#really wish i couldve found a better image;;; it was hard to find something of the traditional story

[obeymetournaments]

I want to start off by saying that I'm not trying to pick a fight with anyone and that I'm only sending in an ask here to talk about this because I think it'll reach the greatest amount of people that I saw talking about this in the replies and notes of various Worst Outfit Tournament polls.

In Asmo's Yokai outfit he is dressed as the Crane Wife and is wearing full traditional Japanese bridal attire, including the headpiece. It is not a hood, and it is not over sized for no reason, it looks EXACTLY how it is supposed to. (I would include an image if I could but asks don't work that way, but I am not joking when I say that those headpieces are supposed to be that oversized.)

Personally I think Asmo's yokai outfit is gorgeous, partially because I love that they went full bridal with it, but beauty is objective and if people don't like the head piece that's fine. I would just like people to at least understand what it is before they start poking fun at it.

(I know im sending this in a bit late for it to be relevant to the tournament itself but I only just found this blog today. I will be sticking around for future tournaments cause this seems like fun.)

thank you so much for the ask!! tbh i had no idea what asmo's outfit was supposed to be based on. i attempted to search it up, but couldnt find any good results of the image, this being the best one-

-but if anyone else can find better images, then please feel free to reblog this and include it!! i think it makes a lot of sense though, of how big the overall outfit is (not just the hood). tbh i always thought the yokai outfit wasnt too bad, but i feel like knowing the idea behind it helps me understand why they made it look like that (especially if the outfit is supposed to represent/be similar to a crane!)

again, i couldnt find any good images of it, so if anyone else can find something of what it's supposed to look like, please feel free to reblog!! and thank you for the ask once again anon, i love learning abt these sorts of things <33

[the--blackdahlia]

This Life Chapter 13

Title: This Life Chapter 13

Summary: Dean Winchester is the Vice President of the motorcycle club The Hunters. After almost 7 years in prison, he's free. But things have changed and Dean has to figure out how to put things back together.

Warnings: Language, violence, character death

AN: Thank you to the lovely @sams-serialkiller-fetish ! The song for this chapter is You Could Be Mine by Guns n’ Roses. And I know Dagon is one of the princes of hell and not Alastair, but the Horsemen are an old fashion group and don’t let women into the club.

Arizona

“Fuck!” Ramiel called out as Abbadon dapped at his wounds with peroxide.

“Quit your whining.” She said, blowing a red curl out of her face. “The less you wiggle around, the faster I can get this done.”

“Those fuckers are dead!” Ramiel called out to the others sitting away from him. “They made me scratch up my bike.”

“Do you think there’s a new relationship brewing between those asshole hunters and that club that shot out Ramiel’s tires?” Alastair asked, taking a beer from Dagon. “Thanks love.”

“I say yes.” Asmodeus said, his feet up on the table as he polished an old pocket watch. His good luck charm. “Why the fuck else would those two be out here?”

“Looking for Sammy.” Azazel said. “And, if they’ve found him, we can find him.”

“And get back at the Hunters.” Lilith added as she rubbed Azazel’s shoulder.

“I don’t care what we do,” Ramiel sucked down the whiskey that was offered to him. “Those fucking Hunters are going to die. All of them. Starting with Dean Winchester.” That’s when the door opened and someone walked in.

“Am I late?” A voice asked.

“Gordon. So good of you to finally join us.” Asmodeus said, looking at his watch before snapping it shut.

“I had to lay low for a little bit. Things are getting a little heated over in Texas.” Gordon explained taking a seat. “I have information that little Sammy is in fact in that new club in California. I’ve heard some whispers.”

“Whispers aren’t good enough.” Azazel said. “We need proof.”

“I can get you proof.” Gordon said. “But I have this that you might be interested in.” He handed over a slightly blurry image that had been printed off at a library. Gordon had been doing some recon on the new club.

And his findings really did interest the princes.

“He’s alive.” Azazel said, passing around the image to everyone. “That bastard is still alive.”

“You know what they say. It’s hard to kill a cockroach.” Abbadon said, seeing the image of John Winchester.

“Then I guess we need to squish him properly.” Ramiel said. “Gather the other members. I think we need to head to California.”

