It’s not for you.”

“Of course.”

(my name is scott, but everyone here calls me scotty. aunt talia says i might get to be alpha when i grow up because i carry an ember in my chest right behind my heart)

“Do you want to talk about him? My father says that’s supposed to help you process your grief.” Peter’s shoulders go rigid and his claws shoot out to rip through a leg of his trousers. “It didn’t do me much good, but I just wanted the offer on the table. Free of charge, as always.” Stiles moves past Peter and heads out to the plot of land on the east side of the house where a garden will be created. Stiles remembers a dark-haired woman working out here for hours, cheeks red in a sunburn that heals over and over again, smile bright as she calls for her baby girl to stop terrorizing Cora.

Stiles remembers.

 XXXI

W płatkach herbacianej róży Calineczka śpi Nawet przemęczony świerszczyk Zasnął w trakcie gry.

 XXXII

There’s a day between hunter deaths when Stiles meets a young ‘were named Brett, beautiful and lazy and everything that Stiles isn’t. His movements are graceful and his muscles ripple beneath his tailored clothes and Stiles wants to study him for hours. Brett catches his gaze and smiles, predatory or promising, Stiles can’t decide which.

Stiles smiles back.

 XXXIII

Chimeras, Stiles decides after a decidedly ungraceful face-plant, are cheating assholes. Mason Hewitt, despite the big brown eyes and innocent smile, is chief among them. Evil. Pain in the ass. Rude. Stiles will think of some more adjectives when Kira stops her cackling and his broken nose finishes healing.

“It was Kate,” said asshole is currently shouting. “Kate set the fire!” Stiles remembers hard blue eyes filled with hate and glee in equal measures, remembers the rowan wood shaft sticking out of his mother’s chest as she fades to vapor and drifts away on the breeze.

“You’re sure,” Peter asks, voice hitching in his throat for just a moment.

“Positive, Alpha.” There’s a pleased rumble and then Peter’s coming down the stairs, sending the Demon sprawled on the floor an amused look.

“Is there something you’d like to tell Stiles, Mason?”

Mason glances over at Stiles, looks him dead in the eye, and smirks. “I thought Demons were supposed to be graceful, Stiles. Falling over the second-floor railing is something a human might do.” He tsks and walks over to where his mate is currently howling with laughter, Liam’s grin bright as he leans on Kira for support.

Assholes, the lot of them.

 XXXIV

Stiles wakes to the sound of Latin being chanted, an old summoning ritual that forces him away from the window seat where he’d been watching the Hunt circle through the sky on phantom horses. He’s not even fully aware that he’s moving until he’s in the entrance hall and kneeling in front of a human. The man is tall and lanky, not particularly attractive even by human standards with pale green eyes and a sheen of sweat making his forehead glisten in the moonlight.

“That amulet doesn’t belong to you,” Stiles rasps out, brown eyes glued to the amethyst stone swinging in a shaky hand. It belonged to his mother, taken when she was nearly killed by a group of hunters when Stiles was too small to ride with her and the others. She got away with her life, but the necklace had been ripped from her throat. Stiles has an idea of who that hunter was.

“It does for tonight,” the man says, then continues to chant. Stiles feels the magic weaving around him tightly, compressing his chest until he can only manage weak pants and pained whimpers. This isn’t going to kill him, that’s not the point of this new spell, it’s a banishment; back to his realm, to the cold and the void where no one can find him unless their wishes are meaningful.

A growl sounds behind him, making his bones vibrate and something in his belly unfurl in warmth. The man, for his part, just straightens his shoulders and chants faster, the sudden burst of pain making Stiles’s back arch with a wheezed cry.

“Come any closer and I’ll banish him back to hell.”

“Do him anymore harm and I’ll feed you your own heart,” Peter says, a promise delivered calmly. Stiles can imagine the way Peter’s eyes have bled to crimson, the violence hiding just under the surface behind his human face. “Who are you?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Why are you here?”

“Clearing a debt.” His sweat is soaking into his clothes now, permeating the room with a foul stench of unwashed skin and withdrawal. He’s an addict, but a smart addict since he keeps chanting just enough that Stiles can’t lash out. He wants to tear the man apart for this pain, for holding Claudia’s necklace like he has any right.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do! She said I’d stay alive if I got rid of your pet Demon!” The man swallows hard enough that Stiles can hear his throat click, like some awful confession had just rolled off his tongue when they all knew who sent him this entire time. Who else would send an addict to do their dirty work? Kate fucking Argent is going to pay.

“You don’t have to do this, Adrian. She can’t get you here.” Peter’s voice is all soft and sweet, reasonable in a way that Stiles has never heard it. It reminds him of the Leprechauns that can talk people out of taking their gold, talk them into deals that hold no benefit for the humans and grim amusement for the Fair Folk.

“That’s not…. I can’t—”

“Just stop the spell, Adrian. We can all walk away from this.” Adrian’s eyes begin to cloud over and his shoulders relax, the amulet falling to the ground with the soft sound of crystal against wood. “No one ever need know.”

Stiles is sucking in deep gulps of air the second the spell is broken, too weak to hold himself upright and falling to the side. Strong arms catch him before he can hit the ground, though, cradling him against a broad, warm chest. The touch isn’t something that Stiles can cherish, but he understands the ‘wolf’s need to check over a packmate. And Stiles files that word away to examine later on, the instinctual use of it troubling him far more than the comfort of Peter’s hold.

“Are you okay?”

“Why did you do that,” Stiles demands, the shock making his words sound harsh even to his own ears. No one ever saves him, not since his mother was killed. Even his father doesn’t step in anymore, just stands off to the side and watches Stiles fight his own battles and come out victorious if a little ragged around the edges.

“Do what?”

“Save me.” Peter looks like he wants to answer, like the response is dancing on the very tip of his tongue, but he swallows it down and offers up a shrug in response. He helps the Demon up the stairs to Peter’s room, dressed him in Peter’s sleep pants, and tucks him safely away in Peter’s bed. It’s a way to scent mark, Stiles realizes, and he most certainly doesn’t preen under the attention before healing sleep forces him under.

Peter’s the one that sits by the window tonight, listening to a howling wind that doesn’t make the browning leaves shake on their branches.

