Perdidit Angelus

Let's find that idiot and bring him home.

[yourparanormalbf]

How to Tell If He’s a Selkie

Generally the supernatural which live among humans do their best to blend in and remain innocuous, but it’s hard to fake something as complicated as species. There’s no man or woman who can hide their little tells, and if you know what to watch for, you may find a supernatural in disguise.

1. Live in an area which seals frequent

Selkies  don’t like  to travel very far from the water, so when they come on land, they tend to stay local. This means you find selkies, surprise, living in the same areas seals visit. That’s not really a surprise at all, is it? Though some selkies do travel and even get land-locked, if there aren’t seals around, he’s likely not a selkie. 

2. Drawn to the ocean

This is also a pretty basic indicator of every kind of water creature, whether they be mermaids, water spirits, animal spirits, or so forth. No matter where they are, selkies will be drawn to the ocean. They’ll visit it frequently, stare longingly, stick their toes in and sing sad songs. And, if they are not close enough to the ocean to be drawn to it physically, they’ll have pictures of rocky shores and talk about missing the ocean.

3. Fish

They show strong preferences for seafood, primarily fish, but sometimes eel and octopus and such. They might occasionally indulge in land food, but it’s usually a matter of curiosity. A selkie’s dinner plans revolve around what they would typically eat as a seal, prepared for humans. Steak? No, fish. Cake? Fish. Eggs? They’ll want to know if you’ve run out of fish.

4. Kind of secretive

As are all supernaturals, selkies are kind of secretive. They might get a little awkward when you ask why they want to go to the beach so often. They’ll dodge every attempt to meet their family (because how are they to explain seal parents?).  They’ll be vague about their childhood and where they’re from. And, if you ask what that old-looking brown coat is, they may just stopping speaking to you altogether. 

5. Makes noises which are not totally human

Surprise them? Did they make a human noise? No?  They may not be human. Selkies are technically animal spirits, and like all animals spirits, they don’t have an entirely human voice box even in human form. Not only will they forget themselves and make the occasional animal noise, they will have an accent that you can’t quite place. But, of course, they’re awfully vague about where they’re from, so you have no idea is that’s a normal accent or not.

6. Passionate about seals and sea lions

Some people are animal lovers and some people are activists, and some people really love seals. Selkies, though, they take seals and sea lions personally. They not only have intimate knowledge of the way seals live and a strong incentive to protect seal rights, they will absolutely fight you if you disagree with them. 

7. Prefer cold water

Selkies prefer cold water and actively dislike hot water. This is a particularly odd thing to most humans, who are not properly adapted for cold water. Seals, however, are accustomed to live in freezing water and are built for it. This is also why most selkies are a little plump in their human forms.  If he doesn’t shiver in ice water, he may be a selkie. 

8. Do not think penguins are cute

If his response to a picture of sighting of a penguin is anything related to food, he may be a selkie. Seals eat penguins and so they’re not as likely to think of them as cute as they are likely to think of them as dinner. Anyone who does not show the proper response to penguin cuteness, may not be human.

9. Not about whales

Just like selkies do not show human responses to penguins, they will not show human responses to whales. No, they do not think Willy is adorable. They think he’s a heartless killing machine that destroys families. They’ll show similar responses to all things that prey on seals, including seal-hunting humans. 

10. Strong Swimmer

People almost always find this indicator the easiest to ignore. After all, with as much time as he spends at the beach, who wouldn’t be a strong swimmer? But selkies come alive in the water and swim circles around even talented, trained human swimmers. If he can swim like an Olympian effortlessly, he may not be human.

[writing-prompt-s]

Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.

[sadoeuphemist]

Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.

“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”

The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.

“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”

“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”

The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”

Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”

“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”

Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.

“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”

“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?” 

The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.

A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer. 

“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”

“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”

“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”

The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.

And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.

Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.

“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”

“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”

“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.

“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”

“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”

And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.

[sameenbyhat]

Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.

“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.

“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”

Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.

“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”

“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.

“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”

Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.

“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.

“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.

“What?” the god asked.

Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”

[stu-pot]

Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow.

The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.

He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.

So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.

“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.

The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.

“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.

“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”

“No,” Arepo smiled.

“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”

“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.

“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.

“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”

The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”

“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”

[corancoranthemagicalman]

I reblogged this once with the first story. Now the story has grown and I’m crying. This is gorgeous, guys. This is what dreams are made of.