****

California

Dean was passed out on the couch, drool drying on his cheek. Benny had made himself comfy on the floor. The two Hunters didn’t want to go back to their room for the night. They had stayed up talking with John most of the night. Andy had come home early in the morning to John, Dean, and Benny laughing. He didn’t stay to talk to them. Instead, he went upstairs to talk to Sam about the night at the bar and how Meg broke some guy’s nose.

But when Dean woke up in the morning, Sam wasn’t there. Andy was snoring away and John was in the kitchen making coffee. Dean shuffled into the kitchen, stepping over Benny and rubbing his eyes.

“Morning.” John said, pouring some coffee into a cup. “Want some?” Dean nodded. John slid him the cup he had just poured and made himself a new cup.

“When does Sam get up?” Dean asked. John looked at the clock on the stove.

“He should’ve actually already left by now.” John said. Dean choked a little on his coffee. “You okay?”

“Where’s he going?” Dean asked.

“Business.” John said. “He’s really good at this. I wish we could’ve convinced him to stay in the Hunters instead of going to college.” Dean just nodded and sipped on his coffee. “If you’re not going back to Texas right away, I thought that maybe Andy could show you guys around. Maybe you’d like to hang out at the bar.”

“I’ve always wanted to be a bartender.” Dean laughed.

“I’m taking the day off. Damn back is acting up.” John groaned. “But Andy would be happy to have you and Benny around. Especially if we’re going to make a partnership.” Dean nodded. They had talked about it the night before. Dean and Benny were going to have to go back to Texas, and they were going to have to tell the others that John was still alive. But John wanted to stay where he was with the Wayward Sons. He didn’t want to take the reins of the Hunters again.

Benny and Andy came in a little bit later as John and Dean were talking. John nodded at the two of them.

“Morning.” Benny grumbled, going to the coffee pot that still had a little bit left in it.

“Andy, I want you to take Dean and Benny with you to the bar today.” John said. “My back is acting up, so I’m staying home. But I want you to show off to them.”

“Yeah, sure.” Andy said. “I bet Ruby and Meg will love having them around.” John chuckled some.

“We gotta go back to our motel room and change.” Benny said. “I ain’t going near them girls again with the same clothes on.”

“Doesn’t matter. They still have to look at your face.” Dean joked, rinsing out his cup. “Drink up and we’ll head out. I’ve gotta take a piss.” Benny nodded as Dean left.

Fifteen minutes later, Dean and Benny headed back to their motel to clean up and change before they headed to the bar to meet Andy. A bar, Dean’s happy place. Someday he would leave the club and start his own bar. He sometimes wished that’s what John and Bobby had started instead of an auto shop.

****

John enjoyed the house to himself for a couple hours before Sam came home. He had been working a deal for John. He was learning how to be a great negotiator. John was really proud of him, even if he never said anything.

“Hey dad.” Sam said. “Things went good.”

“Fantastic.” John said.

“Where’s Dean?” Sam asked, going to the fridge looking for something to eat.

“Benny and him went to the bar with Andy.” John explained. Sam let the fridge door slam and he flopped down in the living room.

“As good as it is to see him, can he go back already?” Sam asked. John sighed.

“They’ll get bored and head back soon.” John said, looking at the magazine he grabbed off the floor. Sam nodded and let his eyes close.

That’s when the front door burst open and three guys ran in. John and Sam barely had time to react before bullets were flying. Sam cried out as a bullet hit his arm. John grabbed his gun that was laying on the coffee table and fired, hitting one of the guys. But someone came in through the backdoor and pointed his gun right at John’s head.

“Howdy Johnny boy.” Azazel laughed. “God, I didn’t think you’d be going into Heaven, but to still be here on earth? That’s mind blowing.”

“Azazel.” John growled. He didn’t lower his gun.

“Easy.” Azazel said. He motioned for one of the guys to switch places with him. Sam was on the couch, holding his bleeding arm as Azazel walked over and sat down by him. “Hey there Sammy.”

“Leave him alone.” John said. “This argument is between us.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” Azazel hissed. “Now, why don’t you lower the gun so we can have a nice little discussion?” Azazel pointed his gun at Sam’s stomach then. One gut shot along with the arm wound and Sam would be dead. John looked between his bleeding son and the man with the gun before he clicked the safety on and lowered his.

