gimme that eyes

this door will never open (why would it?)

a mix for the suffering game arc | 8tracks, playmoss

i. those dreadful hammers esben and the witch / ii. body mother mother / iii. jamaican tUnE-yArDs / iv. men like gods gazelle twin / v. all for myself sufjan stevens / vi. the animus bell griffin mcelroy / vii. futuristic casket phantogram / viii. in for the kill shamir / ix. devils say hi / x. toothwheels múm

Totally wild speculation time again. Since they’ve been reaching way, way back and plucking out threads from all throughout the series, how about we talk about this? 

Azazel possessed a reaper. Reapers are later retconned into angels. 

Therefore, a Prince of Hell is capable of possessing an angel.

In an upcoming episode, Cas is supposed to be ‘more powerful than he seems.’

Even though we just got Casifer last season, I am now rooting for Asmodeus inside of Cas. 

rifrafi98  asked:

I absolutely adore the way you draw Coran's eyes. Like I honestly cannot get enough.

me too dude

never get tired of em

✨✨✨✨👀👀👀 ✨✨✨✨

3

I had a dream where Snape teleported me into the midst of an oceanic feud between mermaids, kelpies and frogs, all coz i was being a greedy lil shit

wehunt-monsters-whatthehell  asked:

-prompts you with rainy night motel room feels after one of the boys gets pretty decently cut up on a hunt-

They run out of peroxide partway through, and Sam has to duck out and go to the drugstore two blocks down, it’s faster than driving and finding a parking spot, and he knows he doesn’t have to run, really, it’s not so bad, not that bad, but he does anyway, slows down and swallows down the air for a second when he gets back outside the motel door. 

Dean’s on the bed, of course, where Sam left him, and mostly done bleeding - he’s holding a pad down firm over one thigh and there’s some red seeping up under his fingers, fabric soaked through, but it’s - under control, it’s not the silent pulsing gush that means or else. Sam finishes cleaning up Dean’s chest, two long lacerations across his ribs, messy but not clear through to the muscle, and Sam’s good at this, neat and quick with the sutures, tying his brother’s freckled skin back together, a line of puckered gut-kisses running up almost under one nipple, across the swell of his pecs. Dean breathes through his teeth but doesn’t make a sound, not till Sam ties off the last one and lets his hand rest a minute over the line of Dean’s ribs, little finger slipping down, unconscious caress. 

‘OK, Florence Nightengale,’ Dean says then, grumbling relief, and lifts his hand a little off the pad on his thigh. It sticks to his palm, crusted with blood, and he hisses a little pulling it off the wound. It’s a deep gouge, two levels of suturing, muscle and skin, and before Sam starts, just before, old habits (don’t take it too early, boys, it’ll thin out the blood, and only if you need it) Dean takes two long swigs of whiskey. 

Sam keeps his head down, doesn’t talk till he’s finished, muscles tensing up in visceral sympathy. When he clips the last suture Dean uncurls his fingers from the edge of the mattress and lets his breath out ragged. The muscles in his thigh are jumping, shock-response trembling, tiny fresh pricks of blood pulled around the stitches. Sam looks up, and their eyes meet, relief and fatigue. 

‘We got any good stuff?’ says Dean, blows an exaggerated raspberry, pretends it hurts less than it does. Sam tosses him the bottle of pills from the duffel spilled hasty out on the table, looks at him, considers a minute. 

‘Whatta we think,’ he says, ‘three days?’ They’ve only paid up past tonight, so far. Dean looks down at his thigh, licks his lips. 

‘Two,’ he says. 

On the way back from the motel office Sam stops at the vending machines and gets orange juice and saltine crackers, eight in a plastic wrapper, and -of all things - applesauce, plastic cups with peel-off foil tops. Dean throws him an inscrutable look when he gets back and dumps it out on the bed, but he eats the applesauce, gingerly, drinks some ginger ale, and that’s about it - it takes awhile, with the pain and the whiskey and the physical shock, to be able to eat. They both know. 

It starts to rain, battering slanted against the windows, cool and fresh through the screen where the glass is open a little. Dean’s still wound tight, shaking a little, but he breathes the rain in deep and leans back into the pillows, feels the painkillers start to take the edge off. Sam’s sitting at the end of the bed, eating the saltine crackers and toeing off his boots. The room smells like wet socks and blood and summer-humid rain. Sam finishes the crackers and shifts forward on the edge of the mattress, puts his hands briefly over his face, drags them down quick enough that it passes, almost, as a gesture of simple fatigue. Dean’s watching him, head tipped back against the pillow.

‘Gimme the remote,’ he says, eyes not leaving Sam. ‘Let’s find us somethin’ to watch for awhile.’ The tone is light but when Sam glances at him he smiles, the boyish bonfire-eyed grin that takes the years off his face. ‘I’ll even watch that thing about - badgers, y’know. The one.’ 

