sometimes amy writes

how the world ends

Killing Abaddon was bloody. Sacrificing a score of innocent humans to ensure the spell keeps Abaddon dead, even bloodier.

When he sucks in warm air, all he tastes is salt and pennies on his tongue.

Details register like glass shards in his skin; he’s standing up, he’s stumbling forward and shit goddamn fuck he can feel that Mark on his hand, the skin itself is curdling and twisting into tight knots that pull at his scalp and follicles like a sinkhole. If there were screams of the people he murdered he’s long since forgotten how they sounded on his ears, no sound but the quiet echoes in his head. It’s nice, the quiet. He’s so used to the buzzing that’s kept on and on in his head, hordes of furious bees that won’t lay off and explain so clearly the reasons for Cain’s hobbies when they met. The buzzing won’t stop, never stops unless he sinks his knife into flesh, snaps a spinal cord or smothers someone’s final breaths.  If he stops, the peace lasts for a few minutes, maybe an hour, before the bees are back and nesting against his cranium with a sting that never fades behind his eyes.

When he kills, it’s quiet. In some sick twisted way, he thinks it’s always been quieter up there when he kills.

He’s lost track of how long it’s been quiet by now.

The spell. He kicks aside someone’s intestines and steps on an arm, bent askew, to grasp for the alter he’d set up.  A recipe, Crowley had explained, slipping it into his pocket with a glance that Dean would have considered pitying, had it been anyone but the King of Hell; A recipe to destroy a Knight of Hell, with all the necessary ingredients.

One Mark of Cain.

One worthy soldier.

One stabbed Abaddon.

Twenty human sacrifices.

And this. Here. Now. The icing on the cake.

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high-seas-swan  asked:

So I just happened to be looking at some prompts... And this one jumped out at me; You’re baking cookies in the communal kitchen at 3am and I’m angry but also really hungry. (Of course only if it calls to you!) <3

so I don’t know what this is honestly or if it’s any good but here ya go! college au, and late night baking adventures.


Emma’s got a piercing headache blooming behind her eyes and she’s sure if her stomach growls any louder, she’s going to wake up the whole floor. She lets out a grunt and attempts not to focus on the shitshow of a day she’s had. It’s easier said than done when the way she can’t quit gritting her teeth is a stark reminder of that very thing.

She passes her room and makes a beeline for the kitchen in the hope that she might be able to scavenge something out of her quickly diminishing supplies. The fact that Walsh hadn’t even offered her something to eat while she practically did 80% of the work on their project only has her curling her hands into fists. Ingrid always did joke that she should have enrolled Emma into anger management classes early on. Maybe her mother wasn’t too far off.

She sighs heavily when she reaches the door, the sound of a cupboard shutting loudly making her reevaluate going in there. She doesn’t want to have to deal with anymore people, her patience this close to snapping, but she’s sure she has a PopTart in the cupboard somewhere and she really wants it after the day she’s had to live through.

The guy in the kitchen is bent halfway to the floor when she sees him, his hand reaching for something he’s dropped. She also sees the mess; bowls and dirty spoons and flour dusting the countertops.

“What the hell?” It drops from her lips unbidden, and by the way he straightens up and winces, she thinks it might have come off harsher than intended.

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Can you imagine tho

enjolras and grantaire running into the latter’s parents, who could probably win the World’s Most Asshole Parents with their open hostility regarding their son’s, well, eveything. Grantaire’s mostly unruffled tbh, because god he endured this shit for more than two decades and he’s pretty happy with his life right now and he’s already been disowned so who the fuck cares what these people think because they really can’t do anything to him anymore

But enjolras?


enjolras is just dying to add in his two cents and destroy them

so obviously when grantaire’s parents switch their focus to the young man tightly holding their son’s hand and imperiously go “so what do you  do, young man???”

enjolras just fucking smiles and coolly says, “your son”

palephantom  asked:

I'll join the do essay crowd!!! And here, why I followed you: I saw so many of your gifs very often on my dash and always enjoyed looking at them but then I came across your url edits post and realised that I hadn't yet followed you? And that's so weird. Cause I was sure I had, so I fixed that <3 And now that I have been following you longer, you honestly are a person that I want to hug and protect and just be pals with but it's also just nice to see you on my dash casually <3

aaah this is so lovely Phantom <3

I actually did something similar with you. I saw you on my dash quite often and people I followed talked to you p often so I always just assumed I followed you, and then you rbed one of my posts (selfies? maybe?) and I realized I didn’t was like ??? and resolved that instantly. 0 regrets, you are truly a great person and lovely presence on my dash <3

Countess Enjolras (1665-1699) ~ a walk through history books

[Extract from an history book, 1910]

“In 1698, another assassination plot against the king was discovered. A group of nobles and simple peasants had been working for almost twenty years in secret in Versailles, supposedly lead by the Countess Antoinette Enjolras du Velay. Those people, who called themselves Les Amis de l'abaissé, were eventually find out thanks to a spy of the court named Monsieur Le Cabuc in December 1698 before they managed to reach the king, and in 1699, Louis XIV announced publicly that every traitor had been executed.”


