The last one…
I don’t know what I was expecting.
i think i’ve changed my mind about superwholock
plot twist: an alien invasion isn’t how Eleven dies, it’s the Winchesters
This brings back my thesis that every fanfic — every fanfic on every subject in every fandom — can be improved by adding “And then the Winchesters shot them” to the last line.
Go on. Try it. I’ll wait.
If you insist.
"May the undeserved kindness of the Lord Jesus Christ be with the holy ones. And then the Winchesters shot them.” (Revelation 22:21)
The last trace of steam evaporated in the autumn air. The train rounded the corner. Harry’s hand was still raised in farewell.
"He’ll be alright" murmured Ginny.
As Harry looked at her, he lowered his hand absent-mindedly and touched the lightning scar on his forehead.
"I know he will"
The scar had not pained Harry for nineteen years.
All was well.
And then the Winchesters shot them.
we have a winner.
Best 8 Seconds of my life.
THIS IS BACK.
also anyone from the 70th HG, this brings back painful memories.
why don’t tv writers realize there are better storylines than cheating and death
This is how I picture the staff when the site’s having a problem.
This is so great
A boy sprawled next to me on the bus, elbows out, knee pointing sharp into my thigh.
He frowned at me when I uncrossed my legs, unfolded my hands
and splayed out like boys are taught to: all big, loose limbs.
I made sure to jab him in the side with my pretty little sharp purse.
At first he opened his mouth like I expected him to, but instead of speaking up he sat there, quiet, and took it for the whole bus ride.
Like a girl.
Once, a boy said my anger was cute, and he laughed,
and I remember thinking that I should sit there and take it,
because it isn’t ladylike to cause a scene and girls aren’t supposed to raise their voices.
But then he laughed again and all I saw
was my pretty little sharp nails digging into his cheek
before drawing back and making a horribly unladylike fist.
(my teacher informed me later that there is no ladylike way of making a fist.)
When we were both in the principal’s office twenty minutes later
him with a bloody mouth and cheek, me with skinned knuckles,
I tried to explain in words that I didn’t have yet
that I was tired of having my emotions not taken seriously
just because I’m a girl.
Girls are taught: be small, so boys can be big.
Don’t take up any more space than absolutely necessary.
Be small and smooth with soft edges
and hold in the howling when they touch you and it hurts:
the sandpaper scrape of their body hair that we would be shamed for having,
the greedy hands that press too hard and too often take without asking permission.
Girls are taught: be quiet and unimposing and oh so small
when they heckle you with their big voices from the window of a car,
because it’s rude to scream curse words back at them, and they’d just laugh anyway.
We’re taught to pin on smiles for the boys who jeer at us on the street
who see us as convenient bodies instead of people.
Girls are taught: hush, be hairless and small and soft,
so we sit there and take it and hold in the howling,
pretend to be obedient lapdogs instead of the wolves we are.
We pin pretty little sharp smiles on our faces instead of opening our mouths,
because if we do we get accused of silly women emotions
blowing everything out of proportion with our PMS, we get
condescending pet names and not-so-discreet eyerolls.
Once, I got told I punched like a girl.
I told him, Good. I hope my pretty little sharp rings leave scars.
*laughs while actually getting feelings hurt*
Pet Peeves: Men Who Are Uncomfortable With Their Sexuality