screw numbers!!!!

Hogwarts headcanon time:

Everyone seems to think that all the hidden corridors and moving staircases are intentional, because the founders were a bit insane (which is true). But what if most of it wasn’t intentional? What if it’s the cumulative result of generations of young witches and wizards learning magic and all the stray magic floating about?

Like, what if that one stair poor Neville keeps getting stuck in was the result of someone trying to pull a prank on their friend in 1824 and no one could figure out a counter curse? Or the moving staircases were the result of too many jinxes and missed spells and no one really knows why they move or when they started (but Hermione did find the first recorded instance of a moving staircase in 1532 in Hogwarts, a History)

I feel like all those quirks in the castle are much more the result of the school just being so saturated with magic and mischief that it’ll never be a remotely normal building again.

The Alex Foundation Dictionary

Ever wonder what it’s like to communicate with a parrot like Alex? Some labels we use with Griffin and Athena are the same as the English words, but a few are quite different!


A request for preening



This label was coined by Alex, who seemed to think that an almond in the shell looked like a cork but tasted like a cashew, or “nut.”



This label was coined by Alex and is thought to be a mix of banana and cherry, two fruits he already knew.

Keep reading

Request: Nobody’s Perfect

Request: Hey i really love your stories they make my day much better i just wanted to ask you if you could write an imagine based on jessie js song nobodys perfect deanxreader i would be really thrilled if you could make it happen P.S. i love your writing💖

Word Count: 1,907

Thank you so so much!! I hope you like it, and I hope you have an awesome day<333

The motel room door feels strangely imposing. It’s no taller than any other motel room door in the country, no wider, no darker or thicker or more dangerous. The steel numbers screwed into the door have no negative connotations to him, but nonetheless, it’s the most heart-wrenchingly daunting door he’s ever looked at.

He knocks twice, hand shaking. In fact, everything’s shaking – this is make or break, do or die, and he knows it. If this falls through, if he screws it up even more, if you refuse to talk to him, it’s all over and he’ll be left to rot in a pool of his own heartbreak until something euthanises him.

Okay, maybe that’s a tad overdramatic.

You answer the door after a few seconds, your wet hair wrapped in a towel. You’re already in your pyjamas – then again, it is almost four in the morning.

“Dean? What the hell are you doing here?” You demand. There’s nothing gentle about your tone, none of the fondness and love he’d half expected – more like wished for.

“I had to come see you.” He says, swallows, and tries again, “I had to set things straight.”

“We are straight, as far as I’m concerned,” You say, voice hard and toneless – you try to disguise the hurt behind it, but he knows you so well that he can see it anyway – “I know exactly what you think of me. There’s nothing else to it.”

You’re about to close the door, but something about the look on his face makes you pause and glance him up and down once more – he’s obviously been crying quite a lot, judging by the puffy red eyes, and he looks relatively sober by his standards. He’s exhausted and heartbroken – not that he can garner any sympathy from it. It’s his own fault you’re stood here.

“Fine. Whatever. Come in.” You sigh, stepping back and letting him in. He nods gratefully, stepping into the room – it’s small, as most single rooms are, but it’s warm with shower steam and smells a little like your shampoo.

“Dean? Sweetheart?” You call, peeking your head into the room, “What are you doing here?”

He looks up at you with glassy, tired eyes and sighs, “How’d you find me?”

“I heard the bartender mention a drunk guy in the cellar who wouldn’t leave.” You smile slightly, crossing over to him, “What’s wrong?”

He pauses, and looks up to the ceiling before taking a long drink from the bottle he’s holding, “Everything.”

“Everything?” You frown, “That’s bullshit.”

“Of course it’s bullshit. Everything’s bullshit.” He sighs, “I’m bullshit, and you’re bullshit, my whole life’s bullshit.” He makes a lazy swipe at you as you lean down and take the bottle from him, screwing it shut and placing it on top of a barrel.

“Come on, Dean. You need some sleep.” You offer him a hand, but he shakes his head and wobbles to his feet.

Once in the room, you close the door and let him hover awkwardly by the wall while you move to sit cross-legged on the bed, letting your hair down from the towel and rubbing it dry nonchalantly.

“So…?” You ask, raising an eyebrow at him. He sighs, rubs a hand over his face and eyes, casting his gaze to the floor.

“I owe you one hell of an apology.”

“Damn right, you do.” You say harshly, not even sparing him a glance.

You manoeuvre him out of the bar and into the Impala, depositing him in the back so he can slouch and climbing into the driver’s seat. You’ve only been driving for a minute, however, when he leans over and whispers into your ear, “I’m so sick of you.”


“I’m sick of you.” He says, almost spitting the words out as he becomes surer of them, “I hate the way you think you can make me better and change the world and fix things. I hate how you think you can actually improve things – me, Sam, hunting, whatever. I don’t get it, but it pisses me off. You’re not even that good at hunting, you know that?”

“Dean, shut up. You’re drunk.”

“Yeah, but I’m an honest drunk. I’m just stupid enough to tell you what I really think now.” He laughs harshly, like metal on metal, grating in your ears, “You’re a burden on me and Sam. We don’t say anything, because we’re polite, but we don’t particularly like having you around. You’re pretty much pointless – it was much smoother when it was just the two of us.”

“Is this your way of breaking up with me?” You ask, sparing him a glance in the rear view mirror as you fight back tears.

“No. This is my way of telling you the truth, and letting you decide what to do with it.” He chuckles.

“Whatever, Dean. Just shut up and sit back, okay? We’re almost there.”

“Good. I don’t want to be stuck alone with you anymore.” He spits, and you press your foot down harder on the accelerator in order to get there faster.

“I’m sorry, Y/N, I am. You have to believe me. Sometimes I just… I don’t know.” He says softly, equal parts desperate to get closer to you and terrified of scaring you off, “I wanted to make you tick. I thought… I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Oh, you made me tick all right.” You say, unfazed by his words, “So you meant what you said?”

“No! Of course I didn’t!” He insists, “Christ, Y/N. You’re a friggin’ incredible hunter – you should see the mess we’ve been since you left. If we bothered paying hospital bills, we’d probably be in the millions by now.”

“That’s not exactly hard.” You say offhandedly, but Dean only sighs.

“Please, Y/N, work with me here.”

“Why the hell should I, Dean?” You snap, “You broke my freaking heart that night. You knew exactly what you were doing, and you didn’t give a shit.”

“It’s not- that’s not- no…” He whispers, your scathing gaze withering him before you.

“Yes, Dean, that’s exactly what it was. You meant it because you wanted to hurt me.”

“I wanted to keep you safe!” He yells, “I wanted you as far away from me as possible so you didn’t die or worse!”

“Don’t feed me that bullshit!” You snap right back, “You’re so full of this self-righteousness, Dean Winchester, that you have no idea what is actually best for the people around you.” You stand up, advancing on him, “Maybe it’s your turn to hear some home truths, huh?”

“Dammit, Y/N.” He groans, rubbing his hands over his face, “It wasn’t about hurting you or keeping you away. You’re right. It’s because I was scared. I was selfish. I didn’t know what to do so I did the only thing I knew how to do and hurt you as badly as I could manage.”

Thankfully, he’s asleep by the time you get back to the motel and you get Sam to help you get him to bed, before climbing in beside him. As soon as you’re sure Sam’s sleeping, however, you slide back out of bed, write him a note, grab your stuff and go. You’re not willing to deal with his shit anymore – it’s been a long time coming, and you both know it.

You have to stop a few miles out of town and cry into your steering wheel until your lungs hurt and you can’t see straight anymore. You cry and cry, until the front of your shirt is soaked through and you’re starting to wonder if you’ll be able to stop – you don’t even know if you want to. For the first time in a long time, you feel totally and utterly alone.

By the time Dean sobers up, he’s already realised what he’s done. He explains it to Sam in a pathetic, hysterical, tear-filled way that terrifies his younger brother with how out of character if it. He reads the note, which simply says, You get your wish, Dean, and… and then that’s it. The years and years of admittedly imperfect but nonetheless incredible relationship between you, the trust, the everything… down the drain. He has no idea where you’d go – they’re all you have, and he knows it.

You stare at him for a moment, with a perfect stillness only betrayed by the slight tremor of your lower lip.

“What were you scared of?” You ask, voice softer this time and eyes shining with unshed tears.

“You. Me. Us. I don’t know.” He breathes, “It was going so well, Y/N. I could see a forever with you and I was so scared, I didn’t understand, I freaked out. I’ve never seen a forever with anyone before,” He sighs, leaning against the wall as if it’s his last support, “I didn’t want to lose you, so drunk me thought it would be a good idea to do it myself.”

“Drunk you is a complete moron.” You say softly, wiping your hands over your face. He smiles sadly.

“Don’t I know it.” He says, “I’m so sorry, Y/N.” He whispers, “I am. I owe you everything and all I’ve ever given you it shit. I don’t deserve you, but… I’d give anything to have you back. Anything.”

You sigh, running a hand through your wet hair, “I don’t know, Dean, I-“

Please, Y/N,” He begs, reaching out and grabbing your hand in both of his, “I’m begging you. One chance. That’s all I need; all it’ll take, I swear. I can be better, I will be better. Let me show you.”

“I don’t need you to be better.” You whisper, “I need you to be you. I need you to be happy. If I’m going to scare you and make you miserable, I can’t do this.”

“It wasn’t you. It was me.” He promises, “I’ve learned my lesson, Y/N. I’m going to treat you right, like you deserve to be treated. Please.”

You can’t help but smile at how earnest he is, and at the tiniest of nods the brightest smile breaks out on his face and he grabs you, pulling you into him in the tightest hug you’ve ever experienced. It takes your breath away in every sense of the word, but you don’t mind – he smells and feels like home, and it warms you through.

After he regains enough self-control to pull away from you, he smiles broadly, “I promise, Y/N, I’ll-“

“I know.” You offer, patting his cheek. You glance over at the clock, and finding it to be almost five, a (most likely psychosomatic) fatigue sets over you. You yawn, taking Dean by the hand.

“You’re not driving back now, right?”

“I… I don’t know. Am I?”

You laugh, “Of course you’re not. Anyway, I’ve already paid for the night.” You offer with a smile. He smiles right back, turning off the light and, before you can protest, picking you up like you’re no more than a child. He skilfully navigates the room in the darkness and, upon finding the bed, deposits you into the soft sheets before climbing in beside you.

“See? Just like old times.” He grins, and you can’t help but laugh, curling into him. You don’t voice the thought, but it occurs to you just how perfectly you fit together. He wraps his arms around you and right there, everything comes together – you’re both home.

For years I’ve squeezed myself into too-small pants because I couldn’t bear the number on the tag telling me I’ve gained weight.

But last week I went to the thrift store and got a sweet pair of high-waist jeans that actually fit me properly, even if the number on the tag is higher than I’m used to. Screw the numbers!

I also bought a crop top, because even though my tummy is bigger than it was when I started college, my body is healthier and I’m working on being happier with the way I look!