is that a thing that we're really calling her

anonymous asked:

Honestly I think ya'll that want Ron Weasley and his family to be black are gross af. Ron Weasley is a redhead, why do you want to take that from him. I've seen the same thing with Poison Ivy, everyone trying to petition her to become black. Why can't you let redheads in the media stay redheads? Target any other white group, but not gingers. We're the rarest minority in the world, we face under-representation and discrimination as well. Stop erasing redheads.

I think you’re gross af to think that being Black means they can’t be red heads which is absolute bullshit. Not to mention there’s this really cool thing called hair dye. 

Like shut the fuck up. 

mod v

Compass Rose

Pairing: Harry Potter x Pansy Parkinson

Setting: Canon-divergent AU

Word Count: 908

She’s thirteen.

She kisses Draco Malfoy in a winter-empty courtyard overlooking the lake, under the mottled grey-lavender sky of the very early morning, and it’s—

It’s lackluster.

He tastes like peppermint toothpaste and the muddy remnants of a too-quick cup of tea. She can barely feel the outline of his shoulders beneath the weight of his quidditch jersey. There’s an uncomfortable moment of teeth clacking and lips catching, a hovering sort of awkwardness she wouldn’t have ever expected from him. Certainly, the cloying, sandalwood-spicy scent of his cologne is practically suffocating as she breathes in, breathes out, attempts to tilt her face to the side enough that his nose isn’t pressed right up against her own.

“Um,” she says, afterwards, when they’ve each taken a step back. “Good luck, then?”

He glances away, down towards the pitch, and then nods, jerkily. A dark pink blush stains his cheeks.

“Not like I need luck against Potter,” Draco sneers. “Honestly.”

Privately, she disagrees.

She’s sixteen.

She kisses Theodore Nott in a skinny, snow-banked alley between a bookshop and an apothecary, the air crisp and the breeze cold and the silky grey fur of her collar butterfly-soft against her jaw. He’s tall. She isn’t. They don’t quite fit, and he doesn’t quite know what he’s doing.

“You’re not even trying,” she hisses, afterwards, grabbing his hand and placing it firmly on the curve of her waist. “What are you—”

Suddenly, the atmosphere changes. Turns tense and vaguely expectant. Theo is stiff, frozen—a lanky, sweater-vested Grecian statue with milky freckles and a complexion like the petals of a sunflower—as he gapes at something behind her.

She spins around.

Harry Potter is standing at the far end of the alley, eyebrows raised and glasses slightly foggy. A twitch of a smirk is curling like cigarette smoke around the edges of his mouth. He’s smug. His gaze, when it flicks over to her, is sharp with disdain. Condescension. It reminds her of the broom polish in Draco’s trunk and the antique German cuckoo clock in the Malfoy drawing room and the sweltering, fear-tinged certainty that she’s never really belonged.

Instinctively, she lifts her chin.

Potter offers her a sarcastic sort of salute before turning on his heel and walking off.

“How tiresome,” she eventually snaps, rolling her eyes and tugging at the buttons of her coat. “We officially live in a world where Potter is more interested in what I get up to than Draco is.”

She’s seventeen.

She’s the scabs on her knees and the blood on her palms and the scratch of her tonsils kissing as her throat transforms into a rusted-shut padlock and she shouts—

“But, he’s there! Potter’s there! Someone grab him!”

It’s an origin story.

It’s not a plot twist.

She’s eighteen.

She kisses Harry Potter under the green leaves and red berries of the mistletoe, echoing tunnel-vision fragments of go away and of course I’m not sorry and I’d do lots of things over again if I had the chance and it’s—

It’s the firewhisky on her tongue and the butterbeer on his, molten-gold strands of honey and red-hot shivers of cinnamon, a tantalizing flicker of something traveling up and down her spine. She’s the emerald green stripes on her perfectly pressed tie and he’s the scattered ink-stained wrinkles on his long-sleeved cotton t-shirt and there’s symmetry, there’s balance, there’s the narrow windswept wire beneath the feet of a tightrope walker, a breeze and a wobble and a catch.

There’s her side; there’s his.

There’s this, her fingers in his hair and his hands around her waist and the slow, instinctive open-close-open of their mouths as it all escalates.

Moves faster.

There’s the shadows stretching past midnight in the alcove off the sixth-floor landing. There’s the cool castle wall against her back, a shaky, callused palm sliding up the inside of her thigh and pausing, lingering, the metallic clang of his belt buckle and the swishing whisper of her skirt and a memory, glue-tacky and faded, drawing room lessons with her mother and her nanny and wait until there’s a ring on your finger, Pansy

She’s soft; a dizzy, dizzy mist; a hesitant spring shower in the middle of December.

He’s the lightning bolt on his forehead.

He always has been.

“This—this was a mistake,” he blurts out, afterwards, and then winces. “I don’t mean…”

“It was,” she agrees, cutting him off with a brief toss of her hair. “Absolutely.”

His stare is no less penetrating for all its confusion. “Er. Right,” he says, blinking rapidly. “Absolutely.”

He’s curious.

She hadn’t anticipated that.

She’s twenty-one.

She’s six years past the age of leaving lipstick print kisses on her bathroom mirror—sticky crimson and garden-fresh pink and bruised, buttery violet—but she does it today. The cellophane wrapper of a muggle brand pregnancy test is crinkling at her from the tissue-paper depths of her wastebasket.

I love you, he’d said the night before, and he’d meant it.

