#Sorry I'm too sappy

[waru-chan8]

Saint George is once again upon use, and I want to take a moment to send a rose to all my mutuals as per Catalan tradition 🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹. It’s a demonstration of my friendship and the appreciation for each one of you. Thanks for being with me one more year. Thanks for sticking with me @eneabastianini23 @alex-marquez​​ @nyehhh-hh​ @il-cabroncito​ @ferrarism​ @collecting--stardust​ @distinguishedfifty​ @beerin​ @its-always-silly-season​ @game-set-canet​ @lxndonorris​ @bobendsneyder64​ @lastonthebrakes​ @marcsmarquez​ @blorbogp​ @shieldmaiden-of-bird​ @racingmuppett​ @glitterbombingandcondoming​ @jyanadavega​ @celestinovietti​ @worldchampionpeccobagnaia​ @fabiochampioraro​ I apology if I forget to mention anyone.

Again, thanks for being my mutual and keep up with me          

[perpetuallyconfused10]

Im the one who asked about requests lol, I just have this Hotch thought and I can't stop thinking about it 🫂😭

Imagine Garcia "screaming" about a video, telling the whole team about it (except Hotch and Reader), and that video is on tiktok. When they spill something about the video, Hotch and Reader ask which video they're referring to, not knowing it's from a tiktok account where the person makes videos on Hotch x Reader (like edits taken from some interview where they look at each other, slightly touches and things like that) and it's a whole profile with a lot of videos like that! So the whole team teases them and they obviously like eachother!!

Feel free to change anything!!

Gone Viral, Gone Wrong

Thank you to this anon for submitting my first request! I might have written it (and especially Hotch) be a little (way) too sappy, but I love your idea so much and I hope I did it some type of justice! WC: 3.3K

GIF by ssa-aaron-hotch-hotchner

There must be something on your face. Toothpaste, maybe, or coffee on your shirt, or a tear in your trousers. Something to explain the numerous pairs of eyes following you as you dash for the elevator, just as you always do. 

This morning’s been one for the books. Between a text from your highschool ex-boyfriend, congratulating you on your ‘newfound fame’ — whatever he means by that, you don’t know — and the incomprehensibly slurred voicemails you woke up to from your sister, you aren’t quite sure what to do with yourself.

You tell yourself you’re probably imagining it. But Anderson doesn’t say a word to you as you both make your way to the BAU, just casts you sidelong glances between the rapid texts he’s sending. You hope to God it’s not you, that he's just having an awful morning, then scold yourself for it. If you’re not off to a good start, at least somebody should be.

It’s the silence in the bullpen that confirms your suspicions. Emily, JJ, and Garcia sit huddled around Emily’s computer, squeezed onto two chairs they’ve pulled together. Morgan leans over them to look at the screen. He’s in the middle of laughing at something Garcia’s said when you walk in. 

You don’t even need Reid’s not-so-subtle hiss of “Guys–” to know you’re not going crazy. The smirks that drop from their faces, the giggles that extinguish themselves as you enter through the double doors, are more than enough. 

Four profilers and a technical analyst, as it turns out, can be rather terrifying when the force of their stares are directed at you. 

A sheepish grin tugs at your lips as you hold up your peace offering: a tray of coffee. “Hi?”

You’ve come to know how the team works. You know exactly how they react when ambushed, how they spring to action like a well-oiled machine.

There’s something a little mechanical to them now, bared in their responses to your arrival. After giving you one of his usual tight-lipped smiles, Reid flips open a random file on his desk and begins to read. JJ grabs the computer mouse, clicks a few times, and turns away from the monitor to greet you. Morgan clocks the drinks in your hands and conjures a grin just a little wider than normal. 

“Morning, sunshine,” he says as he plucks the tray from your hands, thanking you with a squeeze to your forearm. 

Garcia, eyeing the gesture, nearly chokes on the end of the pen she’s chewing. She stands to usher you over to your desk, her chirpy voice a balm attempting to smooth over what has been a very odd start to your working day. 

“What were you guys looking at?” You ask her, eyebrows raised. If anyone’s going to tell you what’s going on, Penelope is, without a doubt, most likely to spill.

You’re disappointed – and even more confused – when she stands her ground. Through her ramble, you just about make out the words “cat” and “spa” before she’s kissing your cheek and speeding away to your lair. 

You sigh as you switch on your own computer. One thing is clear. The team doesn’t like to be ambushed. And, somehow, that is exactly what you have done. 

—

After finishing off one of your consults, you suffer through a morning briefing that ends up being far more complicated than it needs to be. It’s only a paperwork day, by the looks of things. In theory, this is the ‘easiest’ your job gets; if you’re not called out on an emergency, you can bank on a day of case reports and shitty coffee. 

Nothing is ever easy at the BAU, not even now. Everything is out of order. There’s none of the usual idle chatter that precedes a briefing, just a fragile silence. Rossi moves from his normal position to take your place between Reid and JJ. He mutters something about the chair being uncomfortable and shoos you away from your seat. Though you can’t resist the opportunity to call him an old man for his pedantics, you acquiesce and take his spot instead. You find nothing wrong with it. 

