him and that hat though

okay hear me out: 

you know those photo series that are like “In The Running For The Next Spiderman/Young Han Solo/Bachelor/Prince Eric/Property Brother”

and it’s just like nine generically handsome brunet white men that might all be Henry Cavill or might all be Matt Bomer or might all be the photogenic runner guy from 2012 for all we know but it’s impossible to tell because they are just so generic?

and you know how nobody really remembers what Moist von Lipwig (slash Albert Spangler where applicable) actually looks like, they just remember the gold hat, or the glasses, or the bountiful ear hair?

what I want is an adaptation where Moist, whenever he’s being an anonymous face or The Man in the Golden Suit or Albert Spangler, is played by a series of generically handsome brunet white men who are swapped out shot-to-shot.

imagine eventually someone gets tired of how Black Hat treats them. Flug, maybe, likely.

and he snaps at Black Hat- full out yelling at him, chest heaving and so furious, and so tired, and Black Hat just. looks at him.

and Flug, panting for breath, hands shaking, pulls himself up. straightens his back. and looks him in the eye, one second, two, three- and Black Hat doesn’t say anything, and Flug doesn’t say anything.

and Flug nods. tight and unhappy, and he pivots around, marches out of the room. and Black Hat let’s himself crack a bit, because he doesn’t know what just happened.

his chest hurts and it’s like there’s a damn storm inside of his head, churning away, every word of Flug’s rant repeating back at him, mocking him.

and Demencia steps inside. quiet, and Black Hat barely notices her.

“he’s right,” she says, standing in the doorway. and then she leaves too, disappears around the corner, and Black Hat sits there, something cracked inside of him, and he just

doesn’t understand

there’s no connection. Flug told him to show kindness, to be nicer to them, and Black Hat doesn’t understand what he means.

he is nice to them. he lets them live, he feeds them and he shelters them, and every day he refrains from picking them apart like they’re toys, pulling their pieces from each other.

isn’t that kindness?

and so he sits there. looks down at his hands, and all he sees is the monster there’s beneath his gloves, the monster he is.

how far separated he is from Flug, from Demencia, from 5.0.5. from everyone.

and he just doesn’t understand.

This is just fluff!!! Inspired by 13.06.

The first time Castiel nudged Dean awake in a motel in Boise, he quickly found himself staring down the barrel of a gun with the silhouette of Dean’s ridiculous bedhead behind it. “Dean?” he raised both hands, mostly out of imitation since bullets meant nothing. He watched as Dean stared back and blinked the sleep from his eyes before groaning, “Shit. Sorry, Cas” and lowered his gun.

He’d already known that Dean had lightning-fast instincts, instincts he’d honed since he was a child and had to protect Sam all by himself. Later that morning, after his coffee, Dean looked a little sheepish and pink around the edges. Cas could only assure him that it was okay, filling Dean’s mug and kissing his cheek.

Cas eventually learned that Dean didn’t startle when they woke together, their limbs loosely tangled. That Dean just snuffled and pulled him closer, muttering, “Five more minutes” while Cas softly laughed. “Who’s making me coffee?” he always asked, already on his way to the kitchenette. It was rhetorical and Cas would merely huff, taking in his fill of Dean in his boxers.

Dean slept especially well when they turned in early to watch a movie, propped against the pillows. Dean used to talk a big game about drinking at bars - and Castiel knew that had once been his life - but these days, with their base at the bunker, Dean preferred to stay in unless they were on the road. He liked to rest his cheek on Cas’ shoulder, gesturing excitedly at the screen. He knew his trivia cold when it came to westerns and made Cas watch his favorites whenever he could. He didn’t mind persuading Cas with smiles and kisses, and Cas certainly didn’t mind being persuaded. Though that never stopped him from occasionally sighing and grumbling at the guns and tuberculosis.

He remembered passing through a town with a touristy gift shop, their route more leisurely after a hunt. He saw Dean linger at a rack of hats and asked Sam to distract him while he purchased two. The sound Dean made when Cas wore one that night was a memory he logged away with incredible smugness. It was worth Sam glaring at them the next morning, made worse by Dean’s innuendos about riding cowboys. Cas knew better than to step into the middle of it, but kept his hand on Dean’s knee underneath their table.

He knew what it meant to indulge Dean like this, to be so well-acquainted with someone and allow his entire world to revolve around him. He knew what Dean was like in the morning, at night, in between, and could sometimes predict the words he’d say before he said them. They would bicker and kiss and let their spaces overlap and Cas was all too happy to keep it that way.

So, now, when Jack turns to him and says, “He… really likes cowboys,” he just replies, “Yes, he does” while they both watch Dean examine the hotel room like a kid in the candy store. He wears the cowboy hat Dean hands him later and calls it “absurd” though he goes along with it, because if this is something that’ll make Dean smile, then that’s what truly matters. It’s been that way for years.

At one point, back at the hotel, Dean still in his getup - bolo tie and all - Cas is crowded gently against the wooden paneling with an armful of cowboy and playful green eyes. “Hey, there, handsome,” Dean quirks his lips, and Cas fights the laughter bubbling from his chest. “I’m a hunter and it’s ‘you’ season.”

Castiel laughs for real then. “Then catch me, cowboy.”

i doodled this super quick washington in class today because priorities

10

Poirot: “Well, I find it most curious, Hastings, this English passion for perusing a collection of the glorified scarecrows. So far, I have not seen one likeness that is truly accurate.”
Poirot: *sees his own wax figure*
Poirot: ♥__♥

“The sight of thee at Christmas Time
Spreads hope and gladness far and wide
O christmas Boy
O Christmas Boy
Thou tree most fair and lovely”

Secret Santa for me boy, @heyahchow

I know nothing of Hellboy

What do you think Killua?”

Omigosh I had so much fun sketching this out. Gon-chan in Killua’s clothes makes me melt. If you want an inked and full color version then down’t worry, it’s coming…sometime. I was actually planning on giving this to an AMAZING artist online so I’m trying really hard to make sure it looks good. 

I’m probably gonna change my profile pic to Gon’s face in this pic sometime soon, you know, when it’s finished.

Any tips or advice is welcomed!