Particolored-arts - It's A Work In Progress

Any gifsets of this yet? I would like to reblog 👀

Jon being called a “crow” was one of many nice callbacks in 8x2. And in the same episode as “who manipulated whom?” at that.

have a Flash Bastard as an apology I'm so RRY 

Won’t someone think of the children

Emma: Okay so like. The most fridge horror thing about the triwizard tournament is that they’re like “we added an age restriction!”

Emma: Not “we raised it!” Just “we added one!”

Emma: Which implies that previously, 11 YEAR OLDS COULD ENTER

Emma: Like I doubt they were ever chosen bc someone whose magical repotoir consists solely of “swish and flick” is not the best candidate for their school but what the FUCK

Meghan: AU where the Tournament happens 1st year, the other Champions are the same (17) and throw the whole competition making sure Harry doesn’t fucking die. They even let him take the Cup bc he’s so tiny and adorably earnest…

Meghan: Obviously that backfires, but Cedric isn’t dead at least.

Emma: THANKS I HATE IT

The beginning of Joly and Bossuet’s friendship .↓

“ If he had a mistress, he speedily discovered that he had a friend also.”

So I guess that Musichetta used to be Bossuet’s girlfriend but Joly stole her ………..At last they became the best friend .(WTF)

Just Around the Riverbend

They could have played it safe. They could have stayed silent, they could have gone on with their lives. They'd been born to comfortable families, most of them; been born to privilege; been born to ease and relative wealth.

But what's the point of living without excitement, without something to live for?

Enjolras was a firebrand, a firework, and he was the one who pushed them to look around and dream, to see things in their minds' eye that weren't yet real, to choose what is right instead of what is simply easy.

To see the Republic, just around the corner, so long as they still fought the status quo.

Winter days. JolyxGrantaire Modern AU

Winter days were the best in Grantaire’s opinion. It meant more time with Joly and hot chocolate. (Lots of whipped cream for Grantaire and a ton of little marshmallows for Joly) Winter meant they got to spend time in there own little world and it lasted months.

john faa and maggie costa is the relationship we should be yammering about. asriel this marisa coulter that. where's the quiet strength, where's the unassuming command, the unflagging respect. where's the actual parental emotion and action instead of the occasional closeup on their face as they sadly contemplate the burden of being responsible for a child and then shirk it immediately. where's the love and tenderness. it's right there. with john faa, king of the western gyptians, and maggie costa, the best mother in the world, holding hands while they take the bolvangar children home. it is Right There.

... telling the laws of physics to shut up and sit down.

Vaarsuvius, genderqueer elf mage of the Order of the Stick. hella.

Street rat… turned thief

“A lugubrious being was Montparnasse. Montparnasse was a child; less than twenty years of age, with a handsome face, lips like cherries, charming black hair, the brilliant light of springtime in his eyes; he had all vices and aspired to all crimes.

The digestion of evil aroused in him an appetite for worse. It was the street boy turned pickpocket, and a pickpocket turned garroter. He was genteel, effeminate, graceful, robust, sluggish, ferocious. The rim of his hat was curled up on the left side, in order to make room for a tuft of hair, after the style of 1829. He lived by robbery with violence. His coat was of the best cut, but threadbare. 

Montparnasse was a fashion-plate in misery and given to the commission of murders. The cause of all this youth’s crimes was the desire to be well-dressed. The first grisette who had said to him: “You are handsome!” had cast the stain of darkness into his heart, and had made a Cain of this Abel. Finding that he was handsome, he desired to be elegant: now, the height of elegance is idleness; idleness in a poor man means crime. Few prowlers were so dreaded as Montparnasse. At eighteen, he had already numerous corpses in his past. More than one passer-by lay with outstretched arms in the presence of this wretch, with his face in a pool of blood. Curled, pomaded, with laced waist, the hips of a woman, the bust of a Prussian officer, the murmur of admiration from the boulevard wenches surrounding him, his cravat knowingly tied, a bludgeon in his pocket, a flower in his buttonhole; such was this dandy of the sepulcher.”