Then Hotch walks in to start the briefing, and you find about a hundred reasons to curse David Rossi. He’s wearing the gray suit, again, the one he likes pairing with his red tie. That should be a crime in itself. When he takes the only seat available — his usual seat, the one now next to you — you’re almost sure you hear JJ snort. Emily pats her on the back as she conceals it with a very unconvincing cough.

Hotch frowns in your direction, probably mulling over the change in seating plan, then turns his attention to JJ. “Are you alright?”

The blonde clears her throat. “Fine. Thanks, Hotch,” she says. 

Garcia rests her elbows on the table, her mouth concealed by the palm of her hand. 

Hotch nods, casting another short glance your way. “Good.”

Then he launches into the briefing, and you can almost convince yourself things are perfectly normal, that your face isn’t alight with heat and you’re not avoiding looking at him, that everything is fine. When you’re dismissed, you scurry towards the door fast enough you almost miss it. 

“Garcia?” His voice is quiet, his tone soft with something disapproving hiding beneath it. “My office, please.”

Everything is decidedly not fine. 

—

By noon, you can’t take it anymore. “Emily Prentiss, what the fuck are you doing?”

The question comes out louder and more harshly than you’d intended. In your peripheral vision, you see Reid’s eyes widen at the desk next to yours. Emily, halfway through a sandwich, freezes. 

“I’m sorry?”

The grin fades from her face. 

You huff. “You’ve been looking between me and your computer for the last half-hour. What is it? Is there something on my face?” Morgan laughs from the other side of the bullpen, and you raise your voice a little in desperation. “Seriously. Have I done something wrong?”

JJ must have heard the commotion, because she pokes her head out of her office door. She takes one look at you and sighs. “Probably best to get it over with, Em.”

When Emily hesitates, your eyes narrow. “Get what over with?”

She stands and beckons you over to her desk, firing up her computer screen as you settle into her chair. JJ comes down the stairs to join you. Though they don’t move, you can practically feel Morgan and Reid staring at the three of you from across the room. 

What you see projected on Emily’s screen doesn’t make things any clearer.

“That’s—” you pause, dumbfounded. “Why are you looking at me and Hotch?”

The picture is easy to place. It must have been taken a few days ago, during a small-town case. Hotch had asked you to deliver a profile to the media when JJ was working on something else. It was far from the first time you’d faced the press head-on during your time at the Bureau, but Hotch had stood by your side anyway. 

You’re not sure why she’s chosen this photo, if any, to look at. The wind’s blowing your hair into your face, and you’re midway through changing expressions so it almost looks like you’re in pain. 

“Just watch,” Emily says. She presses the spacebar and the picture bursts into action.

—

“—If you believe you have any information that may relate to this case, we’d appreciate you calling the following number…” you say. You proceed to rattle off the number for the tip line JJ’s set up, but only get halfway through before everything derails. 

“How do we know this isn’t all just bullshit?” 

The voice overpowering yours is weathered, and so is the man who pushes through the crowd of journalists to get close to you and Hotch, whose posture you see straighten in an instant. You watch as the reporters from the city turn to look at the interloper, pens out and waiting, no doubt, for either you or your boss to slip up.

For a long moment, Hotch watches the man, his face twisted in irritation. He merely restates the tip line number and your request for any potential witnesses to come forward.

But the skeptic doesn’t let up. “This guy’s an outsider. Not one of us. Everyone here knows each other, they have done for years—”

“We’re not trying to cause a panic,” you say, your tone even, “We don’t want you all to turn on each other. But the man we’re looking for knows this town. He’s confident finding his way around the forest, even the areas that haven’t been mapped out yet. He knows the shortcuts, which roads are quiet and which are too risky to take. We’re asking you to exercise caution, and to report anything suspicious if you see it.”

“So what? A few pins on a map and you’re convinced it’s one of us?”

Hotch’s jaw tightens. This case has been harder on him than most, and you can sense that he’s on the verge of responding in a way he’ll regret later. You put a hand on his forearm as he raises it to retort, squeezing it gently in the hopes he’ll get the signal you really don’t have the seniority to be sending him: stand down. He takes a deep breath, and you let your hand slide down to meet his wrist, guiding it just a fraction backwards to rest by his side. The contact lasts only a second, maybe two, before you let him be. 

When he finally speaks, his voice is measured, his eyes slow to drag themselves from your face. “We’re not here to defend the science behind criminal profiling. Our priorities remain finding the person responsible for these crimes and the safety of this community until we do. If you have any information at all, please don’t hesitate to contact us. We appreciate your cooperation.”

Even the most amateur journalist would know he’s done answering questions. Hotch gives a brief nod, turns and leads you out of the Georgia heat and back into shelter of the precinct. All the time, his hand hovers over your back, his gaze searching for any potential disruptions. 

Then there’s his voice, deep and almost inaudible. You feel his breath brush your earlobe. “Thank you.”

—

Oh. 

