burnt out eyes

Dating Mephisto Pheles would include
  • Anime marathons & cuddling
  • Arguments over who’s the best girl in anime (love live - Kotori, don’t argue with me on this)
  • Being surrounded by snacks
  • Playing the pocky game
  • Playing video games together, and him moping on the times you beat him, and cheering him up with a kiss
  • Singing along to opening & ending songs together 
  • Sitting on his knee, no matter the place, in his office, public, his mansion
  • Taking bubble baths together
  • Being extremely powerful at what you do
  • Cute nicknames “Come here Princess/What’s wrong kitten?/Come sit on Daddy’s lap and tell him all about it.”
  • Finding his dog form adorable 
  • Trusting each other completely
  • Him sharing his plans with you
  • ‘Lending his clothes’
  • Him being mad that your wearing his rare af honey-honey sisters yukata but forgiving you because you look sexy in it
  • Doing couple cosplays together
  • Winning the best cosplay awards
  • Getting along with Amaimon, having minimal conversations, it’s not like Amaimon is really interested
  • Him showing you his tail to show complete trust
  • The kinkiest sex in existence 
  • Dressing up as his favourite anime characters for him
  • Having sex literally everywhere
  • Almost getting caught every time
  • Being caught a few times, once by Angel, which you suspect Mephisto somewhat planned
  • Rin walking in on you once, his eyes burnt out of his sockets in horror, much to your and Mepphy’s amusements
  • Being a “student” at True cross and being called to the principals office during class
  • “Hmm, what’s this miss Y/L/N, you’ve received two detentions this week for tardiness…hmm, how should I punish you?”
  • You recognising the smirk on his face and the gleam in his eyes
  • Being laid over his knee to receive your punishment 
  • Not only being spanked but he unleashes his claws as well
  • Him pulling back up your panties and cupping your cheeks wiping away any blood, licking it off his fingers
  • “I hope you’ll behave from now on little one, now go back to class.”

Originally posted by pinkheadshima

Originally posted by tumwrr

If you’d like any other ao no exorcist characters please request it! I will also do ships and other head cannons, I’ll do mostly anything so just ask! 

A quick doodle of the Cybernetic Magician.

I love this card. I have an Ultimate Rare one since it first came out and it is until today one of my favourite cards in my collection :D Mainly because he remembered me of the design of one of my (non-fandom) OCs back then (his design changed a lot and he doesn’t look like this anymore, tho).

He is kinda useful as a monster itself. I wish I had one in Duel Links - I think he would be a fitting addition to the card pool (and to some magician deck I never built because Reliquished is just way more useful…)

And I love his hat - I think I need to make one for myself.

Behind the Rear Window - Ch.2

Don’t expect a new chapter every day but I was aware that the first one doesn’t really give you too much and I already had this written so I couldn’t resist!

Ch.1 / Read here on AO3

“Is she worth it?” The commanding voice broke Jughead out of his heat induced daze. He didn’t even flick his eyes away from the courtyard before addressing the speaker.


“Whoever you’re staring at out there. Is she worth the sentence when she reports you for being a peeping tom? In the olden days they burnt your eyes out with a red hot poker – I can’t imagine anybody is worth that,” Veronica prattled as she hung her coat and hat on the rack by the door. “I’m all for window shopping but never with such extreme consequences.” Jughead’s lips lifted in a subtle smile at her words. He’d make sure he settled his features back into their disapproving nonchalance by the time she rounded the chair to face him.

“I’m not staring at anyone; I’m impartially observing the nature of the unguarded home occupant,” Jughead retorted wryly, lifting his heavy eyes to meet hers. She was wearing pale blue today, white belt cinching in her already slender waist where her hands lay accusingly. Her lips were painted a light red and her dark hair fell in their usual ringlets about her shoulders. Jughead shook his head imperceptibly – he should have guessed that Veronica Lodge didn’t sweat, even in over one hundred degree heat.

“That’s what they all say,” she replied, knowing full well that they didn’t. “And before you know it you’ll be watching the world through bars instead.” He rolled his eyes at her overdramatics and pursed lips, watching as Miss Legs brushed out her waves in the reflection of a serving tray propped up against her sink. Veronica rummaged through her handbag, pulling out a small case and snapping it open to reveal a thermometer. She wedged it hastily between Jughead’s slightly parted lips before he had a chance to return any sardonic remarks.

“I’ve told you before not to sleep in that chair, at least a dozen times. You’ve already got this,” she paused, tapping a painted nail against his cast, “I really don’t think, having known you, you’d appreciate a back brace,” she said, arching a dark eyebrow. Jughead watched her breeze through his apartment, bypassing the mess and finding whatever she wanted with little fuss. Veronica shook out the clean bed sheet, spreading it over the temporarily set up table shoved unceremoniously against the furthest wall from the window, shielded partially by the chimney breast. “I knew a guy, once – he was a patient of mine. Never saw him outside of his office, always hunched over that desk of his, even scheduled our appointments there. Some kind of financial advisor, I think. Couldn’t recall a time I saw him look into another person’s eyes while talking to them. I knew from the moment I laid eyes on him that he was hiding from something,” she recalled, shaking her head as she plumped a pillow, tugging at the corners of the case.

