Hello there! I am absolutely in love with your writing! (I have notifications on for you whenever you post bc your writing is so hecking good man)   Anywho, do you think you could maybe do a Draco x Reader that correlates to the song “We Don’t Have to Dance” by Andy Black?   It’s my favorite song atm and you’re my favorite writer atm :D   Thanks ❤️❤️

Draco meets Y/N for the first time at a party.

The Slytherin common room is cool and crowded, eerie green light emanating from the depths of the Black lake and a spinal cord shock of a base wave overwhelming the din; a vodka slick sweat has suffused across the back of Draco’s neck as he rubs self-consciously at the newly healed mark on his arm and glances up, up, up

She’s not new, he reasons, couldn’t be. But he’s never noticed her before, which seems equally improbable.

Because Y/N is beautiful, the unique brand that sears just as much as it soothes. Y/e/c eyes and a sleek wave of y/h/c hair, a laugh that bubbles out of her throat as she clutches a drink, teeters on a pair of high heels, catches his eye.

He feels suddenly as though he’s in the eye of a fucking hurricane.

And he knows that it’s a mistake. Knows it in the marrow of his bones as he strides across the room, asks her name and marvels at how well it fits in his mouth.

Draco regrets lots of things, once it’s all said and done.

But he never quite manages to regret her.


Draco is a hazard sign. Bright red and flashing. A cautionary tale and a ‘Fragile. Do Not Break’ sticker slapped against a package.

There’s a mark on his arm and a task on his shoulders and a brevity to his last name that just…hadn’t been as pronounced before.

He’s a curse, a poisoned apple and a witch’s brew. He’s dangerous. An expiration date.

He knows that. Refuses on principle to admit it to Y/N even when she’s tangled in his sheets and leaving a lipstick stain against his pillow case and carving out a space for herself inside the hollows of his ribs.

It’s hell, he thinks. Literal hell.


Their relationship is the sinuous slip of a smirk. Its pinky promises and broken bottles; predictable merely in its unpredictability.

They don’t talk, no. Don’t smile or make friends or dance. And yet –

He knows her. Understands the puzzle in her eyes and the words in her mouth, learns why she paints her nails the same color as freshly spilled blood and never really comes to terms with the fact that she fits neatly against him, is meant for him, should he venture that far.

He runs out into the rain after her one night, feels the stick of clothes against skin and the cold of her cheeks. Sees dewdrops caught between her eyelashes and thinks about drowning.

He drives her out to the countryside another night, pretends that he hasn’t charmed the car and is capable of his own volition. Fucks her in the backseat and wants to chase the giggle that flutters in her pulse when he knocks his elbow against the horn.


Y/N is a firefly that he wants to catch in a bottle, a butterfly that he wants to net.

She’s the conflicting cacophony of voices inside his head that tells him he can’t, he won’t, he shouldn’t. He does.

She’s the brand on his arm and the saccharine promises that he tells himself at night, a will to live that doesn’t seem plausible, anymore.

Y/N is a mistake.

But Draco’s always been good at making those.

Uncle Mycroft

Mycroft Holmes. The very name struck terror into the heart of world leaders. The Ice Man would appear seemingly out of thin air, his cold eyes staring down anyone who dared not cower under his gaze.

He brooked no insubordination and demanded the fiercest loyalty from those beneath him.

Women seduced by his aloof manner and emanating power were eviscerated verbally, for the Ice Man was no fool. Men loathed him out of spiteful jealousy, but he garnered their reluctant respect and none dared speak a word against him.

Yes, it was good to be Mycroft Holmes.

Except perhaps today.

‘And the 'wan’,’ his charge demanded, forcing a glittery plastic stick into his clenched fist.

He sneered down at the object. A star made from the same plastic decorated the end and a tassle of ribbons were tied around the neck. To be fair, the colorful ribbons complemented the rainbow tutu and bejeweled tiara she’d foisted on him, as well as the play makeup she had insisted on applying to his cheeks and eyelids.

He’d drawn the line at lipstick.

'Perfeck!’ Georgina exclaimed. She stepped back and looked at her Uncle Mycroft with her hands on her hips. Her wide grin and beseeching brown eyes were all Molly, but the mischievous gleam in her eye was a perfect mimic of her father.


The very thought of his brother, the reason Mycroft was in this predicament, caused the Ice Man to scowl deeply.

'Smile, Unca Croft!’ Georgina demanded. 'Happy!’

For some reason, this little curly-haired cherub had wrangled her way into his deeply hidden affections. And despite his grumpiness, Mycroft found himself smiling. With a wave of his wand, loose glitter flying about, he fell into character.

'Off to the ball with you!’ He pitched his voice high, adopting his fairy godmother persona, and was chuffed when Georgina beamed.


*Two Hours Later*

Georgina had worn herself out dancing and playing after a while. Seeing her begin to droop, Mycroft had scooped her up and settled down on the couch. She had wrapped her little arms around his neck and fell asleep almost instantly.

Feeling the pull of sleep, as well, Mycroft began to doze and missed hearing the sound of the door below opening and two sets of footsteps on the stairs.

It wasn’t until he heard snickering and the tell tale sound of a phone camera’s shutter that he peeked one eye open.

Molly and Sherlock stood over them, biting back huge grins, tears of mirth in their eyes.

It took a moment for Mycroft to realise he was still dressed as the fairy godmother.

Crimson burned his cheeks and he scowled up at them. Carefully standing, he shifted Georgina over to her father and, with as much grace as he could muster under the circumstances, removed the tiara and tutu.

Molly took the costume items with a pinched smile, clearly holding back gales of laughter. Mycroft scowled and narrowed his eyes, muttering darkly, 'Whichever one of you dared to take that photo will delete it immediately. Understood?’

