#I look at you in anticipation

[vnikat]

After the week of talking about Terry angst I’m living in delight, knowing that one day I will behold a tone of crying posts.

[aziraphalalala]

I am not entirely certain what will happen once the actors & writers strike ends, but I'm pretty sure Michael Sheen will break the sound barrier with how fast he will go feral on the internets about how Aziraphale wants to eat Crowley's ox rib

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Dungeon Meshi: Delicious in RPG!

(Sprites + bonus art here!)

[b4kuch1n]

simulated earth (it does not matter)

transcript

[macdenlover]

partners in real estate and partners in life

[queenerdloser]

i just finished dark heir

[likesdoodling]

>:)

[ineffableaddiction]

Why do I find this so hot?

Seriously, though… damn.

[shikai-the-storyteller]

Mike talking about how Tuesday should be an international holiday so everyone can watch the hideduo date and then saying he didn't originally ship it but he saw the flame between the two of them last time they hung out is SO cute 😭💕

(And then you have Mine saying "he's writing the best man speech as we speak" LMAO)

[pushing500]

Goodbye, Angst; we hope you had a good time staring at the wall in the laboratory. Mechi cordially invites you to never return. xoxo

Mechi is excellent at childcare

I distinctly remember looming over my parents' bed in the dark and waiting for them to wake up when I was little. I bet it's much creepier when it's not even your kid doing it, just some random child who wandered into your house.

I bet Mechi hates being called "Mr. Jones"

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[thevioletcaptain]

🩲😳🫦

Dean’s not staring. He’s definitely not staring.

He’s so consciously and deliberately not staring that he sinks down a little lower in the driver’s seat of the Impala, just in case Cas happens to glance over and see him from where he’s standing like some kind of calendar model on the opposite side of the Smith Center Public Swimming Pool.

Not because he thinks he’s doing anything wrong, though. Cas is hot, and Dean knows that Cas is hot. He's long past having a crisis about the fact that he wants the guy. But he's off limits. He can't quite remember why he'd decided that he was off limits, but he's sure he had a good reason for it.

So he's not staring. And he's not hiding, either.

It's just that Dean doesn’t want Cas to see his face through the windshield, all distorted by the glare of the summer sun, and mistakenly think that he is staring.

Because he’s not.

But. Well. It’s kind of hard not to look, is the thing.

And looking isn’t staring. It’s just — seeing. With his eyes. Which he kind of can’t help but do. And is that a crime? Is it a crime to see?

Anyway, Cas is the one who decided to buy himself a neon green Speedo for the adult swimming lessons he’s insisted on taking now that he’s human again, and it’s hardly Dean’s fault if his eye is naturally drawn to bright colors.

That’s just… evolution. He thinks he read that somewhere, once. Survival instincts, ingrained over countless generations and hardwired into his monkey brain, so that he won’t accidentally put poisonous tree frogs in his mouth or whatever.

Not that he's letting his monkey brain take control right now. Not that he’s thinking of putting his mouth anywhere near Cas’ —

“You can’t park here.”

He jumps, his forearm pressing hard into the horn, and half a dozen people — Cas included — all turn to stare at him from the poolside.

Now they're staring. Not just looking. Definitely staring. Dean knows the difference.

Cas lifts his hand and waves.

It’s probably Dean’s imagination, given the distance, but he’s pretty sure he can see a bead of water — maybe sweat — trickling down his side. It starts near his armpit. Trails down over his ribs.

As Dean watches — looks, really, just happens to see — Cas pushes his fingers through his hair, and shakes his head, and an arc of droplets sparkles through the air around him before he drops his hand back down and wipes it off on his thigh. And now his thigh is wet again.

Who gave him the right to fucking glisten like that? Who the hell does he think he is?

“Sir?”

Dragging his eyes away from Cas, Dean glances up at the woman ducking down to peer in at him through his open window. She’s wearing a navy blue polo with the pool’s logo, and she’s missed a spot with her sunscreen, so there’s an oddly shaped patch of red in the middle of her forehead. The pinched-mouth expression on her face suggests that perhaps she's spoken to him more times than he’d noticed. He shakes his head a little.

“Huh, sorry, what?”

“You can’t park here,” she says, tone harsher than before, and points up at the staff only sign he’d missed when he arrived.

In his defense, the sign is kind of dull, and decidedly not brightly colored, and by the time he’d been pulling into the space, he’d already been kind of distracted by Cas and his glow-in-the-dark-and-the-daytime-too crotch.

Some part of him — the monkey brain, probably — desperately wants his eyes to flick back over toward the pool to see if Cas has decided to do any more post-swim stretching. He valiantly fights it. The effort uses enough brain power that he barely remembers that he's probably supposed to respond to the woman talking to him.

“Oh,” he says, finally.

She waits. Raises her brow. He figures he should say more.

“I’m not actually— I’m not staying. I’m just here to pick someone up. I mean, heh, that sounded wrong. I’m not trying to pick someone up, like, trying to score. I’m just here to pick up a guy. My friend. In my car. To drive him home.”

The woman’s eyes narrow a little, and she half opens her mouth like she’s not quite sure how to respond to his rambling but fully intends to, but before she can get a word out Cas is there, pulling open the passenger door. The hinges creak.