“Do you have a point?” Jughead asked around the thermometer. Veronica worked mechanically, pulling a multitude of bottles out of her apparently bottomless bag.

“Would you like to know what happened to him?” she asked, striding over to pinch the device from his mouth and check the reading. Jughead licked his dry lips.

“This isn’t a story about the in-too-deep business man who throws himself out the tenth story window, is it?” he enquired dryly. Veronica huffed, something she seemed to do a lot in Jughead’s experience. He had thought that perhaps it was just him that incited such a disgruntled reaction and took a little sick pleasure in the fact.

“No. He’s still there,” she revealed. Jughead looked at her with a furrowed brow, noting the way she regarded him as if she had just imparted a great discovery. With a hand resting on the back of his chair she rolled her eyes his continued staring. “I don’t want to come back one day and find the dry bones of the once great Jughead Jones, by this window where I left him.” Jughead scoffed as he turned back to the window in what he was aware was ironic defence. Mr Caretaker had ventured downstairs, door thudding with a little too much force before he knelt by his bed of roses. Jughead watched the way he stabbed at the soil with his garden fork, prongs repeatedly piercing the dirt.

“You have a hormone deficiency.” Veronica’s statement startled him. He turned back to find her staring between him and the thermometer.

“You can tell that from my temperature?” he questioned disbelievingly. Veronica was good at her job, but not that good.

“Weeks spent staring at those sunbathing beauties and not one of them has managed to raise it by a degree,” she commented flippantly as she shook the stick to cool it down. Jughead began to shift in his seat, preparing for the next part of their appointment.

“I told you I wasn’t staring at them. And even if I was they hold little interest for me,” he added, a defensive note creeping into his usually flat tone. Veronica grabbed him under the arm, hoisting him up expertly before helping him hobble to the table. Shedding his shirt, Jughead lay across the material.

“Are you lonely, Jughead?” she asked with a genuine curiosity that made Jughead’s jaw clench. He’d long gotten over her unprofessional penchant for calling him ‘Jughead’ rather than ‘Mr Jones’.

“Are you unfulfilled, Veronica?” he fired back, eyes still hard and focused on the peeling corner of the wallpaper in front of him. She slapped the cold massaging lotion on his back a shade harder than necessary, making him wince.

It was a badly kept secret that Veronica Lodge did not need to be an insurance company nurse. Barely concealed purls, perfectly manicured fingers, and Jughead had been around enough designer clothes in the past few months to know that what Veronica wore would not be described as cheap. And yet here she was, hands pushing out the tight knots in his back, sore from lack of movement and less than advisable sleeping positions. Her family money appeared to be a desirable asset but it just wasn’t enough to get her through the endless days. Jughead knew that ‘lacking’ feeling well.

“You thought anymore about her?” Veronica asked, steering the conversation back to him.

“Betty Cooper,” Jughead sighed, resting his chin on the backs of his laced fingers. Veronica laughed as she worked his back.

“Betty Cooper,” she repeated. Veronica knew well enough who she was; if she had deigned to be a society girl then their circles wouldn’t be too different. Saying that name in the rundown apartment of a photojournalist on this side of town wouldn’t have even occurred to her, however, if he hadn’t already let it slip himself a few weeks prior.

“She’s trouble,” Jughead remarked, cryptically.

“I don’t think those two things are compatible,” Veronica quipped, thumbs pressing against the grooves in his spine and making him grunt. “Blonde hair, pink lips… what’s not to like?”

“She’s not the girl for me. She’s too perfect,” he said, hoping the sadness in his voice wasn’t as apparent to Veronica as it was to himself.

“‘Too perfect’. What’s ‘too perfect’?”

“She’ll want to get married.”

“And what’s so wrong with that? I think a little married life will do you good,” Jughead heard for the second time that morning, thoughts drifting back to Mr Caretaker – he wondered if his roses were still living.

“I don’t think the two things are compatible,” he repeated her words from earlier, knowing she would be giving him her signature eye roll as he spoke. And again for the second time that day the unwelcome image of his father invaded his mind, this time accompanied by the partially blocked view he had of his mother leaving their trailer for the last time, garnered from behind the half closed closet door he’d hidden in.

“Miss Cooper is a well-rounded, pleasant mannered, delightful young woman,” Veronica listed as if she were reading from a brochure. “And she gives a better view than anything out that damn window,” she added with her usual snark.

“Betty Cooper belongs to society. Hell, she is society. I need someone who is willing to go anywhere, do anything, to chase the story. And love doing it. I’ve seen the shoes she wears and they are barely suitable for chasing down a cab,” he mocked. He felt his chest tighten in betrayal as he spouted out words to Betty’s detriment.

“Shoes are merely dressing. You know that underneath them we all have the same feet, right?”

“In Betty’s case they don’t touch the ground.”

“Then she’ll have no issues with flying.”

