also i would write to that address!!

James Madison should've had his own song!

Madison deserved his own song that would be either a waltz like “Your Obedient Servant” or jazzy like “The Room Where it Happens.” Ooh, or both!

Title: “Out-Write, Wrong!” because, going by the play, his WHOLE THING is that he also wrote things, but was completely over shadowed by Hamilton. He wrote the Bill of Rights and 29 of the Federalist papers (which IRL may be more because the 51 credited to Hamilton, some of those may also have been Madison’s). ALSO in the workshop version of “One Last Ride,” Washington says something like. “I need you to help me with my Farewell Address. Madison wrote the first draft and it’s a mess!”

There’s a WHOLE arc there that’s not addressed, of Madison wanting to be recognized, in his own right, for writing as much as Hamilton did. (You can tell with his “Which I Wrote!” tone in “Washington On Your Side”). But he gets COMPLETELY overshadowed by Hamilton, to the point that his accomplishments are just briefly mentioned in a line or two.

So I would love to see him take on that same attitude as Burr and Jefferson towards Hamilton. He clearly still respects Hamilton (telling Jefferson to get Ham on his side in “The Election of 1800”), but I think animosity is there in the fact that he’s more meek and less aggressive than Hamilton, so no one is giving him his due with his papers. We get to see this intense sort of rivalry one-on-one from Jefferson and Burr with Ham, but not from Madison at all.

I’d like a song sort of starting out like “Obedient Servant” and shifting into “The Room Where it Happens.” Of course a rap-like diss-track could work too (the one time we could see sick little Jmads blow off some steam)!

As for the title I came up with? It’s outright wrong that Ham gets more credit than Madison for out-writing him. ;-)

Maybe in the song, he’s singing and complaining about Ham in his POV as Jefferson is getting back from France? It would tie in to the “My friend James Madison red in the face!” line before he explains what Ham has been doing. (Sort of the way “Satisfied” immediately follows “Helpless,” but from Angelica’s POV).

Even better, to not ruin that transition from “What’d I Miss?” to “Cabinet Battle 1,” it could also probably come in after “The Room Where it Happens” as the Democratic-Republics are gearing up for their one-on-one with Ham in each song. And as James is singing, Jefferson comes in near the end and encourages him to stand up for himself as they plot against Hamilton.

….Jmads needs more love basically.

I’ve addressed the situation so many times

So many times I’ve thought I did the right thing

I don’t know how many more times I can do it the wrong way before I give up

I don’t know how to get this right

Could you please just tell me how you feel, it would make this a lot easier

—  existential-words
Certain as the Sun: VII

Here is the next part to Certain as the Sun. ***WARNING: EXTREME EXPLICIT CONTENT***  I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as it killed my heart to write it. (That’s all the spoilers I’ll give. Please prepare yourselves). Sorry it’s also super long.

{..}..{..}..{..}..{..}..{..}..{..}

I could think up about a million different possibilities as for why the hell Tamlin had sent for me to be brought to the Spring Court and none of them involved him letting Feyre go so that she could return home with me.

When I had first received the note from none other than the High Lord of the Spring Court himself, Amren had advised me to ignore it.

“It’s a trap,” she’d said, eyes blaring. “What good reason would he have to send for you?” When I’d addressed the rest of the Inner Circle as well, they’d had similar thoughts. There was one thing we all agreed upon, and that was that Tamlin had not invited me to his home for a nice brunch and some polite conversation.

When I’d tried to reach out to Feyre again I had been met with that dark, infinite void. She had not contacted him at all since she’d returned once again to the Spring Court. And although I was certain she must possess some perfectly good explanation unbeknownst to myself, it still struck some sort of chord that she had severed herself from me so thoroughly.

Nevertheless, I had agreed to meet with Tamlin. Morrigan and Amren were both waiting just on the outskirts of the Spring Court should I need their assistance. I’d ordered Azriel to take to the skies and keep watch from there, Cassian flanking my side. Normally, their roles were reversed, but in great thanks to that bastard King of Hybern, we still had not found any cure for Cassian’s ruined wings.

He had not yet come to terms with it, and over these past months, I could tell that there was something that was a bit off about my fellow Illyrian warrior. I could not begin to imagine the pain that came with being without your wings—for Illyrians we’d sooner lose our lives than the one thing that kept us from being fully tethered to the ground. Every day that Cassian chose to continue was another that my respect for him grew.

Even if that did mean getting rip-roaring drunk with him more than usual.

“Well, Tamlin’s certainly got a flair for the extravagant,” Cassian mused upon coming face to face with a ridiculously gaudy table sat decoratively in a corner. It seemed to have no use whatsoever besides showcasing Tamlin’s less than desirable personality traits.

No sooner did the words come from Cassian’s lips did a servant come to take us to wherever Tamlin was hiding out. He was a small, young Fae. Exceedingly pointed ears were a light shade of green at the tips, his eyes wide at the sight of the two warriors before him.

The boy swallowed before speaking. “Master Tamlin has ordered me to fetch you,” he said, fighting to stop his voice from quivering so much. “Please follow me.”

He promptly spun on his heels and walked out of the room, not bothering to ensure we were following him.

As we were led through the utter maze that was the Spring Court dwelling, I was shocked at how many memories were associated with this place that had once been like a home but was now nothing more than a living hell.

Finally, the boy led us to a set of dusty rose-colored double doors. His timid fingers lightly rapped on the door, followed by a, “Come in.”

As one we all filed inside. The room was big and spacious, a single table set with four chairs instead of just three did not escape my notice. This particular room had been peculiarly made with mirrors on three of the four walls, as well as the ceiling, giving it the illusion that you were standing in a pool of Starlight due to the sun that refracted off of them.

And standing at the lone window in the room was none other than the High Bastard himself.

Tamlin turned upon hearing our arrival, a welcoming smile adorning his lips. “Rhysand. Cassian,” he greeted. As he made his way over to us, I noted that his choice in clothing was just as flamboyant as his furniture. He wore a finely tailored red tunic with bright silver trimmings, grey pants, and black boots. His hair graced past his shoulders, and sitting atop his head was the infamous Spring Court crown. It looked decidedly uncomfortable.

“I trust you made it here without any trouble,” he continued.

“Your trust is accurately placed,” Cassian said with more than a hint of malice.

Tamlin just nodded, keeping that pleasant smile on his face. “Well, please sit. We’ve much to discuss.”

Neither Cassian nor I moved.

“I don’t have time for whatever mind tricks you’re trying to pull, Tamlin. Perhaps you’ve forgotten that that is one area—of many— that my performance supersedes yours,” I replied coolly.