 XXXV

Tormenting Kate Argent probably shouldn’t be this much fun, but it’s certainly not the worst thing Stiles has ever done. Watching her chase her own tail as Stiles manipulates the shadows will keep him entertained for months.

 XXXVI

“This is my mom,” Scott says, hefting the little black fox closer to his chest. “Mama, say hi to Travesura.” The woman turns and Stiles is met with an amused quirk of the lips as brown eyes examine him.

“Hello, Travesura, it’s nice to see you again.” Stiles makes a sound that’s as close to purring as he can get, letting Melissa rakes her fingers through the fur on his back. All the ‘wolves have been doing that lately and it makes Stiles want to bolt away, back to the forest where he can be left alone. His paw is healed by now, but he can’t quite bring himself to leave Scott’s side.

“Father says I have to release him soon. I guess foxes don’t have packs like we do.”

“That’s right, sweetie. He’ll be better off in the woods.” Stiles wants to argue about that, but he doesn’t give himself away and curls his head beneath Scotty’s chin. It’s completely ridiculous, Stiles is aware of that, but he’s come to think of the child as one of his. A kit in need of constant supervision so that Laura doesn’t try to shove him again. It makes Stiles’s hackles rise even if he knows it’s all in good fun.

“Fine, but I won’t be happy about it.”

 XXXVII

Peter should be asleep, they have along day ahead of them in the morning, but instead the ‘wolf is lying in bed and staring up at his canopy. He’s interesting to watch, but Stiles prefers him deep in slumber when all the hard lines go soft and his lips part in rumbling snores.

Stiles gets up from the window seat and comes to stand next to the bed, reaching out slender fingers to offer a comforting touch but drawing them back to his palm before they can graze Peter’s stubble. He can’t make himself do this, can’t touch the way that Peter needs him to.

“Can’t sleep,” he asks instead.

“Too many thoughts in my head.” Stiles frowns at that, settling onto the bed carefully to avoid jostling the ‘wolf. He knows all about thoughts that swarm like bees, buzzing away in his head and keeping him from peace. He tried drugs once, drunk enough wine to put a human in the grave, but nothing helped. Mom used to kiss me on those nights, a kiss to take away the pain. And it’s instinct that takes over despite the way he doesn’t like the feeling of stubble or that blue eyes still make his belly squirm like it’s full of snakes.

His lips are nearly touching Peter’s when the bedroom door flies open to permit the Betas, Stiles jerking in surprise hard enough that he falls to the ground with a shriek. Stiles frowns as he stands, brushing off his clothes and meeting Peter’s gaze again, feeling a little sick. He’s almost glad that they were interrupted now, even if part of him remembers how he felt so safe in Peter’s arms a week ago. And when he moves back to the window seat rather than accepting Peter’s outstretched hand, he only feels the slightest bit of remorse.

Overhead, the Wild Hunt sweeps over Beacon Hills and a Reaper patrols on the ground.

 XXXVIII

“What the fuck is that?”

“A family of mice, Stiles.”

“But why are they in the house?”

“For my Scotty.”

 XXXIX

Stiles cooks up a large breakfast that morning, starting with scrambled eggs and ending with a medium rare venison steak that’s still got some blood pooling under it on the plates as he sets them out. Liam is the first one in the kitchen, bruises smudged under his eyes. Mason and Kira shuffle in after him, still half asleep as they pile up around the table and begin fixing their plates.

“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,” Stiles quotes, the Betas all groaning in disgust. Early morning Shakespeare, according to Kira, is cruel and should be punishable by death. Peter joins them ten minutes later, dressed in funeral blacks that make him look washed out.

“Or close the wall up with our English dead,” he finishes, grim.

 XL

Stiles is burning with his anger, but it doesn’t burn nearly as bright as Peter and Kate do in the middle of the forest.

 XLI

Peter waits until he can’t hear his Betas before he turns to where Stiles is scrubbing at a stubborn spot on one of the plates, soap bubbles clinging to his arms all the way up to his elbows. It’s going to be a serious talk, he knows, can scent the desperate ache coming off Peter. His fox wants to hiss at it, run away into the woods or retreat into the bedroom upstairs where not even Peter goes.

“I need to ask you a favor, Stiles.”

“Then ask, but I won’t promise I’ll grant this wish to you.”

“It’s not a wish, it’s a request.” Stiles arches a brow, but he doesn’t stop scrubbing or meet blue eyes that are just a pale shade away from being awful. Peter steps close to him, making sure their arms don’t brush as he begins rinsing the clean dishes and setting them aside to be dried later on.

“My answer remains the same, ‘wolf.”

“I want you to kill me again.” And it takes all of Stiles’s restraint not to break the plate clean in half at those words and the stab of panic that lances through him like a hot knife in his chest. (or a rowan wood shaft with a silver tipped arrowhead and a malicious hand that sends it flying)

“What?” The word is choked out, barely comprehensible and all he can manage as he actually turns to look at Peter. “Are you fucking kidding me? After all this planning, all this blood, you want me to fucking kill you?” Peter nods and looks genuinely surprised when he has to drop to the floor as the plate goes soaring over his head and collides with the wall.

(anger flaring in blue eyes as a glass hits a hunter’s wall, slivers and shards glinting like diamonds on a carpeted floor that soaked through with meyers’s blood)

“Let me explain—”

“You don’t get to do this now, Peter! Those kids depend on you to keep them sane, you’re their Alpha! You don’t just get to roll over and bare your neck right now!” And his eyes, he knows, are burning gold and there’s a faint green shimmer outlining him after all those years he spent around the Hunt.

“Listen to me!” The growled command actually makes Stiles shudder and tilt his head back, a ‘wolf’s instincts rather than his own. To his credit, Peter doesn’t scent mark him afterwards, though his fingers curl into his palm with the effort. “Just….” His voice falters now, fading away like mist in sunlight. “I want Kate to burn like my family did and the only way that’s going to happen is if I keep her pinned down.”

“Forget it, I’m not doing that to you.”

“Then do it for Claudia. Why should that Argent bitch get to live when our loved ones have been decimated by her family for the simple reason of being born something other than human?” Stiles flinches away from the words, rubbing at his chest where the shaft of wood stuck out of his mother all those years ago. He feels all fight rush out of him in that moment, leaving him an aching and confused kit again.

