#its definitely plausible

[oifaaa]

Hear me out: "asktimedrake" but Steph has taken over the account and is pretending to be tim while in a shitty tim costume. Not red robin, tim.

Why are you sending this to me tumblr account Oifaaa who has no connection or association with the blog currently known as asktimdrake

[bunnieswithknives]

New ONE stuff has got me thinking about my Object show idea again

[buggbuzz]

my gender is like meat leaf i think. boy materials in the structure of girl. like im a girl made out of boy things but not in a transman way like i like being female im just. a girl-leaning boygirl. maybe??

[soggedboytroutanti]

Streamer Max au where he plays minecraft for the first time and then gets scared of the skele’uns (also mad his chat didnt warn him)

[lesbiangiratina]

I love that with testament’s old “stay away from my secret” voice line in regards to their. Pelvic area. The jp and eng fan theories split into “they have a pussy” and “they have a tramp stamp” respectively, collectively forgetting/disregarding the metal underwear

[3416]

the thing about the mitch talk that makes no sense is like. yes, an organization CAN get someone to waive their nmc by saying they're not going to pay what he wants and it would be better for everyone involved to get on board with the idea of a trade if that's the path the organization has Most Certainly decided on, but mitch marner has all the leverage with the leafs in this situation, and it still hardly makes sense to force that or be sure of it at this moment. IF they approached him about not wanting to sign him for what they know he's going to ask which is prob 11.5-12.5 i'd guess (which... why THIS year would suddenly be the year they changed their mind about having a forward group make so much after signing absolutely ridic contracts last year is already lol and before a huge one comes off the books w jt... like.. flkdjs it feels like a fan fueled narrative of frustration here), that would essentially force him into giving them a list of teams he'd be willing to go to. it will be a short list of competitive teams who also are not going to want to be giving up much. the LEAFS would then have to find a trade that works within those very specific teams and is worth it to them, and they might say fuck it, mitch will be the better option to try to get us to the post season this year. and then be a) forced to let him walk for nothing in return if they still don't want to sign him at the end of the year or b) tempted to give him an extension where he MIGHT have driven up his own price based on performance that year. like it just. this narrative that mitch marner in the last year of his contract with a full nmc will be somehow forced out of the leafs and that's the LIKELY outcome is so ????????? tell me one trade where this team improves w the guys out here on expiring deals as it stands rn and why the organization would see improvement bc i can tell you they aren't just going to trade for the sake of cap space. i know the trade deadline and everything will also come into play if he hasn't been re-signed by then, but there's a very real chance mitch marner drives up his own price the way nylander did and then what. people are going to be even more furious like ??? just the surety with which people act like it is happening and Has to Happen despite not knowing whats available on the market or having a genuine proposal is actually terrible for the leafs, lol.

[mikhailoism]

before 911 took over my life i was heavily obsessed with greys anatomy right , so i've been thinking a lot about how a crossover would work between them ,,,hmmm so far one normal idea and one very insane idea

[borealing]

im gonna go off on one in the tags pls enjoy

[omarwolaeth]

Thinking about how souls canonically do exist in universe, and how that might correlate to seeing different people as one in the same, all because their souls are identical (pieces of a whole)

[dykewinry-moved]

I had a dream that one of my mutuals got an ask saying I'm problematic because I watch tgcf and I was kind of just sitting there like 🧍‍♀️ okay

[angel-on-parole-archive]

📌

[nohoperadio]

There's a well-known thing where basically everybody experiences their finances as being tight regardless of what their income actually is, which sometimes leads to awkwardness when someone who earns three times more than you is complaining about not being able to afford stuff and it's like man what are you talking about. (There was a post going around some time ago about how this kind of thing arises from the fact that when people move upwards in terms of income they tend to put the extra money into bills-level QoL upgrades like a better home and end up with not actually that much more "spending" money than before, which seems pretty plausible but whatever it's not really relevant to the rest of this post.)

Anyway this phenomenon is pretty blatant when it's about income, which is literally a number that can be directly compared from one person to another, but there's other stuff that gives me the exact same feeling, and a big one is--by the way the rest of this paragraph is going to have very offputting whiny bitch vibes--a big one for me is often reading people talking about their mental health struggles. It happens sometimes that I'm reading something about executive dysfunction that feels very relatable and true to my experience until it becomes apparent that the speaker has somehow acquired a postgraduate degree and some useful employable skills and various energy-intensive hobbies and creative outlets; also anytime someone talking about anything autism or social anxiety-adjacent seems to nonetheless have a rich store of love and friendship in their life; I can't help but feel like, man, I don't know. I dunno if we're talking about the same thing here. I don't doubt that they're expressing a real struggle in their life, but...