[threefeline]

[writing-prompt-s]

This is amazing!

[tlakhtwritesdestiel]

Coda 14x08

Cas doesn’t tell them what he’s done. A year goes by, and he doesn’t tell them. Neither does Jack, although the worried looks he shoots at Cas whenever he smiles or laughs are instantly sombering. Two years go by. Three years, and still the Shadow hasn’t showed itself again. After four years Cas has almost forgotten about it, all but secure by now in his own belief that he will never be as happy as the Shadow demands in order for it to collect on their deal.

Until Dean turns everything on its head, that is. Cas has missed the signs that this was coming – either that or maybe he subconsciously ignored them, because this can’t be happening. Not when it’s the last, missing piece of everything Cas has ever wanted. He’s been a part of a family for a long time now. He has a son. But this… He never thought he’d have this.

Dean’s lips on his own terrify him. Cas has died before – more than once – but he’s never felt fear like this. Because the thought of losing everything he has, of losing this now that he knows it’s something Dean is willing to give, is more painful than anything Cas can imagine.

But that just goes to show that his imagination is flawed, because Dean pulling away, mumbling a stuttered apology when he believes Cas’s inaction is a rejection, turns out to be even more painful. So Cas does the only thing he can to ease the pain, if only for the briefest of moments before he’s taken away: He cups Dean’s jaw and pulls him back in again.

The Shadow doesn’t come.

Cas should tell Dean, he knows. He plans to. But every time he tries, Dean distracts him with a kiss or a smile or tender words that Cas has longed to hear him say, and he loses himself in Dean’s mind, Dean’s soul, Dean’s body.

The Shadow still doesn’t come, even as more years go by. It doesn’t come when Dean gets down on one knee in front of Cas, but the moment is tainted by Cas’s fear that this will be the moment he loses Dean forever. Or that their wedding day will be, but how does he say no to Dean’s request? He can’t. So he doesn’t.

Their wedding day arrives, and Dean is the happiest Cas has ever seen him. But it’s overshadowed by the constant fear hanging over Cas, and although he plays his shaking hands off as wedding jitters and the wetness in his eyes as tears of joy, he doesn’t quite realise they’re truly married until the next day. He missed his own wedding. He was there, he said his vows and he kissed Dean and danced with him at the reception, but… he missed it nonetheless. He’s still alive, however; that’s something, at least.

They buy a house, and Cas is afraid.

Dean smiles at him in a certain way when they’re cuddled up together on the couch, and Cas is afraid.

Each moment that he spends with Dean, he’s afraid will be the last.

Years go by, and Dean turns into an old man. And like all old men must do, he dies. He goes peacefully in his sleep, and although Cas will follow him into Heaven – Dean’s Heaven – he’s filled with a lifetime of sadness. For all the times he was afraid in Dean’s company instead of happy. For all the joy Dean felt in their moments together, but Cas didn’t.

And that’s when he realises it, moments before he senses that the Shadow is there in the room with him. The Shadow tricked him; tricked him into never gaining true happiness, even when he had everything he could ever want or hope for. Tricked him into never being able to enjoy the life he had with Dean. To never bask in the glow of the light that was Dean; to never take Dean’s love fully into his heart for fear of losing it all.

“Why?” he grits out, shaking. The Shadow’s only answer is a smile.

And then there’s Nothing.

[godshipsit]

Supernatural 14x09 Sneak Peek - “The Spear” (x)

[goodfemalecharacters]

14x08 Coda: What Happy Feels Like

destiel, 1.2k

Once they’re done with dinner, Cas helps Dean clear the plates into the kitchen.  He’s been unusually quiet this evening, but Dean chalks it up to the stressful day they’ve had.  And maybe the whiskey from last night.  God knows that Dean’s head rings every time he speaks above a whisper.  He’s just been too relieved to bother toning it down.

“That the rest of it?” he asks, gesturing at the two cups Cas is holding.

He dunks one of the plates into the warm, soapy water in the sink as he speaks.  Sam’s, he thinks, judging by the half burger that had been left on it.  Kid has never been all that good at eating the day after he gets drunk.

Cas nods. “I told Jack to get some rest.  Sam’s helping him get his room back to normal.”

Dean can’t help but smile at that.  Goodbye, oxygen tank.  Hopefully, they’ll never have to see that again.

He takes his time rinsing the plate.  He’d extend this moment forever, if he could.  Well, minus the headache from his hangover.  