“How will I explain it to the pups?”

“You’re clever, Stiles. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

 XLII

“Why here,” Kira asks, eyes still orange in her anger. It’s aimed at Stiles, the question and roiling emotions, and the Demon gives a languid shrug. The beach is quiet and out of the way, hidden by Fae magic so that only a select few can find it. Peter’s been searching for it, wishing for it, and Stiles can give him this if nothing else.

“Because this is where Peter feels the most at home.”

“But Peter’s dead.”

“Yes, and you and your pack chased me for three entire days until Liam became so exhausted that he ran into a tree. Can we move on now?” She scowls but doesn’t offer a protest as she clears debris from the moon-bleached sand. Liam and Mason are playing in the water a few feet away, the Werewolf’s broken nose slowly healing and the blood getting washed away from his face with each splash.

“Someone’s here, Stiles. Someone who isn’t human or Were.” Stiles turns his head and smiles when he spots his father, the older man looking haggard and bone tired.

“I found him,” John says. “I put him in your little realm and he’s sleeping until you get there.”

 XLIII

Stiles remembers the thrill of his first ride, the way clouds burst like droplets of water against his cheeks and wind howled in his ears like wolves. It’s nothing compared to the feeling of fingers scratching through his fur or his ‘wolf gazing over at him with eyes bright and smile soft, tender. Peter reaches out and Stiles leans into the touch, nuzzling into the warm palm in spite of himself. His mate needs touch, Stiles will oblige every now and then since Peter’s been so good at respecting his boundaries. And when he looks into those blue eyes, Stiles doesn’t feel sick anymore.

“Welcome home, ‘wolf.”

[thenightling]

Oh, my God, my poor head.  The irresponsibility of this website that so-called “Old school” witches are sharing a page long rant of misinformation that “Real” “pre-NeoPagan” witches were all Satanists

You fucking idiots...

Have you never seen a book from before the twentieth century!?? ...ever?!T

That stupidity passed off as fact was shared NINETY times and never corrected. Over 90 times!

Note: I was in a rush when I wrote this the first time around (about to head out the door). It has now been revised to be more accurate to what I meant to convey.  

Okay, history lesson for you false Old-school Witches. You’re not going to like this but I will provide evidence explaining how wrong and headache inducing this is.  I have news for you, old school Pre-Neo-Paganism witchcraft was NOT “Satanic”.  No one said “Hail Lucifer” or signed a black book.  No one said “Bless us, Satan.”  And yes, there were practicing witches of the middle ages.  I’ll provide the names of a few real world grimoires if you need. Sabrina does not portray old-school witchcraft practices.   Old school witchcraft practices, much like neo-Paganism, did not have its roots in Christian lore.   Let’s discuss Goethe’s Faust.  Goethe was a closet Pagan in late eighteenth century Germany.   He wrote the first part of Faust in the 1780s and the second part was found in his home in 1831 (after his death). Goethe was a closet Pagan.  He was not pro-Satan. Goethe peppers Greek deities and even the Greek underworld in what was passed off as a very Christian story.  In fact the final passage of Faust Part 2 he speaks of “Virgin (Maiden), Mother, Goddess,” and “eternal feminine.”   This was a thinly disguised Triple Goddess reference passed off as The Virgin Mary. In Faust Part 1 Goethe had it that the Drudenfuss (pentacle) was the only thing that could trap or harm Mephistopheles (Who was a demon, by the way, and not Satan himself as the Urfaust- the deleted portion of the play featured a scene where Satan and Mephistopheles both are present).    Faust, the character, even had a copy of The Key of Solomon which was famously only translated into English in the late nineteenth century and early twentieth century by the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn. The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn believed in Hermetic magical practices rooted in the writings of Hermes Trismegistus.   (Pre-Christian.  Again: No Satanism here.)   Now onto The Key of Solomon - This is a real Grimoire.  The legends claim it is a translation of a Grimoire penned by King Solomon himself.  This is not very likely as the oldest manuscript only dates back to the middle ages.  That oldest known manuscript of it can be found in The British Museum. The Key of Solomon was not Satanic in nature.  It was what we might call “Christopagan” or “Christomagi”.   That means magick practiced within the confines of Christian lore.   According to some legends (History Channel’s Banned from The Bible) King Solomon was given a ring with a pentacle carved into it, a gift from Michael The archangel, with the means to summon, bind, and control djinn (sometimes thought of as demons) and wandering ghosts.   The grimoire mostly consists of sigils or elaborate pentacle circles for this purpose.  It’s not Satanic, in fact it relies heavily on the idea that God wants us to be able to use benign magick to thwart the forces of darkness.   There are some Christian sects that ignore the King James “Translations” that condemn the use of magick because of how contrary it is to the presence of the three Magi, the use of divination (Prophets) and other references to benign and even holy magicks in The Bible.   (Note: There are similar Hebrew sects too.) There are some spells within the key of Solomon that The Hermetic Order of The Golden Dawn deemed “too dangerous” and “potentially black” and so was left out of the English translation.  Aleister Crowley did not approve of this edit and so published the censored content as “The Lesser key of Solomon.”         Faust was based on a fifteenth century German legend.  Goethe’s version of the story is two centuries old but the original version is fifteenth century. And that brings us to the next point in my rebuttal. Johann Georg Faust AKA Johann Georg Faust (Faustus), the basis for the Faust legend.  All legends have some root in truth.  According to historic record Faust (the real Faust) was banished from Ingolstadt for practicing negromancy (black magick) and sodomy.   (Note: In the fifteenth century Sodomy was any sexual act that was not between a married couple with a man on top, strictly for procreation.  So if he was gay or bisexual is anyone’s guess.  Mephistopheles is usually portrayed in the legend as gay, by the way and he wanted Faust as his slave).     The historic Faust wrote at least two Grimoires.  One of which is available in English.  The Trifold Cohesion of Hell otherwise known as The Black Raven.  Yet again, nothing actually pro-Satan in the book however there are invocations on how to summon and trap demons and one near-comical spell on cloak levitation with the warning to make sure the window is open first or there will be a disaster. Though many Christians believed Faust sold his soul to the demon, Mephistopheles (who is mentioned as a demon that can be invoked in his Grimoire) his Grimoire was mostly thinly disguised charms on how to protect yourself against demons, more than anything else and never praising them. It was a “Whose who” warning guide.  Why this was obscured is anyone’s guess.  Perhaps to frighten his enemies into thinking he was something more menacing than he was.  I don’t know. Now, enough with historic or legendary Faust.   Let’s move on to Shakespeare. There is an old legend / Semi-urban legend that the scene of the three Weird Sisters in MacBeth was based on Shakespeare observing a real witch Sabbath and so the play was cursed.  This is why it’s bad luck to say MacBeth when talking about “The Scottish play” and why you should only say the name when talking about the character himself.       If you pay attention to the famous scene, the three are not invoking any Christian lore demon but actually Hecate, the Greek Goddess of magick.  This was in 1601.  So a little early for modern Neo-Paganism. There’s also ample  Hebrew magical lore which lead to things like the legend of the Golem, early Eastern orthodoxy which implied Saint Christopher was a werewolf, and Cabalism.  None of these were pro-Adversary, mind you. Now let us go back further.  Let us discuss Hecate and her worshippers or better yet let us discuss Druid magicks.   Druid practices predate Christianity and the pentacle, as well, predates Christianity even if it was adopted by medieval Germany as a ward against demons.   That’s why the German term for the pentacle (in Faust and earlier lore) was called the Drudenfuss (The Druid’s foot).   As long as Christianity has existed there have been those who side with “The adversary.” there have been self-proclaimed Satanic witches, or Caininites (who felt Cain was a victim of a cruel and manipulative God), or “Luciferians.”    But the majority of real magick practices (and I am not speaking of neo-Paganism here) has its roots either as christo-Pagan (Pagan with Christian elements like the Key of Solomon, which was also pro-Christian, not anti-Christian), or full-on Greko / Greek Paganism or even of Kemet (Early Egyptian) which would have had no concept of Satan as one to worshipped or called upon for aid. The Witch’s Hammer is NOT a history book. NEVER mislead people about history in front of me.