“Caramel! Where are you, sweetheart?”

“Keep your damn dog away from my flowerbeds!”

Jughead’s brow furrowed as they lapsed into silence, eyes glancing at the carelessly slung copy of Bazaar magazine without his permission. The world faded to black and white as Betty’s image grinned back at him from the open pages – she’d been reading it last time she came to visit; a puff piece done on herself by some tired journalist looking to escape the monotony of the society pages, she’d informed him. Still, the photographer had done a decent job of capturing her essence. Her green eyes shone with something akin to mischief as they stared into his own. Oh, he was well aware of the effects of that mischief…

“It just won’t work. There’s a rational way to approach the situation-” Jughead began with a sigh.

“There is no rationality where love is concerned,” Veronica cut in, dragging a rough towel over his skin. His stomach clenched.

“I just have a bad feeling,” Jughead confessed, not entirely sure what he was addressing. All he knew was that there’d been a twisting in the depths of his gut recently, an uncomfortable churning that he wasn’t sure he knew how to identify. Veronica laughed, shrill and unsympathetic.

“That, my darling, is from sleeping in this damn chair.”

Haunted Hearts

Originally posted by selfless-sam

Pairing: ghost!Kevin Tran x reader

Request by: @hunters-hiraeth

Beta-reader: @unsink-the-titanic

Words: 1500+

Warning: angst, bittersweet ending

[General masterlist]

Your name: submit What is this?

You stared at the table in the library. His papers were still there. Hell, his mug was still there.

“What are you doing awake?” Kevin had asked you.

You’d just shrugged. “I could ask the same for you.”

Kevin had bags under his eyes and his short black hair stood up at odd angles. “I have to finish translating the-”

“No, no you don’t,” You replied. “You have to sleep.”

Sighing, Kevin got out of his seat. He wrapped his arms around your waist and kissed your cheek. “What would I do without you?”

You giggled. “The question is what I’D do without YOU.”

“You’d do just fine without me..”

Keep reading

All the little things

The missing scene where Scully tells Mulder she’s in remission. As blogged so eloquently by @sunflowerseedsandscience 
Noticed the @2momsmakearight has a missing scene challenge too, so here’s my shot at that.

If she could have breathed him in, his essence, she would have. Inhaled with all her might and held her breath for days. But the tumour had all but destroyed her sense of smell. Still, she knew he was there. She could feel him at the deepest level, in a way she would never have been able to explain in a report.

           “Mulder?” Her voice broke over the incessant hum of the hospital room.


           She heard his shirt rustle as he moved in the chair. “How long have you been here?”

           He sat forward on his elbows, and mussed his hair. She noticed how long and elegant his fingers were. Piano hands, her mother would say. His right cheek was lined from the vinyl of the high-backed chair. His tie was loose around his neck and his collar unbuttoned. Somehow, it seemed fitting that he should be suited up, however creased. Fox Mulder wore a suit well. She thought about how the pleated waistband of his pants sat snug against his hips. She’d always had a thing for hipbones. Rubbing a thumb over the rounded knob of bone, spreading her palm flat across a taut stomach. She’d had enough time recently to think about all the little things she would never do again and that had been one. It was the oddest things that struck her. Of all the horrors she had seen in her professional life, the simple cruelty of her reality had been by far the worst.

She reached out her hand and touched his. His fingers curled around hers with such tenderness that she could imagine him as a lover, how gentle, how considerate, how reverential.

           “I tried to go home, Scully, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t bear to go back and sit in my apartment. I…just need to be here some more.”

           She tried to roll herself further to the side of the bed, to close the distance between them. There had been times in their relationship when that distance had seemed so vast it could never been reduced; when their differences served only to convince her that they would pull each other apart, unstitch, if one of them didn’t relinquish their hold on the seams of the partnership. But there were other times, more often recently, when she had felt his presence like a second soul, when their similarities had knitted together the edges of their resolve and they had worked as one.

           “Mulder, I have something to tell you.” She squeezed his fingers. He rubbed his face, his jaw clenching. He might be the psychologist but she was well versed in human reaction and paleness, shallow breathing and tension were all classic signs of the fear response. The Mulder fear repertoire also included impulsiveness, shouting, thumping walls or people and guilt.

           “No wait, Scully. I want to speak. I’ve been sitting here waiting for you…to wake up. I’ve been rehearsing this all night. I…can you let me go first?” His eyes clouded and she scooted closer to him, close enough to pull him forward and drop a kiss on his forehead. He sat back and the look he had on his face all but burnt her heart out. His eyes were red with early tears, his nostrils flaring as he tried to control his breathing, his stubbled chin set firm.

           “K…go ahead.”

           He shuddered out a breath and steepled his hands over his nose and mouth. His brow creased and she knew the skin there would be soft. She had an impulse to cover it in kisses, press her lips there long enough to imprint herself on his brain. Instead, she stored the image in the place where she kept her dreams and hopes and simple wishes.

