Please pick only one post type!!

John Constantine: Angels and Demons can’t cross over onto our plane. So, instead we get what I call half-breeds. The influence peddlers. They can only whisper in our ears. But a single word can give you courage, or turn your favorite pleasure into your worst nightmare. Those with the demon’s touch like those part angel, living alongside us. They call it the balance. I call it hypocritical bullshit.


i came into this world covered in someone else blood and screaming and lemme tell you i’m not afraid to leave it the same way

track name: The poem read by Charlie
artist: Logan Lerman
album: Deleted Scenes of The Perks of being a wallflower
play count: 260077


Audio from Deleted Scene The poem that Charlie reads at Secret Santa party to his friends

“That was the poem I read for Patrick. Nobody knew who wrote it, but Bob said he heard it before, and he heard that it was some kid’s suicide note. I really hope it wasn’t because then I don’t know if I like the ending”. The perks of being a Wallflower

Graffiti tunnel london south bank



me when i return from hogwarts

Why can’t I be that person? DX


order a pizza and when the delivery guy shows up act confused and ask whos it for, and when the delivery guy says your name just say “adam?….. adam doesnt live here anymore. he died exactly 10 years ago after he ordered a pizza. is this some kind of sick joke?” start crying, take the pizza and close the door before they even get a chance to ask you for the money. you now have a free pizza. congratulations.



Since some people seemed to like my previous comic about Jack and Jamie I thought I should draw you another little comic! (My sketchbook is turning into a ROTG anthology…)
I bet Jack would’ve liked to become an adult, too at some point.  But children’s smiles make him feel better… And red noses from the cold are just cute.

SCREEECH. This is perfect. Just. Perfect. Omg. Their faces, the blushes. Sooo adorable. Jaime would grow up absolutely precious <333


Day 1. The residents wake to a power outage, with no light to see by.

The problem is minor, so Castiel fixes it and restores light for them.

Day 2. Castiel notes that the windows of this place are grimy, streaked with watermarks and spattered with bird feces. He waves his hand, cleans the filth of the rust-belt air from the glass.

An arm links through his, and, “Look at the sky, Charles,” the old woman says. “You’ve given us back the sky.”

Day 3. The clean windows have revealed the barren patch of earth under the dayroom in all its muddy sparseness.

With the snap of his fingers, Castiel plants grass, shrubs, trees, bright flowers that shouldn’t be blooming now but are. He positions benches, a bird table, a pond. He smiles, and a splash of color is caught in the branches of a tree: a kite, wafting brightly on the breeze.

Day 4. “I named a star for your eyes, Charles,” the old woman whispers, leaning into Castiel as he gazes up at the inky night sky. “But I forget which one it was.” 

Castiel folds his wing around her and gestures through the window, clearing away the cloud cover with a handwave, so that the moon casts her silvery glow across a sea of sparkling stars.

She sighs. “It was that one.”

Day 5. The bird table remains stubbornly empty, and the pond is sealed over with sheet ice.

Castiel cocks his head, and from the sky a small flock of birds descends to crowd about the bird table. The ice melts, and the silver flare of a fish leaps through the surface of the pond to twist gracefully in mid-air before plopping back into the water.

Day 6. Castiel frowns as he studies the garden. Something is still missing, and he can’t work out what it is until there is a light pressure at his leg and he glances down to see the cat entwining itself between his calves.


Within the space of a thought, rabbits are gamboling across the lawn, and squirrels scurry along the branches of the trees.

Castiel bends to lift the cat, and its purr catches in its throat as it stares avidly. “No eating,” he tells it firmly.

There is motion next to him then, and the old woman’s eyes aren’t as bright as they usually are. “You’re not Charles,” she murmurs.

“No,” Castiel tells her gently. “But unless I’m mistaken, I think that is?”

She turns to where he is looking, at an old man sitting at a table playing cards, and she smiles.

Day 7. Castiel rests.






And the dad of the year award goes to…



WAAAAHHHHHH luckiest kid ever!!


oh god so earlier today my dad and i came back from grocery shopping and we were putting everything away and he pulls a box of my tampons out of the bag and turns to me and says 

“where do these go?”

and there was kind of this awkward moment of silence before i went “…my vagina”

and then he kind of just fell over and nearly cried


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