Now you’re looking at it from an outsider’s perspective, you do look a little…cozy with Hotch. Not enough to walk the line of unprofessionalism, but enough for you to notice it. 

Emily folds her arms, leans back in her chair. “What’s that about?”

Avoiding her eyes, you shrug. “What’s what about?”

“The canoodling,” JJ says with a smirk, and you slap her arm. 

You’re a profiler. You should know your little attempt at denial isn’t going to work, but it doesn’t stop you from trying. “Canoodling? Seriously, Jen? I don’t think anyone under the age of eighty has ever said the word ‘canoodling’.”

You hear Penelope’s kitten heels clacking against the floorboards before you see her. “Doesn’t mean you’re not doing it,” she sings. Her arms wrap around your shoulders from behind.

You groan. “Penny, you know I love you, but what are you doing here?”

“I got lonely,” she says, and her expression is so genuine that you can’t even bring yourself to be upset with her. “Just wait…”

Leaning over you to press the escape button, she exits out of full screen mode and points to the corner of the screen. When you read the number she’s showing you, your breakfast threatens to make a reappearance.

“Would you look at that?” Emily laughs. “It’s gone up.”

You blink. Once, twice, three times. And once more, for good measure. “Six-hundred-and-fifty thousand people have seen that?”

It all starts to make sense. The texts, the calls, the stares, the team’s behavior…you don’t know whether to be relieved or horrified. On the bright side, you’ve done nothing wrong, nothing that could get you fired. But more than half a million people have seen you practically mooning over your boss.

Emily makes a noncommittal noise. “Half of them were probably Garcia. And a good twenty-five or so were us, if that helps.”

“It doesn’t,” You resist the urge to slam your head against the desk. You’ll have to settle for burying it in your hands instead. “Six hundred and…fuck. And they all think–?”

“—That you’re in love with our boss? And that he’s in love with you? Yes.”

“Oh, fuck.” “They think that, too,” says JJ, sounding sympathetic. If it weren’t for the frankly dastardly smile on her face, you’d think she was on your side.

Picturing the general population witnessing you make an idiot of yourself is bad enough. How do you even conceptualize that many people? How many stadiums could you fill solely with people who have seen you head over heels for your boss? Even worse is the thought of Anderson, or your parents, or – God forbid – even Strauss having seen it. You’ll be suspended. Fired. Or, even worse, be called into a mediated meeting with Hotch and HR, where they’ll ask him if you’ve been making him feel uncomfortable. 

Emily’s voice pulls you from your shame spiral. “And there’s more, too.”

This world hates you. You’re certain of that as she opens Twitter, putting “FBI agents” into the search bar and bombarding you with hundreds, maybe thousands, of tweets with your image attached. Some are disturbingly sweet. Others poke fun at how obvious you are, and even more disturbingly, seem to think your feelings are reciprocated. That’s not a mental path you can allow yourself to go down. 

“So…” You say after a long ten minutes. “What do we do?”

Footsteps, then Rossi appears at the stop of the stairs. “You go back to work. Your break’s over.”

He’s lucky you’re so fond of him. Had it been anyone else (save maybe one person) to disrupt your shame spiral, you’d have been furious. More than furious. You’re still a little irritated now.

There was nothing wrong with his fucking chair. 

—

Your mission is simple. Avoid. Deny. Deflect. The rest of your afternoon drags along in a blur of paperwork and teasing comments you choose to ignore (mostly courtesy of Morgan — JJ and Emily have decided you’re nearing your breaking point and vow to leave you alone). 

Five o’clock can’t come soon enough. Even when it does, there’s no reprieve. Reid turns out to be the one to betray you as everyone else packs up to leave, their files in his hand. “Sorry,” he whispers. To his credit, he looks like he means it.

“Judas,” you hiss back, but you stand and take the reports from him anyway. 

Morgan raises an eyebrow at you. “Going somewhere special?” 

You flip him off, muttering something under your breath that sounds just a little like “your funeral”. 

The stairs to Hotch’s office feel much longer and much steeper than usual. At every step you reconsider. Reid’s probably still heading for the elevator now. If you catch him, you can guilt him into doing this instead. But your thoughts carry you close enough for Hotch to spot your approach through the blinds. He rises from his desk, opening the door before you can even reach for the handle. 

You can’t even look him in the eyes. “Hi.”

Stepping aside to let you inside, he says your name, and it sounds so warm coming from his mouth. You wonder if he knows about your newfound fame, too. He seems to be focusing his stare directly between your eyebrows. 

“I just came to drop these off.” 

As if your words aren’t explanation enough, you hold up the files for him to see.

“Thank you.” Hotch reaches out to take them, and you feel his fingers brush yours as he does. He stops before the exchange is over. “Are you alright? You seem distracted.”

It won’t be long now before the sun sets. It’s making its final play for glory now, golden light filtering through the window and settling over Hotch’s face. Hints of amber tones surface in his eyes, usually so dark and unreadable, making him appear much softer than usual. Safer.