“What do you want?” John asked.

“I want to know how you survived the fire.” Azazel said. “My informant told me how you were hiding out in California. It wasn’t that hard to find you once I knew that. You should cover your tracks better.”

“I’ll remember that.” John said. He started to get up, but Azazel clicked the hammer on his gun.

“Sit.” Azazel growled. John sat down again. “It’s rude to get up while we’re having a pleasant conversation.” John glared at him. “Now, tell me. How did you survive?”

“I got out before it caught.” John said. Azazel nodded his head.

“So that other charred body was one of my guys?” He asked. John nodded. “Well, that justifies this then.” He pointed his gun at John and shot, hitting him square in the chest. Sam screamed.

“Dad! No!” He made to get up, but Azazel quickly wrapped his arms around his neck, putting a perfect chokehold on him. Sam struggled to get away.

“Shh, shh. Relax.” Azazel said. “It’s okay. Naptime Sammy.” Sam’s struggles became weaker until he passed out, slumping against Azazel. “Shh, it’s okay.” He petted his hair, smiling some.

“Crowley.” Azazel said, getting on of his goons attention. “Go bring the van around so we can put Sam here in it. And that body.” He pointed over at the dead goon laying on the ground.

“What about him?” Crowley asked, motioning to John.

“Leave him. I don’t care what happens to him now.” Azazel said. “I got what I was after.” Crowley nodded and left to get the van. Things went quickly, even though it took three guys to load Sam in. Azazel and the others got on their bikes, ready to leave. Crowley was the last one out. He looked around at the broken in door, the blood, the chaos.

“I...I guess that’s what we do.” He mumbled to himself. He looked over at John and saw a little bit of chest movement as he sucked in shaky, shallow breaths. He knew he wasn’t going to survive unless something drastic happened. But he doubted that anyone was going to show up in the next twenty minutes or so to save him.

Crowley always carried markers and pens with him in his vest pocket. A lot of times, they would have to write something and he had seen one of the princes stab some poor kids fingers to get blood to write with. So he took to carrying writing utensils to save not only himself, but some of the others from being stabbed. He took one of those makers and wrote Horsemen in big letters on the wall. Because killing John was one thing, but kidnapping Sam was something else entirely.

Crowley ran out of the house then and headed back to Arizona, leaving John there to die.

****

It was later that afternoon when Benny and Dean returned to the house. Dean wanted to have lunch with Sam, and Benny was willing to tag along. They parked their bikes by the porch and Dean saw Sam’s sitting there.

“Good, he’s home.” Dean laughed. Benny smiled and they made their way up the porch when they noticed that the front door was wide open. Reacting, they grabbed their guns from their waistbands and made their way inside. They could smell the metallic tinge of blood. That’s when Dean’s eyes locked on the chair that held his dad’s body.

“Dad!” Dean yelled, running over to him. His head was slumped forward and his shirt was soaked in blood. “Dad!” He shook him, his head just rolling to the side. “Oh god.” He looked around and saw blood on the couch and blood on the carpet. “Sammy?!” Dean called out, but the house was silent.

“Dean.” Benny said, pointing at the wall Crowley had wrote on.

“I’m going to kill them.” Dean growled. “I’m going to kill them all.”

“We need backup on this one.” Benny said. “I’m going to make a couple calls but we will fix this.” Dean nodded and looked back at his dad. He was really dead this time. No smoke and mirrors this time.

But now, Dean was free from prison, and the Horsemen needed to be dealt with, once and for all.

