@cassiofeah - Tumblr Blog

Intimacy is not just physical. To crave a persons presence and energy rather than just their body is the purest form of intimacy.

originalromanticsir

Profound truth.

prokopetz

If you're lamenting the fact that you used to be able to shoot through a 500-page novel in like a day when you were in middle school and now you can't, it's worth bearing in mind that a big part of that is because when you were in middle school, your reading comprehension sucked. Yes, mental health and the stresses of adult life can definitely be factors, but it's also the case that reading is typically more effortful as an adult because you've learned to Ponder The Implications. The material isn't just skimming over the surface of your brain anymore, and some of the spoons you used to spend on maximising your daily page count are now spent on actually thinking about what you're reading!

cassiofeah

🫶🏼

moonlightsdream

Lighter & Princess 点燃我，温暖你 (2022) — Episode. 19

lovestory

Speak Now dress details

harrenhals

SYRAX was the QUEEN’S dragon. She had never known another rider.

taylorswift

Midnights, the stories of 13 sleepless nights scattered throughout my life, will be out October 21. Meet me at midnight.

Pre-order now: https://taylor.lnk.to/taylorswiftmidnights

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Viserys: So your fath-

Laena: Where the fuck is Vhagar? The she-dragon. The war machine. The monstress of death. She's lonely and she needs me.

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me: omg such cute puppies

the puppies in question:

fireandbloodsource

I’m right here, Uncle, the object of your ire, the reason that you were disinherited. If you wish to be restored as heir, you’ll need to kill me. So, do it. And be done with all this bother.

Repeat after me, it's a bad day but not necessarily a bad life.

upperranktwo

The alternate dimension. The Infinity Castle. The fact that I was summoned here means…that an Upper Rank was killed by the Demon Slayers!

dramaism

She would be very touched if you told her that you called me here. It’d be tasteless if I bragged about it.

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Mirrors Do Not Make Promises

The evil-queen-to-be looked into the magic mirror and asked: “Am I beautiful?”

The mirror had not been addressed in many years, hanging like an island in the center of the iron chamber. The curtain was gone though. The room smelled of dust. There was light somewhere, oh lords, there was light.

The mirror, a phantom outline on the surface, peered down. A girl stood, hooked nose, thin lips, dark hair the texture of crow’s feathers, and ruddy skin– both too pale and flushed all at once. Teeth like overlapping piano keys and body gangly as a newborn calf. She wore the finest gown of deep purple, heavy and dragging on the dirty floor.

Her chin wobbled. She had a determined set to her gaze, but her cheeks were tear-stained, and eyes as red as daybreak, at least the types of daybreak the mirror could still remember. The mirror tilted her head.

“Am I beautiful?!” the girl repeated and stomped her foot this time, pinpricks of tears spilling out. There was a purpling welt across her right cheek, a bruise forming with a tinted yellow edge. She must be an island as well.

The mirror closed her eyes. She nodded. “You will be. You have been. You are.”

The girl’s eyes went large as entire skies, at least, the type of skies the mirror could still remember. “Promise?” It was a child’s whisper.

“I do not make promises,” the mirror replied, and the girl huffed.

“Fine.” The curtain returned.

———————-

“Am I beautiful?”

The evil-queen-to-be was taller now, growing into herself. Her hollow cheeks had rounded, and teeth slowly straightened out through small spells and larger ones. The mirror had felt when she found that little black book, a moldy, stained thing, fleshy and dank. The mirror did not always spread her awareness out into the lives of men, but there was no ignoring the tremor through the air that night.

“Did you hear me?” The girl had returned, on the cusp of forgoing shorter hems and growing into the adult ones.

The mirror hummed. “You again. My girl.”

“You again, my mirror.” The girl sneered. She narrowed her eyes. “Do you even have a name?”

“No.” The mirror responded. “Do you?”

The girl rolled her eyes. “I suppose you do not hear them yelling it through the hallways, Esme! Esme! Foolish, tricky girl.”