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socpuppet  asked:

Library AU where everyone is BOOKS~!

(Unapologetic crack. Well. Slightly apologetic crack.)

“Welcome, friends, to this week’s meeting of the Friends of the ABC.”

“I still think that’s a stupid name,” says Grantaire, open to somewhere around page thirty-eight, which is the first big argument between his hero and his heroine and thus where he opens to when he’s feeling combative. “I mean, we’re all made up of ABCs, are we friends with ourselves?”

“I’ve got some Cyrillic characters,” Marius offers, flipping around to show.

“The librarians are weeding,” Enjolras announces loudly, like the conversation isn’t happening. He’s on page two hundred and sixty-three, which always means he’s in a mood. “I need everyone to check their last due-dates, to see how we’re doing, otherwise we may need to steal the stamps again.”

Combeferre, content in the fact that he’s a library e-reader and unlikely to be weeded anytime soon, sets about checking everyone else’s cards. “Don’t worry,” he tells Jehan, when he sees his card. “It’s finals season, the English students will be wanting you again soon.”

Everyone else is doing fairly well, for their genre—really, they hardly see Courfeyrac anymore, he’s so popular, out spreading the word to private collections on the shelves of students and professors alike—but Grantaire is a problem. Grantaire is aware he’s a problem, an odd left-out romance novel on a back shelf, there still mostly because he’s written by an alumnus, nothing lofty or academic like the rest of his friends. “Is it time for me to update my stamp again?” he asks when Combeferre checks his, feeling naked as he always does when his date-due pocket is open for everyone’s examination. He’d really much rather be on page three hundred and four, it’s his favorite page.

Combeferre leans companionably against him. “I’m afraid so, R. Don’t worry, I checked earlier and the stamp hasn’t been locked in the desk again.” That gave them all a nasty turn, the last time they were doing their checks, when Grantaire and Jehan and Bossuet were all in jeopardy and then Bossuet fell in the give-away bin by accident anyway.

“Really, I don’t know why anyone hasn’t taken you out,” Enjolras says, and ominously, he flips to page seventy-eight. He only flips to page seventy-eight when he has really bad ideas, like when Lamarque the dictionary was going to be put in the library sale and he encouraged them to stack themselves in doors to obstruct traffic. “Their lack of taste in not looking at stories about love is appalling.”

Grantaire flips to page one hundred and forty-three so fast he can’t really stop himself. Usually he can resist, but sometimes Enjolras is a bit too much. “So what do you propose we do instead?” he asks, forcing himself back to page thirty-eight.

Enjolras turns to him with all the revolutionary fervor of page seventy-eight blaring out in beautifully set type, the page even dog-eared because Enjolras is far too fond of rebelling against library standards. “We’re going to infiltrate a display.”
Steve/Bucky fic: Shades of Red

Summary: You are six years old, your name is James Buchanan Barnes, and you think Steve Rogers could teach you a thing or two.
Wordcount: 18k
Rating: M

Okay but like imagine the glee club having a girl’s only sleepover at Rachel’s house on their senior year and Kurt begging them to watch this new MTV show about teens pretending to be gay and actually being gay.

And then imagine Quinn and Rachel somehow ending up sitting next to each other on the couch.

And then imagine Mercedes and Tina making non-stop comments about how Karma and Amy could totally pass as Rachel and Quinn’s alter egos.

And then imagine Quinn sneaking glances at Rachel whenever Amy confesses to Shane that she has real feelings for Karma.

And then imagine Rachel catching Quinn looking at her because Rachel always stares back at the blonde.

And then imagine the girls sharing shy smiles and blushing profusely whenever Amy and Karma would kiss.

And then after everyone’s asleep imagine Rachel going to her backyard just to find Quinn lying on the grass and staring at the stars. 

And then imagine Rachel asking her if she can join her and then imagine Quinn saying yes and after a couple of minutes of peaceful silence, imagine Quinn asking Rachel if she thinks that Karma could ever truly love Amy in the way Amy wants Karma to love her.

And then imagine Rachel replying that even though Karma doesn’t realize it yet, a part of her will always be in love with Amy in that exact way. And then imagine Rachel adding that all it would take for Karma to wake up would be for Amy to actually tell her how she truly feels about her.

And then imagine Quinn telling Rachel that Amy was probably terrified of putting herself out there like that just to get rejected.