You sigh. “I think some people got a little more out of that press release in Georgia than we intended them to.”

“Oh. Yes.”

“You know about that?”

You wouldn’t half mind if a wormhole opened up, right there in his office, and transported you to another universe where you don’t even have to think about this moment ever again.

“I do.” He winces. “Garcia’s computer system is the most secure in the FBI, but she doesn’t have an inside voice.”

The dry comment shocks a laugh out of you. “No, she doesn’t. But…it’ll die down, right? No one is actually going to believe that. Us being together would be—”

“Unprofessional,” Hotch supplies after a beat. “Very unprofessional.”

He reaches backwards to put the files you’ve given him on his desk, somehow managing to do so without actually taking a step away from you. If anything, he gets a little closer. 

“Exactly. Strauss would kill us if we even thought about it,” you say, “Not that we would, I’m just…”

Now he looks down at you, straight into your eyes. You swear his pupils are dilated, that he slips for just a half-second and lets his attention drift down to your lips. “There’d be a lot of paperwork.”

You nod. “Too much, really. You’ve got enough already. It’d also be…”

“…Nice.”

Hotch stops breathing, lips downturned in a frown. You’re sure you’ve heard him wrong. But half a minute passes, and he doesn’t retract his statement, though he looks as if he’s close to doing so.

“I’m sorry?” Your voice is barely above a whisper. He’s close enough you catch a hint of his cologne, and the woody scent of it makes your head spin. 

“I can say it again,” he says through a long exhale, searching your face for any sign of discomfort as he takes another step closer. His breath ghosts your neck. “Or we can forget this ever happened.”

Your answer is almost immediate. “Let’s not do that.”

Hotch tilts your chin up so you’re forced to look at him. You lean upwards to meet him halfway in a kiss that is soft and tentative, the sort that promises everything and asks for nothing in return. One of your hands cups his jaw, and both of his find their way home to your waist, rubbing circles into your skin through your shirt. You smile against his lips. He leans forward as if to chase yours when you pull away.  It hits you, now, that this is really happening. The months you've been agonizing over this - whether to make a move or to shut the part of you that cares for him away - have led you here. There's much you've got to think over: what this means for both of your careers, the risk to the team's dynamic, whether it'll even work in the long run, if Hotch wants that too. You know he's thinking the same thing; his face adopts the same mask of concentration it always does when he's considering something. You take a deep breath. It might be hard, but does that stop it from being worth a shot? In the end, you don't think it does.

“I think I’m gonna order takeout tonight,” you say quietly. “There’s a really good Thai place down the street from me.”

Hotch clears his throat. “That sounds nice.”

Shaking your head, you rest both hands on his shoulders, laugh at him. “That was my way of asking you if you wanted to join me.”

“Oh.” 

His brow furrows. For a terrible moment, you think he’s about to say no. And then, “Haley has Jack tonight. I…I’d like that.”

You beam, pull back, and head towards his desk to find a pen and a scrap bit of paper. “Here’s my address.” A quick glance down into the bullpen, which is thankfully empty. “Give it ten minutes, then follow me?”

“Okay,” Hotch says. Even you can tell he’s grinning like an idiot, and you make a note of the rare expression. “Okay. I’ll see you soon?”

Squeezing his hand, you kiss his cheek and walk towards the door. “Soon.”

You feel his eyes on you until you reach the elevator.

If you got this far, thank you for reading! I've watched a lot more Dharma and Greg than CM, lately, so I have a feeling that my version of soft!Hotch is currently just a grownup version of Greg Montmgomery????

[thelaurenshippen]

ummmmmm I caught up on last night's 911 and.....hello!?!?!?!?!?!? I AM HAVING THE TIME OF MY LIFE

[notlivys]

there's never enough of 1d supporting lgbt rights and me speaking about it so here we go. 🌈 HAPPY COMING OUT DAY Y'ALL !!!

just stumbled upon this amazing video by obviously @freddiesmyqueen - since her videos are not available anymore, i almost screamed of joy when this appeared on my dash, shout-out to the person who translated and uploaded it tho <3 - about the always wonderful #rainbowdirection project by @takemehomefromnarnia and burst into tears and got inspired and emotional all at once AND since this is the post-too-much app here i am.

i remember very vividly the child i used to be watching the one direction videos. but i remember even more vividly the overwhelming feeling of boiling shame i had within me for being who i was.

i remember the version of myself that tried and tried tirelessly to fit into the molds of others' beliefs and

every trash principle i had heard since i was old enough to comprehend hateful words. i remember the version who hated and tried to hide her inner self every single day of her life. i remember how it hurt to look into the mirror and see someone i wasn't, because i felt like an impostor.

but i knew, deep down i always knew.

then i discovered people. i started to live and discovered friends, idols. i found a love, too. i saw people holding rainbows signs. i saw people speaking up for those who couldn't.

on the other side, i remember very vividly the little fangirl i was and probably will always be. i remember the first time i felt excitement for a musical release. i remember joining fandom for the first time and i am very gladly i can still be a part of it, even in adulthood.

