and it gets dumber every week!!!!

titanic-shoe  asked:

There's people stalking your posts about the Wendy's thing. Got a message a week or so ago trying to convince me how wrong it is to like that whole thing because the Anon felt it was sensationalizing child pornography. I had to think about that for a minute and remember, "oh yeah, this is Tumblr, they'd probably think it was CP of they ever found out the statue of Venus is of a 13-14 year old girl." Tumblr, getting dumber and dumber each year.

A person would really have to be one hell of a messed up little sociopath with NO life whatsoever to stalk a post, and contact every person that reblogs it.

Something tells me it might be the same person that claimed to be “friends” with me, accused me of being a pedophile (seriously, talk about a fucked up thing to accuse someone of), and claimed I commissioned shota in that other anon (and now the girl who published that anon no longer has an account, as I believe staff deleted it due to myself and at least one other person reporting that post).

So, if you’re the creepy little stalker accusing people of pedophilia over cartoon pinups of a clearly ADULT woman, you may wish to reconsider your actions, because if the people you accuse report you for it, your account WILL be deleted.

Imagine Playing Video Games with Castiel.

Word Count: 1234

“How can anyone be this bad at Mario Kart?” Dean asked, shoulder leaning against the door frame, lips hovering over the brim of his beer bottle. I was resisting the urge to throw my controller at him.

“Shut up, Dean. He’s a work in progress,” I snapped, my eyes finding their way back to Castiel’s confused expression. I have to turn this inept angel into a pro by the time Sam gets back with the pizza and beer. I agreed to take him on as my partner for the Mario Kart tournament and so far it was the worst decision I’ve made this week. And as someone who touched a cursed object just yesterday, that’s saying something.

“The arrow means you’re going the wrong way,” I told him, trying to keep my tone even. At this rate, it would take until the next apocalypse until he could so much as cross the finish line. As much as Dean is irritating, he was right. How could someone be this bad at Mario Kart?

“If clouds are just water vapor how can the little turtle man be standing on one?”

“Please just try to suspend your beliefs for a while. It’s a video game and not meant to be taken seriously.”

Castiel gingerly set down his controller and turned to look at me, cloudy blue eyes peering at me curiously. “Is everything alright? You seem troubled,” Castiel asked.

Truthfully, I was beyond troubled. I had the bright idea of making a little bet with Dean, not for one second (until now of course) considering I could lose. Winner of the Team Free Will Tournament, the name coined by Dean, gets to take the loser’s car out for a joyride. Something the both of us had be aching to do ever since we met in a dusty, little dinner right in the middle of Montana.

I’m wary of giving up the keys to anyone, let alone Dean. He’s capable of rebuilding any car from the ground up, but he sure knows how to tear down a vehicle too. I can’t say how many times I’ve cringed, knuckles white as I gripped the upholstery of the Impala, at the way he recklessly whips us around. He’s lucky he inherited such a sturdy set of wheels.

With all the accidents it’s been in, times it’s been crunched into an accordion, it’s a wonder the Impala didn’t get abandoned with lost hope, buried deep in some random junkyard. If I didn’t know Dean myself I’d say it was a miracle. Although, on second thought, I suppose he could fall into that category as well.

I know I should never have risked voluntarily letting Dean sit in the driver’s seat of my car, but I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to feel the rumble of a 67 Chevy Impala underneath me as I pressed further and further down on the accelerator. Just the thought of the windows rolled down all the way, flying down some empty highway with ACDC blasting through the speakers made my fingers itch for the feel of the steering wheel.

I always kicked ass at racing games, especially this one. I knew all the tricks and tips, the speed boosts, the secret shortcuts. It was something I knew I could beat Dean at every time, without a doubt. That was until he off-handedly suggested teams and I arrogantly agreed.

“I’m fine, Cas, just really excited for the competition,” I lied through my teeth. My face naturally scrunched together in an unpleasant manner when Dean snorted a laugh from behind us. I turned around to glare at him, my tongue hot with fury as I spat at him, “Don’t you have some daddy issues to drown in or something?”

Dean’s face morphed into cold stone, icily staring at me before sliding out of his position in between rooms to stiffly shrink away. My eyes caught Castiel’s on the way back to the screen. They were softer than I deserved and filled with the kind of concern that immediately made my stomach twist. A heat creeped onto my face, reflecting my instant regret for snapping at him.

The insufferable silence ended with Cas reaching to pick up his controller once more. “I would like to try again.”


I was trying my best to ignore the obvious tension in the room as I chewed on a slice of pizza, my form sunk into one chair and legs propped up on another. The crust felt like cardboard in my mouth but that might have been less because of an amateur chef and more to do with the aftertaste of guilt still sitting in my mouth. Dean hadn’t said a word to me since our exchange earlier.

We may have forgotten all about video games if it weren’t for Sam who was surprisingly eager to begin playing. He called us over so he could ‘start kicking our asses,’ as he put it. There was a fourth space on the couch next to Dean, but I decided it would be better if I sat down on the floor, leaning my back up against Castiel’s legs. He didn’t seem to mind.

The tournament was even worse than imagined it to be. I was getting first in every race but Castiel - bless his feathery ass - was coming in last every, single time. With each race I felt dumber and dumber for thinking he could be decent partner. We are talking about a guy who made the bunker smell like burnt popcorn for a week after he tried to use the microwave.

It was simply out of principle that I followed through with beating them at all the races, or as close as we could get to all of them. Just as I was rounding the last corner in Coconut Mall the screen flickered to blackness, along with the lights above us.

Dean cursed as he pulled out his phone, it’s blue glow illuminating the underside of his face, and muttered something about blowing a fuse. He got up, carefully stepping around me, and Sam soon followed after his older brother started yelling for the location of the flashlight.

I stood up and stretched, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the grey darkness. The lights down the hall were still on, casting a faint glow onto the side of Castiel’s face. “That was kind of weird,” I commented, watching as his eyes met mine briefly before dropping back down to the dead television screen.

“Ah, yes, very odd,” he agreed, despite his indifferent tone. In fact, he seemed relatively unphased by the whole ordeal, if not amused. I could feel the smile spreading across my face as I drew in a breath, almost laughing as I did so. Castiel, you son of a bitch.

“Cas, did you blow the fuse with your angel mojo?” I asked, my voice now a low whisper strung with laughter. He looked up and smiled sheepishly at me, the features of his face now more defined, his eyes shining more brightly.

“I was afraid you might be upset with me if you lost your favorite game on account of me,” he admitted.

I tucked my falling hair back behind my ear as I bent down and lightly pressed my lips to his stubbled cheek, still pulled into a smile, and said, “Cas, how could I ever be mad at you?”