           “I…we don’t do this talking thing very well. We excel at things unspoken. But since you’ve been in here, it hit me…” he broke off to issue a gentle chuckle, “too late of course, that there are too many things left unspoken. Not the big things, the declarations of love or the promises to continue the quest, but the hundred thousand other minutiae that make up a life.

He sighed and looked at her. “I can’t imagine never asking you again if you want cream in your coffee, or calling you on a Sunday morning to see if you’d seen the article in the Post, or telling you that Skinner wants to see us in his office in five minutes, or watching you sign your name at hire car desk where you’d have to stand on tiptoe to reach the counter, or hoping you’d say yes to adjoining rooms, or wondering if you’d belt me if I offered to carry your bags.”

           He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and she saw how his shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows and the tendons in his forearms flexed. “Mulder, you don’t have to do this.”

           “But I do, Scully. That’s just it. The big things have remained unsaid for a reason. The big things are measured by the way you’ve changed my life and I hope I’ve changed yours. By the way you’ve made me work for everything, by the way you’ve opened your eyes to the truth even when it hurt so much. But the little things, they cut deep.”

           She shifted, trying to get the pillow out from under her head, so she could sit up. He stood then, took the pillow from her and placed it up against the headboard. He slipped his arms under hers and around her back and gently turned her from her side so she could sit up. She felt her breasts crush against his chest their hearts joining momentarily and hoped he did too. He pulled the sheet and blanket up over her chest and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. She was touched by his gentleness, his silent ministrations, his patent concern for her comfort even during his own distress. His eyes continued to well with tears and she noticed the tremble in his hands.

           “Mulder, I thought about the little things too.” She clasped her hands in her lap and snorted out a laugh. “All the time. How I would miss the way you stand you’re your hands on your hips when you’re frustrated, the way you chew on your bottom lip when you think too long, the vein in your temple that throbs when you’re angry, your Dad jokes and innuendos and hand in the small of my back.”

           Tears tracked down his cheeks now and he looked away, desperate to retain some modicum of dignity. “Scully…”

           She put a finger to his mouth. “Shh. It’s okay.” He broke into a choking sob and she let him cry it out. He shook against her, his forehead burning into her chest, melding their skin together.

           “Scully, I can’t do this without you. I can’t.”

           “You know what? You could if you had to.” She kissed his forehead, savouring the taste on her lips, she kissed his cheek, his stubbled jaw, the soft lobe of his ear and she whispered, “but you don’t, Mulder. The cancer is in remission. I’ve been trying to tell you. I’m okay. I’m okay.”

           She felt his grip tighten on the back of her neck, she felt his shoulders heave upwards, then drop just as quickly, releasing his pent-up tension.

           “The chip worked?” His voice cracked in astonishment and for the longest time he remained silent, her head tucked under his chin, his head thrown back. His shoulders wobbled and his chest expanded and he laughed and he held her close and the bed creaked as his laughing turned to crying.

           She snuffed into his neck. “We don’t know if it was the chip, but the fact remains that I’m going to get better. And we’re going to get the chance to say all those little things, Mulder.”

           She let him sink into her, revelling in the heat of his breath in the hollow between her neck and her shoulder. She brushed her fingers over the fine hairs at his nape. She bunched the fabric of his shirt in her hand and settled to the rhythm of his sobbing. She lost track of time, but her eyes grew heavy and she had to push at him to get him to release her.

           “I’m tired, Mulder.”

           “Have I ever told you how your top lip curls so sedately round your teeth when you yawn, Scully? And how you make this tiny noise when you’re entering REM sleep, like a snuffly puppy? And how your pinky finger sticks out a little when you hold a spoon to eat your yoghurt?”

           “A snuffly puppy, Mulder?”

She closed her eyes and let him talk. He told her all the little things. And she thought about all the little things that she would tell him later. And later and later.

Family doesn’t end in blood, they said.

There was a boy, a prophet, with dreams of college and a normal life. His body may lifeless on the bunker floor, eyes burnt out.

There was a girl with red hair and a shelf full of collectibles. Dean called her the little sister he never had. Gutted in the bathtub, taken long before her time.

There was an angel in a dirty trench coat. Always happy to be bleed for the Winchesters. He did, many times. Never asking for anything in return.

That’s the problem when your family is the Winchesters, family always ends in blood.


The Edge of Tonight - Dean Winchester

Summary ;; when y/n realises that the mark of cain is slowly turning dean into something that he’s not, she’s immediately there to be there for him and to reel him back from the seemingly inevitable edge.

A/n ;; gifs aren’t mine x

Warnings ;; angst, violence, death, season nine spoilers

Words ;; 2.1k

Published ;; 21st april, ‘17


Stay safe + ily 🌇

“Look - we want to gank this Abaddon bitch, right?” Dean arched an eyebrow in askance, looking over and you and Sam with clear annoyance lacing his tone at the both of your persistence to be hesitant about the plan. 

When the two of you nodded your heads slightly, he rolled his eyes and added, “Great, and this is the only way in which we can do that, so we stick to the plan. Crowley will hand Abaddon over to us, more specifically - me, and they’re in that very building,” He jerked his head to the side, referring to the 5-star hotel that stood tall next to the three of you. 