and to that girl, with too much love for pop stars and too much shame for herself, you can't imagine how important it was to see the people she looked up to affirming that love wins.

in my personal experience, coming out took a really long time. years and years of reflection and distance, but i always knew i could not hate the closeted version of me anymore, because i was not the wrong one. i feel pity for the way i hid, but i no longer resent it.

now, in 2024, still struggling with not being looked at the same way by close people, i still have this too much love for pop stars but now i am so unbelievably proud of who i am. so unbelievably proud of that little kid. for being brave enough to love, for questioning everything and never give up.

with time, i've learned that love gives you freedom.

sometimes they say nah, no one cares if a public person supports and speaks about lgbtq+ rights.

but actually yes, how important it is that the people you admire so strongly remind you that love wins. because love is love and it is freedom and it should be safety. i dream to live to see the moment when love also means being able to do it without a single fear.

every time harry raised a flag in 2015 and every time he raises one now; every time louis wore a rainbow or supports a fan who is afraid. there is always someone i admire reminding me that love is love. that helps pride — at least my pride. that is pride.

they see me and i see them.

and i love them, honestly. always have, always will.

happy coming out day everyone. make yourself proud 🌈❤️‍🩹

[borgialucrezia]

From your obedient brother, Juan. Duca di Gandía. Valencia, October 13, (1493) // From your brother who loves you as he loves himself, César Cardinal de Valencia. Rome, April 18, (1494)

[lizstiel]

Dean’s sitting at the kitchen table eating meatloaf when it all sort of hits – and he’s desperate to remember it exactly how it happened.

With his fork raised halfway to his mouth, a dollop of meat and sauce perched precariously on the tines, his eyes wandered over to where Cas stood by the sink in a pair of ratty pajama bottoms and one of Dean’s old t-shirts. (One of Dean’s old t-shirts, because once Cas gets his shoulders into them they never really sit the same way.)

He’s got soap up to his elbows, scrubbing methodically at the dishes Dean just dirtied, his brow a taught, concentrated line. He’s bringing the same kind of meticulous focus to the dishes that he used to bring to leading the armies of Heaven; that singular kind of attention, both unnerving and admirable. (Dean had once tried to explain that he didn’t need to wash them quite so vigorously, to which Cas had deadpanned, “Do you know how many food particles remain on the dishes you wash, Dean?” It quickly became his job, after that.)

It’s early July. About 6:30pm. The window over the sink is cracked, and the front door is wide open, letting the sound of cicadas and crickets drift in with the summer breeze. The sun’s starting to set behind the field, casting the world in that particular orange glow that has always made something in Dean ache. In the other room, the record player Sam got them for Christmas plays a beat up Janis Joplin record he’d found at a secondhand store in town. The opening chords of Me and Bobby McGee have just started, and the cicadas are humming, and the crickets are singing, and the sun is setting, and Cas is standing in old pajamas washing dishes Dean just used to make them dinner and –

Cas tilts his head.

This isn’t revolutionary. He does it a lot. A very ingrained behavior, some might say. But he isn’t confused, he’s reacting. To the song. He doesn’t react to music the way Dean wants him to, never has, but in his own way, it’s almost like he’s leaning closer to hear it. An infinitesimal thing. The smallest gesture. The corner of his mouth twitches, and Dean has never loved him more than he does at this moment: backlit by a summer sunset in their house in the middle of nowhere, hand washing dishes and listening to Janis Joplin.

Cas turns when the sound of Dean’s fork clattering on the plate sounds, but Dean just scoops him into his arms, chases any worries away with a kiss, and then another, and then one more for good measure. Cas laughs against his mouth, desperately trying to keep his soapy arms away from Dean’s dry clothes. “Dean,” he chides, squirming and chuckling, trying to extract himself from Dean’s grip. “I’m not finished.”

“I’ll get ‘em tomorrow,” Dean promises, peppering sweet little kisses down the line of Cas' throat. He hasn’t shaved in a couple of days. It tickles all the way down. “Love you so much,” he says, because he wants to. Because he’s so full with it he’s overflowing. Because if he doesn’t tell him right now, in this moment, and every moment after this one, he might die. He needs him to know. It’s vital that he knows.

Cas’ laughter warms, and he slides one soapy hand to the back of Dean’s neck, eyebrows raised in challenge when he shudders at the sensation. When Dean doesn’t immediately shoo him away, he slides the other soapy hand up Dean’s arm. “Dean?” He’s not worried, the timber of his voice is honey-smooth and light, but he’s confused. Not that Dean doesn’t tell him often, and loudly, how much he loves him, but to be fair this did kind of come from nowhere, so he understands. It’s just much too much. It’s not enough and it’s everything. It’s everything in the world Dean has ever wanted.