“I do not hear them. No.”

The girl blinked several times. “Oh.”

“Esme.” The mirror tried out the name.

“You may call me Lady Esme.” She sniffed loudly and crossed her arms. “I’m nobility.”

“Of course, my lady.” The mirror inclined her head. “Ask your question then.”

The girl considered her for a long moment. “Am I beautiful?”

“Have you not asked before?”

The girl flushed a deep red and glared at her shoes. “You’re just like everyone else.” She twisted in place to leave.

“Of course,” the mirror murmured. “You are beautiful.”

Esme glanced shyly over her shoulder. “Really? You promise?”

“I do not make promises.”

The door slammed, but the curtain did not return.

——————–

“Mirror, mirror on the wall,” the young woman sang and skipped. “Who should I poison at the ball?” She carried a flower and small book tucked away at her side. The mirror had watched her fill the book with cramped tiny handwriting, coded through a complex numerology.

It was filled with the secrets of the tomes she unearthed and more she made herself. “Mirror, mirror on the wall,” she kept singing. “Who should I poison with my comb?”

“You jest.” The mirror spoke slowly. “But if you must poison one, poison the only son of the Duke of Engles. He plans to bed a scullery maid and will not be easily deterred by no.”

The evil-queen-to-be stopped in place and faced the mirror. Her clever face and clever eyes were cold and sharp. She was older now. “Noted,” she said thoughtfully and plucked at the flower in her hand. She lifted her chin up high, “this will be my first showing.”

“I know.” The mirror replied. “You will dance and make merry. Be careful of the wine, my lady.”

“How do you know so much?” Esme squinted and leaned forward. “What exactly do you know?”

“I know everything reflected in the world of men and more.” The mirror said and watched the light fall across the floor. She still wasn’t facing the window, and how her chest ached for it.

“But how?” Esme insisted.

“I am old,” she stated simply.

Esme rolled her eyes. “Well, I could have guessed that.”

“But ageless. Time cannot touch me, nor can I touch it. But I can peer through its many threads into the greater tapestry.”

Esme tilted her head thoughtfully, mind at work. “So,” she said with a cat-like smirk. “I really will be beautiful.”

“You are. You have been. You will be.”

Esme went blank for a moment before turning in place. “I must prepare for my debut on the market.” She sprouted an edged grin and looked over her shoulder. “And who should I marry there, my mirror?”

The mirror did not blink. “The king.”

Esme’s eyes lost their mischief, she frowned, and closed the door softly.

—————

“They’ll burn me, they’ll burn me!” Esme cried and paced back and forth. She was still wearing a luscious green gown with bell-shaped sleeves. It was torn in places, sullied. “Dammit, they know!’

Keep reading

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Peter as a Slytherin isn't something people see, I don't think. But come on. The man introduces himself as High King Peter the Magnificent, when a simple King Peter would have sufficed. He did not ask to be King, but once the honor was bestowed upon him, he threw his entire energy into protecting what he held dear. And what did he hold dear? His family; his ideals; his kingship. Think about it. Why was he so angry with Edmund at the first? Because as far as Peter was concerned, Edmund betrayed them long before the White Witch ever met him. Edmund put himself in unnecessary danger, which Peter deemed as selfish behavior—after all, who would be effected by Edmund's death? Not Edmund, that's for sure. Slytherins are viewed as selfish, and we can be, certainly, but we are more concerned about self preservation in the form of the ones we love than we are about preserving our physicality. To put it in simpler terms, losing what we love is tantamount to losing ourselves. Peter accepted the magic of Narnia as being part of himself; he understood all too well that he was nothing outside of Narnia, because Narnia was his whole identity. It was his ideal, just as his family was his life. That's why he struggled so much as a leader. Edmund wasn't just a brother to him; Narnia wasn't just a place to him. To a Slytherin like Peter, what he loves is who he is, and he will spend his lifetime hating that fact, but preserving it, none the less. Stigma does not matter. He doesn't care that his schoolmates find him undesirable, Trumpkin finds him a fool, Caspian finds him unbearable; all that matters is his goal is achieved and his sense of self is preserved.