“But, Dean, the mark-” You started, worried for the outcome of this so-called ‘well thought out’ plan that Dean had conjured, but, your excuse was severed short by Dean’s hand reaching out for yours as he gently tugged you away from Sam and closer to himself.

“I know, (Y/N/N). But this is our only option, okay? I gotta do this. You have to trust me,” He let out in quiet mumbles, his deep green eyes that you loved so much peering down into yours as his thumb gently ran back and forth across your knuckles.

You hesitated for a moment, still uneasy about letting him go through with this. However, you knew that he was right, you were defeatedly running out of options on how to kill the Knight of Hell who so desperately wanted to begin her crusade to take over and rule Hell and Earth.

Eventually, you looked up at him with loving, (y/e/c) eyes and let a quiet sigh escape. “Okay, I trust you,” Your whispered words brought out a small twinkle in his eyes and a smile playing at the corner of his lips as you sent him a little shrug of your shoulders.

“Thankyou,” He pressed his lips to yours softly in a short but sweet and lingering kiss, his hand coming up to lightly cup your jaw and a wave of heat blossomed over the apples of your cheeks, settling you aglow due to the gentle PDA that he so rarely showed. 

He pulled away slowly, his eyes casting over at Sam - catching his younger brother’s attention as he spoke up, “Crowley mentioned that he saw some demons head into the basement for whatever reason so (Y/N), you and Sam go check that out. I’ll take the main floor.” Then, he grabbed the First Blade which was currently wrapped in a thin, brown cloth from the Impala before turning on his heels to face you once more.

“Be safe,” He mumbled, pecking your lips gently one last time before he took his entrance through the hotel doors.

You glanced over at Sam, your features clearly showing your apprehension and concern but your legs carried you towards him, nevertheless. “Let’s just get this over with,” You let out in mutters, sending him a tight-lipped smile before pushing open the glass doors and trundling casually down the corridors with your best friend, unwillingly searching for the basement.

“Nothing out of the ordinary, no traps, no signs of struggle, no traces of sulphur - nada,” You let out a huff in exasperation after checking over every inch of the dusty room three times consecutively; your mind reeled with confusion as you wondered why Crowley had told Dean that he saw demons venture down into the basement when there clearly hadn’t been any in this vicinity.

“But…” Sam’s voice trailed off as his eyes darted over the basement once more, his eyebrows furrowed quizzically until eventually, he seemed to connect all the dots in his head and he spun to face you quickly.

Sharing instant worried looks with Sam’s hazel eyes through the darkness of the desolate basement, you knew that you had both been struck with harsh realisation that Dean had lied to the two of you about his conversation with the King of Hell and if that was the case, he was probably doing something regrettable and rash at that very moment.

“Crap,” You cursed and the two of you pivoted rapidly on your heels and turned to the stairs, your feet taking every other step until you reached the top with Sam hot on your trail. You flung the door open and rushed into the lobby, not perceiving the odd looks that were thrown your own as you ran to the stairs, knowing that there would be no time for the elevator.

Keep reading

So when I screencapped my previous post about how much I love that little spiritshipping bit of the GX season 3 opening, I went on youtube to also find a clean copy that isn’t covered with the ID info for the subbing group, and found that actually, there appear to be two very very slightly different versions of the exact same opening. It’s not a different opening with the same song, it’s the same opening with subtly different animation.

In the first one, Judai starts out looking pretty sad:

Poor baby! But then he holds his head up high, determined to stand against all the horrible shit happening in this season:

Look at the determined glare on his cute baby face! He’s not beaten! And when his buddy comes along to support him, he also gives the audience a reassuring confident smile:

This season is REALLY miserable and stressful, so Judai has to close his eyes for a split second but Johan knows he’s okay, and believes in him and smiles determinedly:

And a syllable later, Judai holds his head up and glares into the distance just as determinedly. Together nothing will stop them!

Back to back! Badass and romantic at the same time!

But in the other version, something’s wrong…

Judai’s sad again, but in this version of this shot, unlike the first version, his eyesbrows don’t tilt downwards in a frown as he steels himself when he opens his eyes (scroll up to the top if you want to see). They stay tilted up, making him still look worried and sad. Nor do his eyes start frowning or ever look determined when he lifts his head:

He just looks lost and unsure and exhausted and like he’s holding back tears.

