heystasa: (IGNORE ME)
So. Uh. I appear to have just written Harry Potter fanfiction on my cousin's facebook wall. Because apparently that's the sort of thing I do now.

My Cousin: 
lol here's a random thought: Ron Weasley had a crush on Madame Rosmerta, the barmaid of the Three Broomsticks. Isn't it a little creepy that he and Hermione named their daughter Rose?

No? ok then :P

My reply (for some reason):

“You know what, Ron? Fine. Fine. We’ll name our daughter after the fit barmaid from Honeydukes-” Ron let out a drunken whoop, “- and the next one can be named after a ridiculous crush of *mine*. How does that sound?”

“Perfect,” Ron said, and Hermione let out a frustrated groan and left him to it.

By the time Hugo was on the way, Ron had pretty much forgotten about that night. When people asked about the name they’d picked, he cheerfully told them it was just one that they both happened to really like.  

Hermione let him think that. She was having a wonderful pregnancy; she finally had time to sit through all 9000 hours of Lord of the Rings DVD extras and the Matrix Trilogy Ultimate Collection had just been released on Blu Ray.

All was well.

(I blame the 2600 words of completely self indulgent and ridiculous Shadow of the Templar fic I stayed up till 2am writing last night, tbh)  
heystasa: (duuude)

So apparently a while ago I wrote a drabble (well, drabble and a half)? This never happens, but I found it on my hard drive today, so, well, here:

Episode tag: 504, The End
Gen, Cas centric

It’s nothing really like flying at all, being high.

But then, the way an angel flies doesn’t involve any sort of literal height anyway; they move through the fabric of the universe, not merely through space. Up, down, right, left, don’t mean anything. Earth, to angels, is all one simple field to be manipulated; they pass through it as they wish, wrapped warm in their grace.

It’s all just linguistic, the connection between an angel’s movement and flight, between flying and being high. Castiel knows this, but still sometimes he’s bitterly, achingly disappointed by it; by how little anything in this new human life can ever be like his old one. Language lies.

He quite likes being stoned though. Cool and blissed out is not quite the same as calm, driven and certain, but it’s certainly a lot better than alone, lost and afraid.


August 2012

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