And then imagine Rachel telling Quinn that maybe it was worth the risk.

And then imagine Quinn staying really quiet and still for a couple of seconds and then imagine her leaning in and just saying fuck it before she kisses Rachel.

And then imagine Rachel kissing Quinn back, and pulling away just enough to mumble finally under her breath before catching Quinn’s lips again.

And then imagine them kissing and laughing and cuddling and hugging until sunrise.

And then imagine Quinn asking: All this kissing… does this means we’re faking it?

And then imagine Rachel replying: Whenever I’m with you, things are and feel too important for them to be anything but real.

And then imagine Quinn beaming with overwhelming happiness before she says: Good, because I’m nothing like Amy!

And then imagine Rachel throwing her head back and laughing very loudly before she replies: You’re right, Lauren definitely fits you better.

And then Quinn would probably get super offended and Rachel would kiss away her pout and after that they would be in love forever. 

Okay. You can stop imagining now, drabble’s over.

I want to analyze Enjolras’s “Je te vénère” to Feuilly and Grantaire’s description “Grantaire admirait, aimait, et vénérait Enjolras” so bad

Because obviously we’re talking about two very different ways to “venerate” someone, right? There’s literally no point in me pretending that Grantaire’s veneration for Enjolras is in any way healthy - from a shipper’s point of view (and, really, I assume, even from a non-shipper point of view?) the one thing you can hope for in an hypothetical canon-era fix-it is that Grantaire arrives to a point where he can see and love Enjolras beyond the idealized idea of him he poured all his hope and remaining beliefs in. 

And we can also safely assume that it is not at all the same thing, Enjolras’s veneration for Feuilly. I read Enjolras’s “je te vénère” as such deep, profound admiration and respect for this one man and his life story and his character, that “admiration” isn’t enough anymore; Enjolras needs a bigger word to show his appreciation, he needs everybody to know just how much amazing Feuilly is. 

The difference comes from who Enjolras and Grantaire are, I guess, and how they relate to their friends, and I think especially to themselves, at the point where those sentences are written but also HOW they are written.

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A concept:

pre-season-three, Jake stays obscenely late at the precinct working on a case, partially because it’s an important case and partially because everything’s a little loud and painful and he doesn’t want to go home and sit alone in his bed.

Amy comes in early the next morning, whether by some strange intuition or chance she’s not quite sure. He’s asleep at his desk, hair a mess, clothes rumpled, papers stuck to his cheek. The bullpen is almost empty; shifts are just changing, and it is so, so early.

So Amy sets down her bag carefully and steps over and shakes him awake, gently, and when he blinks up at her, a little bit disoriented, she grabs a napkin from her desk on impulse and wipes at the sleep drool at the corner of Jake’s mouth. There’s this sleep-honest look of …awe, on his face, brown eyes blinking up at her in the electric lighting of the bullpen, and Amy feels a surge of courage and runs her fingers against his hairline

Jake smiles, lopsided and sleepy, against her hand

“You smell pretty, Santiago.”

Amys hand jumps away and she says, “You need coffee. I’ll make you coffee.”

She calls back from the break room that he should go dig up his spare change of clothes, or catch a shower in the locker room before the others arrive, and makes two cups of coffee, just in case he only (likely) got two hours of sleep and the extra caffeine is necessary

(She does not think about how disconcertingly domestic her words are, but her heart is big and full and warm, and her fingers are tingling with the softness of his curly, mussed up fringe)

She Won’t Even Let You Finish the Question

A/N:  Happy Birthday @zengoalie​!! You are already asleep… but technically it’s still your birthday where I am (that counts, right?). I was actually intimidated by the UST-y prompt I picked for you, but this flowed out with ease. I hope you enjoy it! Big thanks to @chrissascorner​ for beta'ing this for me :)

Summary:  After David and Mary Margaret are forced to bail on a planned trip to London to visit David’s childhood friend, Emma decides to still go without them. Will her childhood crush on Killian Jones be a thing of the past, or will this trip solidify her feelings for good?

on AO3

Rating: A for almost smutty ;)

Words:  9700 (I am incapable of short one-shots - its official)

It wasn’t anyone’s fault.

Mary Margaret’s dad, Leo, had been rushed to the hospital the day before the trip they had been planning for over a year. Obviously her and David had to go back up to Maine instead of flying out of Boston for London the next day.

“No Emma, we insist,” David had said over the phone while he drove north, “We can’t get our money back for most of the trip, so you have to go and make the best of it.”

“It won’t feel right without you guys there,” she whined, “I barely even remember Killian from when we were kids. Why would he want to hang out with me when the whole point was you two catching up?”

“I promise Killian won’t leave you stranded,” David said, “He has that obnoxious good form.”