He doesn’t give any reassuring smile or look of acknowledgement to the audience. This time his misery and hopelessness is too deep to notice us, let alone comfort us:

Johan doesn’t smile this time either. He just looks REALLY REALLY WORRIED about how his buddy is doing:

Judai keeps his eyes closed longer this time, as if in deep psychic exhaustion and reluctance to face the world this time around, and Johan senses it:

R U OK BRO????? :(

When Judai does open his eyes he again is not frowning like he was in the first version, determined not to be beaten down by the shit in this season. In this version, he just stares blankly as if preoccupied and tired and burnt out, with his eyes half-closed:

Johan is still SUPER WORRIED and doesn’t smile until Judai’s expression turns from acute misery to weary serenity, still unable to conjure up even a ghost of the spirited glare and stubbornness he showed in the first version:

And then they stand proudly back to back, but this time there’s a whole lot less bravado or certainty about their show of support and solidarity, and Johan looks like he’s picking up the slack here rather than the two of them sharing the moment equally, due to the continuing expression of dull misery on Judai’s face:

I just thought it was really cool how a few tweaks in the animation can make the characters convey totally different emotions, and also was really curious about wondering WHY there are two versions. What possessed the animators to make two such subtly different versions of the exact same sequence? Especially when it’s CLEARLY done to make one version is sadder and more hopeless than the other one? And which one came first? Did they do the second one and then go “noooo this is too depressing let’s tweak it and make it a little more hopeful”? Or did they go “LET’S MAKE IT EVEN MORE MISERABLE AS THE SHOW BECOMES INCREASINGLY MORE MISERABLE MWA HA HA HA”??

Behind These Bars

This is for @madamelibrarian‘s #MadameLibrarian’s SPN Writer Challenge
Pairing: Dean, Reader
Rating: Mature, 15+
Word Count: 987
Warnings: mention of domestic violence, death, beatings, self doubt, mental anguish, jail (if that’s a warning)
Summary: YN is taken to lock up for the night. She’s sure they don’t believe a word she’s said, she doesn’t believe it either. But her cellmate does.
A/N: This is set in jail, please adhere the warnings, it does get descriptive from the point of view of someone who was beaten by their spouse.

Keep reading

The Choice (Dean x Reader) (6x21)

A/N So I’ve been on a supernatural watching spree and this idea came through. This episode is when Crowley kidnaps Lisa and Ben, with you dating him. With a twist of course. Enjoy,

Imagine you dating Dean when Crowley kidnaps Lisa and Ben. However, the whole thing makes you question your relationship. It also makes you wonder if Dean ever really stopped caring for them.

Originally posted by whoeveryoulovethemost

“Well, Samuel’s Journal’s are pointless.” Dean states, snapping the book shut, standing up.

“I mean, I’m sorry, but Jebediah Campbell has squat to tell me about how to stop Cas from cracking Purgatory!”

“Well, it’s not about the books we have, its about the one’s we don’t.” Bobby explains, entering the room.

“Meaning what? Sam inquires from the desk.

“Well that’s the bad news. Our pal Cas, didn’t stop in last night just to mend fences. He stole something.” Bobby reveals.

“What?” Dean demanded.

“The journal of one Moishe Campbell. Of the New York Campbell’s.”

“So we gotta get it back right?” You interjected, standing up from the corner chair you were in.

“Or just read the copy I had already made.” He pulled out a yellow envelope. “Hi, glad to meet ya, Bobby Singer, paranoid bastard.” Bobby smirked.

“That’s my uncle.” You smiled at him and took the envelope. You and the rest of the gang pouring over the contents inside.

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Altea as an Autistic Society Headcanons

So I hardcore headcanon that all Alteans are autistic, and I love to think about the effect that would have on their society, so have some headcanons:

- The people that built Voltron were hyperempathic. They couldn’t stand the idea of other people being hurt, and because we all know that we autistics find the weirdest solutions to our problems, they built a motherfucking giant robot to fight evil.

- The reason that touch is incorporated in Altean holographs (as we see in Crystal Venom) is because the scientists were autistic and thought that sensory feeling was important.

- Customer service and jobs with a lot of social interaction were the highest paying jobs because people got so tired by doing them.

- Those weird rings around Altea? Not natural. They were built as sensory safe vacation locations. Everything in them is controlled, from the light to the humidity. There are different locations for different sensory needs.

- Eyecontact was seen as very rude.

- Touching people was never required, and actually discouraged if it wasn’t with your partner, close friends or family.

- The first prototype of the technology that made King Alfor’s hologram possible started out as an advanced form of AAC technology.

- Science, space and anthropology were common special interests, hence Altea’s advancement in technology, space travel, and them having a map of the entire freaking universe.

- I’m willing to bet that the person who first designed the lions had a special interest in actual Altean Space Lions.

- The novel publishing industry was essentially divided in eloquent novels with lots of metaphors and easy novels without any metaphors. Both sides were constantly at war.

- ‘Gender’ was generally accepted to be completely fluid, but there were fifty labels for people who wanted them.

- The nailpolish didn’t have that hellish smell.

- Jobs had a lot of free hours and vacation days available so people could rest up if they were burnt out.

- Eye for detail was highly valued, ESPECIALLY in the science field, but kids were trained not to lose themselves in detail.

- When Allura said “this simulator is set for an Altean child!” she meant an Altean child whose special interest was martial arts. Other kids wouldn’t have been let near to the fighting robots.

- Teamwork was still a highly valued skill on Altea, mainly because it’s impossible to form a society without it, but people were eased into it. The invisible maze was an advanced teamwork exercise.