'It’s very difficult to take you seriously when you look like that,’ Sherlock whispered.

Whipping out his hankerchief, Mycroft dabbed the makeup from his face.

'It was so sweet of you to play with her, Mycroft,’ Molly said quietly, placing a kiss on his cheek. Before she dropped to her heels, she whispered in his ear, 'Sherlock was the one who took the picture!’

Mycroft glared over her head at his brother.

Oh, he’d get his revenge, he thought darkly.

And it would be sweet.

Summertime - Drabble - Bucky x Reader

Pairings: Bucky x Reader

Characters: Reader, Bucky Barnes

Warnings: Fluff, baby feels haha

Word Count: 1509

Summary: A babysitting debacle leads to Bucky coming to your rescue and exposing more than just his talent for calming baby’s. 

Authors Note: This is just a little drabble piece I’ve had in my head for a bit, thought it would be cute. The song inspiration in it is Summertime as sung by Ella Fitzgerald. If you don’t know it, definitely listen to it, it’s swell. I don’t usually do well with fluff, but I really wanted to take a shot with this one, let me know your thoughts <3 

 Feel free to shoot me one shot requests if there is stuff that you all want

Tags: @imhereforbvcky @fantasticimpaladoctor

Originally posted by lupitasandoval91

Your phone thrums against the table, an outdated rock song emanating from the speakers. Bucky’s name flashes across the screen, your hand frantically snaps it up, answering curtly “Hello? Buck I really can’t…” “Y/N!” Bucky interrupts you with a boisterous laugh. “Where are you doll? Steve, Nat, and I are grabbing drinks, come join.” You exhale exhaustedly, stress painting your tone, “Buck, not now… I can’t…” Bucky hears a crying scream emanate through the phone as you shush the sound, “I got to go.” You spit, hanging up the phone.

Bucky immediately calls you back, you pick up in exasperation, “Bucky, not now…” “What’s wrong? Where are you?” Bucky growls, his tone serious and littered with concern. He hears screaming and crying coming through the phone as you coo and shush once more. “Buck, I’m at Barton’s watching his 9 month old. She’s screaming and won’t stop, I’ve been trying to put her to bed for an hour,” The baby cries out once again, “Barnes, I really got to go, have a good night.”

Your attention turns back to the tiny baby, crying in your arms as you walk around the empty house, trying desperately to sooth the teething child. Her small head rests against your chest as she continues to cry, her tiny hand pulling at her mouth, expressing her discomfort. “Shhhh, it’s ok doll, you’re alright, I got you” You coo as you rub circles on her back with your open palm, holding her firmly against your chest.

Half an hour passes as the child continues to cry against you. Suddenly your body tenses as you hear the doorbell ring, wondering exasperatedly who the hell was at the door. You move down the stairs, the child in your arms perking up and looking around as you move to the front door.

You swing the door open to see Bucky standing on the threshold, “Bucky, what are you…” “I’m here to help you. You sounded like you could use some.” You smile lovingly at him, stepping back to invite him into the house, the child in your arms quieting briefly as she looks at him interestedly. “Hi little one,” Bucky coos, bending down towards her face, and allowing her small hands to pull at his hair, “are you having a bit of trouble falling asleep?” She giggles at his over-exaggerated facial expressions and funny voice. You smile, your heart warming at his adorable baby voice and ease with the child.

You had known Bucky for about a year now and grown close with him in the brief time. You knew how much trouble Bucky had interacting with people, human contact has never been his forte, and yet… He was like magic with the child, knowing exactly how to interact with her and to calm her. She squirms in your arms, reaching for Bucky as he makes funny faces at her.

You pause, before allowing her to depart from your arms. Knowing Bucky’s history of insecurity with his metal arm, yet in this moment he does not hesitate, reaching whole heartedly to receive the grasping baby. He lifts her easily into his arms, allowing her to straddle his left side as he holds her gently against his chest, supporting under her bottom with his metal arm. His right hand rising up to her, allowing her small fingers to wrap around his finger.

You beam at him, relishing in the perfect picture in front of you. It’s no secret that you’ve had feelings for Bucky for a while. They had slowly been building inside of you over the past few months, fueled by a collection of perfect moments, loving looks, and the occasional confident wink. But nothing had ever been done about it, you were unwilling to make a move and ruin your friendship. You were especially unwilling to leave Nat and Steve as casualties of your friendship implosion all because of an unreciprocated crush.

“Let’s try to get you to bed, little one.” Bucky whispers to the small child, as he climbs the stairs, you follow closely behind him. He enters her room, settling into her rocking chair as the child continues to rest against him. He rocks back and forth, rubbing her back gently. She begins to squirm and whimper once again, her calm ebbing as she remembers her discomfort. You sit on the foot rest of the rocking chair, folding your legs beneath you, as she squirms in Bucky’s arms, his soothing not enough to calm her.

“Summertime… and the livin is easy” you sing softly, making the whining child stop for a moment, “Fish are jumpin and the cotton grows high.” The child once again rests her head on Bucky’s chest, calming quickly at the sound of your voice. Bucky smiles, appreciating your choice of song, one of his old favorites from his time, “Your daddy’s rich… and your mom is good lookin,” she calms against Bucky as he rocks her softly, her breathing growing slow and relaxed as her eyes lazily watch you, “So hush little baby don’t you cry” you croon as her eyes list closed.

You continue to sing as you rise delicately to your feet, Bucky leans forward, cautiously handing the sleeping baby off to you. Your arms wrap around her as she shifts, whimpering slightly before she settles against your chest. You continue to sing quietly, letting your voice reverberate through your chest, the vibrations causing her tiny body to slump to sleep in your arms.

