#djinn

[70sscifiart]

Here's Phil Foglio's 1983 cover for Hit or Myth, by Robert Asprin.

The model for the demon was Foglio's friend Greg Ketter, owner of Dreamhaven Books in Minneapolis, who was recently photographed walking through tear gas while protesting the ongoing ICE invasion at age 70.

[reallyunluckyrunaway]

Mmmhmmm...

[kozzdraw]

Pages from Deku's creature chronicle... part 4

Nav: 1 // 2 // 3 // 4 // 5 // 6 // 7 // 8 // 9 // 10 // 11 // 12 // 13 // Bonus

[thefoilguy]

Akinator - Aluminum Foil Sculpture

[aetherialmuse]

Hello, I have a Dean Winchester x reader request where Dean has been captured by a djinn BUT it’s the kind of djinn that Makes people live their nightmares so maybe Dean’s nightmare is seeing Y/N dead, hurt, being tortured, OR just her being with someone else, maybe it ends in a love confession or they’re in an established relationship, either one would be fine, thank you!

Until I Lost You

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Pairings; Dean Winchester x reader

Genre/Warnings; angst, hurt/comfort, supernatural, romance, violence, blood, torture imagery, near-death scenario, panic, horror elements, djinn, strong emotions, love confession

Summary: Dean is captured by a djinn that traps him in a nightmare where Y/N is tortured and killed in front of him. Once Sam and Y/N free him, the fear and relief hit hard, and Dean finally confesses he loves her—only to find out she loves him too.

841 words

Dean didn’t remember passing out. One second he and Sam were tracking the djinn through the abandoned factory, flashlights sweeping over rusted beams and broken brick, and the next—white-hot pain in his neck, like being nailed with a cattle prod. Then nothing.

When he came to, he wasn’t tied up. There were no chains, no hook in his spine, no blue-veined monster looming over his shoulder. Instead, he was standing in the War Room of the bunker—and every hair on his body stood up.

“Y/N?” His voice echoed.

No answer.

The lights buzzed overhead. Something dripped. His boots squeaked on the floor as he walked past the map table. His heart was already in his throat. He didn’t know why—he just knew this wasn’t real.

He turned the corner and froze so hard he thought his bones locked in place.

You were on the floor.

Blood soaked your shirt from a deep slash across your stomach. Your wrists were tied in front of you, rope digging into your skin, and you were gasping for breath, eyes half-lidded, lips trembling. Your skin was too pale for someone who was always warm, always glowing even under crappy motel lighting.

“Dean?” you croaked when you managed to glance up.

His whole body seized. “No, no—baby, no—”

He slid to his knees beside you, hands hovering, terrified to touch you and make it worse. “Who did this to you? Where’s Sam? What happened?”

Your hand lifted weakly, bloody fingers brushing his cheek. “You weren’t here.”

That single sentence crushed him like a sledgehammer to the chest.

He pressed his hands over the wound, voice trembling. “I’m right here now, okay? Stay with me, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

You gave a wet, broken laugh. “You’re too late.”

The lights flickered.

He looked up—and you were suddenly on your knees, chained to a post, arms stretched over your head. Your shirt was gone, replaced by bruises and dried blood. Something had carved into your side—sigils he didn’t recognize. Your hair was tangled, face swollen, lips split.

“Stop,” Dean rasped, stumbling to his feet. “Take me instead. You hear me? TAKE ME! LEAVE HER ALONE!”

A shadow moved behind you—indistinct, hulking, laughing low and slow. Dean charged forward, but his feet sank into the ground like wet cement. No matter how hard he pushed, he couldn’t reach you. His lungs were closing up. His vision blurred with rage and terror.

“Dean…” you whispered again, voice like broken glass.

Then a knife slid through your back and out your chest.

He screamed so loud the bunker shook.

Everything went white.

When he jolted awake, he was tied to a support beam in the real factory, drenched in sweat, ropes tight around his chest. Sam was already there, sawing through the bindings.

“Dean, hey! Hey—you with me?”

Dean turned his head so fast his neck cracked. “Where is she?! Where’s Y/N?!”

“Right here,” your voice came from behind Sam.

You were sweaty, a little scraped up, but alive. Whole. Real.

Something ugly and desperate tore free in Dean's chest. He didn’t think, didn’t care—he lunged the second Sam cut him loose and grabbed you like you were the last solid thing on earth.

You stiffened in surprise. “Dean?”

He buried his face in your neck. His hands shook where they fisted in your jacket. He couldn’t speak at first, breath coming in ragged bursts. Sam stepped back, giving you space.

You slid your arms around him slowly. “Hey. I’m okay. I’m right here.”

He pulled back just far enough to look you over—his eyes were wet, green and wild. “I saw you die,” he rasped. “I saw you—God, I couldn’t get to you.”

Your heart cracked. “Djinn?”

He nodded, swallowing hard. “The kind that feeds off nightmares, yeah.”

You cupped the back of his neck. “I’m not going anywhere, Dean.”

Something broke open behind his ribs. The fear was too raw, too real, too much to shove down this time.

“I can’t—” He stopped, wiped at his face angrily. “I can’t lose you. You hear me? I can’t do it.”

Your breath caught. “You’re not gonna lose me.”

He stared at you like he wished he could crawl inside your heartbeat and stay there. And then, rough and unfiltered, the words came out:

“I love you.”

Silence.

Your lips parted, stunned. His eyes flashed with self-loathing. “Forget it—I know you—”

“I love you too.”

It came out certain, warm, and immediate—not a question, not a hesitation.

He blinked. Once. Twice. “Yeah?”

You nodded and pressed your forehead to his. “Yeah.”

He exhaled like he’d been underwater for years.

Sam coughed from a few feet away, half-smirking. “We good to go, or should I give you two a minute?”

Dean didn’t let go of you. “We’re good,” he muttered, but he didn’t move an inch.

Your fingers threaded through his. His thumb traced your pulse in silent worship.

He didn’t need to say it again—you were real, alive, in his arms.

And that was enough to drown the nightmare for good.

Taglist: @globetrotter28 @adrienneleclerc @yoyok-era @deansbbyx @eagerlycyberchaos @star-yawnznn @mar-munteanu06 @barnes70stark @soggysocc

[majestativa]

But you are not dreaming; you are being dreamed.

ALAIN ROBBE-GRILLET — Djinn, transl. by Yvonne Lenard & Walter Wells, (1982)

[skykiuwu]

Repost cuz I failed the last one

No dialogue version under cut;

[mitsu-14136]

Did some sketches of the Djinn.