Sources for what I have said here: Faust by Goethe and translated by A. S. kline (to English)The key of Solomon and the Lesser key of Solomon (British Museum)The Black Raven by Johann Georg Faust (Faustus)Superstitions by Peter Lorie (Source of MacBeth superstition history)MacBeth by Shakespeare History Channel’s Banned from The Bible documentary  And basic knowledge of Greek mythology The Golden Dawn: A history of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn

[everything-is-by-design]

(They Long To Be) Close To You

Female reader. Some original content with the ‘special’ witchiness and whatnot (similar to the Lucifer story I wrote). This is another series that I want to continue. Love me some Cassie. Getting better at writing him. Harry Potter references included within. I really can’t tell if this is terrible or not. Smut in part 2. Anyway, enjoy! Xo

Word Count: 5.7k

Castiel x Reader

Warnings: Fluff, feels, hints at/some smut.

Reader is from an ancient coven of witches known as the Astras (original content there). You’re living with the Winchesters. Chatting with Sam and Dean about your abilities in the library. Castiel shows up and finds out something about you that will change everything.

  Your name: submit What is this?

  You’ve been hunting with the Winchesters for the last few months. You’d met them while you were having a face off with a demon. You were a witch and had a unique grimoire that contained a spell that could allow you to exorcise demons just by touching them. That was obviously a threat, so they came to kill you and take the book. The brothers were tracking the demon and came to your rescue at the last minute. However, you were pretty confident in your magical skills, and took the demon down from one touch. Black smoke had puffed from its meat suit’s body as it was sent back to hell. You remembered the boys staring at you in disbelief, guns still raised as if they were not sure of you still.

 You had told them that you were from a lineage of ancient witches who kept the balance of nature. You were very clear to elaborate on the fact that demons weren’t natural and that they had been killing off your family line. So, you decided to take matters into your own hands.

 “Look, you saw what I can do. If I was going to kill you, I would have. I don’t hurt humans. You know, unless they try and hurt me first,” You had said, hands still raised. They slowly lowered their guns. They took you out to a diner and got your whole life story. You’d been hunting down demons for a few months, going relatively unnoticed, but there was a big bad. The one who was responsible for the death of your brother. The boys decided to help you, knowing the loss of family all too well. After finally defeating the demon, and saving their lives in the process once or twice, the Winchesters offered to take you in. You had nowhere else to go, so you obliged.

 Now, you helped them with their hunts; doing research and taking down nests of vampires, packs of werewolves, wendigos, djinn, sirens, you name it. You became more skilled with your magic, bordering on nearly omnipotent. You were untouchable and an asset to the Winchesters. Nothing could penetrate your intense façade. Nothing except him. You’d never met an angel before, assuming God didn’t actually exist. The boys always talked about their best friend, Castiel, but you had yet to meet him. Until that night.

  You and the boys were sitting in the bunker’s library, taking a break from researching. Sam was reading a normal looking book and Dean was on his laptop with his headphones on. You pondered to yourself what he was doing, but with Dean it could range from looking at car videos to busty Asian beauties. You decided not to question it, but silently hoped that he wouldn’t get too excited while you and Sam were still in the room. You were reading The Hunger Games, nose buried in it completely.

 “Is that any good?” Sam asked, looking up from his coverless book. Dean was still pretty distracted by what he was watching.

 You nodded, “It’s pretty brutal but it’s really good. The movie didn’t do too badly, but they made Katniss really broody. I mean, in the book when she first comes to the Capitol, she’s relatively friendly when she’s trying to get sponsors. JLaw made her seem really angry. I mean, I know why she’s like that. I’d be angry too if I had to fight to the death on live television, but still.”

 Sam smiled, clearly amused by how passionate you were by your book. He tapped his finger on his book. “I’ll have to give it a go. I’m working on A Dance with Dragons right now.”

 “Is that what you’re reading right now?” You asked, wiggling your finger at his book.

 Sam’s cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment, “Uh, no. I, uh, I’m reading about your lineage.”

 You tilted your head to the side, “Where the hell did you find that?”

 “I did some digging,” He said, awkwardly scratching the back of his head. “Is all of this true? I mean, can I ask you questions about it? Is that weird?”

 You hesitated, a little nervous that he may judge you after learning the truth. But this was Sammy, one of the nicest and most understanding people ever. You decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. You nodded, “Go for it.”