That smile drooped ever slightly.

“I don’t see your Lady floating about,” I remarked. “Keeping her locked away for fear I may meddle with her mind again, are we?”

“Funny you should mention her, actually,” Tamlin’s eyes glittered with something that had my senses on high alert. “Feyre,” he called, “would you please join us?”

A moment later I heard the doors that we’d entered just a few moments ago open and then shut once more. I forced myself to breathe, not to react, to calm myself as Feyre came into view.

She was wearing a dress similar in fashion to what Tamlin was wearing, a pretty diadem sat upon her head. Feyre did not glance our way as she rushed to Tamlin, her lips meeting his as soon as he was within arm’s length.

Tamlin scooped her into his arms, Feyre leaning into his touch as his hand moved further south than should be permitted in front of an audience.

Cassian was taut as a bow, his hands clenching and unclenching were they were hidden behind his back. It took all my strength not to turn Tamlin’s mind to putty then and there, and I could tell similar thoughts were indeed running through Cassian’s mind as well as we were forced to watch helplessly as our High Lady shoved her tongue down another man’s throat.

“How are you today, my love?” He asked. She smiled broadly, one she had only ever graced me with when she was incandescently happy.

“I’m well, thank you,” she replied, beaming at him. “I got some more paintings done today.”

“Did you?”

She nodded, biting down on her lower lip, eyes sparkling. “I was feeling oddly inspired this morning…perhaps due to—”

“Either we get on with whatever business, or the two of you get a room and we leave,” Cassian interrupted. As much as I wished I could say that I would have been able to stand there for a few moments more and let them go about their business, it was killing me to see her this way.

When Feyre had visited, she’d told me she had to do things to keep up appearances. Things that she was not proud of. She hadn’t specified at the time, but there was no need. I knew exactly the kind of things she probably had to do to keep up the facade that she was hopelessly in love with Tamlin.

And yet, the wrath deafening my ears came as a surprise.

Indeed, it was one thing to be told, and another entirely to experience.

“Feyre, you remember Rhysand, I’m sure. And the other is Cassian. His…advisor.”

I couldn’t help the low chuckle that came as a result of his words. “You think you will anger me by disrespecting not only my title but a member of my court as well. It will take much more than a few insults, princeling, for me to reveal my true self.” His brows rose. “And I assure you, your claws would not like to become acquainted with my talons.”

He was quiet for a moment, eyes calculating.

Finally, he spoke. “You know what? You’re right. So very right, Rhysand. How foolish of me to think I could rile you with belittling you insignificant and, frankly, foolish court of savages anyway?” My teeth set. “It would take something much more…personal, I think.”

It took less than a heartbeat for Cassian to have his swords drawn, me reaching out to strangle Tamlin’s mind as the room was flooded with ten guards. They all immediately came at us, and I was more than prepared to fight our way out of this cursed kingdom with Tamlin tisked.

“Spill a drop of their blood, and your beloved mate loses her head.” It took me a moment to realize what he was saying, an infinitely longer moment for it to process. For when I looked at where Feyre had once been standing like another pretty piece of Tamlin’s furniture, she was now being held by three guards.

I forced my face into a mask of calm. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, you crazy bastard.”

His brows rose in mock surprise. “Oh really? You’ve no clue that Feyre is, indeed, your mate? That she’s been pretending this entire time to love me when really, she had staged everything just to infiltrate the Spring Court. A spy within my own walls, hiding in plain sight.” He paused, as if waiting for me to answer some unspoken question.

“Well then, if you have no feelings whatsoever for our lovely Feyre, here. I suppose you’ll have no problem watching this.” I watched as he snapped his fingers and a table decorated with over a dozen lethal weapons, a whip, and strangely, a bed appeared.

“As you know, the punishment for such treason is death.” He stalked towards Feyre, whose eyes had gone devoid of all emotion. As if she’d shut herself out of her own body. With one finger, he lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry for this, Feyre. I really am.” A regretful shake of the head and then, “Get on with it, boys.”

Immediately, Tamlin’s guards began to strip Feyre, yanking at her dress, tearing at the pins and beads in her hair until she was entirely naked before us. Once finished, Tamlin handed a long, black whip to the nearest guard. Something winked at the end of the whip—glass, I realized with unabashed horror.

“You’re going to whip her to death?” I asked, somehow still managing to keep my voice utterly bored.

Tamlin shrugged. “We’ll see how well she holds out.” He nodded at the guard, and I was sure my heart cleaved itself in two as Feyre took in a deep, shuddering breath, preparing herself for the pain that was sure to come.

The guard’s arm reared back, time seeming to slow as his arm came down.

The resounding crack of leather on skin was one that would haunt me for many centuries to come.

Feyre only released a strangled cry, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from calling out. And that was how it went as the guard whipped her again, and again, and again. I lost count sometime after fifty.

I knew that Feyre’s back had stopped healing itself when she finally released a cry so full of agony, it was all I could do to stop from ripping that whip from the guard’s hands and using it myself.

Tamlin allowed the guard to bring down that leather ten more times before he finally said, “Enough. Get her up.”

They heaved her up, Tamlin slowly circling around her like a lion before its prey. When he was once again facing her he murmured, “Get on the bed.”

Feyre looked at him, her eyes burning like liquid amber. But she did not respond, and she did not move. Only stared at him with a look that promised death in the future.

“Get on the bed, Feyre, or I will instruct my guards to seize your mate’s cousin and bring her back here.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“Pretty little thing isn’t she? Bright red lips, beautiful honeyed hair. The only family Rhysand has left if I recall correctly. It’d be a shame for dear Rhys to be the only left of his name, wouldn’t it?”

And then Feyre looked beyond Tamlin, her eyes locking with mine. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” they seemed to say.

“I’m going to kill you.” My voice was quiet, but it was filled with a vow I had every intention to keep.

Tamlin didn’t turn to me as he said. “I don’t believe you’ll have the chance.” He inclined his head toward the waiting bed. “Off you go, Feyre.”

She hesitated for a moment, gaze still locked with mine before she obeyed.

“Now, Rhys, since she is your mate I figured I’d offer. Would you like to have a go? Feyre has…well, not really two choices but two possibilities,” he finally turned to meet my gaze. “Either you join her in that bed and fuck her…or I will, gladly, as you watch. You’ve thirty seconds to decide.”

“Rhys.” I looked over at Feyre to see her shaking her head, her eyes swimming not with tears, but with a sort of determination that only came with acceptance. “Don’t do it. Do not agree to this.”