This is an unhealthy impulse in me to some extent, definitely. I have a history of placing too much emphasis on wanting to relate to others via facing similar struggles and flaws, rather than via more positive things that might actually constitute fruitful common ground. There's been times when I've allowed myself to imagine a person was crazy in similar ways to me and then been disappointed when they're actually relatively stable and happy. I'm better about this stuff now than I used to be, up to a point.

But also I think the "people way richer than you feel poor" thing just has its equivalent in every domain, right. There's only a finite number of different shapes human problems can have, there's only so many complaints to choose from. Those few complaints have to cover all possible unhappiness. We're going to step on each other's toes.

[softaestluv]

Grease & Grime Won’t Break Your Bones

You never thought you were attracted to grease and grime, sweat and exhaustion, definitely needed a shower and scrub, but no one has worn it like he is.

Mechanic! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Fem! reader

Tags: dirty, greasy, grimy, sweaty, blue collar worker, yeah I’ll take one of those! you own a pick up, & I actually don’t know anything about cars, eventual smut

Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4, Ao3 | masterlist

You’re entirely too eager to return to ‘Ghost’s Garage.’ Maybe you walk through the front doors of the rundown shop a little early, definitely do.

Your shitty pick-up probably only needs to be topped off, but you did drive 3000 miles, and it’s not like being on top of maintenance would hurt.

So, you brush your arrival off as maintaining the integrity of your pick-up, and not the fact that sweat drenched skin and a Manchester accent hasn’t left the confines of your mind since.

Unfortunately, you’re not greeted by Simon when you arrive, instead, blonde hair is replaced with a brown Mohawk, said English accent replaced by a Scottish one.

“Oi, hello lass!” The man greets, a wide smile on his lips.

“Oh, hi,” You respond, giving him a tight smile in return, “Is Simon not here?”

“Aye, he’s busy wi’ another car right now, but ah can help ye, nae worries,” He explains, with an encouraging nod.

You try your best to hide the disappointment in your tone, but its hard when you did your hair this morning with Simon in mind, when you wore your uncomfortable pencil skirt to work with him in mind, when you showed up after work instead of on your day off because you had been hoping that you could see him just as filthy after a full days of work.

“Ah, okay,” You mumble quietly, “I just need my oil changed is all.”

You can’t help, but mourn the money you’re about to spend on an oil change you don’t really need, when the whole reason you were so adamant to return isn’t plausible. It’s too late to walk out now, how desperate would you look if you left because Simon wouldn’t be the one working on your car?

So, you accept your fate, that it wasn’t in the cards, listen to the new man’s instructions and pull your truck into the service drive.

Guilt eats at your chest because it’s not really the mohawked mans fault; he isn’t even ugly, definitely a sight for sore eyes— desperate eyes that is. He wears less than Simon had, a white tank top that’s a little too tight for him, and worn in jeans with more than one rip in them. Wears it a little braver than Simon had, smug and confident, probably a heartthrob for all the mom’s cars he works on, probably flirts with all of them too with no actual intentions, just to make them feel good.

When you park in the service drive, your wandering eyes find Simon across the garage, bent over the hood of a car. It’s not your truck; you won’t get to talk to him, but you think it’s worth it when he’s bent so low over the sedan that his white shirt rises over his hips as he reaches forward. The sliver revealed is paler than the rest of his bronzed skin, freckles littered across the lighter flesh, draws excess saliva in your cheeks, embarrassingly so, over an inch of skin.

But it makes your mind wander, filthy images of connecting the sun marks with timid fingers and shaking hesitation, find out how far down the brown freckles trail.

You don’t have to imagine for long, not when he realizes you’re standing across the garage, gawking at him with a ravenous hunger in your eyes, and starts to walk over to you. He dabs at the sweat on his hairline, makes his shirt rise even higher, reveals light brown freckles curled over his abdomen and a blonde happy trail disappearing into his coveralls.

It’s almost impossible to force your eyes up, find his gaze when he’s walking around like that. With his fucking happy trail on display between the sweat drenched skin and grimy oil marks. The spitting image of a hard working man, powerful and stout, makes a stinging warmth coil in your limbs, thighs pressing tightly together.

“Hi,” You squeak when he stops in front of you, cheeks burning hot in embarrassment because you can’t decide if getting caught drawing lewd shapes with his freckles outweighs the reward of him approaching you.

“Hi, sweeth’art.”— and you decide right then and there that getting caught was worth it when the deep timbre of his voice washes over your shoulders.

He’s positively filthy, more so than last time.