 Sam shifted in his chair, clearly excited. “Uh, okay, so you have basic superhuman abilities?”

 You nodded, “I can lift the Impala pretty easily. I lost my keys under there once and had to get them. Don’t tell Dean I did that.”

 Sam laughed, “Okay, what else?”

 “Do you have a knife on you?” I asked. He looked worried momentarily, but fished in his pocket and retrieved one. He handed it to you and you drew the blade down your arm. Blood flowed out for less than a second before the wound healed. “I can also heal you too if you were injured.”

 Sam looked a bit confused as to why you’d never done that for them before.

 You held up your hand to answer him, “I didn’t know you very well then, and hunters get a bad rap for killin’ witches.”

 Sam nodded, “Fair enough. What else?”

 “My sense of hearing is matched with that of a vampire’s and I’m pretty durable. My spidey-senses are on point too. I can also see things that aren’t really there.” Before he could ask, you honed in on your powers, and closed your eyes. You opened then and Sam leaned back a bit in shock. Your eyes were glowing a very light rouge. You pointed at him, “I can see the colours in your aura. Kinda murky actually. Like they used to be brighter but are sort of dull now.”

 You blinked and your vision returned to normal. A question had clearly popped into Sam’s head and he drummed his fingers anxiously on the cover of the book. He cleared his throat, “Can you see hellhounds, and reapers, and…angel wings?”

 You hesitated but nodded anyways, “Yeah. I mean, I’ve seen the first two. I’ve never met an angel, so I wouldn’t know about that one.”

 Sam moved the conversation along, noticing your discomfort. “Okay what about telepathy?”

 You frowned, “Some can, and some can’t. For me, it’s more psychometry than telepathy. I can read people; their past, present, and future by touching them. It doesn’t happen automatically though. I’d need to focus.”

 It was like Sam’s inner child was peeking through. He was so excited that he was talking to someone with ‘superpowers’ that wasn’t trying to kill anyone. He smiled gleefully and you couldn’t help but grin back. “Okay, I guess this one is rare but what about telekinesis?”

 His book started levitating in response and he marvelled at it. He quickly grabbed onto it, making sure Dean didn’t see. “I’ve also got limited manipulation over the natural elements. I mean, I can’t harness them all at once. I’d have to use one at a time. But it all feeds into the telekinesis thing, ya know?”

 Sam nodded, “Reality warping?”

 You scoffed, “Negatory. I’ve never heard of one of us being able to do that. I think the closest we can come to that are illusions.”

 “What do you mean?” Sam asked, leaning forwards in his chair a bit. You flicked your fingers and a whisp of pink light flew out to the empty space on the table behind Dean’s laptop. The light shuddered and in a puff of smoke appeared a tiny orange and black dragon. Sam’s eyes widened in surprise but then narrowed as he studied it. “Is…Is that a Hungarian Horntail?”

 You laughed, “You’re such a nerd.”

 He gestured to it defensively, “Well, you made it! You’re obviously a nerd too.”

 Sam’s raised voice caught Dean’s attention and he took his ear buds out. You waved your hand and the dragon dematerialized. Dean frowned at Sam, “Dude, what’s your problem?”

 You snickered as Sam pointed to where the dragon once sat. Dean moved his computer to see what the heck Sam was pointing at, but when he saw nothing, he gave Sam an ‘are you going crazy’ look. Sam looked at you for help, “Come on, Y/N. I look like I’m insane.”

 You sighed but kept the grin on your face. You flicked your fingers again, but this time to the open space that lead to the library. More light and smoke whirled around the room but instead of a dragon, a dementor appeared. Sam laughed while Dean shot up out of his seat. “Y/N, what the hell is that?”

 The dementor hovered harmlessly in the room. You stood up and approached it, hearing Dean suck in air. You passed your hand through the being and then waved at it. It vanished. Sam smiled, “Yeah, you’re obviously the nerd. It’s a creature from Harry Potter, Dean. Y/N was just showing me what she could do with her magic.”

 Dean held his hands up, “Okay, whatever. Just keep that shit out of the bunker. What else can you do?”

 You looked at Sam who gave him the rundown, thankful that Sam left out the part about you picking up Baby. Sam turned back to you, “So, is that all?”

 Both boys were sitting and staring at you unflinchingly. Dean was resting his head on his crossed arms on the table and Sam was leaning even farther forward in his seat. You gaped a bit, surprised that they were more curious than scared of you. “Photo and umbrakinesis, and truth manipulation.”

 Dean looked a bit confused so Sam elaborated, “She can manipulate light and darkness, basically.”

 “And what? Make people tell the truth? That’s kinda cool,” Dean smiled impishly.

 You raised a finger, “Truth manipulation only works on humans, not supernatural beings unfortunately. It’s done by touch.”

 Sam looked a little nervous, “Have you ever done that to us?”

 You frowned, “No, that’s a little invasive.”

 “Can you try it out on Sam?” Dean offered.

 Sam whacked him in the arm, “Dude, why me?”

 Dean shrugged and moved around the table, holding out his arm. “Ask me anything, Y/N.”

 You hesitated but held onto him. You tried to think of a good question. Something embarrassing but you needed to start off simply. “Let’s take it slow. Do you trust me?”

 “Yes,” He said instantly. “But you didn’t need to use your mojo on me for that to be my honest answer.”

 Warmth filled your heart. You moved onto your next question, “What do you consider me as?”

 “Family,” He responded quickly again. “Come on, Y/N. You already know these answers. Give me a good one.”

 You giggled at a thought that always bugged you. “Do you like dudes?”  You felt him resist against your will. He really didn’t want to admit that. Dean was a man’s man, but you had often found him flustered around abnormally pretty guys, and even found him checking them out from time to time. Dean made a face, “That’s not…”

 “The more you resist, the more it will hurt,” You insisted. Sam’s brows were raised in curiosity and his lips had parted a little. You saw Dean struggling, so you backed off. It wasn’t fair of you to make him say that out loud if it was hard for him to admit to himself. If the roles were reversed, you sure as hell wouldn’t want to be forced out of the closet. You asked another question, “How many dirty magazines do you have in your room?”