Janis Joplin is singing freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose, and Dean’s arms are loose around Cas’ waist, and he loves him, god he loves him so much, so he kisses him on one corner of the mouth, and then the other. Janis says, nothin’, don’t mean nothin’ hon’ if it ain’t free, no, no – and he rocks their bodies together, slow, to the beat of the music. Cas’ arms come to wind around his neck automatically, and his smile starts to sprawl into something reserved for only the really good moments. Wide and gummy and for Dean – and feelin’ good was easy, Lord, when he sang the blues. He presses his forehead to Cas’ and they just sort of sway there like that, smiling at each other like this might be the last chance they ever get.

Cas says – “I love you, Dean,” just as Janis is singing, you know feelin’ good was good enough for me – and it occurs to Dean that he’s dancing in the kitchen with the love of his life. He thinks back to the longest, loneliest nights he spent staring up at the night sky, believing wholly he’d die bloody and alone on the backend of some random hunt, and how the smallest (but loudest) part of him had wished for exactly this. For someone to hold him and see him and dance in the kitchen with him, barefoot and covered in soap.

He kisses the tip of Cas’ nose, the lines under his eyes. Doesn’t realize he’s crying until Cas is wiping tears away with the pads of his thumbs and soothing hands through his hair. He’s crying, too. Laughing and crying and telling Dean he loves him, he loves him so much, he’s loved him from the first moment he saw him.

It settles in Dean then – really settles deep, and true, and good – that he was meant for this. He wasn’t born to be a weapon. Wasn’t born to be a son, or a father, or a brother. Wasn’t born to save the world or to end it – was just meant to dance. His arms were meant to hold. To sway them both around the cheap linoleum floor, to sling low around Cas’ waist and spin them both ‘til they were dizzy with it.

They laugh and kiss and Janis is saying – good enough for me and Bobby McGee – and Dean is thinking – Yeah. Yeah, it really is.

[cementcornfield]

I told him don't scare me like that again. I told him slide, he needs to start sliding....he knows how to slide, he's just hard-headed.

-Ja'Marr on Joe getting hit during the Packers game in the '21 season.

[onelastsailxr]

Sometimes, I think I just really overthink too much. I will have the best idea I ever had (for the hundredth time) for a fanfic and in the middle of writing all the word vomit out or while brainstorming, there is a point where I start to doubt it all. My ability to write what I'm fantasizing about, if the jokes and innuendos will be on spot and enjoyable for the one reading my work, what if somewhere in the story the plot just grows boring, dull, anticlimactic?

And suddenly something shifts and it's not about the fire and passion I have for my hobby anymore, no. It's something that feels forced and if I wanna do it I have to be good at it.

And that is the moment where I gotta step back a little and catch myself, and you might too. Because no one and nothing else will. And sometimes I put on music or watch something and try to remind myself that it doesn't matter if people agree with me on a topic I bring up in my story or the way I write a character in a certain way that maybe some readers aren't looking for. Important is that I can look at my work when it's done and be happy with myself because not only did I write that, I had a blast during that time.

Because while ofc a short fic can be written in just a few minutes sometimes or just in a day or one night. But sometimes those WIPs stay with us for quite a while. We come back to them from time to time, maybe after a hard day, maybe after a great day, both able to be the fuel to the feelings we pour in our words.

What I wanna say is my stories are there and will still be there once I finished and maybe finally shared them and even though realising it's done and the times spent researching stuff and putting ideas who actually fit in the plot of that one story (not the hundred others and certainly not the new one already about to knock the door down) over is on another level of grief, let's still be happy about that we did write it, get a snack or whatever and jump into the next adventure.

[tomfoolies]

selfshiptober: tomja edition days 9-11

gonna say it immediately: all of these are super sappy, super fluffy, VERY silly and completely self-indulgent. the worst in that regard so far, that's for sure. that's why i wrote them, but i figured i'd give everyone a heads-up so y'all can't sue me if the sweetness of these is too much to handle 🤭

9. music 

Just as they leave the club, in that perfect state of drunk where the world feels both dreamy and sharp, real and fantastical — Sonja hears it. Barely audible through all the noise, both from the establishment they just left and the sleepless city they stepped back into. But she recognises it immediately.

"Our song! Are you kidding me?"

Tom spares a glance over his shoulder, listens, and then turns back to her. A look of exaggerated disbelief on his face. "This is our song?"

"One of our songs," she corrects herself, sighing in similar overdramatic fashion. "Hours of shitty song after shitty song and only after we leave, the good stuff starts."

From her lamenting he gets an idea. He holds out his hand for her, but it takes her a while to pick up what he's putting down. Once the choreography of his move becomes clear to her, she lets herself be pulled into an impromptu dance that's an awful mess to anyone watching. Their feet keep colliding, their rhythms do not match, and she ends up having to hold onto his jacket to stay upright.

Their shared drunken high hazes things over, and the streetlight they're directly under becomes a spotlight shining upon them.

10. warmth 

Tom hears the front door open and close, then the usual sounds from the hallway; the rustle and thud of Sonja taking off her coat and boots, the clink of the leashes as she releases Juno and Mondale. The dogs come barreling down the hallway, beelining to their food bowls in the kitchen. She follows quickly behind them, but her target is one particularly defenseless man situated right in the middle of the living room couch.