Meanwhile, her toes had curled with reflexive urgency into the summer-warm cocoon of her sheets. Because if the dungeons at Hogwarts had been a cage, and the snarling serpent pendant on her necklace had been a call to arms, then the sparkling solitaire diamond in his bedside drawer would be the fluttering white flag of a surrender. A truce. A ceasefire.

Once upon a time, she’d been pure enough to pet a unicorn.

The Signs As Things Me and My Friends Have Said
  • Aries: I dunno man. I kinda just wanna like. Die. You know?
  • Taurus: Jesus fucking Christ. You know how shy I am. I can't do that shit. oH HEY HAYDEN.
  • Gemini: What the fuck is that thing
  • Cancer: Last time I talked to you we spoke of ants exploding ceilings...
  • Leo: I don't really care- OHMIGODYES. HUG ME.
  • Virgo: We're about to sacrifice her brother, wanna join?
  • Scorpio: okay you know whAT YOU CAN JUST FUCK OFf kay thank
  • Sagittarius: what the fuck frog no get out of the house please
  • Capricorn: why do they call it cheesecake? it looks more like pie. cheesepie. make it.
  • Aquarius: the feel when you wish you weren't single
  • Pieces: okay you know what you need a hug

Ugh my sister just called me crying and saying her school didn’t let her walk for her promotion/graduation thing (she’s finishing middle school and starting high school next year) because she got dress coded and I got so angry I was thinking about how I’m going to call them and write angry letters about how stupid they have to be to do that to their best student and then she said “haha just kidding that’s what you get for not coming today”

anonymous asked:

Do you know some blogs that are putting effort and trying to get dean and cas in the first place? I just want to thank all of them because the last time I checked (like last week) we were losing and now we're winning

Hiii! :) 

Actually, I see so many people making posts to vote and dutifully reblogging things to signal boost, so we’re clearly a really great team. 

But anyway, a special thank you definitely goes to Sasha ( some-people-call-it-tragic ) who in the past weeks has made countless gifsets, a promo video, and was the one who started encouraging people to get Destiel nominated in the first place. Much credit goes to her, and we should all totally leave her a love letter! 

Also send some love to Katie ( supernaturalapocalypse ) who is using her power to do good, and has been spamming her followers like crazy at least 10 times a day to remind them to vote their asses off. 

But truly, so many Destiel shippers are helping out in their own way, and it’s wonderful to see!

anonymous asked:

Do we have a name for people who or ship Cake? Like Liz has her fans that are called Lizards why we don't have one for Cake shippers too? That would be great (remember we only ship them for fun and we're not taking seriously everything) :)

Yeh awhile back emmybazy and I started this thing to call the Cake fans ‘Cake Family’ but it never took off cos we just never really implement it LOL. I’ll have to talk to a few other Cake bloggers to get them going with the name:) I would LOVE to see this take off! But maybe we all have to come up with a better name first? HAHAHAA maybe like Cupcakes? Slices? Donuts? OK I need to stop. I’m making myself hungry LOL.

But please submit any ideas for the name and I’ll start talking to other bloggers too if you guys really want this to happen:)

anonymous asked:

Hi there, I'm a 5th year student at Hogwarts. I'm in need for a bit of moral advice... See, I'm a Gryffindor, but I've started developing feelings for a Slytherin girl. Things are pretty awkward, considering we are both on our houses Quidditch teams, my friends think I should avoid her because she's a 'typical pureblood'. But I dunno, when we're alone, she's actually really kind and sweet. I want to ask her out, but I'm just worried our different houses are going to make things... tricky.


We got very sad here at the Ministry reading your message. Difference in houses should not mean anything. The house system is made to create unity and a safe place for every student.., somewhere to call home. That doesn’t mean that you should dislike people from other houses which we understand happens. A girl (or boy) in Slytherin is not worth less than a girl (or boy from Gryffindor. You have to listen to your heart and be with who ever you want. It is your life, you make the choices because you are the one who is going to have to live with them. Don’t let other people rule your life, not even your friends. Trust me when I say that you will regret it if you don’t ask her out. Go for it!

anonymous asked:

We had a lady accuse one of my coworkers of stealing her baby's toy. My boss watched the camera. The customer was in the store, my coworker did in fact coo at her baby, but did not touch or even get within a reaching distance. Anyway, my managers told her they watched the camera and there was no evidence of the child even having the described toy? So the lady called the cops. OVER A BABIES TOY. Do you really thing we're gonna get fired over a $10 buck toy? And arrested? SERIOUSLY

phoenixsyndrome  asked:

(pppst we're starting a new thread. I'm taking the last sentence of what I wrote and putting here, for you to jump off of, and we're taking turns alphabetically from there) “You were in the cabin…” she deduced, her brow furrowed, “Frederick, what—what were you doing in the cabin?!”

“What must be done,” he says hanging his head low.
“What? What must be done?” Celeste inquires cautiously.
“I’m so sorry Celeste, I thought things had really changed. Danielle! She’s over here!” he calls. ‘Danielle..’ Celeste thinks, ‘is that.. could that be.. Danny from Silas?’
A redhead stalks towards her, stake held in her good arm. “Hello Celeste, your mothers may remember me as Danny,” she says coolly.
“I remember their stories, you’re the one who killed my aunt.”
“But you see child, it’s not like that. Mattie wasn’t your aunt, I don’t think Carmilla had any actual siblings,” Danny laughs, “she was just another vampire that Carmilla toted around in that “family” she had. They were nothing more than alies, friends at the most.“
"Blood doesn’t matter, Carmilla is my mother and I’m not related to her!”
“But you see darling, blood does matter. I was originally just going to kill your brother, but then I realized, it’d be much more fun to watch you all bleed.”

Your turn, phoenixsyndrome