 “Fifteen,” He said and then instantly covered his mouth. You and Sam laughed in unison. Dean looked at you incredulously. “Okay, look, it’s not as bad as what some other guys have.”

 “Sure, Dean. It’s not like you get laid all the time or anything,” Sam scoffed.

 “Are there any in the Impala?” You asked.

 “No,” Dean said, frowning. “I have more respect for Baby than that.”

 Your smile faltered when you asked the next question. “Are you afraid of me?”

 “Used to be, when we first met. I’ve never seen anyone take down a demon like that. That…that was almost like angel power. I didn’t know what to make of it or if you needed to be put down. But you’ve saved our asses more than once and when we got to know you, that little bit of fear went away.” Dean said, face soft and kind.

 You released him and tried not to cry. “Okay, I think that’s enough for today.”

 You stood and walked past Dean, touching his shoulder once before leaving the boys behind in the library. On your way to your room, you felt the air shift. Immediately on your guard, assuming it was a ghost or demon, you lit your hand aflame. You turned, ready to fight but smacked into someone. That someone had you up against the wall in an instant with an arm at your throat.

  You tried to get your bearings. You looked into a pair of crystal blue eyes that were filled with offensive emotions. He was really handsome, with pink skin and raven black hair, but you were more or less focusing on trying to breathe rather than fawning over your attacker. You felt something sharp poking at your gut and assumed that he was armed as well. He held you back easily, which surprised you, seeing as you had super strength.

 “Who are you?” He spat at you, voice gruff.

 “Get off!” You said, pushing on his hold. His arm shifted from your touch. He repositioned himself, noticing that you were stronger than the average human.

 “Who are you and what are you doing here?” He demanded, pressing harder into your throat.

 “If you don’t get off of me, I will make you get off,” You hissed.

 Before you could do anything, the boys ran down the hall, guns raised. They lowered their weapons when they saw who was holding you. Sam spoke urgently, “Cas, let her go.”

 The man named ‘Cas’ looked at you and then back to the boys. “Are you aware of the kind of energy she is giving off?”

 The boys looked a bit shocked. Dean piped up, “Cas, let her go. Now.”

 “What is she?” Cas growled.

 You continued to push against him. You sputtered, “I’m a witch, okay?”

 Cas shook his head, “No, witches don’t radiate this kind of energy. What are you?”

 You groaned against his grip. You hadn’t been specific to the boys about what kind of witch you were and that demons weren’t the only ones who had tried to wipe you out in the past. “I’m descendant from the Astra coven.”

 Understanding passed through Cas’ eyes almost instantly and he released you. He stepped back and bowed his head slightly, “My apologies.”

 That’s when you saw them. His wings. They were huge and black…but, no, that wasn’t right. They were actually a deep, almost midnight, blue. When he flexed his feathers, it was almost like there was starlight in them. But his wings were very thin, lacking many feathers, the sight made you sad. You were shocked to say the least. You could see his wings, but unlike how Sam suggested, you weren’t using your magic to see them. You felt his angelic light flowing around him. Dean snapped you out of your daydream. "Can someone please fill me in?”

 Cas, who you assumed was Castiel, looked up to Dean. He sighed, “She’s a celestial being, almost as powerful as the seraphim.”

 The boys were surprised. Sam stowed his gun behind his back. He looked like he was trying to put pieces together. “Wait, Y/N, you’re an angel?”

 Cas made a face, “No, she’s not really a witch either. God created them to keep the balance of nature. And…”

 “And what, Cas?” Dean prompted.

 “And to guide humanity when the angels went AWOL,” You said.

 Cas looked almost ashamed, “Yes. They’ve been very attentive to humanity in our absence. They are called Guardians, not witches, but I guess that’s an easier concept for humans to grasp. They also aided heaven in the rebellion. Astra Guardians have unprecedented healing abilities and were able to heal an angel’s grace. They can even extract the darkness from someone’s soul and make them pure again.”

 The boys looked at you. You shifted, “Clearly, you didn’t get that far in the book, Sam.”

 Sam continued to stare at you, “How...uh...how come you didn’t tell us?”

 “I’ve lost my family not just because of demons, but because of them,” You said, pointing at Castiel. “They hunted us and almost wiped us out. I was afraid that I’d lose you both too.”

 Sam embraced you, “Hey, you won’t lose us. No chance in hell that will ever happen, Y/N.”

 “Cas, did you…?” Dean subtly implied, asking the angel if he was responsible for the deaths of your family.

 Castiel looked offended and he raised his voice a little, “No. Some of my siblings saw Astra’s as a potential aide to Lucifer and started hunting them. I helped protect them.”

 You poked your head up from Sam’s chest and looked at Castiel. You sniffled a little, “You did what?”

 “I’ve been cloaking them for the last hundred years. Well, trying to anyways. They aren’t very cooperative. One family broke off from the coven; the Y/L/Ns. I wasn’t able to save them in time. I assume that they were your family. I knew them well but they warded themselves against me and the rest of the garrison. I am sorry for your loss,” Castiel said, his fingers twisting around the blade in his hand.

 The angel looked genuinely sorry. You nodded, “Thank you.”

 Before anything else could be said, you all heard a buzzing. Dean took out his phone, “Hey Garth, what’s up? Really? Okay, we’re on it.”

 Sam looked at Dean expectantly, “I take it he’s got a case?”

 Dean nodded, “Yep, Garth says it looks like a Rugaru. It’s just south of Albuquerque, New Mexico.”

 Sam squeezed your shoulders, “Okay, that’s a twelve hour drive.”

 Dean stowed his phone away, “Better get going then.”

 Dean patted Sam’s shoulder and turned down the hall. You and Sam followed Dean but Castiel appeared in front of all three of you. Dean grumbled but Castiel spoke, “No.”

 “No? Cas, we gotta go after this thing,” Dean said, his voice slowly filling with irritation.

  “You both can go,” Castiel nodded at you. “She stays.”

 You became instantly annoyed, “What the hell? No, I’m going. I can help.”

 “Rugarus hunt based mainly on scent. Astra’s smell more…potent than humans. Her scent will draw it right to you,” Castiel said, his eyes trained on Dean as if the angel were pleading with the hunter.

 You piped up quickly, “Even better, I can lure the bastard out so they can kill it.”