The scent of chlorine and sunscreen and Cas floods Dean's senses.

He glances over, no longer able to force himself not to, and has to bite down on his own lip to keep from letting out a deeply embarrassing noise when he finds him spreading his towel out on the seat so he can sit down, still wearing his Speedo. He drops the string bag with his change of clothes into the footwell and grins at Dean as he climbs inside.

"Don't worry, I won't get your car wet," he says.

Dean's brain is making a strange buzzing sound.

"Uhuh," he says.

“Sir,” the woman cuts in again.

Dean doesn’t even look at her, this time. Just waves a hand in the air and starts the engine as Cas buckles in. Pulls the seatbelt taut across his lap.

"You need to move."

"Yeah, we're going," Dean says.

“See you next week, Doreen,” Cas tells her cheerfully.

“Yeah,” Dean says, but his eyes don’t leave Cas. Maybe he is staring, just a little. “Maybe I’ll come, too.” [written for this prompt game] [find me on ao3 as imogenbynight 💚]

[mintjeru]

guy i would not trust within a 15m radius of myself

open for better quality | no reposts

my shop is open!!

[blue-mood-blue]

Me, sitting in front of my tablet that has several writing apps downloaded onto it, with plenty of free time and absolutely nothing preventing me from writing: I wish I was writing :(

[honeydots]

i know im late but xanlow pocky doodle was a must....

[jelzorz]

157.

It's a little pathetic. Rayla will not defend herself in that regard. She's eighteen, for heaven's sake, and she'd grown up training to be an assassin, had defended Zym from the most dangerous dark mage in the world, had leapt off the the Pinnacle to what should have been her death, and this! This is what gets her. This is where she lets the world down: in a dinghy, in the middle of the Sea of the Castout, because she's too scared of the water to help save it.

What a disgrace.

Callum and Ezran have been under for about ten minutes now, and she's spent the whole time watching the surface of the ocean, daring herself to jump in after them. Bait and the baitlings and Soren and Zym watch her in varying degrees of apprehension. Stella chitters encouragingly but the dinghy bobs, and Rayla holds tighter still.

Soren nudges her gently. "You good?"

"Do I look good?" she snaps, and then the dinghy lurches and Rayla whimpers, her fingers curling into the wood. "Sorry," she mutters. "I just—I need a minute."

"You can have all the minutes you want," says Soren. "There's no shame in it. It's okay to be scared."

"I'm not—"

"Yeah, you are."

"You're not helping."

"Neither is pretending you're not scared." Soren gives her a look. It's supposed to be stern, she thinks, but it's offset by the baitlings climbing over his arms. "Look, Rayla. I dunno who you think you're kidding, but like. There's no judgement here. It's okay."

"Oh, like you would know."

Soren gives her a look, and Rayla shuts her mouth immediately, more ashamed of herself for her callousness than for her fear of water. "Sorry," she says again. The sea lurches, and she pushes herself away from the edge of the dinghy, afraid, for a moment, that the ocean isn't pleased with her either and might just pluck her out of the rowboat itself. "I didn't mean it like that."

"How did you mean it?"

"I just—" Rayla presses her lips shut and buries her face in her hands. "You're you. You're confident and brash and kind of stupid—no offense. You don't know what fear is."

"Good to know you think I'm two-dimensional," says Soren, his voice dry but without malice. "Seriously, Rayla, it's okay. You don't have to be brave all the time."

"Yeah, I do." She huffs and stares up at darkening sky, her throat sore with the things she's too afraid to admit. "I'm a Moonshadow elf," she says at last. "I'm not supposed to show fear. We have this motto thing—I'm already dead—and it's supposed to keep us focussed on mission, and I can't even..." She wrinkles her nose. "Runaan was right about me. I hesitate too much. I don't know what the right thing to do is."

"I mean." Soren chuckles gently and nudges her arm again. "You didn't kill Ezran. You saved Zym. Now, you're beating yourself up about being scared hoping you might get over it. Those don't sound like wrong things to me."

"Hm." Rayla scoffs in spite of herself. "Stop trying to make me feel better. This is pathetic."

"To you, maybe," says Soren. "But I've been there too. I know what it is to be afraid. I'm not gonna blame you for that."

There's a pause. The ocean laps against the wood of the dinghy and one of the baitlings—Jellybug, Rayla thinks—flops out of Soren's hand and onto her lap.

"You're nicer than I thought you were," says Rayla at last.

"Well, thanks," laughs Soren. "And if it's anything to you, I think you Moonshadow elves have it all wrong."

"Why do you say that?"

Soren nudges her a third time and Sneezles tumbles out of his hands too. "Dead people can't help other people, but all you've ever done ever is help. So you can't be dead."

Rayla barks out a laugh, because it makes sense and it doesn't, and it's so ridiculous that she can't help but be comforted by it. She looks over the ocean again and feels it in her chest: she's still scared, but it's because she's alive, and that's okay. "Thanks Soren," she says at last, passing the baitlings back over to him.

Soren grins. "You good?" He asks again.

"Yeah," says Rayla, getting to her feet. The dinghy wobbles but she breathes out the fear and stares down at the sea. "I'm good."

[tiny-cloud-of-flowers]

is there truly any better feeling than sending your friends pictures of their F/Os when they least expect it