#hejudges

Smartphones were, in her humble opinion, one of the best inventions of their time.

What looked like just another self absorbed millennial, angling for the best light for a selfie, is in fact a young thief, taking a video of the PIN number the guy is typing in. When he glanced back, vaguely suspicious, she made sure he heard the phone camera click. And when, after he got the cash out, she bumped into him, she made doubly sure to blame it.

“Sorry.” A bright smile, phone aloft in her hand. ( Was Pokémon Go up? Maybe it was. ) “Guess I should pay better attention.” He walked off, irritable and shaking his head, but Eira didn’t care. She had her prize.

❛N’why th’hell can’t I?❜

Arms folded, back pressed against a nearby counter within Volk’s kitchen. 

Discovering the wraith

Hands

     There are many times that Reaper looks at his hands and wishes they could be human again. Seeing the darkened skin creeping down from his forearms, the seamless merging of flesh into solid, unforgiving talons are always a reminder that he isn’t a man anymore. Mirrors he can avoid. But ignoring his own hands?

     Impossible.

     They will never pass for anything but what he’s become. The surface is tough, very little yield when pressed or massaged about but still eerily smooth, skimmed easily as if there should be scales to glide over but it’s just…darkness. No definition to be seen, no creases, no veins, nothing. It’s as though Reaper simply dipped them in a well of ink, shaking free the excess to leave a dull onyx void behind.

Scars

     Every mark tells a story, a living memory on his skin. Some are innocent from his youth but those are hardly visible compared to the ones gained from a lifetime of hardships and conflict. Bullet wounds are plentiful, scattered about his person like obscene freckles. Surgical scars from close calls. Field dressings that didn’t receive proper care. Scorched and puckered skin caused by too many explosions he should have run away from instead of into.

     IV markers. Skin grafts. Port scars.

                    Claw marks. Savaged skin.

                                 Repression.

❝   I  APPRECIATE  YOUR  HELP  BUT  IT’S  HARDLY  NECESSARY  YOU  KNOW.   ❞   Volk  clears  his  throat,  interrupting  the  silence  that  filled  the  air  as  PRACTICED  hands  wrapped  the  wound  in  gauze.  It  was  a  kind  gesture,  one  that  brought  a  small  smile  to  his  face  but  it  was  not  needed.  In  a  few  hours  it  would  be  healed,  leaving  a  pink  scar  in  its  wake.  One  he  could  choose  to  fade  into  UNBLEMISHED  skin  if  he  wanted  to  or  one  he  could  leave  to  add  to  the COLLECTION  of  battle  scars  already  scattered  about  his  body.   ❝ You  didn’t  need  to  go  through  the  trouble,  Dean.   ❞

instinctual ;  a knee jerk reaction at the sight of blood as it drips down the skin and soaks into another’s clothes. maybe the desire to help was a character flaw, unable to turn the blind eye to those in need. dean knew that not everyone needed  ( or deserved for that matter, but that was an entirely different train of thought ) his assistance, sometime his interference made things take a turn for the worse. however, if it was a issue the winchester felt comfortable in solving, how could he stay idle ? 

“ are you really complaining about my help ?  ” dean asked, feeling only a little slighted. In retaliation, he sticks the needle in sharply against the side of the wounded man, grinning at the sharp jolt he receives in return. “ shut up and just let me work, okay ?   you can’t happen to heal from everything you know, sometimes you gotta look after yourself. ”

It’s a strange sight to see a man of his size shift uncomfortably, from one feet to the other, mulling over what he’ll say in his head, over and over, his mouth moving without making any noise, holding a rolled up old parchment covered in a plastic case in hand. He stands in front of a door that reads Professor  Ulrich Wulf, and he has raised his hand to the door, knuckle almost touching it a couple of times but every single time he lowers it. What he’ll say to the man will truly sound insane, but he is the utmost expert in Norse mythology and Arthur is on a desperate mission to find the truth.

Eventually, after a deep inhale, he just knocks, almost a bit louder than intended as he tries not to think too much about how stupid this will all seem to someone who likely doesn’t actually believe that these legends could even be remotely true. He waits for a voice to tell him to come in, poking his head around the door before his whole frame appears, greeting the man with a small smile.     “   Uh, hello, Professor Wulf, it’s a pleasure to meet you.   “     Hand extends towards the other.     “   Thank you very much for seeing me, sorry for being late, I uh... I’d like to talk to you about the magical boat   Skíðblaðnir.   I just find it very interesting and I was hoping you could tell me a bit more about it if your time allows right now.   “     His smile is apologetic, even for his own presence, already feeling silly just for being here, and this is not the worst part, the worst part will be when he’ll break the news to the professor that he’s intending on finding said boat before a certain treasure hunter could get his hands on it.

send me 👌 if your muse would bang mine