"Move over, big guy. I'm fucking freezing."

But the warning comes too late, and he yelps when her glacial body collides with his in a way that rivals the Titanic.

"I did not need to be convinced about it," he complains as she digs her cold feet into the toasty space between his thighs and the couch cushions. "Did the nuclear winter finally start?"

"It sure felt like it."

She reaches over to grab the TV remote from the coffee table. Soon the dogs come trodding over, bellies full; Mondale jumps next to her onto the couch while Juno settles at their feet. Both content and comfortable, just like their owners.

11. recovery

When he wakes up, hours have passed. The bedroom's shrouded in darkness, but the light coming from beneath the door tells him it's still daytime. Sonja's right next to him on her side of the bed, work laptop propped up on her knee while she types away. The light from the screen shines a dim spotlight on her face; an expression of deep focus, of mild annoyance. When she notices he's awake, her whole face softens.

Her voice is mellow, almost a whisper. "Feeling better? The meds kicked in?"

It'd been a while since the last bout of migraines this intense, so when she'd gone raiding the medicine cabinet and returned with a prescription bottle, the expiration date on it almost faded, she worried they wouldn't be of much help. His head still feels like it's not quite correctly attached to the rest of him, and the dizziness returns for a moment when he sits up, but the pain seems to have faded beneath a relieving numbness.

"I think so, yeah." A beat of tentative silence, then: "Thank you."

Overtaken by emotion, she reaches out in a feeble attempt to tame his hair, in a state of total disarray from his nap. Her touch is barely there, making sure not to hurt him. It makes him feel fragile, yet at the same time revered — a completely novel feeling. Something he can't quite wrap his head around.

[specialgrades]

sleepy sex with jing yuan goodbye

[oh-meow-swirls]

have i ever said that i love yo-kai watch tumblr cuz i love yo-kai watch tumblr. everyone here is so nice and it being such a small fandom just makes it feel very cozy. we're just like a friend group. to quote the tags someone put on a post i made once it's like 20 people and a paper clip having a sleepover and we're all screaming at each other about ghosts. yo-kai watch tumblr is soooooo cool. i love it here. besties you are all so awesome i love you guys. <3 /p /gen

[galaxywhump]

hey, hope your work and stuff is going okay. life decided to ramp up in chaos but uh here. I managed to get Wren done. He was a fun challenge. Enjoy!

!!!

Ahh Watt I love this so much! Look at my guy :D I'm sure he's doing great.

Thank you so much, you absolutely made my day!

[miyamoratsumuu]

HI CUTIEEE (btw can i call u frannie cuz that’s literally what i say in my head but totally okay if not)

i js wanted to ask how u were

HIII YES YOU ABSOLUTELY CAN THAT'S SO CUTE 🫶🏻 I'll be honest I'm great HAGSHQHAJH the whole sending asks thing is probably just me trying to shield myself from the painful truth that school's starting again soon ahahah 💔 and I'm genuinely nervous about not being able to be on here as much cause if there's something I love it's def interacting with the amazing people I've met here 🤲����🤍

[everybodyshusband]

it's healthy to go back and reread all the nice comments people have left on your writing i think :3

[theflyingfeeling]

Seventh Day of Gift-Giving: Seven Nights

Prompt: Light fell through the window, illuminating the couple lying in bed, entangled with each other and perfectly content with it.

The two idiots in love have also been idiots in the kitchen, but not for much longer! 💞

~

After all the food-related disasters, their dinner date had been nothing but lovely, if simple: arriving at the restaurant, it had turned out someone working there knew Olli from one of their music projects back in their conservatoire days and had happily arranged a table for them at the back of the dining hall, hidden away from the hustle and bustle of the restaurant. There they were left in peace to chat about everything that crossed their minds, to make each other giggle by “stealing” food from each other’s plates, or just to sit in silence, finding deep comfort in each other’s easy company. The atmospheric lighting of the restaurant had made Olli’s expression look especially soft, and if they hadn’t, in spite of everything, been in public, Aleksi wouldn’t have hesitated scooting his chair next to Olli’s to whisper sweet nothings into his ear or pull him in for a long kiss, one he had been dying to give him the entire evening.

That was why, after having picked up Rilla from Tommi’s temporary dog daycare, Aleksi was more than happy to be back at Olli’s again, because he couldn’t have pushed Olli against the door to crash their mouths together at the restaurant, could he?

It seemed Olli shared the sentiment, as he was quick to undress Aleksi of his overcoat and wrap his arms around Aleksi’s waist to pull him close, never breaking the kiss but instead smiling into it. 

“Thanks for the date night,” Aleksi said, pulling his mouth apart from Olli’s just enough to form the words before savouring the taste of Olli’s bottom lip again. He could still detect traces of the chocolatey dessert they had enjoyed.

“The best idea we’ve had all week, huh?” Olli’s speech was but slur, with Aleksi nibbling on his lips with great appetite despite having just dined the better part of evening; now, he was ravenous for something else entirely.