Wet, greasy.

You can smell it on him just as strongly as you can see it on his skin. Like car oil that sat out for too long, the rubber burnt off tires.

A heavy musk, acrid, pungent odor.

You have half the mind to know you should be disgusted by it, that a dirty mechanic calling you a term of endearment should crawl under your skin and make you uncomfortable, but it does the complete opposite. It’s not like you have much of a fight in that game when you were just greedily memorizing his blonde tufts of hair, picturing how it would curl over his pelvis, matted and damp from his hard work.

Even still, you’re pinpointing all the places fingerprint grease stains would imprint on your skin in his wake. How thick the layers of sweat and grime would taste on your tongue.

“Johnny, I got ‘his one, okay?” He shouts to the other side of the garage.

Johnny wears a devious smirk on his face, but Simon doesn’t let you see it for long, shifting to face you just as quickly as he wore it.

You’re not sure if you took a step forward or if Simon was standing this close to begin with. Maybe he was just truly this massive, but you have to tilt your head back just to look at him. He doesn’t necessarily make it easy either, not when he stares down at you with piercing eyes, makes you feel out of your own skin.

“You jus’ need yer oil again?” He asks.

You nod, licking your lips, “Yes, but I thought you were busy? You don’t have to stop to help.”

“Don’t y’worry,” He reassures, shaking his head, “I’ll do it, told you t’come back ‘n you listened didn’t ya?”

You can’t do anything else but nod because you did listen, practically thought of any excuse to find yourself back in his office, his thick build over your engine over you, as soon as possible.

Simon’s lips twitch at your agreement, “Jus’ sit in my office, yeah? No worries, I’ll take care of you.”

You find yourself back in Simon’s office, a warmth to your skin that you can’t seem to shake, not when you keep thinking of every imaginable way he could take care of you. It only gets worse when you perch yourself on the edge of the seat to get the best view of him working on your pick-up.

Maybe it’s something primal, but seeing his large frame bent over, working on your truck and not someone else’s sedan flares satisfaction in your chest. Especially when you watch his sweat drip from his forehead onto your engine, splattered droplets on your blue hood.

If it was anyone else it would make your stomach twist in disgust, gnawing at the back of your mind until you could wipe the hood clean, but it’s not. You’re not entirely sure why you feel this way, maybe it’s his physique that allows you to brush these things off, but it scratches at something carnal in your conscious.

You don’t get much time to appreciate the divots in his shoulders and neck like you truly wanted, like a specimen of his kind really deserves, when Johnny walks in the room. You fall back into the chair quickly, trying to hide the way you were practically leaning forward desperately to see Simon.

He wears a knowing smile, but thankfully, he doesn’t say anything about it, “Didnae think ma work would be up tae par?”

You chuckle lightly, shaking your head, “No, Simon insisted.”

“Never heard of tha’ man takin’ on extra work willingly,” He jokes, leaning against the window sill— quiet irritation settling in your stomach as he covers Simon completely from your view.

“Must be that skirt yer wearin’.”

Your eyes widen, face burning, “Jus’ my work clothes.”

You’re not lying, they are your work clothes, just happen to be the more form fitting ones, is all.

“And your work clothes?” You remark, arching your brow at him, gesturing from head to toe, because his outfit is entirely more barren than yours is.

“Workin’ man’s uniform,” He shrugs nonchalantly, but he struts across the thin office and does a twirl for you, propping his hip out as he poses.

You open your mouth to retort, but before you can, Simon walks into the office.

“Johnny, I thought I told ya to stop harassin’ our customers.”

“Ah’m doin’ nae such thing. Just tellin’ lass here she might’ve got oil grease on her skirt.”

You furrow your brows at his words, looking down at the front of your skirt with a pout because you really didn’t want to stain the skirt without a purpose, except you don’t see anything.

“Nae, nae,” He shakes his head, gesturing to your back.

You do a spin of sorts, arching your head to find what he’s referring to.

“Johnny.” Simon spits.

His tone has more bite to it than you completely understand, but he grabs your arm, pushing you to face forward again.

“There’s nothin’,” Simon explains.

You’re still confused, brows still pinched together, until you look at Johnny, a proud smile smeared across his face.

“Aw, come on, ye liked it jus’ as much, Si,” Johnny teases, realization dawning on you, throat constricting in embarrassment, but he mumbles an apologize when he meets Simon’s scowl.

“Your pick-ups ready for ya,” Simon says, ignoring Johnny.

You follow him out of the office gratefully, too humiliated to even think for yourself right now.

“Is it too much?” You ask Simon with a frown.

“Huh?”

You tug on the seams of your skirt as an explanation.