“You know, the older I get, the less I understand him.”

It pops out without his permission.  He almost hopes that Cas won’t ask, but he knows better than that.  Instead, he turns his attention to drying, moving the towel in slow, careful circles.

“Sam?”

Dean holds back a laugh at that.  Sam has been inscrutable since he mastered his poker face at age eight, but Dean can read even that.  Making sure he didn’t tick Dad off too bad had required it.

“Dad.”

Keep reading

[jensackles-blog]

[enviropunk]

Hey @staff it’s completely unacceptable that this is what greeted me when I opened Tumblr today. Not only are you being paid to host fascist propoganda, there is no option for your users to block it. As I see it, there are maybe two options:

1) Immediately stop allowing racist, xenophobic advertising on your website and apologize

2) Allow users to easily block specific advertisers and apologize

I am planning to delete my accounts if this doesn’t get fixed. I apologize to all my followers if that is what ends up happening. However, it is not worth it to me to exist on and support a site that does this, even if Tumblr has allowed me to interact with all of you and be a part of this community.

[smitethestate]

@staff this is too fucked up, fix it right now.

[justonepurpose]

@staff @support 

Yeah. No. Do something about this. 

[madeofklay]

@staff

[cryogonals]

@staff

[left-reminders]

“A better, more positive Tumblr” 🙄🙄🙄

@staff has been ruining this site for far too long

[airyairyquitecontrary-deactivat]

@staff this is why people don’t like you (I know the low-level staff who actually see these messages have no say in the matter so maybe you could print these off and slide them under the boss’ door idk)

[deancasbigbang]

Title: In Secret Places Author: Brinchestiel Artist: lotrspnfangirl Rating: Mature Length: 106,675 Pairings: Dean/Cas (Alastair/Lilith, Charlie Bradbury/Jo Harvelle, Bobby Singer/Ellen Harvelle, past Bobby Singer/Karen Singer, past Cas/Alfie) Warnings: Rape/Non-Con (False Accusations, nobody is actually raped)

Summary: Seventeen-year-old Castiel Krushnic doesn’t trust, doesn’t cry, and he certainly does not love. Life hasn’t exactly been the easiest ride, so when he gets stuck living with Missouri Moseley and the Winchester brothers in the dead-end town of Janesville, Wisconsin, life seems like it’s set to get a whole lot worse. What he learns, however, is that things in life aren’t always as they first appear. And people are never who you thought they were. They can grow, change, and bloom but only if you let them.

“If you look the right way, you can see that the whole world is a garden.” - The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett.

Link To Fic

Link To Art

[mrshays]

Now on AO3 - Secrets Kept

Authors Mrs. Hays & @brinchestiel​

Word Count 43,853

Summary 

Valerie Krushnic wasn’t always a hollowed-out shell, a brittle bone seconds from breaking. There was a time when she was admired for her fire, her kindness, nervous but strong. Chuck Shurley loved her the moment he saw her. But how can you plan for loss, how can life possibly go on after you’ve buried your first child?

Secrets Kept is a prequel to Brinchestiel’s DCBB 2018 submission, In Secret Places, and explores the consequences of early childhood death and the ways in which we cope with loss.

Link to Secrets Kept

Link to the Secrets Verse

p.s. we’re doing selkies next, so get ready 

[destielette1]

I juste noticed that when talking to Jack about Love, Dean smiles the same way Jensen does when talks about Misha and Danneel (Also knows as “The Misha’s face”) And now I wanna die 😩 . . . . .

.

[some-people-call-it-tragic]

that’s love

[mishasminions]

THIS BIT MAKES ABSOLUTELY NO SENSE WHATSOEVER

AND I LOVE EVERY SECOND OF IT

[potc]

Supernatural  |  14x08 - “Byzantium”

[samxdean]

top 25 supernatural dynamics (as voted by my followers) #03. team free will (sam, dean and cas) “look, thank you. thank you. knowing you, it… it’s been the best part of my life. and the things that… the things we’ve shared together, they have changed me. you’re my family. i love you. i love all of you. just please… please, don’t make my last moments be spent watching you die. just run. save yourselves.”

[aborddelimpala]

Handsome at #SPNVegas 2018

[keikomivra]

byzantium

here’s to you, jack. wherever you are.

[castiels-tight-grip]

Gratuitous hand porn.