You softly rock back and forth as you move slowly across the room and towards her crib, laying her down gently as you continue your soft singing, she shifts in the bed, threatening to wake. You quickly rest a hand on her back, rubbing circles softly as you sing her back into a quiet sleep. You hesitantly pull your hand back, continuing your soft crooning as you look down at her precious form, her sleeping state making your heart swell with love.

Bucky rises silently from the rocking chair, coming forward to press gently behind you by the crib, his arms wrapping around you as his chin rests on your shoulder. Your voice catches in your chest as the song falls from your lips, the surprise of his close proximity silencing you. “One of these mornings, you’re gonna rise up singing,” Bucky picks up the lost tune, warbling softly into your ear, his hot breath making goose bumps erupt over your skin.

“And you’ll spread your wings and you’ll take to the sky,” You press back into his arms, allowing your head to fall back against his chest, his arms tightening around you as you relax, falling effortlessly into rhythm with him as he sways back and forth. “But till that time, nothing will harm you.” His right arm glides lazily across your chest, his hand clutching at your shoulder as he pulls your back firmly against him, your face listlessly turning over your left shoulder, where his head is resting. Your calm breaths fanning softly against his cheek and his fingers pressed on your shoulder, holding you closely.

“With your Mama and Papa, standing by.” He sings softly, his lips pressing gently against the bottom of your jaw, forcing your eyes to fly open at the action, he moves behind you, pressing his lips again to your cheek, his soft kiss gliding over your cheek bone. You feel his hand dislodge from your shoulder as he turns you to face him, hand sliding into your hair. He looks down at you smiling slightly, eyes glinting in the small light emanating from the night light.

His lips tip down slightly to yours, catching you up in a soft and delicate kiss, your first kiss with Bucky. You respond enthusiastically, pressing into his lips, your own hands rising to wrap fervently around his neck, pulling him tightly against you. After a moment, he breaks from you, beaming down at you as he goes to say something.

Your finger quickly rises to your lips, glancing behind you at the quietly sleeping child, you take his hand, trailing him behind you as you exit the room, pulling the door softly closed behind you. “I’ve been wanting to do that for some time, Y/N… I was just… I was…” You kiss him again, stopping his words.

You smile at him, teeth pulling slightly at your lip, you turn on your heel, hand still interlocked with his as you lead him down the stairs, softly crooning, “Summertime and the livin is easy…” Bucky chuckles softly behind you, catching you up in another kiss as you descend the steps happily, coming face to face with Clint and his wife Laura, smiling knowingly at the bottom of the stairs.

Laura extends her hand to Clint smiling widely as you and Bucky make eye contact with them, your faces flushing in embarrassment, your eyes widening like deer caught in headlights “Dammit” Clint spits, slapping a $50 into his wife’s hand, “You guys couldn’t have waited 4 more months? I almost had this one.”

A Mere Scrap of Paper: The Constitutional Convention Hijacked under Martial Law

In the aftermath of the declaration of Martial Law on live television on September 23, 1972, all media, long distance phone calls, all flights going in and out, ceased. 

But one must take note that not all institutions that could resist were shut down. However, without media scrutiny on Malacañang, and a balancing opposition in the political establishment, it was only a matter of time before these institutions cave in.

Let me take this time to be very technical so that you’d understand the balance that the Constitution was trying to preserve. If one tips this balance, abuse of power would be imminent and the People, where the power of the government emanates, would suffer the most. Bear with me.

The Philippines, following the democratic set up of the United States, has a very powerful Executive, with the Army and the Police under its control, which the other two co-equal branches of government (The Legislative and the Judiciary) do not possess. The constitutional balance to limit this great political power was the presidential term limit of 4 years with a chance of reelection set under the 1935 Constitution. One must remember that Marcos was supposed to wrap up as he was approaching the end of his second term on November 1973. But with Martial Law in force beginning on the evening of September 22, 1972, which could only be invoked by the President “in case of invasion, insurrection, or rebellion or imminent danger thereof, when public safety requires it,” there are special rules to be followed. And here I must point out, that the timing of the declaration of Martial Law, just before the recess of Congress, was intentional. The Constitution was clear that under Martial Law, in the event of a congressional recess, the President had the power to appoint heads of departments without consent from Congress, but only temporarily, until the opening session set next year. Article VI, Sec. 9 of the Constitution set the Opening Session of Congress on the “fourth Monday of January,” that is, January 22, 1973. That’s four months away. And because Congress was officially on recess beginning on the 23rd, Marcos could call the shots “legally.”

But a lot can happen in four months.

And we must remember that according to the primary sources we’ve gleaned in the past few days, Marcos meticulously prepared everything, anticipating every possible move of the opposition. The only thing he had no control of was the “silent majority” which Marcos took a gamble to risk. Max Soliven of Manila Times, had this to say on his column four days before Martial Law:

“We must never, of course, underestimate Mr. Marcos. He is no fool. There is always method in what looks like madness. The Apo is a “group dynamics” expert, a practitioner of that science dedicated to the manipulation of people and the cunning exploitation of the basic weaknesses of human nature. The President is gambling on the probability that the ‘silent majority,’ as a term implies will remain silent; that the Filipino’s every-man-for-himself mentality will assert itself and impose inaction; and that all good men will shake their heads sadly but do nothing. And he is right. A few articulate dissenters will make loud and angry noises, but nothing will happen.”

In his diary, Marcos anticipated stormy and violent protests. He even had his family put to safety, in case something unpredictable happens. This was what surprised him the most, the seemingly silent acceptance of the majority. Perhaps, maybe out of intimidation or shock? Maybe.

If Marcos were to succeed, he only had four months to step up his game. The reconvening of Congress the following year would most definitely challenge him. And what gave Congress that authority? The Constitution.