“Oh,” He says before pausing, “No, no ‘ts not— you look great.”

“Thank you,” You murmur bashfully, atleast you got a compliment out of the whole ordeal, “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothin’.”

“No!” You protest, “You have to let me pay you back somehow!”

You’re not prepared for the way his expression changes, irises dipping into something dark, and you’re definitely not prepared for his next request.

“Do a twirl just f’me?”

✦.─Masterlist ─.✦

[prokopetz]

Level 1: Eldritch horror with no appendages that might be a dong.

Level 2: Eldritch horror whose appendages have plausible dong deniability.

Level 3: Eldritch horror that definitely has a dong.

Level 4: Eldritch horror that totally has its dong out, but it's not the appendage you think it is.

[sesamenom-misc]

@avocetsinflight not trying to disagree with you here but I live in a region with an (officially recognized) robust population of deer, coyotes, cougars, bobcats, and black bears- in elementary school we had three lockdowns due to a cougar chilling on the playground, and pretty much everyone I know has had a bear go through the garbage- and I have never seen (or seen/heard reports of) roadkill larger than a raccoon.

This might be partially due to the terrain, since there's a nature reserve/protected area nearby with some pretty large strips of forest connecting the general area, definitely enough for anything smaller than an exceptionally large bear to roam freely without encountering any roads or humans. (Actually, now that I'm thinking about it, I've only ever seen cougars/bobcats/coyotes moving through green belts or peoples' backyards, and definitely nowhere near roads or large buildings)

Admittedly I don't know much about the geography and/or urbanization of PA/FL so I can't say if that could be a contributing factor, but it is anecdotally possible to have large mammals without them turning up on the side of the road. It would definitely be interesting to see something studying correlations between the establishment of large mammal populations and types of sightings (from far away, in the backyard, side of the road, etc), though!

unfortunately I’m watching supernatural and someone on screen said ‘there are No Wolves in pennsylvania’ and I was like. what a bold incorrect statement. where did they possibly get that idea from. so I googled it…google is insisting there are no wild wolves in pa?? except I’ve Seen wolves here?? there used to be a wolf that would hang out in my backyard and roam around the neighborhood?? like Everyone knew about this wolf we assumed he lived on the golf course and would come to our yards if he got spooked by golfers (very quiet block). like we all thought he just lost his pack or whatever so people just gave him a wide space and let him chill, he didn’t try to break into any houses or attack any pets but this was definitely. a wild wolf. where. where did he come from what do you MEAN there aren’t wolves in pennsylvania I’m literally spiraling right now

[mariasont]

HOT SEAT, HOTTER MOUTH

you convince hotch to take a polygraph test

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader warnings: 18+ MDNI, suggestive content, sexual tension, mature themes, use of sir in suggestive context, not full smut just some dirty talk, fluff, polygraph kink (???), guys idk how a polygraph really works if im being honest so if there's inaccuracies don't tell me, established relationship, they're just so in love wc: 1.1k

You are beautiful. This is a fact Aaron resigned himself to long ago, filed alongside other empirical truths like gravity, taxes, and the sun’s inevitable rise in the east.

Yet occasionally, he wishes your beauty included some sort of disclaimer. Something helpful, perhaps — warning, prolonged exposure may cause poor decision-making and severe lapses in judgment.

It’s the only plausible explanation for how, within a record-breaking twenty minutes (yes, he timed it), you managed to coax, manipulate, and outright swindle him into submission. 

And Aaron Hotchner certainly is not easily swayed. He’s stared down killers without blinking. But then again, none of those killers had ever perched so temptingly in his lap, whispering promises with lips curved into both heaven and hell.

“I should have negotiated better.” The words come muffled behind his palm, as if hiding it might salvage some dignity. He doesn’t dare lower it, he’s fairly certain the smile will give him away.

“Oh, you’ll eat those words,” you chide, leaning across the table to silence his complaint with a honeyed kiss. “Along with a few other things, if you’re on your best behavior.”

Aaron shoots you a look, though its severity is laughably transparent, betrayed by the restless shift he makes in his chair at the thought.

He’s never considered himself particularly greedy, let alone insatiable, yet you manage to reduce him to something entirely primal on a daily basis.

You’re teasing, obviously, but the distinction hardly matters. He’s already picturing the way your thighs would feel dead-locked around his ears.

“Angel.”

"Relax, grump, it'll be fun! Just a couple harmless questions."