That’s how she found herself walking (alone) through customs in Heathrow airport. David had given her Killian’s phone number, but she was hesitant to use it.

She said she barely remembered him, but it was a lie.

She was twelve years old and freshly adopted by Ruth Nolan when Killian exchanged places with the neighbor’s son for six months. He and David were both fifteen and became instant friends; they were inseparable for those short months.

Emma still hadn’t adjusted to life in a real family, so she was shy and reserved. Killian had a way of making her feel included - even though she was supposed to be the annoying, little sister - and because of that he became her first real crush.

It was a chilly, winter morning. A fresh blanket of snow made their small town look clean and pristine. Emma was sitting in a chair in the corner of the living room, reading a book and trying to make herself invisible (an old habit from her foster days that was hard to break), when a voice in her ear made her jump.

“Swan,” Killian’s accent came from behind her, “Stop being boring and come outside. Dave and I are building a snow fort and we could use your expert opinion.”

“Don’t scare me, you big jerk,” Emma laughed and smacked at him with her book while he playfully ran away from her, “I don’t know anything about snow forts, so I promise you don’t need my help.”

“Oh, I think we do,” his eyes were sparkling with mirth, so she couldn’t say no.

She pushed her way through the crowd and picked up her bags from the conveyer belt before she made her way towards the door where she noticed a crowd of people with names sprawled out on paper. She barely paid them any mind, until sparkling blue eyes caught her attention.

Her eyes flicked down to the sign in his hand; it said “The Swan” in frilly cursive. It was a nickname he had given her as kids and she had to withhold her chuckle as she took in his appearance.

He was wearing a black, motorcycle jacket with a blue button-up underneath (with at least three buttons undone) and dark, skinny jeans. His hair was just as disheveled as it was when he was fifteen.

The scruff was new.

It was well trimmed and peppered along his strong jaw.

The man was sex on legs and she was facing two weeks with him… alone.

She was in so much trouble.

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(I’m lazy and Tumblr sucks for not pasting formatting. So the read more will take you to AO3 - no one complained last time, so I’m sticking with it!)

KindergartenTeacher!Steve + Parent!Bucky for Hannah

So, the issue with this particular parent-teacher conference has nothing to do with the fact that Sam is in trouble.

It has more to do with the fact that Sam’s kindergarten teacher is really really, insanely, criminally hot.

Not that Bucky’s noticing, or anything.

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Fandom: Les Miserables

Characters/Ships: Enjolras, Grantaire, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Montparnasse; Enjoltaire, Courferre, Jehanparnasse mention

Genre: Multi, canon-era vampire au; blood and aggression below the cut (2544 w)

Continuation/in associate with this post


Eight. Enjolras could not help the sarcastic smile on his face. Eight shots would be mortal, if he were any normal man, so he would fall. And then he would get back up before the sun and start again, perhaps this time in a more personal manner and starting with these men here. Combeferre would object, of course, but maybe this night would put enough fire in the scholar’s veins to spur him into action. Civil protests and honest rebellion would only get them so far, it seemed. Maybe the troop behind that bleeding guillotine had something right after all.

The sound of footfalls on the stairs drew his attention away from the guardsmen, and Enjolras could feel the color drain from his face as he recognized the newcomer. Grantaire. No. He had been safe downstairs! Why come here now? Enjolras swallowed hard and watched, frozen, as the drunk stumbled through the soldiers toward him.

Grantaire’s warm fingers entwined with Enjolras’ cold ones, and the guards raised their rifles and took aim. Enjolras made to step in front, his grip tightening as he pulled Grantaire behind him, but gunfire filled his ears before he could move. Five bullets dug into him, deep and hot as fire, and Enjolras had to let himself fall.

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dean destroys the bunker

it takes him a few minutes, ten, maybe twenty, to get off the floor and stop staring at the gaping gore of kevin’s eye sockets but he gets up and he

destroys it

something like fire burns up in his veins as he tears down bookshelves and picture frames and artifacts and screams till his throat goes raspy with how much he hates himself and

it’s a little poetic, ending up in flames just as he started, carrying his little brother out the front door

only this time his brother was taken out the front door

and dean was left to stand in the inferno

i want

something that spells out like the texture of your skin, counts like the number of times a day you smile at me, like it's for me, or because of me

you said you liked laughter, so i want something that sounds like that, only it’s yours and mine, sewn together like a patchwork quilt

i want you like clean air and cold water,

i want you like sunlight, like sex, like surrender

i want you inside of me but that seems crass to say because i also want you beside me, behind me, in front of me. with me. in whatever way i can get it.

i’m naive that’s true but im also someone who hates the word no

i want you to be a yes

please say yes