“The best idea we’ve had all week so far,” Aleksi murmured in turn. He hoped Olli would get his hint and was rewarded when the shade of Olli’s eyes darkened and his sighs against Aleksi’s lips, cheek and neck became more shallow, more greedy. 

It seemed Tommi had done an impeccable job at activating Rilla all evening, since the dog wasted no time in making herself a nest in her little dog bed and was already settled in by the time Aleksi and Olli stumbled in the bedroom. Aleksi made a mental note of buying Tommi a beer as a thanks the next time they’d hang out, because Rilla’s sleepiness made it possible for him to grab Olli by his hips and gently guide him straight towards the bed, all the while leaving small, soft kisses on his lips.

Throughout the whole dinner, Aleksi’s mind had kept wandering to how amazing it had felt to hold Olli close and keep him there without the fear of rejection, to kiss him without alcohol clouding his judgement or regret banging the door at the back of his head; he was only just beginning to wrap his head around it all. Even now, with Olli’s body pressed against his, eagerly echoing every movement of Aleksi’s own, Aleksi almost wanted to stop and pinch himself to make sure it wasn’t all just another unattainable fantasy, a daydream that would turn into a nightmare when Aleksi would realise that was all it was: nothing but wishful thinking of a fool who had gone and fallen for a friend. 

As if reading his thoughts, Olli let their final kiss linger unnecessarily long before he opened his eyes to look up into Aleksi’s. His pupils were dilated and his eyelids hooded, but his hands were no longer roaming Aleksi’s backside aimlessly but instead slowly caressing his neck and chest before grabbing Aleksi by his shirt and pulling him on top of himself as they fell on the bed.

After the brief interruption, their mouths found the same rhythm effortlessly as a familiar feeling began to set in Aleksi’s lower stomach. Underneath him, Olli let out a long moan, his voice low – and insanely sexy, might Aleksi add – but just as Aleksi had begun to subtly roll his hips against Olli’s, his efforts were interrupted by Olli’s hand on his pelvis and his lips withdrawing from Aleksi's own.

“Aleksi, ummmm…” For one terrifying second, Aleksi paralysed in fear of having done the wrong thing or having misinterpreted Olli’s cues. Olli must have sensed this, for he immediately flashed him a reassuring smile and brought his face closer so their foreheads were touching.

“Is it okay if we just sleep tonight? Let’s just… not rush things, yeah? We’ve got time, don’t we?”

The relief almost brought tears to Aleksi’s eyes. 

(And maybe it did for real, but just a little, mind you.)

“Yeah,” Aleksi nodded, his nose nudging Olli’s. “We’ve got time.” 

Suddenly feeling exhausted (perhaps it was the stress from all the bottled-up pining finally pouring out of him all at once), Aleksi slumped next to Olli on the bed with a quiet oof, careful not to alarm Rilla. Olli turned to his side to face him, his fingers stroking the exposed parts of Aleksi’s hands below the rolled-up sleeves of his sweater. He seemed particularly fascinated by the tattoos on Aleksi’s forearm, tracing them with his fingers. The touch was just soothing enough for Aleksi to ignore that they should maybe change into something more comfortable before they’d cuddle each other to sleep, but then Olli’s lips began to slowly work their magic on Aleksi's own again, so he really wasn’t in the mindset to care all that much.

“Can I help you undress though?” Olli asked him after a series of long, slow, mind-blowing kisses.

As if Aleksi was ever going to say ‘no’ to that.

Once they had successfully (although not without tired giggles) removed each other’s shirts, they spent a good while taking turns at mouthing one another’s bare neck, shoulders and chest with all the care and love they could possibly put in such a gesture. It would have been easy, oh, so easy, to grab Olli with a little more intent, a little more craving, and resume what they had almost started, but Aleksi pushed aside his desires because he did agree with Olli: now that they were finally here, lost in each other’s touch, there was no more rush, no more fear of it all slipping through their fingers. Even when they were already stripped down to just their underwear, with Olli’s bulge pressing against his, Aleksi was content in having Olli by his side exactly like this.

“You’re so fucking lovely, I want you so much,” he told him, the words out of his mouth before he had a chance to evaluate just how sappy and desperate they sounded. Lucky for him, Olli didn’t seem to mind terribly.

When their kisses grew lazier and their hands found peace at last, fingers intertwined, Olli’s soft voice spoke from the dark.

“I want you too. So fucking much. Just… just so you know.”

Such simple words, yet they took Aleksi’s breath away.

I know now, he would’ve said if he had been capable of talking in that moment. Instead he left a light kiss on Olli’s fingers, hoping it might be enough of an answer. Under the touch, the fingers clasped on to Aleksi’s hand tighter, only softening their grip when Olli fell into a peaceful sleep.

‘The best idea we’ve had all week, huh?’ Olli's remark echoed in Aleksi's head.

Sure, Aleksi had agreed then, but if Olli would’ve brought it up again now, Aleksi would’ve answered differently.

The best idea we’ve had? This. Us.

[solace-after-dark]

I haven't spoken to prism in four hours I'm starting to experience withdrawal /silly