sometimes amy writes

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

“How much bored are you, Elodie” “why, bored enough to write about all the rarepairs of les miserables, including most I don’t ship at all, in three sentences or less (or more), starting right now, apparently”

PART I (N°12 to 17)

N°12 - Enjolras/Éponine

“it’s not that I don’t like him,” said Éponine, glancing vaguely at Enjolras, who was reading in a corner and ignoring them completely. “It’s just that I don’t trust pretty boys like that. Barely looks human, your friend.”

“Well,” started Courfeyrac, ready to concede the fact, and then stopped and frowned. “Wait. Does that mean you don’t think Marius and I are pretty?”

Éponine stared at him, and then decided that since she was to be a proper lady now, she ought to delicately stay silent on the matter, while Cosette hided a laugh in her embroidery. 

N°13 - Enjolras/Combeferre 

“I brought you some soup, orders from Joly,” said Enjolras, a gentle but firm hand on Combeferre’s shoulder to stop him from trying to get up again. 

Combeferre, surprised, forgot to struggle, squinting at him instead: “Did you make it?” 

“No,” Enjolras snorted. “Madame Fran, your neighbor, offered to make some for you. She also said I should tell you she’s very happy you found a nice man like me, and she won’t report anything to the police, you can trust her, ‘cause her Raymond is just like us, and she’s not one to judge.”

“Ah,” said Combeferre, cheeks darkening slightly. “How nice of her?”

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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!)


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


She likes it best when he’s sleeping.

There’s something quiet about Sam Winchester, quiet in the way he moves and the way he thinks and the way he loves. Always hiding some part from her, and Jess knows not to prod, but sometimes she just wants to tear into that meaty part of his underbelly and find the words that lie under his skin, the truths covered with a dimpled smile and shaggy hair.

But tonight is not for confessions or pillow talk. Tonight Sam sleeps.

He’s on his side, curled as if reaching for something, and it strikes Jess that Sam’s probably reaching for her, gangly and cuddly as he is when he sleeps. The wrinkles in his forehead smooth and those lips—usually thinned with concentration and control—drop open, making soft inhale and exhale sounds that both delight and melt her heart.

When she slips in between the sheets, he automatically moves against her, like gravity, like a yo yo bouncing back up on its string, and she curls against him and smiles into the pillow when his hand slips under her Smurfs shirt that used to be his and settles on her stomach, warm and coarse and reassuring.

“Long day?”  He mutters into her hair, and she can feel his grin as his lips press against the back of her neck, her temple, her hair.

“Mmm.” She’s exhausted, to tell the truth, but so is Sam. No talking necessary tonight. Just sleep.

These are the moments Jess craves, because while the sex is fantastic, and the kissing swoon inducing, there’s something so tactile about Sam Winchester and she craves it. His hands have weight, and when Sam Winchester touches her, when he reaches for her to tug playfully on her hair or wipe spaghetti sauce from her mouth or dry fallen tears on her cheeks, his hands feel important, meaningful.

 “You know, I think I changed my mind,” he whispers, sleepy and drawled and loving, “Halloween isn’t so bad after all.”

And Jess thinks that one day those hands will either break or build the entire world.

When Jessica first kisses Sam, she smells like flowers.

This isn’t a particularly astounding or peculiar fact; lots of girls smell nice. Lots of girls smell like mint or vanilla or Victoria’s Secret’s latest scent, but Jessica Moore smells like flowers.

And it’s a scent as sweet and subtle as a whisper.

And Sam smells it everywhere he goes, as Jess permeates his life with her laughter and her light. Sam smells it even in the months and years after Jess dies. Sometimes he and Dean will be walking by a market place with a floral stand and Sam will stop, frozen like a deer in the headlights and suddenly he’ll be nineteen years old again and pressed soft and warm against the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen, clutching a beer in one hand and cupping the back of her honey-blond hair with the other. 

But then the scent drifts away and Sam can move, breathe again. 

When Jessica first kisses Sam, she smells like flowers.

And when Sam smells flowers–each and every time–he’s reminded of the girl he left to burn. 

Sam makes the trip every year to this day.

It’s not something Dean’s ever understood, or is ever going to understand. They spend every day of their lives burning things to ash, tossing matches like dice at a craps game in a high stakes casino. They carry lighter fluid with them wherever they go, an unsung companion snuggled up next to the matchbox for comfort. 

It’s not like flame is an absent entity in their lives.