‘They were muskrats,’ says Sam, with dignity, ‘and I highly doubt it will be on repeat, but yeah, thanks, Gandhi,’ and he throws the remote at Dean and goes into the bathroom and holds white-knuckled onto the sink for awhile. 


“Gimme those eyes,” Cas breathes, quiet, endearing, as Dean whimpers beneath him and turns his head away slowly. Cas thrusts again and puts one of his hands on the side of Dean’s face, turning his head so he was looking at him.

“Gimme those eyes, baby,” Cas repeats, and when Dean looks him in the eyes, Cas smiles, thrusting again.

Dean comes across his stomach.

Things that are aces:

Emma Swan’s Coat because OMGGG GIMME

Emma Swan’s eye makeup

Emma Swan’s fucking endless empathy and kindness and ability to forgive because fucking fuck, THE LOOK OF SOMEONE WHO NEEDS HOPE AND EMMA SWAN WILL TRY AND HELP EVEN THOUGH HE HAS DONE HORRIBLE THINGS BECAUSE EMMA SWAN IS KIND AND DECENT AND WANTS TO BELIEVE IN THE GOOD IN PEOPLE, WANTS TO BELIEVE IN BELLE, WANTS TO BELIEVE THAT MAYBE UNDERNEATH IT ALL, GIDEON IS JUST ANOTHER 28 YEAR OLD ORPHAN LIKE SHE WAS.

SLIGHTLY MORE SCREWED UP, BUT YES.

ANYWAY, EMMA SWAN IS ACES.

PASS IT ON.

9

Oh look a mini photoshoot with Kaiba! I love this figure so much; he’s such a good reference for drawing and my friends like him too. I kinda wanna get a Yami figure now, for Prideshipping photos … ( @arcatsk your ideas are rubbing off on me now!)

Also the last four are for Easter. So … happy Easter everyone!

fight me

pick a caryl prompt for me to write this week

“Gimme that chocolate,” Daryl growls, eyes narrowed into slits as he stares at her. Carol tries to hold back her giggle, pursing her lips instead and clutching half of a chocolate bar to her chest like a treasure.

“No,” she quips, shaking her head.

“I won it.”

“You cheated.”

He snorts, eyebrows disappearing under his messy hair. “I don’t cheat.” The scattered game of Monopoly between them doesn’t prove much anymore. “Won it, so hand it over.”

“No, it’s mine.” She’d gotten it from Olivia as a gift for helping out with the inventory, and she’d treasured it since then. Only eating a little bit here and there, never too much. Every bar of chocolate could be the last they’ll ever find, after all. And Daryl, well. He doesn’t even like chocolate all that much, she knows it. He’s just being stubborn.

He edges a little closer to her, his knees dragging along the thick rug on the living room floor. “Gimme the chocolate.” The hoarse quality of his voice sends a shiver down her spine and she quickly tucks the object of his desire behind her back.

“Fight me,” she teases, narrowing her own eyes.

She almost misses it, but the corner of his mouth undeniably twitches into a smirk. “Careful what'ya wish for,” he says quietly, and almost instantly, Carol realizes the mistake she made.

“Don’t yo-” she begins to warn him, but then he’s lunging at her from across the Monopoly board, tackling her to the ground. Strong arms pin her wrists down, his knees pressing into either side of her thighs. “Daryl!” she squeals, caught between a gasp and a laugh. She wiggles under him, can feel the lightness of his hold – she could easily slip free if she wanted to. But she doesn’t.

His face is only a few inches away from her own, the scent of him overwhelming – pine and smoke and him. “’s mine,” he growls again, sending a flush from her cheekbones down to her heaving chest. She knows he can see it, doesn’t miss the way his throat bops or his eye flicker down for a heartbeat.

“You can’t have it,” she says determinedly, still clutching the chocolate bar in her fist. His hips are pressing her into the ground and she wiggles a little under him, earning herself a gratifying groan.

“Y'ain’t playin’ fair,” he rasps, one hand freeing hers and pressing into the ground next to her face.

He’s close enough to cloud her judgment, the familiar warmth of his body like a cocoon around her own. “Neither are you.” Making use of her free hand, Carol peels back the silver foil around the chocolate and lifts it slowly to her lips, her eyes locked with Daryl’s the entire time.

“What'ya doin’?” His voice breaks in the most distracting way, sending heat through her veins.

“Come on,” she teases. “Get your prize.” With one last smirk, she takes a bite of the chocolate, tossing the remaining bar behind her. The sweetness coats her tongue and lips, and she keeps them parted as an invitation.

Daryl groans, not wasting a second to claim what he won, and Carol hums when his lips crash into her own. Eager and excited and messy. Perfect.