Temper (verb): to dilute, qualify, or soften by the addition or influence of something else

Dean is standing in the kitchen, leaning on the counter, drinking a beer, staring into nothingness, or maybe something only he can see. He’s stiff, shoulders tense. 

Castiel sees this from across the room–he sees it every time, knows the slight clench of the jaw that indicates something’s wrong. 

“Dean.”

Dean’s eyes flick up, drift back down, “Cas.”

Cas walks to the fridge, grabs his own beer. He pops off the cap the way Dean taught him, goes to stand by him, leaning against the counter next to him. 

Dean glances at him, his eyes wild in a post-hunt, post-near-death-experience haze. 

Cas puts a hand on his shoulder. 

Dean’s jaw unclenches.

my ao3 works page, if you’re into that

hey guys, this is my ao3 page and also my (new as of a few weeks ago) fanfic tumblr account! i would love it if you would give it a follow-- @one-more-offbeat-anthem <3

I am apparently working on becoming a local cryptid at the store. Talents include:

That is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me

Cheesewitching. I respect it.

Wish there were sweaters but like,for feet

socks

make your own post

Writing the year as 2,020 is technically correct but looks wrong

bro i hate to tell you this but your girl just teleported to my castle in wizard101

is he.... you know.... your narrative foil?

Nikki Giovanni (via quotemadness)

I just want Dean and Cas to be dating and then some nice old lady to realize they’re a couple and ask them how they met and before Dean can stop him, Cas says completely seriously. “I found him in hell. I gripped him tight and raised him from perdition. He was heavier than I’d anticipated”. And then Dean just

So, okay, fun fact. When I was a freshman in high school… let me preface by saying my dad sent me to a private school and, like a bad organ transplant, it didn’t take. I was miserable, the student body hated me, I hated them, it was awful.

Okay, so, freshman year, I’m deep in my “everything sucks and I’m stuck with these assholes” mentality. My English teacher was a notorious hard-ass, let’s call him Mr. Hargrove. He was the guy every student prayed they didn’t get. And, on top of ALL OF THE SHIT I WAS ALREADY DEALING WITH, I had him for English.

One of the laborious assignments he gave us was to keep a daily journal. Daily! Not monthly or weekly. Fucking daily. Handwritten. And we had to turn it in every quarter and he fucking graded us. He graded us on a fucking journal.

All of my classmates wrote shit like what they did that day or whatever. But, I did not. No, sir. I decided to give the ol’ middle finger to the assignment and do my own shit.

So, for my daily journal entries, over the course of an entire year, I wrote a serialized story about a horde of man-eating slugs that invaded a small mining town. It was graphic, it was ridiculous, it was an epic feat of rebellion.

And Mr. Hargrove loved it.

It wasn’t just the journal. Every assignment he gave us, I tried to shit all over it. Every reading assignment, everyone gushed about how good it was, but I always had a negative take. Every writing assignment, people wrote boring prose, but I wrote cheesy limericks or pulp horror stories.

Then, one day, he read one of my essays to the class as an example of good writing. When a fellow student asked who wrote it, he said, “Some pipsqueak.”

And that’s when I had a revelation. He wanted to fight. And since all the other students were trying to kiss his ass, I was his only challenger.

Mr. Hargrove and I went head-to-head on every assignment, every conversation, every fucking thing. And he ate it up. And so did I.

One day, he read us a column from the Washington Post and asked the class what was wrong with it. Everyone chimed in with their dumbass takes, but I was the one who landed on Mr. Hargrove’s complaint: The reporter had BRAZENLY added the suffix “ize” to a verb.

That night I wrote a jokey letter to the reporter calling him out on the offense in which I added “ize” to every single verb. I gave it to Mr. Hargrove, who by then had become a friendly adversary, for a chuckle and he SENT IT TO THE REPORTER.

And, people… The reporter wrote back. And he said I was an exceptional student. Mr. Hargrove and I had a giggle about that because we both knew I was just being an asshole, but he and the reporter acknowledged I had a point.

And that was it. That was the moment. Not THAT EXACT moment, but that year with Mr. Hargrove taught me I had a knack for writing. And that knack was based in saying “fuck you” to authority. (The irony that someone in a position of authority helped me realize that is not lost on me.)

So, I can say without qualification that Mr. Hargrove is the reason I am now a professional writer. Yes, I do it for a living. And most of my stuff takes authorities of one kind or another to task.

Mr. Hargrove showed me my dissent was valid, my rebellion was righteous, and that killer slugs could bring a city to its knees. Someone just needs to write it.

some sort of love poem

Reblog if you think it’s okay to platonically say “I Love You” to your friends

Slams the reblog button so damn fast

I one time did a campaign in DND where the entire party woke up in a trash heap, memories wiped, when a man in shining white armor approached them. He helped them up, healed them, and helped them escape what was essentially the dump and find their way into the sunlight. He told them of the tale of a wicked king of immense power who bargained for his abilities from a demon, hoping to save his kingdom, and succumbed to the evil after his wife died. The wife had a pearl necklace, and it was the man’s duty to find those pearls, because they held a magic in them that could defeat the king. 

This particular NPC was startlingly overpowered at first, right a long the levels of 6 while everyone else was just starting out, and he helped them along in the most dire situations, healing, defeating, and even resurrecting for them. There would be periods where he would be gone, and the party would have to face a crypt full of mummies together, or dive into the deepest parts of the ocean and retrieve these milky white pearls that would give them the ability to help their friend and defeat the wicked king. Slowly, their memories came back to them, and that was a stark comfort for them, but the entire time, there seemed to be a piece missing. 

After they retrieved 5 pearls (they broke the 6th one), they journied with the man to the wicked king’s castle, and fought their way through endless ranks of guards, undead, demons, and even a lich, until they made their way to the sacred bed chamber of the king, that they all remembered the story of from before they had awoken in that garbage pile. They opened the doors, only to find it empty, save the usual furniture, marred by scratches and the ancient scrawl of demons. The man in the white armor sighed and walked into the bedroom. 

And his armor changed from white to pitch black, and the whole party remembered suddenly. That was the face of the wicked king, the face that smiled at them whenever he healed them, the face that looked stern as they suggested stupids things to find the pearls. Apparently, in lapses of the demon’s control, the king had found a way to set him self up for defeat, by bringing his wive’s pearls along with brave, powerful warriors. Every absence he felt was where he had to return to the demon’s control and become the wicked king again, but he was determined to fight himself, to rid his own evil from the world, to end this curse of immortality and see his loved one again. 

I made the party fight the final boss, and they saw the eyes of a friend. 

They all cried, and I am no longer allowed to DM for them.

Explaining sensory discomfort like basically my nervous system is cringing

hmm. hm. think i will spend my entire life devoted to creating art and being as kind as i possibly can

And picking up cool sticks I find

INCREDIBLY VALID addition. thank u

Hey do y'all fucks remember two years ago when just before the election all these “don’t vote both parties are bad” or “vote independent!” Posts were going around and then Trump won and now two weeks before midterms there’s all these “don’t bother voting, revolution is the only way!” And “your vote isn’t gonna matter and is an ineffective way to protest” posts are going around? Yeah knock that shit right the fuck off, don’t fall for it and get your ass to the polls, we are not doing this again.