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you reflect back on this chapter and you realize you can tell this story in mirrors

but now he’s on the ground and you’re beating him down, now his blood is on your hands and your blood is poison and breathing hurts but that’s only because sam hurts and somehow those became one and the same thing

you reflect and he refracts and when he whispers “I’m not gonna leave you” there’s an atonal chord that goes off because no, that’s your line of the script, not his

you protect and carry and he stands and takes but now you’re hurting and taking and he’s standing and carrying your burdens your mistakes your punches on his face that smear like blood red kisses across a jaw that’s strong because you watched it become that way


I’m not gonna leave you, Dean

it’s the first time you can believe it but it’s the last time you’ll ever hear it and all you can do is hit some more and scream some more and cut some more and think in scattered stanzas of poetry that someone else penned out on your own skin before you could wrap your head around the concept of love or sacrifice or brother and you’re just so:


about the blood on your mouth, I wish it was mine

I want to live in the cornered spaces of someone’s heart, deep amongst those crooks and ridges that are intimate and safe but crumple and crash when they are broken.

I want to writhe in every part of someone’s skin and bones, I want to clog their arteries and block their sinuses and water their eyes and itch their skin because I’m the incurable disease they can’t get rid of.

I want to be the crinkles around someone’s eyes, the quirk of their lips, the tick in their jaw, the waver of their voice.

I want to be someone’s cold water, someone’s fresh air, someone’s summer rain.

I want to be the everyday morning routine, the lazy afternoon and the exhausted evening. 

Instead of being the center of someone’s world, I want to be all the nooks and crannies of it.

Books and songs often talk about the idea of being someone’s gravity, sun, stars and moon. But I think there’s something to be said in wanting to be their pocket lint, to be the jingling of their car keys, to be the fragmented song lyric echoing in their ears, to be that paisley print on the dining room table cloth.

To be hidden in the small infinitesimal moments wedged between the big ones.  I want to be woven into the fabric of someone’s life in ways that fit, in ways that criss-cross and hold just right.

I don’t want to change someone’s world, someone’s life, someone’s soul. I just want to be a part of it. 

I want to bleed into you, sift under your skin lilt into your voice wriggle in your stomach and I want to be each breathe you take.

Take me in, don’t let me go.

Let me want.

I want

Prompt: Dean+Sammy, Bedtime Story

Sam’s favorite bedtime story is Owen. He tells Dean excitedly that he likes mice and he likes Owen and he likes that Owen has a blankie. 

So Dean takes out Owen every night and Sammy curl’s against Dean’s side, head bumping Dean’s chin and tiny fists curling in Dean’s shirt as Dean props to book open on one knee and reads. 

Sam tries to get his own blankie, but he’s always losing it at the restaurants or the parks they stop by on the road. Unlike Owen, however, Sam doesn’t seem to upset each time he loses the blankie each time. 

It doesn’t bother Dean, but it does make him curious. So one night when Sam pulls out Owen and pushes it towards Dean, he has to ask. “Why don’t you get sad when you lose the blankies, Sammy?”

Sammy blinks at him, bleary eyed and clearly close to falling asleep right then and there. It’s late, they’ve been driving all day, but Sammy still has to hear the story of the mouse with the blankie before he can truly go to sleep.

“Because you’re my blankie, Dean.” Sammy grins, throwing his arms around Dean’s neck and placing a sloppy kiss on Dean’s cheek. Sammy pats his hair playfully, and for a three year old he’s pretty damn sure of himself, messing up Dean’s hair because he knows Dean will laugh and swat at him. “You’re my blankie. I take you everywhere, Dean. You go where I go. And I never lose you.”

Dean blinks, grins, presses his own sloppy kiss on Sammy’s chubby cheek. They settle down, curled together even closer than usual, and Dean mumbles familiar words, words he knows by heart now, into Sammy’s ear.

“Owen had a fuzzy yellow blanket. ‘Fuzzy goes everywhere I go,’ said Owen. But Mrs. Tweezers disagreed…”

Sam falls asleep three pages in. Dean keeps reciting story, clutching his baby brother to his chest and smiling. 

libby-on-the-label  asked:

[prompt]: how about something with uncle bobby and little!sam and little!dean. a;lksdjf ;lasdkv;LDKFHA;SKLDGHA;

Bobby Singer is a little wary of the Winchester Boys, partly because his bed side manner could rival that of Misery or Mrs. Bates, partly because he just doesn’t really care for kids, but John promises they’ll behave and even gives Bobby money for his troubles one October weekend.

And John is right, his boys are well behaved. Dean is polite, almost too polite, never talks and always says please and thank you sir whenever he has to. His sweater is too big and his hair is too short and he walks like an adult, Bobby thinks, what with the heavy haunch of his shoulders and the jut of his lip when he knows he’s being looked at.

But when Dean plays with little Sammy, it’s like he’s another person entirely. Sammy still wears osh-kosh overalls and sometimes trips as he toddles, but Dean is there to catch him, and Dean constantly talks to Sam, says more words to Sam in one sentence than Bobby can get out of Dean in one hour. He’s constantly talking to Sam, and Bobby doesn’t even know if the kid can understand him or not, but the way he looks at Dean, eyes wide and grin wide and his whole expression so utterly happy, that Bobby knows without guessing that these two brothers are gonna have eachothers backs for a long time. 