Hence, Marcos turned all his attention to the new draft Constitution being done by the elected Constitutional Convention. A few of its delegates, all of whom supported the anti dynasty provision, nicknamed the “Ban Marcos” Resolution, were included in those who were rounded up in dawn of September 23. The pressure of the Executive on the ConCon would be more pronounced as days went by, especially without free media and political opposition as watchdogs.

On September 25, 1972, the media was allowed to go back with their business, but under strict censorship of the Department of Public Instruction. The department orders specified that all editorial publication must have “DPI Clearance” and that no form of mass media should be produced without permission from the department.

Meanwhile, the Senator Jose Diokno and journalists Chino Roces and Max Soliven filed a petition to the Supreme Court, the last standing co-equal branch of government, to challenge the constitutionality of Martial Law.

Marcos himself would write on his diary on the same day:

“I asked Justices Claudio Teehankee, Antonio Barredo, Felix Makasiar and Felix Antonio to see us. They insisted that the government should submit to the Supreme Court for the Court to review the constitutionality of the proclamation of martial law, Proclamation No. 1081.

So I told them in the presence of Secs. Ponce Enrile and Vicente Abad Santos as well as Sol. Gen. Estelito Mendoza that if necessary I would formally declare the establishment of a revolutionary government so that I can formally disregard the actions of the Supreme Court.

They insisted that we retain a color of constitutionality for everything that we do.

But I feel that they are still image-building and do not understand that a new day has dawned. While they claim to be for a reformed society, they are not too motivated but are too bound by technical legalism.”

That Marcos threatened the Supreme Court to declare a revolutionary government, was uncalled for, not to mention that what happened was a clear intrusion of the Chief Executive to the independence of the ideally impartial Judiciary, a blatant disregard of the balance of power set by the Constitution. Plus, the SC’s insistence that government should file a submission via legal channels and not by inviting justices to Malacañang in person showed the last weak resistance of the highest court against the Executive. But the Court would soon give in. Meanwhile, Marcos was betting on the support of the people who did not even resist. On the Marcos Diary, dated September 26, 1972:

The public reaction throughout the Philippines is a welcome to martial law because of the smooth, peaceful reestablishment of peace and order and the hope of a reformed society. In fact most everyone now says, this should have been done earlier. It is indeed gratifying that everyone now finds or discovers I am some kind of a hero!

*The first Press Con of President Ferdinand Marcos after the declaration of Martial Law, September 28, 1972, courtesy of Associated Press.

In the ConCon, the draft Constitution was being fast-tracked. Due to the precarious political environment, many well-meaning delegates wanted to finish a good Constitution draft before the convention “fizzles out.” On October 5, the convention planned to organize a smaller committee that was still representative of the entire body to fast track the draft based on the drafts of the second reading, and subsequent consolidated provisions. The goal was to finish by January 13, 1973. The next day, Delegate Aquilino Pimentel Sr. went to the Supreme Court to challenge it to rise to the occasion in resisting Executive pressure. Delegate Augusto Caesar Espiritu described it in his diary:

“[Nene Pimentel] said that the conditions did not warrant the declaration of martial law. To begin with, the bombings could not be used as an excuse. For example, Pimentel warmed up, who were caught after the grenade bombing of Plaza Miranda a year ago? There were some convicts among them, but there was absolutely no proof that the NPAs have really done it.

Again, who bombed Joe’s store at Carriedo? A PC trooper, not NPAs. Who was suspected of bombing the Con-Con? Two men dressed in PC uniforms were seen running away; in fact, it was probably because he was yelling and telling everyone that he saw two soldiers coming out of the toilet (which was the epicenter of the bombing) that Pepito Nolledo was later arrested.

Nene told the Supreme Court that it was their historic duty to do something to avert disaster. He apologized for speaking that way, but he was before a court of justice and if he could not speak there, he would not be able to speak anywhere else.”

Some of the justices were fairly convinced that something was wrong, and Pimentel took comfort in that. But pressures on the ConCon only increased. By October 10, around 11 delegates were already taken in by the military. Another 7 remained on the wanted list, many of whom either escaped arrest and were in hiding or were out of the country when Martial Law was declared.

Around the same time, there were already rumors going around that in the transitory provision of the new Constitution, a transitory government would be established after the electorate’s approval of the new Constitution (through a plebiscite) extending up to 1975, making all the ConCon delegates as sitting assemblymen in the Interim National Assembly. This greatly appealed to some of the delegates so much so that Delegate George Borromeo of Camiguin proposed P5,000.00 monthly allowance to assemblymen in the new draft (a fairly large amount of money at the time). Some delegates later learned to their disgust that the draft Constitution had provisions which would make Marcos both President and Prime Minister of the Interim National Assembly. Delegate Espiritu asked himself, “What will future generations say if this were approved?”

The rumors turned out to be true. 

According to Senator Arturo Tolentino’s memoir, Marcos had a direct hand on the transitory provision (in Article XVII) of the new Constitution, passing it on to a “working group”. And worse, the ConCon president, former president Diosdado Macapagal, was a willing accomplice because of a secret agreement between them: that Marcos would stand in as interim Prime Minister, with Macapagal as interim President, and Cornelio Villareal as Speaker of interim National Assembly.

As the draft that Marcos influenced was resisted, the following ConCon delegates were added on the surveillance list of the military: “Augusto Caesar and Rebeck Espiritu, Aquilino “Nene” Pimentel, Naning Kalaw, Erning Amatong, and Lilia Delima.” The draft, as produced by the 166-member Steering Committee was turning out to be everything that the reformist delegates in the ConCon were opposed to. Delegate Espiritu describes the feeling of indignation in his diary:

“…the President has practically staged a coup in the Convention. He has literally dictated some provisions of the new Constitution. This is indecent, immoral. And was it necessary? We have already given him—under duress—all that he wanted in terms of political power. Was it still necessary for him to impose his will on the other provisions? Unbelievable as it may seem, we now believe that it is, indeed, true that he has gone over the whole draft of the Constitution, provision by provision, and made corrections in them in his own handwriting.