Kinks 76-Smutty/sloppy/dirty sex

Warnings: violence, language, primal!Gabriel, soulmates/bonded, rough sex, possessive!Gabriel, hair pulling, wing!kink

Word Count: 3315

Gender: Female

Author: Gwen

Part Two: Essential

Your name: submit What is this?

It was a bleak night with lightning providing the only source of light as the boys and you headed toward an abandoned mansion. Far away from town a large grand building stood with the occupancy of a couple demons that had terrorized the local area. Already two people were behind bars as they were believed to have kill their entire families, but the three of you knew better.

Rain started to hit the impala’s sleek black paint as Dean turned into the long gravel driveway, leading up to the house. A few yards away he cut the headlights, wanting the element of surprise for tonight’s hunt. The impala went around the same round-about driveway, a broken fountain in the middle, parking under a large oak tree to hide from view and protect it from the storm.

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anonymous asked:

4 - McCree and Hanzo, please.

Thank you for the prompt, anon! Prompt 4: ”We slept in the same bed for space reasons but now we’re just waking up and there’s something about your bleary eyes and mussed hair”

If you like having music while reading, I recommend Coming Up Roses by Eliza Rickman

There’s mention of burnt body and slight gore in this, so beware!

As usual, there’s link to Ao3 if you want!

It has been six years, four months and nine days since Hanzo woke up without a jolt.

Not that Hanzo was keeping track of it – but he remembered the date clearly, and it landing on a popular holiday in Japan just made the date even more unforgettable. Simple math allowed Hanzo to know exactly how many days since past, and if Hanzo sunk further into the memory, he could even pinpoint exactly how many hours had passed, but he promised Genji he would stop doing that.

Though promising Genji did not stop Hanzo from waking up with his heart pounding, in the midst of a panic attack. Only this time it was worse than usual.

Hanzo blinked rapidly and stared into the darkness. It didn’t feel like his room. It was too cramped and hot, and neither of that two was helping Hanzo’s heart calm down.

Someone stirred beside him, letting out a low grunt. The smell of cigarillos drifted into Hanzo’s nose and it helped Hanzo calmed down – somewhat.

McCree shifted on the small bed they were sharing during this god-awful mission that didn’t even provided a suitable sleeping quarter for two large men to rest in. This was the only bed in the tiny apartment. The apartment only had two rooms, one living room with a couch bed and coffee table plus a small bathroom. The other was a kitchen so crowded they wouldn’t be able to move freely if they both were in there.

And since the only bed was the couch, McCree and Hanzo had to share it. Which both men agreed it shouldn’t be too much of a problem. They have slept in worse places before and at least this time there were pillows and not just hard ground.

Apparently Hanzo spoke too soon. As McCree moved around on the small mattress, he was unconsciously squeezing Hanzo further into the wall. Hanzo shut his eyes, willing his breathing to return to a normal speed. The last thing he wanted was McCree waking up and finding Hanzo almost suffocating from how hard his heart was pounding.

The air was sticky and hot, warmth radiated off of the gunslinger’s half naked body. The warmth, a secret comfort for Hanzo at any other times now only made Hanzo want to recoil into the wall more. But as he presses against the wall, the claustrophobic feeling of being trapped intensified. There was nowhere Hanzo could go at the moment.

If only McCree wasn’t such a light sleeper, Hanzo might succeed in sneaking out of the bed and go sit in the bathroom, heaving through the worse part alone.

Hanzo kept still like that for the longest time, but felt no sign of calming or exhaustion that signal the possibility of rest. Hanzo only wanted to drift back into sleep, however uneasy the sleep might be.

Hanzo turned, and found McCree had been replaced by someone else.

Hanzo stared into the burnt out eyes of his brother and thought to himself: ah, so I did manage to fall asleep after all. Though whether this was better than the panic attack or not, Hanzo couldn’t decide.

Hanzo froze on the spot, a familiar nightmare, one that he never got used to.

Genji let out hard breath, the smoke smelled nothing like the spicy, sharp, comforting scent of McCree’s cigarillos.

Hanzo wanted to squeeze his eyes shut, but his body couldn’t move a single muscle. The smoke from his brother’s body stung his eyes and made Hanzo teared up.

Genji’s lips cracked open, a piece of his upper lip stuck to his lower lip. A choke came out of Genji, and McCree’s voice calling “Sweetheart!”

Hanzo’s eyes snapped open, that unease of waking up from a sleep paralyzed hit him fast and hard. Hanzo instinctively wanted to shout, but only a shallow wheeze broke through. His muscles were weak and limp. The wetness in his eyes made everything bleary.

A pair of arms looped under his armpits and lifted him. McCree propped Hanzo up against the cool wall. Hanzo breathed in a shuddered breath. Still not seeing McCree, but hear him cooing to Hanzo somewhere on the left.

McCree was panicking, the original irritation of being woken up in the middle of the night was long forgotten. He turned around and searched blindly for a few moments. The room was too dark. After a few blinks McCree saw Hanzo’s eyes screwed shut, on his side facing McCree. Hanzo almost looked like he was not breathing, McCree had to cup his palm around Hanzo’s face to feel his shallow breathe.