These two brothers who share cereal and play tag in the salvage yard and jump in the piles of leaves that crunch in the back of the house. These two brothers that curl up under the same blanket. These two brothers that Bobby hears crying at night because they miss their dad and they miss their mom and there’s some things you can’t help but feel and miss at night (Bobby knows this all too well). These two brothers who are all smiles and secret conversations and code words that Bobby doesn’t even want to begin to try and understand. 

Yeah, Bobby thinks, the Winchester boys are alright. 

Anonymous Prompt: Teenchesters[Sam 17 Dean 21]+Kidnapped during a hunt

There’s a reason Dean hates witches, has no problems ganking them and burning down their covens and happily tossing their spell books into glowing pyres with a dash of salt over his shoulder for good measure. There’s a reason any case with a witch involved has Dean chomping at the bit, volunteering to drive and clean the guns, even wake up early enough each morning to force Sam to spar with him out in the dirt lot behind whatever motel they’re staying at. There’s a reason he’ll placate Sam’s bitching at Dad and be able to ignore the angered yelling that Dad does right back when they’re on a hunt for a witch.  

There’s a reason Dean hates witches, and that reason starts and begins with Mona Fucking Weismann.

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“I’m not blushing!”

“Dude you are so blushing.”

“Fuck off.”

And maybe the sentiment would work if Jared weren’t standing in his texas long horns boxers, shivering in the cold air despite the thermostat on full, nipples half hard spine erect with nervousness and maybe partial arousal. It might have something to do with the way Jensen’s eyes are glittering at him, but that’s far too much to read into with two beers and four shots and three lost games of poker behind him. 

Jensen grins, slow crocodile smile that causes Jared to shiver again. “Pretty sure I’d rather just fuck you, but let’s see how this plays out, yeah? Now Jared. Be a good boy and take the boxers off.”

Jared groans, blush fanning over his cheeks and he’s somehow half hard without even wanting to be, and pulls them down, bare ass and knobby knees and he’s seventeen years old and the captain of the football team just told him to take his boxers off.

Who is he to argue?

in response to Sam Haters...

I’m going to add on this in a more personal context, because I’m a bit miffed with Sam Haters at this point and because I can.

When people tell me people that they don’t like Sam Winchester, I feel hurt. Not just because Sam will always be my favorite character, but because on a personal level, Sam Winchester is me. 

Now, I’m not gonna be that selfish asshole who thinks they have suffered as much pain and loss and harm as Sam Winchester has (because I would have to be crazy to insinuate that). But I will say that as a human who makes mistakes and has insecurities and constantly plays optimist and hopes for things to get better, I am Sam Winchester. 

Sam Winchester is what got me into college. I wrote a college essay on Sam Winchester for a leadership scholarship. I spent nights feeling not so alone in the world because I knew that at one point Sam Winchester felt the same way. Sam Winchester was the one character I clung to who taught me that it’s okay to be a freak, and not want to fight it.

When people tell me they hate Sam Winchester, I take that personally because there are so many traits of Sam’s that I feel are mine own. I have never once questioned Sam’s motives on Supernatural (even at his darkest) because for me, they were completely clear. I understood Sam’s ambitions, because from the age of ten I wanted nothing more than to leave my hometown and not be the person my family wanted. I understood standing in a room full of people and feeling like I couldn’t tell any of them how I felt. Maybe I didn’t shoot guns from age five, or learn exorcisms like school ground rhymes, but I was that average joe kid that Sam Winchester appeared to be. I got in fights with kids in school just because they insulted my friends. I was told by teachers to pursue academics because I could really go somewhere. I was told by my parents that I wasn’t allowed to move too far away from home, to leave the family. 

I can’t stand Sam Haters because, in the basest of ways, I am Sam Winchester. I am the boy who loves fiercely and refuses to give up and finds a purpose and does not. let. go. Ignoring the actions and horrible things that Sam forgoes, I will never understand how a person can look at Sam Winchester and not love him for his most basic faults; loving too much, wanting too much, and simply wanting to live a life led by his own choices, and not the choices dictated by others. 

I could go on for eons about how I relate to Sam, but I will conclude for brevity’s sake with this: Sam Winchester is the most human character to ever exist. And if you put yourself in his shoes, it’s hard to see yourself making different choices in those circumstances, especially without the knowledge that we have as viewers. 

I am Sam Winchester. And so are you. Sam-Haters simply don’t realize the complete and utter humanity of this tall, quiet, kind hearted man, and how he relates to us all, and I pity them for that. 

Sam Winchester is a great fictional character not because he jumped into hell, or saved the world, or endured endless torture for his brother. Sam Winchester is a great fictional character because he is indescribably human. Despite all the horrible things he has seen and done, he is still kind, still ambitious, still caring, still human.

And that is pretty goddamn incredible.