Susan is a so much a Hufflepuff; it astounds me that people can't see it. Perhaps they are blinded by the fact that Susan lives in constant fear, or the fact that her occasionally cutting remarks paint her as insensitive, or even cruel. But Susan has found something in Narnia that is different from that of her siblings. She has found something that she has taught herself not to hope for, very long ago, and she is constantly trying to protect herself and her siblings for the day when the dream is over. She is always attempting to stop her siblings from reaching a little too far, hoping a little too much. She burnt out as a Hufflepuff long before the story even begins, long before her greatest fears are even realized. Unlike Peter, who feared the day when Narnia would end, Susan had long feared the day that Narnia even began. She seemed to have known long ago that the day would arrive when they would all be given the opportunity to fall in love with something magical, and she fought that love at every turn. Every little bit of hope she allowed to be built inside of herself while in Narnia seemed to evaporate the moment she was out of it, and when she found out she could never return, she disassociated herself from the mere whisper of its existence. That's the reason Peter says that she is "no longer a friend of Narnia"; its the reason "her whole idea is to race on to the silliest time of one's life as quick as she can and then stop there as long as she can." In Narnia, she was Susan the Gentle, and entire battles were fought over her beauty and quiet strength, but in England she's just a girl, desperately trying to forget that she was a woman. She isn't shallow because she discovered "lipstick and nylons"; that isn't what C.S. Lewis meant to express at all. That is just how she's perceived, because no on has ever been able to understand her but Aslan, whom she dares not remember exists. What she actually is, is grieving, because all the things she was too scared to dream about came true, and then they were ripped from her fingers before she had a chance to appreciate them, and she can never escape that knowledge. That's the curse of the Hufflepuff; they remember, they never forget.

Lucy is, without a doubt, a Gryffindor. One of the things people never realize about Gryffindors is that they rarely seek attention; it just kind of happens, and such is the case with Lucy. She always follows her gut, a distinctive Gryffindor trait, and is prone to make dangerous decisions, because she never considers things to be any different than how she's experienced them before. Is it any wonder that it was she who discovered Narnia? When she is confused by the unusual, such as how a wardrobe could be so big, or why the wild bear wasn't responding to her, she didn't consider changing her course of action in the slightest. Gryffindors always believe in the easiest and best versions of reality, which is one of the reasons for her unshakable faith in Aslan. Lucy is never one given to bouts of temper, like Peter, and she has at times questioned her own bravery, but she always runs right straight toward danger whenever the option is open to her, simply for the sake of making sense of it. She can always find Alsan, because she's always looking; she's always going to trust what worked for her before, and that is what makes her a Gryffindor.

Edmund is a Ravenclaw. It is he who keeps his head enough to shatter illusions and out debate kings. Truly, the only lapse in judgment we see him make is with the White Witch—a misadventure that was drug induced. And how did she manipulate him? By reminding him of how little his siblings thought of him. Similarly to how Gryffindors always manage to find a spotlight, Ravenclaws never manage to get there. They never receive credit and they never feel appreciated—usually because they aren't—and Edmund isn't. We first get a glimpse of his Ravenclaw genius when he is the only one to think of going at the Witch's wand, rather than the witch herself; but take a look at him in Prince Caspian. See how he hangs back with Trumpkin the Dwarf while the girls follow Peter? How he instinctively aligns himself with the one person in the group whose information is relevant? See how he is the only one to keep his head when faced with the seduction of the White Witch? Observe how frantic Peter and Susan are about Caspian escaping the castle, though they never spare a thought for Edmund. It isn't because they don't care about him, its because Edmund doesn't need rescuing; he hasn't in a very long time. C.S. Lewis described him as being "a grave and quieter man than Peter, and grave in council and judgement." If that's not the definition of a Ravenclaw, I don't know what is.