“Hanzo,” McCree called softly, feeling the rapid pulse under his fingertips. “Hanzo, Hanzo, wake up. Sweetheart!”

Hanzo woken up eventually, but McCree know that waking up was nowhere near the end of a panic attack. Hanzo’s eyes were bleary and unfocused. McCree got Hanzo upright as soon as Hanzo seemed awake enough, letting him breathe easier.

Hanzo still hasn’t acknowledged McCree, his head lolled to the side. McCree cupped Hanzo’s face up with one hand, and held Hanzo’s hand with the other.

“Hanzo,” McCree said gently, despite the heavy weight in his stomach. “Shh, Hanzo, you with me?”

God, looking at Hanzo like this was burning McCree up so bad. The silent heartache of seeing the person you loved struggling to breathe while knowing the only thing you could do was wait it out. But at least McCree was here with Hanzo. He wanted to wrap his arms around the archer and hold onto him, but that would not help Hanzo at this moment, and that was more important than McCree’s own desire.

“Christ, Hanzo, can you hear me?” McCree asked as Hanzo untangled their hands, wrapping his arms around McCree’s waist weakly.

McCree was ready for it when Hanzo fell into his arms limply. Letting Hanzo lean on him, McCree ran a palm up and down Hanzo’s tattoo soothingly. Running his fingers through Hanzo’s hair, working out the tangles gently, and massaging Hanzo’s scalp.

“Hanzo,” McCree tried again.

“Jesse,” Hanzo replied quietly. “I apologize. I did not want you to see this.”

“Jesus Christ, Hanzo. You really think I give a fuck?” McCree murmured into Hanzo’s hair.

“Apparently not.”

“You’re damn right I don’t,” McCree said. “We’re… Hanzo. I care about your well-being. It ain’t a hard concept.”

Hanzo laughed miserably, but at least he wasn’t unresponsive now. McCree tentatively wrapped his arms around Hanzo loosely. Hanzo pressed in, his nose against McCree’s neck. McCree tightened his hold.

“You wanna talk about it?”


McCree wasn’t expecting a yes anyway.

“There’s anything I can do for you?”

“This is enough.”

“You stop bullshiting me now, Shimada.”

Hanzo was silent for a few moments. His breathing finally slowed. McCree rested his cheek on the crown of Hanzo’s head.


Hanzo stirred. “Maybe let me sleep on the outside.”

“Why’s that?”

“The wall was making me claustrophobic,” Hanzo admitted reluctantly.

“Shoot, I wish you would have told me that earlier.”

“I didn’t think it would be a problem.”

“I could sleep on the floor.”

“I would rather you not.”

McCree didn’t reply. He shifted them carefully so his back was against the wall. Hanzo let McCree drag him to their new position, his lower body limply moved with McCree’s movement while his arms tighten around McCree.

McCree rested them against the wall for a while. Making sure Hanzo has recovered completely before asking if Hanzo wanted to go back to sleep.

Hanzo nodded, started pulling away. McCree tightened his hold, told Hanzo to not even think about it.

McCree scooted as gently as possible down to a lying position with a person in his arms. Settling Hanzo on the outside of the small bed they were sharing, still holding Hanzo.

“I’m so glad you weren’t alone when this happened,” McCree murmured.

“I am glad it is you with me when this happened,” Hanzo murmured back.

Hanzo buried his face in the crook of McCree’s warm neck. This time, he felt warm. McCree’s arms squeezed him tightly. This time, it made him feel safe.

“Good night, Hanzo,” McCree whispered softly into Hanzo’s hair. “Sweetheart.”

anonymous asked:

What I don't get it, Bobby's thing in the alt universe is to kill angels but why are angles there in the first place ? Didn't they step on earth for the first time in 2000 years to stop the apocalypse ? And why is there a fight between demons and angles didn't demons shit their pants when they heard about angles being on earth like that one demon in the diner with her eyes burnt out

Exactly, my dear anon. 

Angels only came to Earth because they had an opportunity to get Lucifer out of the cage.
An opportunity that only came into being because Dean was in Hell. 
So if Dean was never BORN, than what is the reason for angels being on Earth?


Oh, oh! Hard to have fun when the light inside “Jimmy” is missing. Right, Dean?

sugar sweet

for anon


In hindsight, it could probably have gone way worse than it did.

Jimin blames it on his stupid, stomach.  To be fair, they did have an extra tedious dance practice that night, and even after the copious amount of chicken wings Taehyung had snuck into the dorm, Jimin finds himself woken by the rumbling of his stomach. The clock flashes a red 3:23am, and Jimin tries to go back to sleep, but to no avail. His stomach whines and whines until Jimin finally throws off his covers and rolls out of bed.

“Fine, fine,” Jimn gives a sleepy pat atop his stomach, as he slowly shuffles towards the kitchen. He’s still blinking away sleep, so he nearly misses that there are people in the kitchen already, nearly. If not for the fact, one of them is completely shirtless, and their faces seem to be smushed together.


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