 “You don’t understand. It won’t stop, it will never stop until it consumes you,” Castiel argued. He sighed, his wings slumping a little behind him. “Look, I understand that I have completely failed at protecting your family, but you are the last Y/L/N Astra Guardian and you need to be protected. I failed once. I won’t fail again.”

 “So, what? I can’t hunt anymore?” You asked, your previous exasperation had developed into full blown rage.

 “I will decide what hunts you can go on,” Castiel said, trying to be reasonable. 

  You considered it briefly before raising your hand and projected a beam of pink light from your palm. It smacked into Castiel’s chest and he flew back a few meters, landing on his back with a heavy grunt. The boys turned around to face you. Dean raised a hand, “Whoa now, Y/N. You can’t do that to Cas. He’s our friend and he means well.”

 You glared at him, “I don’t like being told what to do, Dean.”

 Sam patted your shoulder gently, “Cas is a good guy, Y/N. Sit this one out, it’s okay. We’ll be okay.”

 You pursed your lips but gave into his puppy dog eyes. You threw your hands up in the air in defeat. “Okay, fine.”

 The brothers smiled as you walked past, unapologetically stepping over the angel as you went.

  You sat on the couch and watched as the boys emerged from the hall fifteen minutes with their bags packed. Both of them came up to you and said goodbye. Dean ruffled your hair and gave you a shoulder squeeze while Sam kissed the top of your head. Half expecting Castiel to follow them, you were surprised when both boys gave the angel a pat on the back before heading up the stairs.

 You shifted on the couch, “What, you’re staying?”

 “Play nice, you two,” Dean called out to us before shutting the bunker door. Castiel stood awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs.

 You sat with your legs crossed and fingers drumming on your knees. Castiel kept your unwavering gaze but shifted underneath it. You sighed, deciding to give in first. “I’m sorry that I...uh…blasted you.”

 The angel walked forwards and sat on the couch across from you. He nodded solemnly, “I understand why you did it.”

 “Why are you so bent on protecting me? There are other Astra families out there,” You said, cocking your head to the side.

 Castiel twiddled his thumbs almost anxiously. He sighed heavily, “Astra, the first, was a Y/L/N Guardian. The reason why my brothers and sisters targeted your family line specifically was done on purpose. If your line dies, then every Astra Guardian dies along with you.”

 You suddenly felt uneasy. You felt bile threaten to erupt from your stomach and you grimaced. Your voice was raised when you spoke, “We keep the balance within nature! Why would we side with the devil?”

 Castiel looked sincere, “I cannot make up for their actions, but I can atone for them.”

 “How do you plan to do that? You can’t be by my side all the time,” You insisted.

 “When one member of your family dies, their abilities—”

 “Magic?” You cut him off.

 He made a face but didn’t repeat the word you offered, “Pass onto the next Guardian. You have four Guardian’s worth of power inside of you. You’re nearly indestructible.”

 You opened your mouth but he continued.

 “Nearly,” He stressed.

 You shook your head slowly in confusion, “So, what’s your plan?”

  He opened his mouth to speak but shifted uncomfortably, as if something was poking him. His feathers shuddered and he reached around his back as if to grab onto something. Castiel grumbled and murmured something in another language.

 “Did you just swear in Enochian?” You smirked.

 Castiel glanced up at you, “I’m not very good at swearing in English.”

 You smiled fully now at his lack of skills in general. You watched him struggle at trying to reach his back. “Do you need assistance?”

 Castiel’s voice grew very rough in frustration before he gave up and leaned over with his face in his hands. Curious, you stood and walked around him. Once you were behind him, you peered closely at his wings. There was a loose feather scraping along the skin on the top of his wing. It had been scratching him so much that there was now a red mark on the visible skin. Castiel felt your proximity but remained still, “What are you doing?”

 You gestured to his wings even though you knew he couldn’t see you. “I can see the feather that’s jabbing at you. I can just, uh, remove it if you want. I feel like ‘pluck’ is a bad word to use since you’re not a chicken.”

 He didn’t seem to be fazed by your knowledge and waved his hand. Unsure of what that meant, you didn’t move. The poking seemed to get worse because Cas shouted at you. “Yes, please, take it out!”

 You reached into his plumage and gently removed the attacking feather. The angel instantly relaxed.Yet you knew that he was still in pain and not because of some rogue feather. You’d always known that your coven had been able to heal angels and you wanted to test that theory. You held your hands over his wings, the spell coming to your lips as if you’d spoken the words many times before.

  Honestly, you didn’t know why you couldn’t say the words in English. They roughly translated into: Angel of heaven, I heal thee. However, it came out of your mouth in Latin, “Angelus caeli, ego te sanandum.”

 “What are you—?” Castiel trailed away as you spoke loudly over him. You repeated the chant until light erupted from your fingertips, palms, arms, shoulders, head, chest, legs, feet, and toes. The light shone brighter than the sun and expanded outwards to fill the entire bunker. You felt Castiel’s Grace pounding in your soul as you wrapped your healing light around every inch of his true form. Castiel didn’t make much sound aside from some heavy breathing and some inaudible words.

 Something clicked in your mind, notifying you that the spell had been completed. You released Castiel and stepped back, the light fading completely. He was standing now and facing you, his eyes glowing a bright blue and his wings were…full. There weren’t any missing feathers now; nothing was burnt or charred or falling off. He looked whole. You smiled, “Wow, that actually worked.”

 Castiel exhaled and the glow from his eyes faded, but his wings remained. Once again this confused you, as you weren’t using your magic to see them. Castiel looked a little stunned but managed to speak, “Why…did you do that?”

 You were suddenly nervous and knew your voice would crack if you spoke. You tried to keep yourself steady and hid your shaking hands behind your back. You attempted to give a casual shrug, “You said you wanted to protect me, right? Well, I kinda need you to be a fully functioning angel to be able to do that.”

 Astounded that you were able to keep your voice from faltering, you smiled to yourself. He smiled too, “I haven’t felt this good since before I fell. Thank you.”

 You walked around the couch and smiled, “No more loose feathers now, huh?”

 Shock spread across his features and he frowned at you. You reached up to touch his wings but hesitated, not sure if that was okay even though you had touched them moments prior. “Were you using your magic to see my wings before?”

