"He Hadn't Meant To Pull The Trigger." Isn't That How These Things Were Always Supposed To Go?
"He hadn't meant to pull the trigger." Isn't that how these things were always supposed to go?
But he had meant to pull the trigger. Because if he hadn't, he would have misfired. And he couldn't afford to misfire.
He'd tried to do all he could to save Courfeyrac. He and Combeferre had worked like fiends. But it had not been enough; the virus had spread, and Courfeyrac was no longer inside this shell of a creature, and there was only a split second between the creature stirring from the sickbed and the shot's report.
(Joly had always had fast reflexes. It was one of the only reasons he was still alive.)
He dropped the rifle. Bahorel picked it up, and Lesgle took his hand and murmured quiet comforting nothings in his ear, and Combeferre stepped back stricken to turn to Enjolras and could I borrow that flask a minute Grantaire.
Joly knelt next to the corpse and, with trembling gloved fingers, closed its eyes.
"I'm so sorry."
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@pilferingapples oh my God this makes it even better. party trio courfeyrac bossuet and grantaire hitting the club. "dynamite" by taio cruz playing in the background. 🕺🕺🕺
okay but instead of coffeeshop aus
angry biologists au
historians au
librarians au
crazy cat horder and frustrated-allergic-to-cats neighbor au
jocks and nerds au
competing musicians au
unwilling dance partners au
marriage of convenience au
zoologists au
modern royalty au
drift compatible au
soulmate-tattoo au
werewolves au
afterlife au
last two people on earth after the zombie apocalypse au
cute clerk and regular customer au
young ta and hot older student au
time traveller au
hot disgruntled fire fighter and rambunctious college student au
Say what you like. Plutonium may give you grief for thousands of years, but arsenic is forever.
Pollution, the 4th horseman of the apocalypse from Pterry & Gneil’s Good Omens.
LES MIS RULE 63 Gina Torres as Inspector Javert
Some police officers have a peculiar expression, combining an air of meanness with an air of authority. Javert had this, without the meanness.Â
The peasants of the Asturias believe that in every litter of wolves there is one pup that is killed by the mother for fear that on growing up it would devour the other little ones.
Give a human face to this wolf’s whelp, and you have Javert.
Javert was born in a prison. Her mother was a fortune-teller whose husband was in the galleys. She grew up thinking herself outside of society, and despaired of ever entering it. She noticed that society irrevocably closes its doors on two classes of people, those who attack it and those who guard it; she could choose between these two classes only; at the same time she felt that she had a powerful foundation of rectitude, order, and honesty based on an irrepressible hatred for that race to which she belonged. She entered the police. She succeeded. At forty she was an inspector.
Her face consisted of a regal nose, broad cheekbones, and deep brown eyes. One felt ill at ease on first seeing her thick eyebrows and strongly defined nose and lips. When she laughed, which was rarely and terribly, her voluptuous lips parted, showing her teeth. When she laughed, Javert was a tiger; strange, majestic, terrifying. Beyond that, she had an oval face, a square jaw, thick black hair that fell over her shoulders, between the eyes a permanent central crease like an angry star, a gloomy look, and an air of fierce command.
Unofficial art/writing blog for particolored-socks. Updates once in a blue moon.
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