[…][Don Fernando Sison] also informed us that many delegates in the Convention, from the time we were discussing the form of government we should adopt, were receiving ₱1,000 each per attendance to make sure that the provision on parliamentary form of government would win.

Really? I never knew this!”

By November 27, 1972, it was a done deal.

“Before I could think through my dilemma or banish my fears, voting was called. Those who were voting “No” were asked to stand up.

I found myself instinctively standing up—to join the “No” voters. In half a second, Joe Feria joined me. But before we could fully straighten up, a sudden loud roar of approval burst out. The overwhelming majority of the delegates had obviously voted for the ap­proval of the Constitution!

We now have a brand new Constitution. A Marcos Constitution. Authoritarianism has been institutionalized. The lapdogs of the dictator were delirious with joy.”

And just like that, the 1935 Constitution, crafted by the genius of its framers, was discarded like an old scrap of paper. Outdated in opportunists eyes, and rendered useless. 

*A scene from the 1934 Constitutional Convention that drafted the 1935 Constitution of the Philippines. Source: Presidential Museum and Library.

This reminded me of Luningning Cruz, a second year high school student, who wrote an insightful essay entitled “The Constitution Speaks.” It was published via the Free Press on February 12, 1972:

“…if I [1935 Constitution] have failed, it is because you have failed yourself. If I have not worked out well, it is because you have failed to make me work. And if you have failed to make me work, what guarantee is there that you will be successful in making your new Constitution work?

Even now, before my replacement is drafted, selfishness, bigotry and greed, and worst of all, hatred, are already rearing their ugly heads within your present Constitutional Convention. Name one among your present “wise” men who can approximate the greatness of the Rectos and the Laurels who drafted me. Look into the hearts of your present delegates and search in vain for the patriotism and selflessness of that noble breed of men. Instead, what do you see? A group of men whose first act as delegates was to vote themselves P3,000-a-month allowances in addition to their P100-a-day salaries, just like the “Tong-gressmen” and the “Sena-tongs” who at present make your life so miserable.

I do not say that they will not draft a Constitution better than myself. But this I say, they may draft a hundred constitutions, each one a thousand times better than I am, but if you, the people, do not change, if your leaders remain the same kind—if you remain indifferent, callous, lazy, selfish, greedy, uncooperative, regionalistic—the best constitution in the world, or in the Universe for that matter, will not work for you.

And so I do not plead, like a lover about to be discarded, that you keep me. But hear these my last words, which I paraphrase from the great Recto: “The best amendment to the Constitution would be the amendment of your lives, the amendment of your attitudes, and actions, the realization that you are free men, and the resolution to live and act as free men.”

For if you do not change, a hundred new constitution will not help you. And if you do change, perhaps, you will not even need a Constitution.”

*The Free Press editorial cartoon sometime on February 1972, critiquing the ConCon delegates move to increase the allowances of the assemblymen of the parliament to P3,000.00 despite the popular opinion against the parliamentary system set up. 

This brand new draft Constitution accorded Marcos decree-making powers, wielding not only the Executive but also Legislative authority, too much for one single leader of a country that claimed to be democratic. Marcos was made to be almost an absolute monarch. The next day, the majority in the convention filed the unprecedented motion for the dismissal of the Quintero Expose and the exoneration of the 39 delegates allegedly involved in the bribery of President Marcos. Delegate Eduardo Quintero tried to stand up in indignation, but he was met with uproar from the majority, who clearly have turned against him. Delegate Augusto Espiritu and other few reformist delegates couldn’t take the travesty. 

The new Constitution draft was finally submitted by ConCon President Diosdado Macapagal to President Ferdinand Marcos on November 30, 1972, former enemies now turned to pragmatic allies. It’s a Game of Thrones. Marcos approved the draft and set the preparation for its ratification through a plebiscite.

With Marcos firmly cementing his power, “legalized” by virtue of the new Constitution which Marcos was confident would be promulgated soon, he initiated the release of his political detainees, beginning December 1, 1972, with the exception of Senators Ninoy Aquino and Jose Diokno, who were kept under Maximum Security at Fort Bonifacio. Why keep the two? Some documents say that if ever election was held in 1975, the two with be formidable contenders to the Interim National Assembly. 

As the released Senators filed to the Supreme Court the motion to nullify the plebiscite for the new Constitution scheduled on January 15, 1973, President Marcos turned his attention to the Supreme Court, the last resisting co-equal branch of government that could dispute the legality of Martial Law.

The Road to Martial Law is a series of blog posts documenting the unprecedented rise of a Filipino dictator and the sudden death of Philippine democracy with the declaration of a nationwide Martial Law via live television on September 23, 1972.

The Road so far:

- It Takes a Village to Raise a Dictator: The Philippines Before Martial Law

- Marcos Beginnings

- Truth or Dare?: Marcos during WWII

- The Turbulent ‘60s and Marcos’ Ascent to Power

- The Gathering Storm: Beginnings of the Communist insurgency and Moro secessionism in the ‘60s

- The First Quarter Storm of 1970: The Philippines on the Brink

- A Plan for the Endgame: Plots, Protests, Scandals and Assassinations

- Pawns in Cities lobbed with Bombs: Events leading to the Plaza Miranda Bombing

- Hijacking Democracy: The Mood before the Declaration of Martial Law

- September 21, 1972: When Martial Law Had to Wait for One More Day

- Like a Thief in the Night: Martial Law Implemented on September 22, 1972

- The Long Night Begins: Martial Law Announced on Live Television, September 23, 1972

Photo above:

Free Press editorial cartoon, sometime in 1972. Source: Presidential Museum and Library.


Abaya, Hernando. The Making of a Subversive: A Memoir. Quezon City: New Day Publishers, 1984.

Cruz, Luningning, “The Constitution Speaks,” Philippines Free Press, February 12, 1972, link.

De Quiros, Conrado. Dead Aim: How Marcos Ambushed Philippine Democracy. Pasig City: Foundation for Worldwide People’s Power, Inc., 1997.

Espiritu, Augusto Caesar, “October 5, 1972,” Philippine Diary Project, link.

Espiritu, Augusto Caesar, “October 7, 1972,” Philippine Diary Project, link.

Espiritu, Augusto Caesar, “October 10, 1972,” Philippine Diary Project, link.

Espiritu, Augusto Caesar, “October 14, 1972,” Philippine Diary Project, link.

Espiritu, Augusto Caesar, “November 9, 1972,” Philippine Diary Project, link.

Espiritu, Augusto Caesar, “November 27, 1972,” Philippine Diary Project, link.

Espiritu, Augusto Caesar, “November 28, 1972,” Philippine Diary Project, link.

Pimentel Sr., Aquilino. Martial Law in the Philippines: My Story. Mandaluyong City: Cacho Publishing House, 2006.

Mijares, Primitivo. The Conjugal Dictatorship of Ferdinand and Imelda Marcos. San Francisco: Union Square Publications, 1976.

Rempel, William C. Delusions of a Dictator: The Mind of Marcos As Revealed in His Secret Diaries. Boston, MA: Little, Brown & Co., 1993.

Salonga, Jovito. A Journey of Struggle and Hope: The Memoir of Jovito R. Salonga. Quezon City: U.P. Center for Leadership, Citizenship and Democracy, 2001.

Tolentino, Arturo. Voice of Dissent. Quezon City: Phoenix Publishing, 1990.

Wurfel, David. Filipino Politics: Development and Decay. New York: Cornell University Press, 1988.

How can we know God? Is there a practical method by which we can unite our souls with Him? Mystics teach us that the Lord is Pure Spirit which emanates from the highest spiritual region; He can therefore be known only by our soul, which is of the: same divine essence. That divine essence is the inner Word, the holy Name of God, the Audible Life Stream, which manifests within us as spiritual Sound and Light.

“The mind and intellect cannot know or understand God, because the origin of mind is in the causal plane, which is lower than the pure spiritual realms. Mind can know only what lies within its own realm and below.

“The soul has its own power of knowing, beyond the intellectual faculties of the mind. When the soul sheds its coverings of mind and body, it is free to ‘know’ God instantly, by direct perception. But it is only through meditation that the soul can attain this level of direct perception and obtain spiritual knowledge. Meditation is the technique given by the mystics to liberate the soul from the dross of mind and matter, so that it can freely know and merge into God. Freed of the weight of karma, the soul naturally rises to its Source. Thus it experiences true self-realization and God-realization.
—  Miriam Bokser Caravella, “The Holy Name — Mysticism in Judaism” http://www.scienceofthesoul.org/product_p/en-076-0.htm
Chapter 7 - Lurking

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The only sound emanating from the livingroom is the steady click clack of Seven’s keyboard. He’s been hacking at Mint Eye’s mainframe and he surprised himself with how much progress he’s made, considering how he has three tasks to keep track of. He’s found Mint Eye’s headquarters, found out the meaning behind the “everlasting party”… And why his brother’s been behaving neurotically. He did all this while Saeran was actively rejecting his signals, and checking up on Jaehee’s apartment CCTV every two minutes to see if you left. So yeah, pretty impressive. The great thing about suffering from chronic procrastination is that he get’s twenty-four hours worth of work done in five.

He opens his own private cloud and imports Mint Eye’s location and further details. While that’s uploading, he quickly switches tabs to the CCTV. The camera is set in the hallway outside Jaehee’s actual room, but beggars can’t be choosers, right? As far as he can tell, you haven’t left the apartment. He’s flooded with relief, things are starting to look up. He switches to his agency’s interface…


His inbox is overflowing with messages and death threats, a few from his boss and this job commissioner. Most of them, however, are from the lovely Mary Vanderwood. He opens the message thread:

[ DM ] Maid Lady Guy: Agent 707. The boss called immediately after you left. If you value your life at all, return immediately and finish your job.

[ DM ] Maid Lady Guy: Actually, return even if you don’t care about life. I care about mine.

[ DM ] Maid Lady Guy: I swear- if you don’t respond, I will lose all formality and find you before our agency does.

[ DM ] Maid Lady Guy: i WILL fucking murder you cheeky little shit i’m not joking

[ DM ] Maid Lady Guy: you’re nuts. i hope you realize this.

[ DM ] Maid Lady Guy: seriously it’s been HOURS

[ DM ] Maid Lady Guy: the agency is going ape shit right now. guesS WHO’S FAULT IS THAT????

[ DM ] Maid Lady Guy: I’m cutting my signal from the boss. I have no idea what’s going on, but I’m coming to find you. No, I’m not going to kill you… Yet. But I promise this is going to end very poorly.

Seven didn’t realize he was grinning like a maniac at the texts until it was too late. Huh. Maybe lack of sleep combined with his morbid humor has taken over his brain. He tosses his phone to the couch cushion beside him and stretches. He’s feeling pretty good, considering the circumstances. His brother is being drugged and tortured to the point where his sense of reality is warped, the girl he loves very likely hates his guts, and he’s sure his ex-friend V lied to him about one of his most life-changing decisions. It’s a miracle he hasn’t spiraled into a pit of self-harm and depression. He would though if he could. Maybe he just doesn’t have any room to be depressed, or lounge around on the couch for that matter.

He pushes himself up. The cloud has almost finished backing up his files, which he’ll import to his phone for future use. He doesn’t have much time before Saeran suspects something from his inactivity, so he packs up necessities for the drive, all the while keeping his eye on the CCTV for any sign of you leaving. The hallway is as still as a church, which is eerie in it’s own way. He knows you well enough to know that you’re very flighty when you’re anxious, never staying in one place, never settling. When he was with you in Rika’s apartment, you would fidget impatiently on your bed, wanting to get out and go to the convenience store or coffee shop. Sometimes you’d somersault onto the couch and do other sorts of ridiculous, odd, adorable things to distract yourself…

“Shit!” He roars suddenly at nobody in particular, “Shit, shit shit shit… Shit. You really did it this time, Luciel. Shit.”

He clutches his head, the pain of losing you catching up to him. The realization tears through him harder than a bullet to the heart. You left. You’re gone, and no amount of shits will bring you back. After all this is over, you will never welcome him again, and he’ll have to be okay with that. How can he be okay with that?! How can he be part of the RFA, interact with you, and have you be cold towards him? The answer is simple:

I can’t.

He has to quit the RFA, then cut ties with everyone. It’s the best thing to do, anyway. Everyone will surely protest, they’ll try and get him to stay. And he’ll want to. But what he wants doesn’t matter: it never has, and it never will.

“It comes with the job.” He mutters under his breath, absentmindedly picking up a few cables and shoving them into his duffel bag, “Agents aren’t even supposed to have personal relationships in the first place…”

With a heavy heart, he packs the last of his things, leaving just his laptop. He double and triple checks to see has everything… He opens the front pocket of his bag to count his storage devices.

One backup hard drive, his floppy disk, four, eight, twelve, sixteen, nineteen USBs. Alright, that’s everything.

He pauses.

Hold on.

He counts again. He didn’t miss any, there’s nineteen total. He checks other pockets, his hoodie, between the couch cushions…

I could’ve sworn I brought twenty of those things.

Well, he was in a hurry to save you… He could’ve forgotten one in the heat of the moment. Everyone makes mistakes, even a perfectionist like him. It’s the most logical explanation, but even so there’s a inexplicable pit of anxiety in his stomach that just wouldn’t leave.

He glances at the CCTV. No… You wouldn’t.

Would you?


Damn fucking right I would.

Right as Seven throws his duffel back into the backseat of his fancy four-wheel drive, you’re lurking through the files you imported from his laptop. There’s many, many many folders and directories, but you’re not worried about figuring out what exactly is going on. You have a knack for computers, even though you’re not educated in this area. After filtering through an abundant amount of goofy folders, memes, homemade pixel games, different CCTV records and app information, a certain… More sinister looking folder with a oddly normal name catches your eye:

Ryuunrou Co.

You open it and immediately confusion floods your mind. There are countless different folders… It hurts your head to think about how much time Seven must’ve spent on these. They’re all labeled the same way, starting with PROJECT:, then a name you assume is code for something else, then ending with either a [ Complete ], [ Active ], or [ TERMINATED ]. You gape at the text, taken aback by the severity of his job. It makes you shiver.

What the hell do you do, Seven?

You click the only active folder entitled PROJECT: Red Raven and another window pops up.

[ Mission Class: Black Bag Job ]
| Commissioner: // ENTER SS // |
| Assigned: Agent Choi 707 - - - Role: Case Officer |
| Associate: Agent Vanderwood 702 - - - Role: Nursemaid |
| Covert Action Operation - - - Eyes Only. Enter Agent SS + ID to continue. |

This is the job Seven couldn’t finish. You’re sure of it. A Black Bag Job… So he’s in charge of a mission to retrieve illegal/unwarranted information from someone. Or something. You can only guess that information like that would be used for blackmail, or maybe a bargaining chip for something of more value. His associate is Vanderwood? His “maid”. Wait–

Vanderwood… Maid… Nursemaid… Holy shit. You lean back into the couch, processing this new information.

Seven, you smartass.

If your secret agent lingo isn’t wrong, Mary wasn’t there to clean up Seven’s house. She’s his coordinator. The Nursemaid, similar to the Babysitter (also known as a bodyguard), is there to monitor operations and make sure he doesn’t step out of line. But why would they assign him a Nursemaid in the first place? Did he do something to lose the agency’s trust? You wouldn’t put it past him, but you can’t confirm that theory. You can’t get further details without entering Seven’s social security number and passcode, so investigating is off the table. You try opening a few other folders, completed and terminated, but you get the same or a similar window. You rub your temples in frustration. You finally had a lead, now you’re back to square one. At least you know what his job entails now.

It’s surreal, yet not entirely unbelievable.

You close out of the project folder and continue searching for more clues.

LOLOL and a few other games, memes, music, pictures, pictures, pictures… Pictures of you? You freeze, caught off guard when you stumble across a file with your name on it. Why would Seven have something like this? You hover your cursor over the icon, but a little voice in the back of your head stops you. Save yourself the heartache, it’s probably just stuff he gathered from your background check. You’re leading yourself on, don’t bother.

And so you move on.

The last place to check is his cloud. You click the shortcut to the app and your entire screen shifts, startling you a bit. Random numbers and emojis flash across your monitor, obviously just put there for effect. You snort at a picture of longcat that whizzes past your screen. Yeah, he definitely designed this network himself, and he probably did it in his free time. After ten seconds of comic relief, a password screen appears.

Awh, come on!!

You do your best to hold back a sigh. This isn’t over yet, you just have to figure out his password. You rub your hands together, trying to pump yourself up.

I can do this.

You think for a moment. Anyone’s first guess would be something along the lines of HoneyBuddha123 or CatscatscatscatsCats, but you know him better than that. Before being strange, spontaneous or anything, Seven is original. He probably came up with something well thought out. But how can you even start without a clue?

A clue… Wait, that’s it! Maybe he has a hint when you get it wrong!

You type in a potential answer, and sure enough:

|| ENTER PASSWORD: HarambeWasInnocent ||
|| Your password is incorrect. ||
|| Password hint: ^^ Yup. Dumbass. ||

You cock your head. What the… What? You read the self-deprecating password hint over and over, looking for a hidden meaning but you can’t–



Could it be…? You hold back a groan as you type out:

|| ENTER PASSWORD: incorrect ||
|| Salutations, God Seven. ||

That. Was. Awful.

You smile despite yourself at the cleverness. If you didn’t know Seven, you wouldn’t be able to get into his cloud, so in a way it’s secure? But still. Back to business.

You look off to the file overlay and see that the last import was about ten minutes ago, and containing about eighteen gigs of data. Your eyes widen at the amount of memory he used. He must’ve stumbled across something really important, why else would he need to download this many files? You click the latest upload…


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anonymous asked:

The walls no longer bleed... But they start to emanate with the sound of loud and graphic fornication. It's like someone has turned your home into one giant sound system, and is playing hardcore pornography, nonstop, and with no volume button.

Kankri: Try desperately to block out all outside noises.


From The Independent:

A group of female students has been pasting sanitary towels on the walls of a Pakistani university in protest against the taboo over discussing menstruation in the country.

The six women and men [Mavera Rahim, Eman Suleman, Mehsum Basharat, Noor Fatima, Sherbaz Lehri, and Asad Sheikh], who study at Beaconhouse National University (BNU) in Lahore, wrote slogans on the towels such as “it’s something so natural” and “I’m not flawed or poorly made”.

In addition, they painted stains on their white kameezes (traditional dress shirt) and stood next to the hygiene products where they talked with male students explaining “nothing is gross, weird, or wrong”.

One of the students, Mavera Rahim, posted a picture of towels on Facebook. She explained: “The protest was against the stigma attached to menstruation and the sharmindagi [shame] with which we discuss it.

"We are made to put pads in brown paper bags when we buy them, we are made to talk about periods in hushed voices as if it’s a dirty secret, and all-in-all made to act as if it is something we should hide more so than other bodily functions, when it’s really a natural part of our biology.

"Our idea was to break this taboo around the subject in our society.”

The group said part of the inspiration for the protest was that Pakistani women contract diseases because “they are not fully informed of hygienic practices”.

Ms. Rahim told the Express Tribune newspaper that her brother and sisters are “very supportive”.

“This is not a campaign; this was merely an aesthetically based protest as a class project … Women face a lot of stigmatisation and ridicule for menstruation, something they have no control over,” she said.

“No, I’m not some shameless libertine, but I don’t think I should feel shame for this, even though I do feel very embarrassed and self-conscious about this whole experience.”

This work echoes a demonstration by students at Dehli’s Jamia Millia Islamia University in India who last year covered the establishment with sanitary towels to protest discrimination and sexual violence against women.

Eman Suleman, quoted from Scroll.in, had this response to the protest: “The response goes to show exactly why this is an important issue that needs to be addressed. Especially when girls too are disgusted by it. A friend of mine wrote ‘Internalized hatred is real, especially when you’ve been conditioned to view your healthy body functions as disgusting and unnatural’. It’s a life-long process to unlearn these behaviours, for women and men alike. I know that I’m still struggling with it. The patriarchy runs deep.”

The pads were up on the wall on April 7 and April 8.

some tips for lectures

- find a seat you are comfortable in early on, stick to that seat to give yourself a sense of routine and familiarity esp if your lectures halls are massive

- if you are comfortable writing your notes by hand do that! do not feel intimidated by people using their laptops, remember its what you are comfortable with

- don’t try to write everything down, lecturers often post the slides online or you could ask for a copy after 

- try to make your notes in your writing, and even jot down the examples lecturers use that are not on the slides.

- make little notes to yourself that you can look back on when you are writing your notes at home, such as underlining words you didn’t understand, or a theory you did not quite get

- do your readings before class so you don’t feel lost in the lectures

- please attend as much lectures as you can, being there in person is much better and saves more time,

 - If you have any questions jot them down on a paper and ask the lecturer at the end , you often find that the lecturer answers your question as they progress through the lecture

- make sure you highlight anything the lecturer focuses on instead of trusting yourself to remember it later

- If you are lucky enough to get a break in the middle of the lecture, take the opportunity to stretch and drink some water

- if you feel that your lecturer did not explain something clearly, email them or search it up but ensure that you understand it, so when finals come you don’t have a pile of theories that you half understand

Jacob’s Ladder.

Jacob’s Ladder is the colloquial name for a bridge between the Earth and Heaven that the biblical Patriarch Jacob dreams about during his flight from his brother Esau, as described in the Book of Genesis. The story of Jacob’s Ladder is actually an ancient allegorical biblical tale describing the Alchemical process of reaching complete Gnosis or what some may call, Sainthood or Enlightenment. A Symbolic Ladder that we all must climb if we wish to reach the Spiritual Heights of the Divine in the Heavens while we are encased in Physical Matter here on Earth. As we climb, we must purify ourselves, our thoughts, habits and actions so that we may reach that seventh and final step of our ascent in order to activate all of our seven senses and DNA.