 You smirked and pointed at him, “So, you admit that it’s magic?”

 Castiel grabbed onto your arm, “Y/N, answer me.”

 You gulped, “No, I wasn’t. I can just see them.”

 Castiel’s voice softened, “Oh.”

 He let your arm go but stayed close to you. You looked at him, studying him, trying to find out what he was hiding. “Castiel, what does that mean?”

 He tried to smile at you but failed completely, “It means…that it is very, very important that you stay safe.”

 You found yourself reaching for him but he backed away. He disappeared in front of you with a flutter of wings. You blinked in surprise and left the common room for the bathroom. 

  Half an hour and a shower later, you emerged from your room, clad in a black t-shirt nightie that stopped just above your knees and fluffy Hufflepuff slippers. You went into the kitchen and poured yourself a rather large glass of chocolate milk and went back into the common room. 

  You saw Castiel sitting on the couch with the television on. You approached him and looked at the TV. You bit your lip to keep from smiling at the fact that he was watching Marvel’s Guardians of the Galaxy. Peter Quill, Gamora, Rocket, and Groot were being sent to the Kiln after Denarian Saal had prompted to Corpsmen Dey that they were a bunch of a-holes. 

  Castiel’s wings were spread wide against the back of the couch and you briefly found yourself mesmerized by their majesty. You sat down next to him, leaning back against his wings and saw Castiel go rigid from the contact.

 “Never picked you for a Marvel man,” You said, taking a sip of your drink.

 “This movie is bizarre. There are talking racoons and sentient trees,” Castiel said, staring at the TV.

 “And a whole lot of sexy people,” You offered. Your breath hitched in your throat as you gazed at Peter Quill’s lack of shirt.

 Castiel turned to look at you. He almost looked offended, “You’re attracted to him?”

 You guffawed, “Hell yes! I mean look at that body. Plus, he’s super protective over the people he loves. He’s a complete sweetheart and yet a total badass.”

 The angel eyed you and then lifted up his shirt as if to compare his vessel’s body to Chris Pratt’s. You put a hand on his shoulder as if to comfort him. “Hey, you’re gorgeous.”

 Castiel looked up at you, dropping his shirt. He stared at you and you were surprised to see desire creep into his eyes. “I thought you didn’t like angels.”

 You removed your hand which seemed to disappoint him. Instead, you moved it to his leg. He glanced down at it and sucked in air sharply. You shrugged, “I can make an exception.”

 He nodded almost nervously, “Y/N, there’s a meaning behind why you can see my wings.”

 “Oh?” Finally, you were going to get an answer. “And what’s that?”

 Castiel kept staring at your hand, “It means…that…”

 “Spit it out, Cas,” You urged.

 “It means that we’re mates,” He said, taking that moment to look at you. When you stared at him unflinchingly, he waved a hand in front of your face. You kind of just sat there, desperately needing clarification but unable to form actual words. Castiel cleared his throat, “Soulmates.”

 You nodded, silently thanking him for the extra information.

 He kept talking, “It’s a match literally made in heaven. I figure it’s why your family tried to separate themselves from me. They knew that you could see my wings and they didn’t want us to…copulate…”

 Your hands flew to your face in embarrassment, “Jesus, Cas! Could you be more subtle?”

 “Well, I thought that term was more appropriate than ‘coitus’ or ‘intercourse’ or—”

 This time you covered his mouth with both of your hands, having put your milk down on the coffee table while he was babbling. He looked at you but you spoke instead, “No, no more talking about sex.”

 He rolled his eyes and then peeled your hands off of him. He seemed to want to defend himself. “I have some experience with sex, you know. I believe I am adequate.”

 You stood up and gestured widely, “Oh my God, Cas. Please, stop.”

 He frowned, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say my father’s name.”

 “I feel like this is equally awkward. So, how about you stop talking about sex and I won’t say ‘God’. Okay?” You offered. He nodded and then looked down. However, he averted his gaze and you realized that your hooch was at eye level.

 “I can’t be the only one who feels the…pull,” He said, trying to focus on the movie. You stayed quiet, so he continued. “I think that’s how I found you. You drew me in. Even now, I’m finding it terribly hard to resist…”

 “Resist what?” You queried, curiously.

 He shifted uncomfortably, keeping his gaze away from yours, “I want to claim you. I want to make you mine.”

 Your breathing was rapid and shaky now and you pressed your thighs together, knowing exactly the feeling that he was talking about. “Yours?”

 “I want to complete the mating process. I don’t want another angel to…”

 You reached out and threaded your fingers through his hair. He groaned at the interaction. You scratched his scalp gently, “Make me theirs?”

 “You’re making it worse, Y/N,” Castiel grunted. You retracted your hand but seeing him basically at your mercy was turning you on beyond belief. Angels were stoic and intense. Cold and calculating. This angel however…this angel was faltering in the presence of a woman. His facade was failing faster by the second from your proximity and you wondered how long it would take for him to completely unravel. You pulled him up to his feet and he watched as you moved behind him.

 “Stay,” You ordered, smiling when he complied. “I mean it, Castiel. Don’t move.”

 “I won’t,” He said, looking straight ahead. You placed your hand on the top of his back, between where his wings sprouted from his shoulder blades. He straightened up but remained silent. You gingerly pressed your fingers against the scapular feathers of his right wing and he sucked in air. You drew your fingers down, marvelling at how soft his feathers were. You moved down his wing, smoothing out the feathers and stopping every now and then to scratch at the skin of his wing.

  Once you reached the end, you worked your way backwards and started on the left wing. Completing your work on the back, you walked around to face him. Castiel’s face was flushed and he looked like he was in some sort of trance. You threaded your fingers through the feathers on the inside of his left wing. He hummed as you preened him, his wings slowly drooping.

  If you didn’t know any better, you might have thought that he was about to fall asleep. You got to the inside of his wing and then started on the right wing from the outside working in. When you finally made it inwards, he was looking at you.

 “Did that feel…okay?” You asked, placing a hand on his chest.

  Castiel responded by reaching up for your waist. He gripped onto your hips and pushed you backwards until your back hit the stone wall of the bunker. His wings were spread wide now, and his eyes were consumed with hunger. “I want…” He murmured. “I need you, Y/N.”

  Castiel...