Aaron tries not to visibly wince. Your definition of fun rarely coincides with his, usually because your brand of amusement came at this expense. Like that night at the karaoke bar, when you pulled him on stage, oblivious to his internal vow to fake his own death emily-style rather than ever repeat that experience. Or marathon-watching dramas so cheesy he swore off television entirely (he still maintains that he watched Bridgerton ironically, even though you said you caught him misty-eyed twice).

Now, you have him strapped to a polygraph, promising harmless questions that, if history served as precedent, would likely be anything but. 

“Forgive me if I don’t quite match your enthusiasm. Something tells me this is an ambush.”

Your quickly-stifled giggle only confirms his suspicions, but it’s the small notepad you pull from your purse that seals his fate.

“Exactly how long have you been planning this?”

“Oh just since I realized my hot boyfriend could access cool FBI toys,” you say casually, clicking your pen like a tiny guillotine. “But, like, you won’t actually get in trouble for this, right?”

“Not with work, no.”

What he doesn’t say is that if anything’s going to land him in hot water today, he suspects it’ll be you, your notebook, and your dangerously creative imagination. But he thinks it very loudly.

“Okay, first question, starting easy,” you say, leaning forward. “Have you ever snooped through my phone when I wasn’t looking?”

“No,” Aaron says. “I trust you. Plus, if you tried hiding something, you’d give yourself away in about two seconds flat.”

You peek at the machine, nodding slowly. “True. You’re safe. For now.” Then shoot him an indignant look. “And, for the record, I’m actually excellent at hiding things, thank you very much.”

“Interesting. Anything in particular you're currently hiding from me?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Hotchner?”

“Careful. I have ways of making you talk.”

Your mouth opens like you might fire back, but you seem to think better of it, hunching as you scribble something clearly nonsensical into your notebook.

“Anyway! Next question. Do you secretly like it when I call you sir?”

“No,” he insists weakly, though it’s absurdly unconvincing, he doubts even a toddler would buy his claim at this point.

He doesn’t expect the polygram to spare him either, convinced it’s already penning liar in bold, red ink.

You’ve conducted multiple inadvertent experiments on this matter already, sprinkling sir lightly into passing conversation as if it were just another innocent pronoun. Each instance predictably resulted in skyrocketing blood pressure and his hands making insistent grabs for you.

“No surprise there, sir,” you tease, eyes glittering. “We’ll circle back to that. But first… before we were together, did you ever find yourself thinking about me inappropriately while at the office?”

“Yes,” he says, the truth tumbling out before he can muster any self-control.

His cheeks flush hot as he quickly clears his throat, a futile attempt to dull the sharp edges of his blunt confession. It does nothing for the sort.

You smile like you’ve just caught him cheating at cards, and tap your pen against your lips. Lips coated in that damned cherry-flavored gloss that somehow always manages to become a recurring feature in his most ill-timed daydreams.

“I knew it. How many times? Where? In your office? During meetings? Wait — did it ever happen on a case?”

“Slow down,” he murmurs. “You're limited to yes-or-no questions only.”

You climb into his lap, your already-short skirt inching higher as you drape your arms around his neck. “I think it’s only fair that I know how many times my boss daydreamed about me in ways HR wouldn’t approve of.”

Hotch arches an eyebrow, hands coming to steady your thighs. “That makes me sound terrible.”

“You’re not terrible. You’re perfect.” You lean in, peppering kisses along his cheek and jawline. “Just answer,” you whisper between each press of your lips, “the question.” Kiss. “When exactly —” another kiss, lower this time, near his ear “— did my very professional boyfriend first have very unprofessional thoughts?”

He’s losing, badly. 

Finally, resistance crumbling entirely under your persuasive mouth, he murmurs a reluctant confession, “Do you remember your first day?”

You nod. 

“We ended up alone in the elevator after your initial briefing, you were rambling about how excited you were, asking questions faster than I could answer.” He gently hooks a finger into your waistband, giving it a tug. “At one point, you dropped your badge and bent to pick it up, and all I could think about was how easily I could push that skirt up and see if you sounded as sweet as you looked when you came.” He shakes his head. “I spent the next two hours lecturing myself about workplace decorum. Clearly, it didn’t stick.”

“At least you made it to the elevator. I didn’t even make it through the introductions. Specifically, the second you said Agent Hotchner. Emphasis on the hot.”

“Good to know I didn’t stand a chance.”

Your fingers move across his chest, ripping the polygraph sensors from his skin.

“I think you’ve answered enough questions for tonight,” you whisper, attaching a kiss to the hinge of his jaw. “Besides, I can think of much better ways to gather intel.”

He tilts your chin upward. “By all means, demonstrate.”

a/n: idk why i keep writing bimbo reader and hotch … it’s a disease … i can’t stop …

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanded! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs