beatifics

women & their sun beauty

aries: fiery attitudes, regal figures, sensitive eyes, lush cheeks.

taurus: ethereal faces, warm smiles, fresh skin, musical bodies.

gemini: mesmerising hair, rosy cheeks, picturesque figures, endless smiles.

cancer: soft smiles, kissable lips, sunkissed hair, feminine lashes.

leo: charismatic expressions, addictive eyes, audacious movements, royal lips.

virgo: angelic voices, daring eyes, soporific bodies, winsome expressions.

libra: lustful eyes, lady-like figures, floral scents, fairy lashes.

scorpio: enticing figures, rich expressions, beatific eyes, feline smiles.

sagittarius: cheerful laughter, full lips, wondrous skin, magnificent bodies, fearless eyes.

capricorn: pristine bodies, sensual movements, doll-like eyes, virtuous expressions.

aquarius: elegiac eyes, mysterious auras, magnetic bodies, pure skin.

pisces:  airy eyes, graceful bodies, dreamy expressions, heart-warming smiles.

Mother Teresa is going to be declared a saint... and she shouldn’t be

I’m not shocked but honestly I’m so disappointed. I’m a girl who grew up in Kolkata, someone who grew up hearing about Mother Teresa and to be honest I hate the fact that the liberal, white, Western media has held this woman as some sort of paragon of virtue. And she really wasn’t. Here are some things she did:

  1. She was so anti-abortion that she actually used her Nobel Peace Prize speech to rail against population control, family planning and abortion. 
  2. She supported Indira Gandhi’s declaration on the state of emergency in 1975, saying “People are happier. There are more jobs. There are no strikes.”
  3. She idolised poverty and suffering, stating that she thought it was beautiful that the poor had accepted their lot in life. But when it came to her, she would check herself into expensive clinics, in the West, in order to treat her own illnesses. 
  4. She was also associated with and supported corrupt businessmen such as Charles Keating and Robert Maxwell, as well as the dictatorial Duvalier family and Albanian dictator Enver Hoxha. 
  5. She encouraged members of her order to secretly baptise dying patients with no regard for their own faiths. 
  6. Her public image was super misleading because  only a few hundred people are served by even the largest of the homes. In 1998, among the 200 charitable assistance organisations reported to operate in Calcutta, hers wasn’t even ranked among the largest organisations- there were others doing a much better job.
  7. In 1991, a journalist visited the home and described the medical care the patients received as “haphazard” and he observed that sisters, who had no medical knowledge, had to make decisions about patient care, because of the lack of doctors there. 
  8. Her order did not distinguish between curable or incurable patients, so that people who could otherwise survive would be at risk of dying from infections and lack of treatment. She herself described her houses as the Houses of the Dying.
  9. She reinforced the popular colonialist image of the white woman giving up her life to save the souls of the “wretched” brown people.

There are more shady things about her but I’m over this beatification of Mother Teresa. I’m over her, and I’m over this constant fawning. Kolkata isn’t the “city where Mother Teresa lived”. It has it’s own identity and Mother Teresa doesn’t, at least in my opinion, deserve this honour that the Catholic Church is bestowing on her. 

Flirting is Hard When You’re Harry Potter

Original headcanon by @ harry-is-lily-ginny-is-james!!!

It’s still monday! …for a half an hour anyway. This one ended up being much bigger than I originally planned. I hope you like it~

(Now posted on AO3!)



“It’s all the paper talks about anymore,” Draco frowned, “Stupid Potter.”

“We’re agog,” Blaise said pouring himself and Draco a cup of coffee.

Pansy smothered a yawn and picked up a piece of toast, “Do tell.”

Draco folded his paper, eyes scanning past the picture to the drivel written below, “Potter’s going to join the auror’s, change the world,” he grumbled, “you’d think the sun shines out of his arsehole the way they go on about him.”

Pansy rolled her eyes.

“Couldn’t agree more,” A voice said behind him from the Ravenclaw table, “that Potter’s a total pillock.”

“Exactly-” Draco turned on his bench, his words choking off before they were halfway out of his mouth.

“I really don’t know what they see in him,” Potter said flatly, taking a massive bite of pancake.

Luna smiled absently at Potter’s side, “I don’t know, I’ve always thought he was quite nice.”

Potter picked up his pumpkin juice, “To-tal pil-lock.”

Draco felt his face go hot and he spun around back to his plate. Blaise quickly picked up his coffee cup to hide a growing smile. Pansy snorted, almost choking on her toast, she ducked her head and fumbled for her cup.

Draco grabbed his bag and left the table with an imperious sniff.

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Beneath This Scar | M

“Are you willing to stay by his side knowing what he truly is?”

Précis: It was supposed to be a story written only in fairytales, and somehow, you were destined to live it.

Note: Inspired by the movie Wolf Children, totally different from this fic tho, so no need to worry. this was supposed to be 3k what happened-

Genre & Warnings: Angsty, alotta fluff, mentions of blood & implied smut. | Words ➳ 10.3k


To you, he was something you would have never known could actually exist.

He was as mysterious as they would come, holding his pencil in a way so elegant that you didn’t know was possible, the look of boredom sprouting through his features as he scrunched his nose in concentration; ears twitching while he tried to draw something perfect and pleasing to his eyes. You watched him sketch with such wonder in your irises, and even though you wondered how he could draw while ignoring the professor speak and try to teach his students about the basic wonders of the world — you hadn’t known that whilst watching the boy draw, you were also in a little world of your own and not paying attention yourself.

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Melted

AN: You should be warned…this fic is almost 6,000 words of Nessian. Most of that is smut. NSFW. This is the longest single fanfiction I have written on this site. This turned out to be so much more fun than I thought it was, and I totally ended up loving them and exploring who they are the dynamic between them. They are very new characters for me to be writing and I haven’t uite gotten the hang of them yet but…holy cow. This was fun. This was inspired by @blogtealdeal ’s post which you can find here. This is also dedicated to the other two thirds of the Night Court Queens, @illyriantremors and @kitashiwrites . Also, yes, you can have your virginity taken and feel no pain. Ask my roommate ;) Also this fic doesn’t 100% make sense with the timeline: just pretend. <3 And enjoy!

Nesta was thoroughly unimpressed.

First she’d been angry. Furious. Livid. Seeing Elain break down in the corner of the cabin they were essentially being held captive in had made her blood boil. Literally. The first time Elain had broken down and cried, Nesta had accidentally charred the edges of her own dress, the chiffon smoking beneath her fingertips.

Curse her Fae body.

Curse the Cauldron.

Curse the Mother for letting this happen to her. For letting this happen to Elain.

For letting this happen to Feyre.

A small part of her wanted to blame her youngest sister for all of this. A small voice in her head still whispered If she and her High Lord hadn’t come slinking around and used us to get to the mortal queens, none of this would have happened.

But with that voice spoke another in answer, one that she’d ignored for too long. One that she couldn’t ignore any longer.

If you’d taken some of the responsibility for feeding your younger sisters, Feyre would never have entered Prythian in the first place.

And now…now that she had to control her anger so she didn’t accidentally burn the place down, now that she and Elain were stuck in this melty, drippy world that promised spring, now that the terror of becoming Fae had worn off…

She was unimpressed.

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annawrites  asked:

i've enjoyed your prompt fills so much, thank you for sharing them!! if you feel like it: chef!andrew trying (and failing) to woo picky eater neil with fancy food? :)

The thing about growing up on the run is that you never really develop a palate.

You eat what’s there to be eaten, whatever you manage to stuff in your pockets while your mother distracts the cashier trying to haggle for cigarettes, as if it’s anywhere near possible to haggle in a 7/11.

You eat school lunches, bland chicken nuggets and congealed mac and cheese and unseasoned carrots with those little close to expired fruit cups with the peaches and cherries and simple syrup.

You drink gas station coffee—maybe it stunts your growth, but you drink it anyway—and fill old plastic water bottles from drinking fountains or public restroom sinks.

At least, that’s what Neil tries to explain to Matt one day, when Matt invites Neil to his favorite restaurant in his hometown. It just so happens that Matt’s hometown is New York City, and the chef at this place has a Michelin star, but Neil isn’t on the run anymore and his paycheck is hefty enough that he can afford it.

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anonymous asked:

I need help to describe face expression and the voice of my characters.

Words used to describe facial expressions:

  • Absent
  • Agonized
  • Appealing
  • Beatific
  • Black
  • Bleak
  • Blissful
  • Brooding
  • Bug-Eyed
  • Chagrined
  • Cheeky
  • Cheerless
  • Choleric
  • Coy
  • Crestfallen
  • Curious
  • Darkly
  • Deadpan
  • Derisive
  • Despondent
  • Doleful
  • Downcast
  • Dreamy
  • Ecstatic
  • Etched
  • Expressionless
  • Faint
  • Fixed
  • Glazed
  • Flowering
  • Grave
  • Haunted
  • Hostile
  • Impassive
  • Jeering
  • Languid
  • Meaningful
  • Mild
  • Mischievous
  • Mobile
  • Mona Lisa
  • Pained
  • Pitying
  • Pleading
  • Quizzical
  • Radiant
  • Roguish
  • Sardonic
  • Set
  • Shamefaced
  • Slack-jawed
  • Sly
  • Smiley
  • Straight-Faced
  • Sullen
  • Taut
  • Thoughtful
  • Tight-Lipped
  • Unblinking
  • Unreadable
  • Vacant
  • Wan
  • Wanly
  • Wide-Eyed
  • Wild-Eyed
  • Withering
  • Wolfish
  • Worried
  • Wry

Words to describe voices:

  • Adenoidal
  • Appealing
  • Breathy
  • Brittle
  • Croaky
  • Dead
  • Disembodied
  • Flat
  • Fruity
  • Grating
  • Gravelly
  • Gruff
  • Guttural
  • High-Pitched
  • Hoarse
  • Honeyed
  • Husky
  • Low
  • Matter-of-Fact
  • Modulated
  • Monotonous
  • Nasal
  • Orotund
  • Penetrating
  • Plummy
  • Quietly
  • Raucous
  • Ringing
  • Rough
  • Shrill
  • Silvery
  • Singsong
  • Small
  • Smokey
  • Soft-spoken
  • Stentorian
  • Strangled
  • Strident
  • Taut
  • Thick
  • Thin
  • Throaty
  • Tight
  • Toneless
  • Tremulous
  • Wheezy

These were my sources. Visit them for more information on these words and a wider variety of words.

anonymous asked:

Prompt - Even doesn't have anything to wear because Isak takes all his clothes and doesn't do laundry

I gotchu anon :P :P I know you’ve been waiting for this one for awhile hahaha hope you enjoy!!

———————–

God give him the patience to deal with Isak sometimes.

It’s not that he doesn’t love Isak- he does. He loves every hair on his head and every quirk of his cupid’s bow lips. He loves his shitty taste in movies and his insistence on surviving on nothing but beer, weed, kebabs, and general bitchiness. 

But what he does not love about Isak is his complete inability to remember to do the laundry.

Not even that- it wouldn’t be a problem if Isak just wore his own clothes.

“Son of a bitch,” Even murmurs to himself, holding up one of the many hoodies he had packed on his bid to spend the week at Isak’s. It was his green one, soft and threaded and it was fucking dirty.

It smelled like Isak- like weed-tinged sweaty teenage boy. And while generally- yeah that fucking does it for Even; gets him turned on like a mother fucker-

He’s supposed to have dinner with his parents tonight and this was the only article of clothing he had banked on being clean. And he can only picture the look on his parent’s face if he were to show up for dinner smelling of weed and boy.

 “Isak!” Even’s voice is riding the edge of being fondly exasperated and annoyed as fuck- but fondly annoyed as fuck because it’s Isak.

There’s a pause, then a small thump, and the sound of the shower turning off. “What?”

“I need to borrow some clothes. Somebody wore my hoodie and didn’t wash it,” Even stared pointedly out at the hallway despite knowing that Isak had no way of seeing him, “Where’s your clean stuff?”

“Uh-” And Even sighs, already knowing the answer to the conundrum, “I think I forgot to do this week’s load?”

“So lucky he’s cute,” Even throws the dirty hoodie down on the bed, and raises his voice again. “Do you think Eskild owns things in my size?”

There’s another thump and a curse and then Isak is strolling into the room in nothing but a towel and a furrow between his brows. “You can’t wear Eskild’s stuff.”

Even tries not to stare at the water droplets running down Isak’s chest. (But they are there and their dripping down the center of Isak’s chest where Even’s tongue had been this morning-)

“Why not?”

Isak looks at him like he’s an idiot, “Yeah I’m going to let my boyfriend wear another guy’s clothes.”

Even raises a brow, “How many articles of clothing in your closet are Jonas’s?”

“That’s different,” Isak says after a moment’s hesitation and the furrow is back in his eyebrow and even wants to smooth it out with a kiss but he needs something to wear damnit, “Jonas is Jonas. He doesn’t count.”

“Oh no?” Even moves towards Isak, leaning in to nip quickly at the hollow of his throat before pulling back. Isak huffs, but angles a bit more towards him, “You don’t think it gets on my nerves when you wear one of Jonas’s shirts?”

Isak looks at him like he’s never even thought it over, “Does it?”

Even hold his gaze for an intense few moments, before rolling his eyes, “We wouldn’t be in the predicament if you just did the laundry.”

“I forgot,” Isak groaned, looking around the room, “I can do it right now.”

“We have to be dinner with my parents in an hour.”

Isak grins, “You could just wear nothing? I wouldn’t mind that.”

Even rolls his eyes again, “The streets of Oslo have seen enough of this naked bod.”

“Maybe Oslo has,” Isak leans up to press a kiss in the sensitive skin behind Even’s ear and lets the sentence hang.

Even pulls back, “I want you to know that your attempts at distraction are terrible. But I missed you today so I’m going to pretend that they are working. And then I’m going to ask Eskild for clothes.”

Isak tilts his head and smiles beatifically. 

(Even ends up wearing the hoodie because Isak glowered at every outfit of Eskild’s he had tried on. Even puts up with a lot of shit sometimes.)

vaeveritas  asked:

I attended a Roman church today instead of my normal Byzantine church, the priest's entire homily seemed heretical since he said that in Matthew 15:21-28 Jesus was outsmarted and shamed by the canaanite woman. That goes against how this was taught at my church, and I wanted clarification

Hello,

It sounds like the priest was educated in a “low Christology.” That means that he was taught that Jesus is Lord and God, but in His human life on earth, He made Himself ignorant of many things so that He would find out things like a typical human, through trial and error.

The traditional way of preaching about Jesus, from a “high Christology” assumes that Jesus could see His Father during His lifetime, and as a result of this, Jesus had perfect knowledge of the Father’s plan, and of future events. 

From a “high Christology” we conclude that Jesus knew the heart of the Canaanite woman. He knew she would persevere in faith and insist on asking for her daughter to be healed. Based on this foreknowledge, we see Jesus as testing the woman, pushing her to see whether she was asking out of faith that He is God’s Son, or because she only saw Jesus as a wonder worker, who did marvels.

When she persists on pointing out that even dogs get to eat the scraps from their master’s table, Jesus could proclaim that even though she was a foreigner, she could receive God’s favor by faith. 

He pointed out to the witnesses, as it were, that she was indeed a good disciple, because she approached Him as Master, and wanted to submit to the Gospel and to Him as Lord. Jesus set up this scene, to make her an example before the unbelieving people of Israel to whom He was preaching.

On the other hand, a priest trained in the theology of a low Christology, would see Jesus as genuinely not knowing the Canaanite woman at all. In fact, from the point of view of low Christology, not only is Jesus ignorant about the woman and her faith, but He is prejudiced against her, like other people of Israel. It was the practice of the people of Israel to refer to foreigners and Gentiles as “dogs.”

So when the Bible speaks of Jesus’ reaction to her faith, the outlook of low Christology says that Jesus was very surprised, or taken aback, by her faith. He was not expecting her reaction. 

In the theological thought of a low Christology, Jesus thought He was just going to ignore or dismiss her, and instead she had a good comeback as to why her daughter should be healed. 

This pithy response of the Canaanite “taught Jesus a lesson” about being open and seeing that even the Gentiles could have faith. In a sense, she is said to have schooled Him on these matters.

The thinking of low Christology, to a certain extent, is compatible with orthodox Catholic belief, when Jesus is presented as being limited in knowledge, but still wiser and more knowledgeable than the rest of humanity. 

However, when taken too far, to where Jesus is held to be ignorant and erroneous in many matters, even religious matters, it departs from traditional Christian preaching. It can even be nonsensical. I mean, how could a Jesus who is so ignorant, then tell the woman that her daughter is healed? If He is so ignorant, was that just a good guess?

I also get upset when I hear certain homilies which portray Jesus as having to be taught, and having to learn from people, as if He can at the same time preach the mysteries of the Kingdom, and then be so ignorant of the Kingdom. God bless and take care, Fr. Angel

Have you seen this gif? I was tagged in a post with this gif (and have since lost that post somewhere in my hoards of likes, oops) and let me tell you, my life was enriched for having seen it.

So here’s an AU:

Graves is a celebrity with everything that entails: tv appearances, photoshoots, even just going up on stage to receive an award. He has a whole team dedicated to managing his life and his appearance including this one guy on the makeup team, this young guy with the curly hair who’s just starting out and is terrified of doing something wrong and getting fired from his first big job.

And honestly, Newt doesn’t mean to get things wrong. But. One of the dogs was sick, and he had to clean it up and stay long enough to make sure she was ok, he couldn’t just leave her until he knew she was alright - but work - but dog - in the end he sneaks Niffler the dog into the back room and hopes no one notices and stammers his way through an apology for being late. And his budgie, little blue and yellow guy called Pickett, he has attachment issues - birds are really intelligent, you know? Much more so than we give them credit for. So Newt sneaks him in and he’s usually so good about staying out of the way, but sometimes he sits on Newt’s ear and preens his tousled mop and that’s just a thing. And the cats, Newt has a lot of cats - to be honest he doesn’t even mean to have a lot of cats but somehow he keeps adopting strays - and do you know how hard it is to get cat hair off your clothes? Hard.

So there’s Newt, stumbling over his words with a bird on his shoulder and cat hair over his clothes and a cocker spaniel hiding in the back room and he’s only meant to be sweeping up and handing people things, that’s all he’s meant to do.

Except Graves points at him and asks him if he’s new. And then, because Newt blushes scarlet and he really is far too cute to overlook, Graves waves him over.

“Show me what you’ve got,” he says with a challenging smirk and Newt kind of just dies? because? Percival fucking Graves is god’s gift to mankind and Newt gets to style his actual hair that’s it, he’s reached nirvana, goodbye budgie-Pickett Newt has ascended to a higher plain.

He doesn’t actually remember much of the experience because he was too busy floating on a cloud of happy (interspersed by random bouts of fear because what if Graves doesn’t like it and Newt gets fired and never gets to touch this amazing man again what will he do) but somehow he ends up waiting in the wings with Niffler the spaniel sitting on his feet and Pickett the budgie on his shoulder and somehow Niffler’s stolen not one but three of the makeup brushes and is chewing on them which probably isn’t good, but Graves is on stage now and that’s all that matters.

“Looking good,” the presenter compliments him, and Graves responds by staring out to the audience and running his tongue over his lip jesus christ Newt has been revived from death-by-hair only to die again how much more can he take.

Except. Except then. Just at the end Graves flicks his gaze to the side and looks Newt straight in the eyes. He finishes with this satisfied little smirk and Newt actually crouches on the floor and hides behind Niffler because holy fucking hell wHAT.

Niffler, the traitor, trots out onto the stage and presents a well chewed brush to Graves while Newt attempts to hide behind a lighting rig and pretend he doesn’t exist.

“A new admirer?” the presenter jokes. “She’s a cutie, isn’t she?”

And Graves, clearly not content with the extent to which Newt’s brain has been scrambled, smiles this beatific, conspiratorial smile as he kneels down and scratches Niffler behind the ear, does he have any idea how much Newt loves people who love his dogs, because it’s a lot, ok, a lot, and says:

“You should see her master, he’s adorable.”

And that. Just. Cannot cope.

Newt out.

I did a quick drabble for @krusca who shares wonderful art with us and deserves nice things.  

“We should get married,” Steve said, wearing a wide, goofy grin as he leaned his elbows on the table and wiped his hands with the napkin Tony had thrown his way.

“Because I make a mean manicotti?” Tony asked.  The espresso machine was brewing, making a low, whistling sound that made Clint cough something that sounded an awful lot like Pavlov whenever he heard it.  

“Because we’d be good together,” Steve replied, still beaming at Tony, who couldn’t help but return the smile, shaking his head as he did.  “We are good together.”

“What with all of our shared life experiences?” Tony retorted with a low huff of disbelief, then made a happy, humming noise when the espresso machine clicked off.  “Come on, old man.  The park thing with the flowers?  That was Lang’s idea, wasn’t it?”

“He wasn’t supposed to actually be on the flowers,” Steve muttered.

“That whole post-battle thing with the fire hydrant going off and it was all wet and very Notebook-y and, don’t get me wrong, I was this close to offering to build you the house of your dreams, but, you know, one of these days, some tabloid or gossip rag’s going to hear you, take you seriously and then you’ll have to make an honest man out of me,” Tony warned with what he meant as a leer, though his face felt tight, unnatural, like it didn’t quite want to follow through on what his brain was telling it to do and ended up caught halfway to something else entirely.

“I’m trying,” Steve told him, the grin dropping off his face.  It was theoretically possible he was actually listening to what Tony was saying, Tony figured, in the flash of seconds before the beatific smile was back, this time more practiced, though, the kind of smile that held a giant you-can-all-kiss-my-ass behind it.  Tony thought it might be his favorite.  Not that he…cataloged Steve’s smiles. Which would be weird.  And was something he was definitely not doing. “Maybe they will hear. I wouldn’t care.”

“Flattered as I am,” Tony began, taking a sip of his espresso and letting it roll around his tongue before swallowing.  Something flickered across Steve’s face, and he dropped his eyes down to his empty plate for a moment before raising them back to Tony.  “We can’t have your reputation suffering by association, Cap. Besides, I did defiling an American icon when I was sixteen and got to third base with Sandra Boswell on top of Dad’s roadster.  Please don’t look for deeper meaning in that.  It was close and wipeable.”

“Why would my reputation suffer?” Steve asked.  “You’re a great catch.  Smart. Funny.  Handsome.  Look at all you’ve done, not just for us, but with the Maria Stark Foundation. That thing at MIT.  The clean energy, intellicrops, the—“

“Pepper send you the PR brochure?” Tony snorted.  

“You’re a good man, Tony. Sorry.  I don’t mean to…make you uncomfortable,” Steve replied, a bit haltingly, frowning around the words.  

“Ah, Cap, don’t do that. With the…the kicked puppy face thing. You’re killing me,” Tony said as lightly as he could manage.  His chest was tight and his stomach was doing that swooping thing it did whenever Steve complimented him, which, come to think of it, was a lot lately.  Guy probably had it on one of his to-do lists. Say Something Nice About Tony. Check. “Wanna watch a movie?  Nothing romantic.  You might get ideas,” Tony laughed, coughing and wiping a hand over his mouth as he did because it sounded wrong.  Less like a laugh and more like…something that wasn’t a laugh at all.  “Something really disturbing and deeply unsettling, like, I don’t know, Alien or the one where the woman wants to screw the animated bee.”

“Okay, Tony,” Steve said, the smile back, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes, Tony noticed.

like lightning

it all comes down to whether or not you give a damn. for ria. xx


One dull and dreary day in late September, James finally gets sick of waiting.

(that’s not true at all; he could honestly wait for her forever.)



Dark clouds crawl across the sky, thunder rumbles ominously in the distance, but she’s laughing, joking about finishing their patrol outside before the heavens open and it’s the best sound he’s ever heard and he can’t hold back anymore.

He catches her hand suddenly, and she whirls around, her hair tracing a graceful arc in the air.

“James? What—”

“I love you,” he shouts into the howling wind. Part of him hopes desperately that the brewing storm drowned him out; that she hadn’t heard such a brusque confession from him, that he has a chance to confess more romantically.

(another part hopes that she heard because damn, that was terrifying to say.)

He waits; he’s not sure if it’s approaching thunder or his own heartbeat, but there’s a thudding in his ears and he can’t breathe.

Lily drops his hand and he has his answer.



The rain pours.



“Well, what was I supposed to say?”

Even with her head buried under a pillow, her dorm mates decipher the muffled moans of anguish.

Anything’s better than ‘thank you’. I mean, really, Lils?” Marlene tuts and Lily screams into her mattress.

‘I love you, too,’ probably would’ve been a good place to start,” Mary suggests offhandedly.

Lily huffs as she surfaces and sits up. “But I don’t, though.”

Mary, by now accustomed to the ongoing drama of Lily and James’ relationship, simply rolls her eyes, sighs in resignation and continues her Transfiguration homework.

Quirking a brow, Marlene says sceptically, “Okay.” Lily slumps back onto the bed in defeat, and she repeats, quieter, “Okay.”



They suffer through about a week of painful awkwardness before he catches her alone.

“Listen,” James turns away from her, his hands shoved uneasily into his pockets. “About… the other day. We can just, y’know, forget it. Pretend it didn’t happen. If you want.”

She watches as he gently kicks at the castle walls. She’s not sure why, but something tightens inside her painfully.

(she could start something here, she could say, no, let’s not pretend…)

(she could, she could, but she doesn’t.)

“Okay,” she whispers to her toes.

She feels, rather than sees, his body deflate. He exhales, long and slow.

“Okay,” his voice cracks, and something inside her does, too.



Please don’t tell us you said ‘thank you’ again.”

Lily sniffs irritably. “Of course not.”

“Then…?”

“… I said… ‘okay’,” Lily admits and prepares to dodge pillows turned into projectile weapons, but they never come. Instead, Mary drops next to her on her bed and wraps her arms around her. “Mary?”

“It’s going to hit you one day, Lily,” she whispers. “There’s going to be a moment where you have to decide if you give a damn about this, about him, and you have to brave enough to admit that you do.”

“It’s going to hit you,” Marlene says gently as she sits on Lily’s other side, “and it’s probably going to hurt.”

The girls sit there, arms in a tangled mess, until Lily breaks the silence, her voice barely audible.

“It hurts now.”



One dull and dreary day in early October, Lily takes James’ hand. She traces his palm with her fingertips, feels his pulse quicken and stutter under his skin, although it’s hard to distinguish between his and hers.

Finally, she admits quietly, “I don’t know if I can say it.”

“Say what?” The huskiness of his voice does little to calm her.

“You know what,” she mumbles, ashamed that she can’t even vocalise it as a hypothetical.

“That’s not…” he ran his free hand through his hair, “that’s not the reason I told you I love you, Lily. I said it because it’s true and I thought it was the right time to tell you which, given everything that’s happened since then, probably wasn’t actually a good time…”

She watches him ramble on adorably, his hand still in his hair, a trademark gesture of nervousness; his glasses are lopsided and sliding down his nose. Everything about him is so perfectly James, the mere idea of losing him stings.

And that’s when it happens.

Oh. Oh.

And it doesn’t hurt (in fact, it makes everything stop hurting); it hits her like lightning, starting like a spark in her chest and growing and blooming until her whole body feels tingly and alive. She glances down at their hands, still connected, and squeezes tightly.

James stops ranting to look at her. “Lil?”

She shyly lifts her eyes up to his, bright green meeting warm hazel, and smiles beatifically.

“I love you,” she yells. There’s neither thunder nor a roaring wind to compete with, but she wants to make sure he hears her, wants her words to ring in his ears forever.

His smile grows slowly, broadening into the widest, cheekiest grin she’s ever seen on his face. He pulls her flush against him and she laughs delightedly at his response.



“Thank you!”

Flufflet #3 for @lifeinahole27 as a reward for writing her CSBB!

Sometime after the season 6 finale, the gang decides to look into the whole “song inside me” thing, and Blue is able to return their memories of the whole debacle.


“I can’t believe we forgot all this,” Snow said, almost whispering.

“It was necessary,” Blue said, like that explained everything, which it didn’t. But this was Blue, so it was about as good of an explanation as anyone was ever going to get.

“Yeah, well, it was a memory I could have done without,” Regina said, as though she had a bad taste in her mouth. “Me, singing and dancing like some kind of …”

"Don’t say it,” David warned.

“Disney character,” Henry finished. “I wish I could have seen it and heard it. All I have is the page here.”

“Look,” Emma said. “What matters is that all of your songs–the happy ones, the sad ones, the angry ones–all of them, that’s what I needed to keep the Black Fairy from crushing my heart. So even if you’re embarrassed now, I’m grateful.”

Snow and David smiled almost beatifically, and Regina sighed. Zelena shrugged. “I’ve nothing to be embarrassed about; I sounded fantastic.”

“Better than me?” David challenged.

“I think the Rabbit Hole does karaoke,” Snow said. “If we want to find out.”

Emma snickered at the thought of her dad and Zelena going head to head in a karaoke competition. Killian, though, was uncharacteristically silent.

Actually, he’d been quiet the whole time. She turned to look at him, but he refused to meet her gaze, staring at Blue instead. Weird.


“So, what’s wrong?” she asked as she plopped down on the bed and watched as he finished pulling on his pajamas.

“What’s that, love?”

“What’s wrong? You’ve been acting weird since Blue gave you guys your … musical memories back. Why?” She paused. “Was your song embarrassing or something?”

“No.”

“Well, I know you can’t be insecure about your singing voice. You already know I think you’ve got a sexy one.”

He chuckled. “No.”

“Well, what then? And don’t tell me you’re not upset because we both know you are.”

He sighed as he climbed into bed and pulled her into his arms. “All right, but it’s … odd, I suppose.”

“I’m the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming and I’m married to Captain Hook. My closest friends are the Evil Queen, and her sister, the Wicked Witch, and Belle from Beauty and the Beast. I think I’m good with odd.”

“Not sure it’s the same variety of odd, love, but fair enough.”

“Just tell me.”

“I’m trying to.” He paused. “You recall your parents and Regina discussing their musical tete-a-tete?”

“Yeah.” God, she would have paid so much money to see that.

“They showed up at the tavern I was drinking at, offered me all the gold and jewels I wanted, and asked for me to take them to Regina. I refused their payment, insisting the only thing that would satisfy me would be my revenge.”

“And by insisting, I’m assuming …”

“Aye, I may have insisted rather musically,” he admitted.

“So you’re upset because you refused?”

“No, I agreed,” he said. “They realized I wanted revenge on the Dark One and told me they had him prisoner. We struck a deal, and I brought them to Regina as requested.”

“Okay.” Was he upset that her parents had almost been complicit in him murdering Gold? That he’d brought them to Regina like they’d asked? “I don’t get what’s wrong,” she admitted.

“I–” He took a deep breath. “It’s just so strange.”

“Killian–”

“Emma, you were there.”

“I–what? No, I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were.”

Oh. Oh.

“So you’re upset because you bumped into my mom when she was pregnant with me?”

“I’m not upset,” he corrected. “It’s just odd, isn’t it? Here I am, singing about how all I care about is revenge, and my unborn wife is right there.”

She couldn’t help it. She wished she could have, with her husband sitting next to her, clearly struggling with the whole scenario. She should have been supportive and understanding.

But she couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing.

“Oi, this isn’t funny, Swan.” The giggles would not stop. “Swan, please, you can’t tell me you don’t find this at least slightly strange!”

“Oh come on,” she said, trying to regain her breath. “Killian, you’re, like, three hundred years older than I am and that hasn’t mattered to either of us.”

“But this is different!”

“Not that different.” She burst out laughing again. “Oh my god, you, like … practically serenaded me while I was in the womb!”

“It wasn’t a serenade, and I wasn’t–love, you must stop laughing.”

“Sorry, I’m sorry!” But she couldn’t.

He sighed angrily and moved away, turning to shut off the lamp on his nightstand. “Well, good night, then.”

“Killian, come on.” Okay, it was less funny now. Still funny, obviously, but with how upset he was getting, she needed to cut it out. “Look, it’s really not that weird.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Will it be weird when I get pregnant to sing to our unborn kid?” He didn’t answer. “Because that’s a normal thing, you know? And then they come out and grow up into adults, and you don’t sit there feeling weird that you used to sing to them before they were born.”

Not that she’d had any experience in that area. Even if she hadn’t had a cellmate in juvie, she probably wouldn’t have tried singing to her baby bump. But that had been a different situation; if Neal hadn’t given her up, and they’d stayed together, the two of them would definitely have done it.

“I know that’s different,” she said, when Killian didn’t respond. At least her giggles had subsided. “Because it’s your kid and not your future spouse. But still, it’s really not that weird.”

“No, that’s not it.” His voice was tentative, like he was unsure of what he was about to say. “Just … when you get pregnant?”

She froze. She’d made offhanded references to hypothetical siblings for Henry, but at no point had she explicitly told Hook that she wanted more kids. And now it had just kind of slipped out, and not in a way that she would have wanted to put it when she eventually brought it up.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I know we haven’t talked about it. I shouldn’t have said it.”

“No, no.” And now his arms were around her again. “You want more children, Emma?”

“I mean … yeah, I do. I guess we should have talked about it before we got married and stuff.”

“Because you believe that I’m not interested in having children with you?”

“I didn’t say that,” she pointed out. “Just, you’ve told me that Milah never wanted more kids and you were fine with that.”

“I loved Milah deeply,” he said. “I knew that being with her meant that my only experience as a father would be if we went back for Baelfire, and I was willing to accept that life. But it wasn’t because I didn’t want children of my own.”

“Oh.”

His arms tightened around her. “Swan, I would love to have children with you. More than anything.”

“Oh?” Her heart beat faster.

“Mmhmm.”

“Okay, but you have to promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“You’ve got to sing that song for me.”

Kiss Me Not -Part 7-

Sorry last chapter was a bit confusing, this ought to clear things up. and thank you so very much for reading, I wasn’t sure serializing on tumblr would work out but the response has been quite lovely so far! Love you lots ♡♡♡

Find Part One Here!


“What do you suppose Malfoy meant?” Ron asked fighting back a yawn as they headed down to breakfast.

Harry shrugged, “I don’t know.”

Hermione pulled open her bag as they walked, fishing inside the unfathomable depths to retrieve a rather daunting medical text, “Did you try asking him?”

“Would have if he hadn’t avoided me like the plague,” Harry said grumpily, “I just-” he frowned.

“What?” Ron asked.

Harry nodded towards the doors to the great hall from which loud shouts and chatter spilled out. Harry started to hang back and Ron fell back with him so Hermione peered around the doorframe. She frowned and looked up, stepping further into the room. An owl that had been perched in the rafters swooped down and dropped a folded Prophet to her. With paper in hand, she stepped back into the hall.

“The Prophet?” Ron asked.

Hermione quickly unrolled it, “They’re all reading it.”

“Not the Prophet,” Harry bemoaned, already anticipating the worst.

The main headline was: Exclusive! A Real Life Fairy-Story?!, the header below that: Harry Potter Can’t Kiss! The Amazing Story of the Princess and the Priestess Come to Life! The story was full of interviews with people Harry had tried to kiss, along with the complete retelling of the fairytale and some light conjecture by the reporter P.P. In addition to two photos of Harry and an illustration from a children’s book, the whole thing took up the entire front page of the paper.

“Rough luck, mate,” Ron said grimly.

Hermione gave him a conciliatory look, “It’s amazing it took this long for someone to work it out really, with the number of people you’ve tried to kiss.”

“Thanks that really helps,” Harry said sarcastically.

Hermione made a face at him and went on pointedly, “And it wasn’t written by Skeeter, she would have blown it entirely out of proportion. This is fairly accurate and pretty well written really, for the Prophet anyway. I wonder if this P.P. is a new reporter.”

“Pansy Parkinson,” Harry said flatly.

“Her? Really?” Ron asked, leaning on Harry’s shoulder to get a better look.

Harry nodded, remembering the pointed look she had shared with Blaise after trying to kiss him and the two of them with their notebook in Charms yesterday, probably working out the article together.

As if summoned, Pansy’s excited giggle proceeded her through the doorway with Blaise by her side. It took the two of them a while to realize they were being stared at and by whom but once they did they froze.

“You wrote this?” Harry pointed to the newspaper.

Pansy tried to surreptitiously shift the paper she was holding slightly further back and behind her leg, “Where in the world would you get an idea like that?”

“The party,” Harry ticked off on his fingers, “The two of you working on it in Charms, the initials.”

Blaise smirked, leaning over Pansy’s shoulder in an almost exact mirror of Ron, “So?”

Harry wasn’t certain on that account.

Pansy shrugged Blaise off in annoyance, “Get off, you,” she turned back to Harry with a sniff and absentmindedly straightened her hair, “It’s not like I said anything that wasn’t true.”

“It’s much better than Skeeter’s work,” Hermione said.

Pansy positively beamed, “Isn’t though? It’s about time that gossipy shrew was kicked off the front page.”

Hermione glanced at Harry and Ron thoughtfully and then back to Pansy, “Are you going to keep writing for them? The Prophet?”

“Two more lead stories and they’ve promised me a permanent position,” Pansy said.

Hermione looked at Harry pointedly, raising her eyebrows, “She’s better than Skeeter.”

“Oh,” Harry said as he caught on and looked at Pansy.

Pansy looked at him and Hermione warily, “What?”

“Well…” Harry said carefully, “If you keep writing things, truthful things… I might be more willing to talk to you than other reporters.”

Pansy smiled excitedly, “Really?! Really really?!”

Harry nodded, wondering if he would come to regret this.

Pansy grabbed Blaise’s arm, bouncing excitedly on her toes, “Can you believe it!” she crowed, then turned to Harry, “When could I-? Not now, of course. Next week maybe? For an interview. Or whenever, but before we finish school or so help me I’ll-”

Blaise careful placed his hand over her mouth, “You’ll be very very grateful for this opportunity,” He pulled his hand away, “Now smile and wish the nice people a good day.”

Pansy smacked Blaise’s hand before he could pull it back. He clutched his hand to his chest with a wince.

Pansy smiled beatifically at Harry, “Thank you so much, Mr. Potter. I shall speak with you later!” She waved and they made their way down the hall.


Part 1 ~ Part 2 ~ Part 3 ~ Part 4 ~ Part 5 ~ Part 6 ~ Part 7 (you are here!)~ Part 8 ~

Neal Cassady/Dean Moriarty/Dean Winchester - The similarities between the ‘On The Road’ protagonist and Dean Winchester

Jack Kerouac’s ‘On The Road’ and a general introduction to The Beats

Jack Kerouac travelled across the USA with his friend Neal Cassady in the 1950s, and wrote about his travels in the book ‘On The Road’. Along with his friends William Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg, and others, this group of friends (all of which were writers) declared themselves as The Beats – a play on words of both to be ‘beat down’ and also the more positive ‘beatific’. Along with Allen Ginsberg’s most known poem ‘Howl’, this work and ‘On the Road’ cemented this small group of writers in the American literary canon.

The Beats were inspired by Modernist poets such as William Carlos Williams, as well as the booming jazz musicians of the 1940s and 1950s, and Transcendentalist writers such as Thoreau, Whitman, and Emerson. ‘On the Road’ combines the sounds of scat singing in jazz, with transcendentalist philosophies, and tropes of American road literature. ‘On the Road’ is cool, in tune with nature, and details the philosophical and literal freedom of speeding down the highway across American.

Both Sal Paradise (Jack Kerouac) and Dean Moriarty (Neal Cassady) in On The Road travel across the states in search of something, whether that is something physical like human connection, or more importantly something spiritual.

Neal Cassady

In the winter of 1946 Neal Cassady drove into New York and met Jack Kerouac and his friends.

Cassady was born in Salt Lake City in 1926 and spent his childhood travelling around the western states with his father who was a chronic alcoholic which resulted in him being unemployed for long periods and thus hoboing around the States. This resulted in Cassady being both independent and irresponsible. Although he was very intelligent, he never stayed in one place long enough to attend school regularly and spent much of his time in Denver pool halls, stealing cars for fun, and going to reform school. He was good looking and a highly sexual person with a huge sexual appetite which he tried to satiate at every opportunity. When he arrived in New York he was married to LuAnne Henderson (with whom he cheated on continuously). In the late 1940s he started sleeping with Allen Ginsberg, who wrote Howl in which Neal is written in as the hero of the poem. In 1966 he died by the side of a railroad track after walking home drunk after a wedding. (The Beat Generation, Christopher Gair)

Cassady was energetic, drove fast (some friends of his were scared to be in the same car as him), stole cars, hustled people at pool, drank to excess, got into trouble with the police, and had a lot of sex with both genders. Whilst Kerouac was more bookish and quiet, Neal was an energetic and outgoing character who was ‘sharp, witty, gregarious, and lived for excitement and sexual conquests.’ (I Celebrate Myself, 81).

(Neal Cassady)

Neal Cassady and Allen Ginsberg

In 1947, Allen reveled in a wild sexual weekend with Neal. Allen hoped that he could teach Neal about literature, and Neal could teach him about sex. Whilst other people simply saw Neal as a con man, Allen knew there was more to him. Allen fell in love with him instantly but Neal quickly got bored and always needed to be on the move as he could never stay in one place for too long. They continuously wrote to each other, however whilst Allen poured his heart out to Neal and in the early years hoped to be his partner, Neal tried to impress upon Allen that he was not interested in a long term homosexual affair. They both slept together in 1947, and certainly until 1955 (possibly later) they continued to sleep together sporadically.

Supernatural and On The Road

Eric Kripke has stated that Sam and Dean are based off the characters from On The Road (Sal and Dean). In the episode in S4 where Chuck is introduced and they go into a comic book store where the owner asks if they are larping, at one point asking if their names are ‘Sal and Dane’. So, it is quite clear that their names are based off On The Road.

Also, On the Road is a semi-fictional/semi-autobiographical work. The characters in the book are based off real life people, much like how the Supernatural books are based off the lives of Sam and Dean.

On The Road is a foremost example of American Road fiction – two guys driving across the states in a car searching for something – sounds pretty much the same as the premise for Supernatural. Take away the ghosts and hunting and Supernatural is about two guys driving across the states, with no place they’re really heading, meeting people, listening to music, hustling pool, and getting into trouble with the police. That could also be a great summary of On The Road.

Specifically in the early seasons, Supernatural sets itself up as a Road movie, but on TV. It is cool, the guys are cool, the music used is cool, they drink, steal cars, and live a free life on the road.

On the Road has two main protagonists; Sal and Dean. Sal is more bookish and quiet, slightly in awe of Dean’s wild ways. Whilst in Supernatural Sam is more bookish and quiet, both in awe and disgruntled about Dean’s wilder ways.

I mean….. come ON

Neal Cassady and Dean Winchester

Lets go over again what Neal Cassady (who Dean Moriarty was based on) was like;

- He spent his childhood travelling around the western states with his father.

- His father was a chronic alcoholic which resulted in him being unemployed for long periods and thus hoboing around the States.

- Cassady (due to his upbringing) was both independent and irresponsible.

- Although he was very intelligent, he never stayed in one place long enough    to attend school regularly.

- Although he never had a formal education, in his 20s he started reading a great deal.

- He could never stay in one place for too long, both as a child, teen, and adult.

- He spent much of his time in Denver pool halls

- He stole cars, loved cars, was good at fixing cars. 

- He went to reform school.

- He was good looking in a jock kind of way.

- He was a highly sexual person with a huge sexual appetite which he tried to satiate at every opportunity.

- He drank a lot and took drugs, but mainly drank.

- He slept with both men and women, notably Allen Ginsberg who was friends with both Cassady and Kerouac.

- Although he slept with both men and women, he presented himself to most people as heterosexual. It is worth noting that he was alive during the 1940s, 50s, and 60s, and being bisexual or gay was incredibly difficult during those years. Neal was somewhat of a celebrity and it is understandable that Neal denied his attraction to men.

- He was energetic.

- He loved cars and drove incredibly fast

- He hustled pool.

- He got in trouble with the police.

- He was sharp, witty, and funny.

- He was likened to a James Dean kind of person.

I don’t think there is any need for me to go through each of these points and give evidence as to how Dean Winchester fits every single one of these character traits as well. I would expect any viewer of the show to look at that list and assume that one is describing Dean Winchester. From the alcoholic father who drove with him round the States, to his own excessive drinking, need for sex, intelligence yet lack of education, hustling of pool, stealing cars….. you get the idea. They are highly highly highly similar.

The bisexuality question

It is common knowledge that Neal Cassady slept with both men and women, and the similarities between Neal and Dean Winchester are so strong that it would be easy to argue that because Neal Cassady sleeps with men and women, so does Dean Winchester. Every single description of Cassady could apply to Dean Winchester, so it doesn’t make sense to say ‘every single one applies apart from the bisexuality.’ Of course, there are aspects of both Cassady and Dean Winchester which don’t match up, however the core information about Cassady which readers and scholars know about does match up.


I hope this has been a good introduction to Neal Cassady and Dean Winchester. This is my basic summary of this discussion, however if you have more questions then don’t hesitate to send in an ask! My undergraduate and postgraduate research focuses were the Beats and American Road Narratives so if you want to know more about any of this let me know :) 

I’m also thinking of writing a bit about Allen Ginsberg and Cas, as well as some stuff on SPN and spirituality in particular transcendentalism and Buddhism, so I’ll try and get that done at some point. Any general questions about the Beats, especially Ginsberg I am more than happy to answer :)