Forever Tags: @anathewierdo @i-would-die-for-woodland-demars @dekahg @nanie5 @feelmyroarrrr @marvel-af @imboredsueme @gemini0410 @aiaranradnay @babypink224221 @mogaruke @xxwarhawk

Dean Winchester/Jensen Ackles Tags: @luciathewinchestergirl @sheris532 @bobasheebaby @flamencodiva @bella-ca

This Life Tags: @soulslaststand @jamielea81 @caplansteverogers @becs-bunker @supernaturalwincestsblog @colie87

Supernatural Tags: @bandobsession98 @mrsdeanfuckingwinchester @fangirlsencyclopaediaofweirdness @ilovetardis @missihart23

[properbastard]

WRITE ABOUT ANTONIA AND SHARPE and sharpe just holding her in her arms and her being outside the walls for the first time and keeping her warm and safe and close and being so excited to show her the world and hes so happy his girls are safe and okay and together and he loves antonia so much. shes everything he couldve hoped for and he just doesnt want to let Antonia out of his arms!!!!!! AHHHH GIVE ME ALL THE FLUFF

     It was hell, all around him. The explosions of the canons blinded him, the smoke choked him–he could hardly breathe, and he saw the swarm of blue coats coming towards him, the glint of bayonets in the flash of the powder.

     He would die here, he would–

     His head dropped from his hand and he woke with a start, knees jerking up to hit the table. Heart pounding, Sharpe looked down, his mind slow with sleep clumsily putting the pieces back together; he was in his tent, he was safe, the siege was over. He had fallen asleep finishing his paperwork–the candle was still burning, the quill in his hand.

     With a heavy sigh, he shoved his work away and rubbed at his face, grimacing as he felt the rough stubble on his chin. He hated nights like this… full of nightmares and snatches of restless sleep. Badajoz was haunting him, the images of it’s high, high walls lit with flame and littered with bodies burned into his mind. Some part of him had known, from the moment he entered Cuidad Rodrigo, that he would never forget Badajoz.

     Sharpe ran his hands through his hair, shoving the memory of blood and death from his mind, and turned in his seat to look at the cot. Teresa was asleep, on her stomach, her face buried in his pillow. Exhaustion pulled at him, and he wanted to crawl in beside her and forget the terrors of his dreams, and find comfort in her arms. He could feel his eyes drooping, body aching to find comfort in the thin mattress and woven blanket just inches away, to tangle his fingers in his lover’s–no, his wife’s–soft, dark curls. He guessed that it was late, and he would only get a few hours of sleep in before dawn, but a few hours were better than none, he had learned.

     But just as he rose from the chair, he discovered that he was not the only one awake.

     Antonia shifted and whimpered from her place in the make-shift cradle the men had put together for her, made from a large woven basket found in Badajoz and hastily carved legs. Sharpe hesitated, wondering if she’d called out in her sleep and would settle again, but her fussing grew louder, and he slipped out of his chair and crept over, rescuing her from the confines of her blankets.

     “Hey, hey,” his voice was soft, still thick with sleep, and he yawned. He was too tired to feel embarrassed, as he had felt lately, when picking up his daughter. He had little experience with babies, and there was a small hitch in his chest at remembering the tragedies that had denied him this before–personal failures, in his eyes, that he did not speak of, yet took hard.

     So he tried to hold her as he saw Teresa do, with the baby on her hip, tucked close to her body, and to his relief, Antonia settled into his arms easily. Her little hands clutched at the collar of his jacket, and her father quietly shushed her pitiful fussing.

     “It’s alrigh’,” he whispered, offering her a tired smile. “I’ve go’ ye.”

     He wondered if she was hungry? It was late at night, and he knew by now that she woke often at night to be fed, and changed, and rocked back to sleep, and from the moment he had held his child, he wanted to help. Teresa had showed him, and after his first horrified encounter with diapers, he was sure never to complain of latrine duty again.

     Though after a moment, he slowly began to think that she wasn’t hungry; Antonia had, to Teresa’s great amusement, shown that she had not yet discovered the difference between her mother’s bosom and her father’s chest, much to the latter’s dismay and embarrassment. Teresa had laughed at him, and took Antonia from him, insisting that he had two choices; get his thin wife fat, or fatten himself up until their daughter learned to tell apart the two slim, fit bodies of her parents.

     But now he was sure that Antonia was not hungry, and he was relieved that he didn’t have to wake his sleeping wife. And he checked, and his daughter did not need changed either.

     So what had woken her?

     Richard shifted her in his arms, watching those tiny little fingers grip the worn, distressed velvet of his jacket; a pink, rosy-cheeked treasure resting against his chest, and his tired smile grew softer and fonder.

     “Did you have a bad dream too?”