“Feyre—”

“I’ll be fine,” she promised.

“Feyre—” Cassian tried.

“I will. Be. Fine,” she said, sternly this time.

And I wanted to believe her, I really did.

I wanted to believe that this wouldn’t be the thing that broke her, being raped by the man who had once claimed to love her. I knew he wouldn’t be gentle with her, even after being whipped. The man who had once been thought to be her savior, lover, friend.

But Tamlin was none of those things.

And I couldn’t, not for the life of me, believe that she would still be Feyre after this.

“Alright,” Tamlin sighed, “I guess I’m—”

“I’ll do it.”

“Rhys—”

“Now, now, Feyre. Let him finish.”

Cassian turned to me, anguish in his eyes. “Rhysand, you don’t—”

“I’ll do it,” I repeated, ignoring him. “I’ll sleep with her.”

“Well then,” Tamlin grinned, “I don’t believe you need me to instruct you on how to go about your business.” He gestured towards Feyre, towards the bed, my damnation.

I watched in horror as Feyre fought back tears at my approach, and all I could pray for was that she’d one day forgive me for this, for this sin I was about to commit.

She slid to the side as I rid myself of my clothing, by back to Tamlin’s gathered audience. Her eyes never left mine as I finally joined her on that bed.

“It’s alright,” I whispered my lips at her ear. “It’s just me. It’s just me.”

She couldn’t respond, she was shaking so hard. I’d never seen her shaking so violently. Feyre lifted my chin with her finger, her head shaking.

“Don’t stop looking at me,” she begged. “Don’t leave me. Please.”

“I won’t,” I promised. “I won’t.”

Slowly, Tamlin be damned, I made sure to honor her body, despite all of the new scars, worshipping all of her newly inflicted wounds. I wanted Feyre to know it was me, that despite this terrible act we were being forced into, it did not mean that I loved her any less.

When I finally connected our bodies, she let out a slight gasp, her eyes, now swimming with tears, still never leaving mine as I moved, my body cocooning hers, careful of her wounds.

“I’m here,” I whispered down the bond, “I’m here. I won’t leave you. I love you.”

But all I was met with was an infinite void.

5 pages letter from May 21st, 1984 by Ted Bundy (x)

Dear Diane,

I have received your letter from May 1st, I apologize for taking so long to answer it. Thank you for writing to me.

You say that you have written to me on two previous occassions. I’m sorry, but I don’t recall those letters.

In your letter you speculated as to the possible reasons why I didn’t answer your earlier letters. I’d like to comment on your theories.

1.I’ve many letters from total strangers.” You’ve a point here. I do receive many letters from people I have never known (I agree with you, by the way, that “there are no strangers in the world, only people we haven’t met.”)

The main problem here isn’t so much the time I’d need to answer took me, that problem can be overcome. All I need is the motivation. I made little or no effort to write back to people like yourself, but lately I have been because … well, it’s not easy to say actually. I guess I just feel free to in a way I wasn’t before.

No, the real problem I have in answering you and others who write to me is a straight forward for me: I don’t have the stamps.

People don’t send me stamps or stampered, self- addressed envelopes (note: Here he makes reference on the right where it says:“Let me correct what I just wrote.”) Sometimes people will enclose a stamp or two but they are for the exception.

I’m not being critical, Diane. That’s just the way it is. I can’t send people letters if I don’t have stamps.

So I have to conserve the few stamps I have for people I have known for years, especially my wife and family. Only when I have what can be considered an extra stamp or two now-and-then do I respond to the (illegible) of correspondence I have from other folks.

Believe me, I don’t expect people to send me stamps. I don’t imagine that it occurs to people who write to me that I wouldn’t have just one stamp to use to write them back. But as I’ve explained, there are many letters that each need only one stamp.

And it may also be that people assume (illegible) heard rumors to the effect that I have money, or friends or family with money. I don’t, and (whatsmore), I don’t receive a nickle from many of the books, articles, TV programs, or (illegible) films about Ted Bundy. Nothing. Nada. Zero.

That’s fine, too. I don’t want any of that money and I don’t need it. The fact is I’m broke, and while I can handle that, it also means I can’t afford stamps to go on letters to you. So it goes.

Excuse me, I’ve made too much of the stamp (illegible). It doesn’t bother me actually, it’s just the way it is.

2.My wife doesn’t allow me to answer letter from other women?

This is the second theory you propose. Perhaps you were being only half serious on this one. No problem. Of course, if you knew my wife, Carole, you would understand immediately that isn’t the case.

3.You are too busy to write a lot of just friends letters.

I’ve already addressed this point, though briefly, earlier on. Time is not a big factor here. Or is lazyness. It can be, though.

I find that I have more than enough to keep my days (illegible) from 5 in the morning to 11 at night. I’m rarely bored. However, contrary to what you assumed, I do not work with legal matters.

Generally, (illegible). I find the law too limiting and doctrinaire the way it goes about separating people. But that is another story.

So while I am being in a relaxed, controlled, and positive way, there is time to write just friends, occasionally, attorneys, the time available is limited and there are many people to write to. It’s also important that I feel inwardly moved to write to a certain person, and I don’t always feel that way. I have to be conscious of my inner flow and that is another story too.

I enjoyed your letter and enjoyed writing to you. Again, excuse me for taking so long.

X.

The Joker x Reader - Job Application”

You infiltrated Gotham Bank’s headquarters two weeks ago as a mortgage specialist. You need to retrieve as much information as possible about their vault and then make your move. Until then, pretending to be normal and actually come to a regular job sure is boring as hell. Thank God you have a husband that is equally bored without his Pumpkin, this way he can make your present day better with the “Job Application” you just received from him in the mail.

“Mrs. Doll?” one of your co-workers knocks on your cubicle’s wall, handing you over an envelope marked as urgent as you nod a yes to answer his question.

“Thank you,” you smile when you recognize J’s handwriting on the small package:

To: Mrs. Kira Doll (which is your alias for this inside job) URGENT (to be opened only by the addressee)

From: Mr. Jo Ker

What is he up to? you wonder and open the envelope as soon as the guy leaves.

                                      ***********

Princess, I heard you guys are hiring so I’m applying, the little note on top of the first page lets you know.

               GOTHAM BANK JOB APPLICATION

First name: Jo

Middle initial: B (=Batsy sucks –there was no other place to write this down)

Last name: Ker

Date of birth: When I was born, I guess - duh!

Age (optional): is just a number

Current address: Penthouse (main) but you can also reach me at one of my hideouts

E-mail: DaddysKinkyPrincess  (this really is his e-mail)

Aliases/ Previously used names: I’m not making this up- Mister J, King of Gotham, Clown Prince of Crime

Your smile gets wider. And you unconsciously start biting your nails, amused and continue to read.

Preferred nickname you would like us to use if you get hired (optional): Daddy; Oh my God, yes! (My wife says this a lot in the bedroom so it counts)

You snort, giggling.

Sex: Masc _ Fem _    as much as possible

Eyes: very blue. My wife says she gets lost in them (although she got lost on her way to the kitchen once and I swear it wasn’t my fault).

Hehehehe, escapes your lips again and you struggle to keep it down but it’s hard.

Height (optional): Tall. My Queen says and I quote: “I will climb that like a tree!” (and she does)

Weight (optional): Ask my Doll, she’s very familiar with my weight, if you get my drift XD

He actually wrote that down: XD. You try so hard not to laugh like crazy. You don’t know what got into him but you sure love it.

Position desired: that’s a tough one, it depends what I’m in the mood for- top, bottom, against the wall, couch, floor, desk, car etc.

Current occupation: Sex God, gangster

Wow, that’s a good one, you think, not bored anymore, entertained to the maximum.

Reason for leaving current job: I’m not, just bored without my Kitten

Skills: Killing, stealing, blackmailing, rough sex, excellent kisser

Weaknesses: none. Hold on, I thought it said “witnesses”, LOL. But still none. Actually, my wife insists she’s my weakness so to get her off my back, mark her as my weakness.

Ahhhhh, you sigh, touching your blushing cheeks, how sweet.

Hobbies (optional): staring at my wife’s ass, undressing her, showing her who her Daddy is, aggravating Batsy, breaking out of Arkham, looking sexy with no effort

You are so flattered right now: aggravating Batsy came after “staring at my wife’s ass” and you feel on cloud 9.

Special accommodations you might need/ requests: I wanna get laid tonight- three times, but actually striving for four

And he hand wrote this:

                         Accept __      Decline

There is no option to decline so you mark an X next to Accept

You also include a note with your response:

             Dear Mr. Jo Ker,

Thank you for your interest in obtaining a job with our company. We are pleased to inform you that due to your impeccable application and resume you are hired.

You grab the stamp on your desk and stamp your paper with: HIRED.

And also sir, you will get laid tonight.

Special requests: pink champagne, chocolate covered strawberries, bubble bath, background music (Baby, I told you before your moans and my screams don’t count).

                        Accept __    Decline

And you don’t give him the option to decline, but you kiss the paper next to Decline, so that your red lipstick makes it better.

You put everything into a new envelope, mark it as URGENT and sent it to one of the PO Boxes you have across the street inside the postal office. The Joker has one of your henchmen waiting there for sure.

After about 3 hours, you get a small package. You impatiently open it and your note is marked with an X by Accept for your request. You look inside and you see a pair of black, lacy thongs on the bottom of the tiny box with a sticker on them.

You take out the sticker and can’t help it but laugh with all your heart when you read it:

Dear Madam,

Wear this for tonight, no strings attached - literally: it’s a very skimpy piece of lingerie.

Thank God he was bored at home because this made your day and you have to make sure to thank him tonight the best way you know how. It’s going to be fun:

                 Accept _X_     Decline


Also read- Masterlist:

http://diyunho.tumblr.com/post/153664676321/joker-x-reader-masterlist

I bet you Sherlock and John were pen pals when they were little, they just don’t remember it. Like Sherlock would have really cute bee stationery his mum bought him  - without lines, because he’s too old for lines - and one of those address stickers but with bees on them. And he wouldn’t really want to have a pen pal at first, because who needs those, and also, the name is stupid, his mum makes him write in pencil anyways. Which is okay because he has one with honeycomb designs. But his mum signs him up anyways and he gets a letter from John in the mail, and his letter has pirate stationery and Sherlock thinks this is so cool and Sherlock (Billy) writes to John about pirates, and John returns with another letter complimenting him on the bee stationery and asking him how he made the address sticker, and it just goes on until they get a little too old for pen pals, or John moves away. And years and years later they’re living together and in love and Rosie starts getting older and Mrs. Holmes thinks she should get a pen pal too, but who even does that nowadays, like no one, it’s an old-fashioned concept, but Mrs. Holmes gets her these fancy address stickers and Rosie just needs to use them, so she does. And she shows John and Sherlock her first letter and asks them to take her to the post office to mail it out and they both see the bee address label and think….oh

CS FF: Say You Won’t Let Go

Summary: Emma struggles to accept Killian abandoned her, as Snow lends her advice and support.  Meanwhile, Killian fights to get back to Emma.   (My version of things.)

Rating: G

Note: So this is how I would write things if I wrote the show.  I fully expect Emma to feel abandoned because of her past issues, but I did not like that second sneak peek.  While drunk Snow might be amusing, that’s not who Emma needs right now and I don’t believe Emma would just try to move on so quickly, no matter how much she was hurting.  So this is pulling bits and pieces of what we know from the promo and sneak peeks.  Also, I have no clue how Jasmine, Aladdin, and Agrabah fit into this story, so I am not even going to address it.  I just wanted to make it so Killian could get home, they could reunite, and work through things.  Hope you enjoy it!  ~Steph

…Say You Won’t Let Go: Part 1/1…

Emma sat in the dark in the living room all night long.  She hoped that he was just out getting some air, doing some thinking, putting a bit of space between them.  She never imagined that he would leave her.  Abandon her like everyone she ever loved who had come before him.  Not him.  He was the one person who would never do that.

Every time she heard even the slightest of sounds, she jumped up from the couch and ran to the door, throwing it open.  And, every time, her heart sank into her stomach at the sight of an empty porch and snow falling before her.

The house seemed so empty without him.  When she had bought this house as the Dark One, the house Killian had chosen for them, she had imagined it filled with her family and with him.  She had even imagined their future children running around it.  She had never imagined being alone in it.

Emma didn’t go upstairs until the sun had risen into the sky.  She moved to Killian’s chest that sat on the floor in their bedroom.  She opened the top, her heart sinking once more.  A bag and some of his belongings were missing.  

Her worst fear had come true. He had abandoned her.  He had left without saying a word.

Emma reached around her neck and removed the necklace with the ring hanging on it that he had given her.  While he was in the Underworld, she had used it to feel close to him, to feel connected. After all they had been through, how could this be how it ended?

Tears stung her eyes, as she clutched the ring to her heart.  

“Where are you, Killian?  Please come back to me.”

Killian pounded his fist against the porthole.  

“Bloody hell!  I need to get off this damn vessel!”

Nemo sighed.  "I realize you are frustrated, but abusing my submarine will do you no good.“

Killian’s eyes flared at his old friend.  "You don’t understand.  Emma’s going to think I abandoned her.  If I hadn’t changed my mind, then I was going to call her to say goodbye. To explain that I would be leaving until I could be the man she deserves.  I knew I couldn’t bear to tell her face to face.  I would lose my courage to leave.  But then I spoke to Snow and I knew that leaving was not the answer.”

“I’m sorry things happened the way they did.”

“Emma is going to think I am just one more person who abandoned her.  I always swore I would never be that man.  And she is in danger.  Gideon won’t stop until he has eliminated Emma.  I have to find a way to get back right now!”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.  We need Kraken’s blood to be able to cross realms, of which we have none.”

Killian sighed heavily and sank down onto a barrel.  "Every minute I spend down here is killing me.  And I might never see Emma again if Gideon has his way.“  He paused and met Nemo’s gaze. “We need to get that Kraken’s blood.”

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The Universe (Lin x Reader) Soulmate AU Platonic

WC: 4185 (I don’t think I’ve ever written a one shot this long before)

A/N: I’m basing this off of a fic I read a little bit ago that had this same AU. I thought the idea was great so I wrote my own fic with it. For clarification, Writing will always be italicized, and Lin’s will always be bolded. I’m really proud of this one!


When Lin turned 20, he received a notebook in the mail. It was red and spiral bound, looking pristine as notebooks of the same kind did when you first bought them. This notebook wasn’t for the countless lectures left in Lin’s college career. Instead, it gave him a form of communication with his soulmate. The pages were blank, meaning Lin had turned 20 first. There was no way of knowing who was on the other side until they were in possession of their own notebook.

Lin sat down with his nicest pen and wrote the first entry.

Dear Soulmate,

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anonymous asked:

Hi Sam, I saw on a documentary that the paisley shape is actually a representation of the essence of Zoroastrianism, so it's technically a religious image, rather than a purely cultural one. Persia itself is technically Iran, but the shape is used in Turkey and Azerbaijan as well. While I do see it as colonial appropriation, from a purely creative perspective I do wonder, at what point could you call it your own version of paisley? If you design your own paisley is that appropriation as well?

Well, again, I really would rather defer some of these questions to people who have more authority to discuss this than I do, particularly since I haven’t actually done any research on it yet beyond googling. I will say that in none of the articles or blog posts I read was anyone saying that you shouldn’t wear or use paisley – just that its spread in the western world is super sketchy and you should be aware of that, and source it appropriately. 

I do think that if you’re doing something and calling it a version of paisley, then you’re acknowledging that it comes from another source, and that’s a point at which someone who is not of the originating culture should tread carefully. I mean also, like, doodling something in your notebook is one thing, and adding a paisley design within a larger work is a second, and selling work where the focus is paisley is something else again. I would think with the latter, if you’re building a business and/or making money from it, then yeah – that seems like it qualifies as appropriation. But I’m not a visual artist so I don’t know exactly where the line lies, and I also think in many cases there’s room for negotiation. So I guess – rather than asking me, ask yourself in these situations: knowing what you know, do you feel comfortable doing what you’re doing? If you do, why? If you don’t, why? And are you willing to be called out and change your views because of the work you’re doing? 

It’s something I’ve been dealing with as regards my Erik Lensherr as Captain America story – writing a superhero who is Jewish and whose faith is one of the keystones of the story is something I feel strongly about doing, but not being Jewish while writing a story about Jewish characters and experiences means I also need to be ready to face and address a very specific form of criticism. It can involve a lot of public embarrassment on my part, but being open to that is important given I’m working in someone else’s culture – especially since my embarrassment is less hurtful to me than my fucking up would be hurtful to Jewish people. 

So….I don’t have an answer for you on this, I suppose. I think it’s a question for some self-examination and maybe a question to ask someone, again, who knows more about this than I do. 

Noble Gain and Loss // Kim Namjoon

-

the prompt: So, I’ve been thinking about this ever since the Blood Sweat & Tears MV came out… but could I request a BTS Georgian/Regency AU? Where you’re a person of nobility and Namjoon is your tutor (maybe helping prepare you for your debut?), and you two fall for each other, but it’s kind of a forbidden love, since you’re of different social classes? So I guess that would be fluff/romance with some angst?

words: 4578

category: lil bit of fluff + a load of angst

author note: this was so much fun to write! I did a lot of research for this and I found out that the regency period was happening while Korea wasn’t called the Korean Empire yet so that is why Korea is addressed as Joseon here! Also just a disclaimer, I may not be 100% historically accurate so please forgive any slip-ups.

– destinee

Originally posted by jimins-bootae

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anonymous asked:

If you're taking writing prompts, I've had the idea of a Viktuuri AU where one of them works at a library ?

((I LOVE LIBRARY/BOOKSTORE AUS OMG. Yuuri would make an adorable librarian and Viktor constantly checks out books and also a cute librarian))

“Do you need some assistance sir?”

Viktor turns from browsing book titles and looks slightly down to see a bespectacled man with dark hair address him.

“Um…” Viktor was just browsing really to pass the time, but the librarian looked too cute to turn down his offer. “Actually, I was wondering if you could direct me to any books about dogs?”

“Dogs? Sure, are you looking for fiction or nonfiction?” the librarian inquires as he adjusts his glasses a bit. “And any particular breed?”

“Nonfiction, and poodles,” Viktor responds automatically as he follows him over to where the books about pets are.

“Poodles, good choice,” the librarian gives a smile which makes Viktor’s heart skip. “I own a poodle.”

“So do I!” Viktor added almost too excitedly. “He’s a standard poodle and getting a bit old. But he’s still very friendly and lovable.”

The librarian chuckled at the thought. “Mine’s only a toy poodle. His name is Vicchan.”

“Vicchan…is that name by any chance taken from Victor?” Viktor asked.

“Yeah it is. Why?”

“That’s my name! I’m Viktor, but it’s pronounced with a K rather than a C,” Viktor smoothly introduces himself.

“Oh I see, that’s pretty cool. I’m Yuuri, but the U is pronounced longer,” the library shared.

“So we both have poodles and names with different pronunciations,” Viktor hummed.

Viktor picked up a random book on cute poodle pictures and turned to Yuuri. “So Mr. Librarian, would you be so kind to help me check out? This is my first time in a library.” It wasn’t completely untrue; Viktor had been in this library just one other time. But he never checked out any books.

“Sure, do you have a library card?” Viktor shook his head and Yuuri laughed. “I see, I’ll help you fill out a form then. It won’t take long, and then you can take the book home to show your adorable poodle.”

Filling out a form for a new library card is usually a tedious and boring process, but Yuuri standing in front of him and explaining all the library procedures and responsibilities made Viktor wish he could stay there forever.

“Alright, everything’s set. Here’s your new library card and the book you checked out. It’ll be due in two weeks,” Yuuri gave his usual librarian service smile.

“Thank you Yuuri. I…hope to see you again?” Viktor prompted.

“Sure, I’m always here on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. I look forward to hearing what you think about that poodle book,” Yuuri grinned.

“I will. See you again Yuuri.”

“Bye Viktor.”

For those of you wondering when I’m going to update or post next, it will probably be in early May. There are a few reasons why:

  1. I’m trying to start/finish my fic entry for the Radiance anthology.
  2. I’d like to write ahead on a few WIPs so I don’t put so much pressure on myself or feel like I’m neglecting my stories. This would also give me breathing room to write more one-shots.
  3. I’m still reeling from being plagiarized, a situation which has yet to be addressed by ao3. That’s put a serious damper on my ability to write anything.

So that’s what’s up. Regarding the third point, I don’t want to go into further detail until the issue is resolved. Hopefully, that will be soon. I’ll keep you posted, and then I’ll probably complain about it ad nauseum. <3

A PSA to the Star Trek Fandom Russian Names: You're Doing it Wrong

I love Star Trek. I love Star Trek so much. I love reading Star Trek fanfic and hearing head canons and AUs and genderbends. The Star Trek fandom is dedicated. Fanfic authors seem to do their research, and do it well, with one exception.

Motherfucking Pavel Andreivich Chekov.

I love this kid, whether it’s the TOS drama queen sass master or the AOS innocent angelic whiz kid. I love reading everything the fandom puts out on this dude. What I do not love, is the butchering of his name that goes on in this beautiful fandom. So, more out of selfishness than generosity, because if I read one more Pavel getting embarrassed at his “childhood nickname,” because of anyone writes a family fic in which Pavel’s father is named anything but Andrei, I. Will. Fucking. Scream.

Let me break this down for you.

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fantasyfan4ever  asked:

Hi hi! Could you write on all RFA members + V reacting to MC having a stalker?

I know you specifically said “all RFA members”, but I really can’t write for Jaehee. I’ll add it to the rules later, just to make it clear. Sorry!

Zen:

  • He would be worried about you, since he kinda knows the feeling, being so popular and all
  • He’d be even more protective of you, if that’s even possible, and he wouldn't let you out of his sight
  • He would probably also be really paranoid about it all
  • “Was that someone outside the window? Have you shared your address on the internet?
  • If it was only online he would be less worried, even though it is still very uncomfortable to be stalked in any way
  • He would check over all your social media to make sure you hadn’t accidentally shared more personal information

Yoosung:

  • He probably wouldn’t notice until you told him
  • At first he would be kind of impressed in a way
  • “Are you that popular MC? lol”
  • But only until he realised that it might not be safe and you are probably very uncomfortable with it omg what no he didn’t mean to just brush it off like that!
  • After apologising a million times, he decided he would protect you
  • Cute puppy Yoosung is now nowhere to be seen, only the protective guard dog!
  • He would try to make sure nothing happened to you, and he would be by your side at all times until you found a way to get rid of the stalker

Jumin:

  • Did you say stalker?
  • He instantly ordered 100 guards to always be around you, and he would call the police to report it and-
  • He’s so over the top, but he just wants to protect you. He didn’t want anything to happen to his sweetheart, after all
  • With all the power he has, it wouldn’t take long to find the stalker in question
  • He would take it all very seriously, and even though he has had a few stalkers himself, he wouldn't want anything like that to make you uncomfortable
  • “Are you sure you are fine MC?”
  • “You literally just sent the stalker to the police and ordered like a hundred body guards.”
  • “But still”

Seven:

  • This boy is a hacker genius, he would never let this happen without consequences
  • He would find the stalker on his computer, and ruin everything for them
  • Reputation, everything on social media, their relationships, you name it
  • He could hack into anything and make sure they would never dare to even look at you again
  • I also imagine it to be kind of hard to have a physical stalker in this situation, since he basically lives in a bunker
  • If there was one though, he would obviously take care of that too
  • or he would just ask Vanderwood to taser them if he’s to lazy
  • “No one dares to do something to my 606 and get away with it!”

V:

  • He would try to handle the situation calmly, as to not make you any more stressed
  • He’d make sure the windows and doors were locked, and he would always hold your hand in public
  • If it turned out to be a more serious case, he would call the police and ask them to take care of it
  • If he saw you worry about it, he would just sit and talk to you while trying to calm you down, reassuring you that he would be there by your side no matter what
  • Although he would actually be very worried himself, he would try not to show it. He didn’t want to make this into something that would stress you out or make you nervous
  • He would make sure everything went well, and that the stalker would be taken care of

anonymous asked:

(1/2)What advice could you give for writing a deliberately ambiguous time period, especially so that it doesn't look as if it's just lack of research/laziness? And how should I address the social issues of the time? (I'm drawing from the first half of the 1900s.) Because the setting isn't entirely grounded in reality, ambiguity aside, I think I could modernize some of the views, especially since the relative freedom of the poc, female and lgbt characters is pretty heavily needed for the plot,

(2/2) but I’m also worried that not addressing this would be sweeping unsavory history under the rug, even if the setting isn’t entirely realistic. Thank you and sorry for the kind of complicated ask.

Bina:

One could argue that many famous stories sweep unsavory in-universe history under the rug, when really the only reason for this was it wasn’t directly plot-relevant, and so never got mentioned. If the social issues of your ambiguous time have an impact on the plot, definitely mention them. If not, don’t worry too much. If you want it can be part of a character’s backstory to get a small mention.Also, for ambiguous time periods, be careful about the technology you mention. Or, be purposefully confusing! Does your setting have the printing press, but no one’s weaponized gunpowder yet? Stuff like that. By dropping names of certain ‘benchmark’ technologies, your time period can be pinned down, and it seems like that’s not what you want.

Constablewrites:

Are you trying to base this in our world, or a new invented world? The first half of the twentieth century saw change at a faster rate than almost any point in history. A person living in 1900 would recognize very little if suddenly transported to 1950. So if you want to base this on our reality, you’ll probably need to at least pick a decade.The thing about social issues is that they reflect what the society values. A gender egalitarian society doesn’t just let women do men stuff, it places value on feminine traits and ideals. That’s going to permeate every layer of the culture, and its history will therefore look very different to ours. You don’t have to know every single piece of that to tell a decent story, of course, but having a decent big-picture concept of how that value system looks will help you depict how your characters interact with it.

Take my laptop? I'll take your home.

This happened some years ago.

An ex who I used to be on friendly terms with asked me if she could borrow my laptop. I suspected absolutely nothing wrong, so I let her use it.

A couple of days later, it mysteriously disappears, and she swears someone broke into her house and stole it. She keeps stringing me along, telling me she’ll front the $900 or so I’d need to replace it. I know she doesn’t have that money, but you know, if it got stolen…

But, something just doesn’t feel right. I can just tell she isn’t being very forthcoming with information about this. So I start prying. I find her brother on Facebook, whom I know and we’re on pretty good terms last I talked to him, so I shoot him a message asking him to call me, which he does.

“Hey, have you seen B? (my ex)?”
“Yeah, she lives with me now, she never told you? But she just left, can I take a message?”
“Not exactly. Did she happen to have a silver laptop with her when she left?”
“Yeah, we were watching Netflix on it earlier. Why do you ask?”

And now the cogs were turning in my head…

“Oh, she was going to bring it to me to fix a problem with it today, wanted to make sure she had it with her before I actually met up with her. Thanks though!”
“No problem, see ya, man.”

So we’ve confirmed that my ex is full of shit and my laptop is with her, she lied hoping I’d just write it off because I’m too kind to pursue this. Yeah, no, not today. Due to her brother also confirming that she lives with him (as opposed to with her mom, as she said before), I know she’s usually in one of two places: her mom’s, or her brother’s.

I also happen to know from dating her prior that her mom and dad “live” at the same address. And also that her mom and dad have an active restraining order against eachother. And a whole other litany of stuff that would be very bad if law enforcement ever found out.

But I figure I’ll be nice about it at first, so I ask her if she’s sure she doesn’t know where the laptop is. Nope. At that point I move onto telling her that I know she has it, and I want it back. She gets defensive before eventually blocking all communication with me. Ah, we’ve hit a nerve.

That’s when I pull out my trump card.

I have a really good friend who’s also mutual friends with her, but at the time, me and this guy were like brothers. So I phone him up, and ask a favor of him.

“Yo man, I need you to send a message to B for me. Tell her that I know she has my laptop, as I have it set to tell me where it is every time it is connected to the internet(bluffing, but I know she ain’t gonna call it), and it says it keeps moving between her mom’s and brother’s house. Tell her that I know her parents live under the same roof illegally and are in violation of a restraining order, and that this is her last chance to amicably return my laptop to me before I essentially ruin her parents. And her.”

“No problem man, got it.”

I wait a few hours, and sure enough, she unblocks communication and tells me she’ll return the laptop, but I have to meet her at her boyfriend’s house to come get it. I smell a trap. But I agree.

That’s when I gather some of my best friends, one of which is in the armed forces. We all hop in my car to go get the laptop back. Ex tries to get me to come into the house, but I stand my ground and tell her that she hands me the laptop out in the open, or I call law enforcement.

She reluctantly brings out the laptop, I check to make sure it’s all there. After which she tells me: “I think it’s better if we never talk again.”

Oh, you bet your bottom dollar we’re never talking again. We turn and leave, and that’s how I got my laptop back.

The end.

…except no. This isn’t a pro revenge story without the revenge. Given that her brother was relatively well off and she was resorting to doing crap like this, I had a sneaking suspicion I wasn’t the only one, and that possibly, possibly, she might be stupid enough to ignore the rule of not defecating where one consumes foodstuffs.

I got home, got my laptop restoring from a backup (ex wiped my entire laptop in hopes that I wouldn’t be able to track it. I wasn’t anyway but thanks to her brother I didn’t need to), and called her brother, again. Told him everything that had happened. Sent him all the message logs with my ex, as well.

Initially didn’t believe me, but it all started to come together in his head. And he told me that he was missing random stuff from his house, as well, but never suspected that my ex could have been behind it. She was banned from his house thereafter, and had all her belongings tossed on the sidewalk. This whole fiasco cost my ex the roof over her head, and damn, it felt good.

Distance

Seth x Imprint!Reader

Request: “Hi! Can I request an imagine when reader is seth’s imprint, but she has a dream of becoming a pro dancer (and she has to move to South Korea) and she’s worried because of seth and the whole imprint thing ;; idk if i explained myself well, but thanks!”

-Fluffy ending also requested

This was cute, Seth would be such a supportive boyfriend. I feel like he was the type of person, whether it was with his friends or partner, that you could go a month without seeing but when you did see him again it would carry on straight where you left off. I love writing for Seth, he is such a ray of sunshine lol, hope you enjoyed! <3

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Glued and Tattooed

Summary: Soulmates are considered as sacred to them all apparently, even though it happens to everyone everyday. It’s a public thing now, where it even becomes a game to everyone to find out who their soulmate is, especially when it comes to guessing the celebrities’ soulmates.

She thinks it’s all very disturbing and that they wouldn’t have any personal space to themselves.

A/N: HOLLER HOLLER TIME TO HEARTRATE @caprette @sadrienagreste

Soulmate AU, when you write on your skin, your soulmate is able to see it.


Alix isn’t particularly having a great day.

As if to spite her, the sun shines brightly onto her face the moment she wakes up, where she’s forgotten to draw the curtains close last night when she’s doing her homework on her desk. Drool pools onto her hand as she tries to pry her eyes open through her sticky eyelids that she thinks she probably glues them together when she’s been asleep. Her body groans with protest as she straightens herself up while she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

And when she finally, finally, sees clearly after rubbing her eyes, she realises she’s late for school.

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[C]alligraphers delight in creating mazes of embellishment in which meaning is secreted like a treasure. The deciphering of the text proves the worthiness of the reader.

::

Is Celan’s work too obscure, as some claim? Is it too hermetic? Too difficult? Real poems, Celan wrote, are “making toward something … perhaps toward an addressable Thou.” I would argue that, for any poet writing toward such a subject, regular words and syntax soon become inadequate. Celan is an extreme case though, because he also had to contend with the inadequacy of the German language to express the experience of the Jewish poet, post-Holocaust. His is the lyricism of privacy (prayer is private, no matter with how many fellow congregants it is uttered or in how many prayer books it appears), not of hermeticism. In fact, Celan insisted to Michael Hamburger that he was ‘ganz und gar nicht hermetisch.’ Absolutely not hermetic.

::

Celan chose to protest from inside German, in “death-rattling,” “quarreling” words. Though he spoke numerous other languages (Romanian, Russian, French) and though he had written previously in Romanian, he nevertheless decided to remain in German, which he broke and reclaimed. German, for Celan, was the language that had to “pass through its own answerlessness, pass through frightful muting, pass through the thousand darknesses of death-bringing speech.”

Why break a language? To wake it up. “We sleep in language,” writes Robert Kelly, if “language does not come to wake us with its strangeness.”

::

Theodor Adorno: “It is barbaric to write poetry after the Holocaust.”
Adorno, when confronted by others, repeated: “After Auschwitz to write poetry is barbaric, I would not want to downplay this remark.”
Adorno, after reading Paul Celan’s broken and reassembled German, reconsiders: “It may have been wrong to say that after Auschwitz you could no longer write poems.”

::

And there was light let there be God and said waters. The language acquires a strange agency, a weird reversed reality: “And there was light let there God.” There is more poetry in reading the text we know by heart backwards. (We sleep in the language, if language does not come to wake us with its strangeness.“

::

Celan, writes Anne Carson, was "a poet who uses language as if he were always translating.”

::

If Celan’s poems feel like strange translations, clearly the translation of Celan into English should give the feeling of foreignness to our own language.

I would argue that most piercing lyric poets don’t speak in the “proper” language of their time. Emily Dickinson didn’t write in proper English but in slant music of fragmentary perception. Kit Smart’s endless lists and Whitman’s numbering of months in Leaves of Grass are hardly in the language their contemporaries knew. Cesar Vallejo placed three dots in the middle of the line, as if language itself were not enough, as if the poet’s voice needed to leap from one image to another to make – to use Eliot’s phrase – a raid on the inarticulate.

::

If by this point you are thinking about the witches from Macbeth or any of Shakespeare’s fools’ riddles, you aren’t alone. Here is Cid Corman (who was Celan’s first English translator) describing Celan: “poetry OF language – but of language AS livingdying … a tale told by an idiot.” A tale told by an idiot, signifying nothing, as we all know, signifies a great deal and is at the heart of Western literature. It is not something we should dismiss as obscurity or nonsense, though it may employ nonsense to reach its goal – which is, perhaps, to find “the addressable Thou." 

Incantation is just one such device. There are others. Many critics have commented, for instance, on how surreal Celan’s images are. He was influenced by his friendship with surrealists, but his art is much older than that particular movement. The first real surrealist was Ovid, not Breton. The first American surrealist was Emily Dickinson: "I felt a Funeral, in my Brain.”

One could call “Deathfugue” a ballad, a secular Kaddish, fugue, but what then? It’s not the literary devices that matter but how a poet confronts them.

::

But how do English/ American poets confront our own tradition? Yeats famously said that he only revised toward a more “passionate syntax.” John Berryman said “nouns, verbs do not exist for what I feel.” I think of King Lear saying “Never, never, never, never, never,” or Whitman saying “Death, death, death, death, death,” when the words lose meaning and become just sounds of themselves, opening into a territory of less guided, more given meaning.

::

To come back to the question of the privacy of a lyric poet and how this is manifested in the tensions of  his or her language: for Celan, it seems, this attitude toward German came from trauma. He had seen the Holocaust and its aftermath. “No one / witnesses for the / witness,” Celan said, and in his work “a tension is held in the fragmentation of  language, of  being and of extreme solitude” (Julia Kristeva).

Note the choice of word: solitude, not loneliness. In the end, it does not matter whether this “tension” in a poet’s speech comes from a place of trauma or from somewhere else (Catullus? Mayakovsky? Niedecker?). Whatever the source, the central fact remains — the privacy of a lyric poet. The lyric poet is a person who says, “I am not sure the language 
I write in is spoken here, or anywhere.” Alone with unintelligible language, he sings “in front of strangers.”

::

In the solitary lines of Paul Celan, one hears this inaudible language.

A great poet is not someone who speaks in stadiums to thousands of  listeners. A great poet is a very private person. In his or her privacy this poet creates a language in which he or she is able to speak, privately, to many people at the same time.

—  Ilya Kaminsky, excerpts from “On the Strangeness that Wakes Us: On mother tongues, fatherlands, and Paul Celan”
Beyond Conscious Thought

So I decided to get back into the swing of fanfiction writing, inspired by the lovely Drarry Squad here on Tumblr. Yes, it’s been a while since I’ve properly dabbled in this wonderful world of ours (there’s an utterly ancient and uncompleted 70,000-word YuGiOh fic I have somewhere that will never see the light of day), but in the wake of some pretty stressful months, it’s definitely high time to re-engage in one of favourite pastimes. I never really published any of my works online, just a few excerpts here and there on my DeviantArt account, so I’ll just see how this goes for now, and I might get an AO3 account later. I’ve also been working on and off on my own original story, but that seems to be completely on hiatus at the moment, so I decided to try break my writing funk in a more entertaining way. Or maybe in a really depressing way, because I am of the opinion that J.K. Rowling needs to properly address the fact that most of the individuals who survived the Battle of Hogwarts would have come out with some ridiculously overwhelming mental baggage….

So without further ado - and dedicated to all you awesome people who truly brighten my day in a way that no one in my real life can do - here is my first Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter fic, Beyond Conscious Thought. Do let me know if you want Part 2, or if you have any other critiques! I struggled with this a bit!

Let’s just tag this as 8th Year, Patronus Charms, Anxiety and PTSD (two things that affect my life very personally, due to my family history and profession).

 Word Count:  (Part 1 - 3,487)



(Part 1)

Draco Malfoy rested his head back against the bedpost, kept his eyes fixed on the textures of the ceiling above, and just breathed.

 

He counted stains in the plastering and wood until the rasp in his throat was gone, his head stopped spinning, and he could wipe his palms on his robes without them immediately returning to a sweat-sheened state.

It was a disturbingly common practice for the Eighth-Year Slytherin, and it only seemed to be worsening over time. What happened to the adage, time heals all wounds? Perhaps what Draco found most unsettling is the fact he knew he would never truly heal, and that strangely, it was a reality he’d come to fully accept.

It was a fitting penance, after all.

But acceptance of the hippogriff in the room did not mean it made his life any easier. It only took what seemed the simplest walk across the grounds and stairwells at Hogwarts to leave Draco a shivering, retching mess. Every crevasse and alcove was filled with memories of drying pools of blood, the pungent stench of death, relentless fiendfyre, and horrifically poor choices.


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