     He pressed his lips to her forehead, and it seemed like he’d gotten it right–she’d either woken from her own bad dream, maybe even her own recollection of the siege, or she had heard her father jolt awake from his nightmare. Either way, she snuggled closer to him, whimpering against his neck, and he glanced back at Teresa’s sleeping frame. He wouldn’t wake her–he’d lull their daughter back to sleep himself.

     The cold night air bit at his nose as he slipped out of the tent, Antonia bundled tightly in the blankets from her bed, her soft little bonnet, and tucked snuggly into her father’s arms. Sharpe had thrown on his greatcoat, thankful for the thick, soft wool and the warmth it provided both of them, and tugged on the knit fingerless gloves with his teeth.

     It was a brisk night, as crisp and clear as water in a stream. Winter was ending, and spring beginning, and Sharpe watched his breath fog up in front of him. The cold was not quite done with them yet, lingering here in the dim light from the tents and dwindling campfires. A horse nickered, shifting in its sleep, and somewhere to his left, he heard a sentry pick up a song. It was as quiet as army life could get, and if he did not know any better, he would have believed this to be peace.

     But it wasn’t the peace he was used to. He’d stood out here countless times, or lay on his back on the road, head resting on his pack, but it had never felt like this. A husband and a father, not just a soldier; he felt like his heart had changed, swollen in size, and felt it shiver in his chest. He had a family, at last, a family–

     –a wife sleeping soundly in his bed, and a daughter tugging at the buttons of his jacket.

     He looked down, a smile tugging at his lips, and he watched Antonia pluck at the pewter buttons. She was fascinated with anything and everything that shone, her little brow furrowing into a concentrated scowl that could only have come from him as she investigated each button. But he knew her little fingers were stronger than they seemed, and he shifted her in his arms to keep her from plucking his uniform apart.

     She reached up with those tenacious little hands, babbling to him quietly, and grabbed the end of his nose while he laughed. For a moment, it was just them, in this world; the cold biting at their noses, soft giggling in the calm of night, and the bad dreams that had taken them from their beds forgotten.

     And then he looked up, and his smile widened.

     “Antonia.” He shifted her to his hip, freeing one hand, and he pointed up, watching her dark eyes follow the line of his arm, up past his finger, and up, up into the starry sky above them. “Look.”

     His own gaze followed, his arm coming down to hold her again as she stared, transfixed, up at the stars. She had grown up, so far, in a fortress–a place of constant noise, constant light. But out here, in an army camp, with the fires burning low at this time of night… the stars shone brighter than they ever did elsewhere.

     “Look at the stars, love.”

     He wondered, if, at her age, he had ever stared up at the heavens like this. He remembered the orphanage, the workhouse, and on the days when they rose before the sun, when they plucked oakum in the dark, he would look up at the fading stars, and hope that there was something better than this.

     A wane smile tugged at his lips, and as Antonia gasped and spoke to him in sounds and babble he didn’t understand, he told her a story. He didn’t really know the beginning of it, nor the end. But he told her the story of a young man, an orphan with no home, no family, who had laid on his back in India, looking up at the stars, and had believed that the answers to all of life’s mysteries were in them, and he could try but never truly reach them.

     And at some point, he turned his head away from the sky, from what he always thought looked like thousands of thousands of tiny cook fires burning in the dark, and found his daughter sound asleep against his shoulder, her fingers gripping the shiny pewter buttons of his jacket.

     “Antonia.” His child. His daughter. His little girl. A family, at last, a family.

     There was a time that this was only a dream, something he could never wish to have, the dream of a boy who grew up alone, with no one in the world to claim him. But those thoughts were far away now, as far away as the red sands of India, and tonight he was with his family, his daughter lulled to sleep by a story about the stars.

     One day, he promised, this war will be over. And we’ll be together, always. But until then…

     Until then, he would look up at the stars when he was away, and think of her, of the rosy-cheeked treasure that had become his entire world. Until then he would look up at the stars, lying on his back in the wilderness of Spain, and know that he may never reach those heavens, but he could get close.

     Close was waking up the next morning, bleary-eyed and warm, with his wife’s arm draped across him, and his daughter lying on his chest, patting at his face and drooling on his chest.

                      Close was here, in the one place he found he belonged.