ink and worn pages

Draco falling in love with a Ravenclaw would include:

• He finds her in the library, that first, winter swept afternoon
• Hair tucked behind her ears and her fingers tracing dried ink words on the time worn page of an overlarge book, her profile thrown against the floor in a stroke of sun mottled air and Draco -
• Draco catches his breath
• Looks at the table situated beneath the window again and spares a thought as to how he’s managed to never see her before
• Because she’s something of a sight, trapped in a paragraph between two worlds, her lips mouthing words that Draco desperately wants to hear and her gaze never altering from the page
• He doesn’t approach her that first day
• Or the second day, or the third
• He hides behind the dust mottled books on the shelves and he watches, observes, learns that she’s in his Arithmancy class and has stolen the top spot in class from both him and Granger more times than he can count
• He finds that she always carries a book around - beneath her arm or stowed away in her bag - that her arm is a quick fire answer to every Gordian question and she takes to twirling the end of her blue and silver striped tie around her finger when she’s nervous
• Draco watches and observes and falls in love, just slightly, with the pilfered snippets of obscure references in the Great Hall, with her laugh thats perennially hidden behind her hand, with the ink stains on her fingers and the stories stuck in her throat and it’s been nearly three weeks by the time he’s mustered up enough courage to step out from behind the shelves and sit across from her seat at the table
• She glances up
• Sets her quill aside
• Neat, cursive handwriting is sloping across the parchment between them
Homer is emblazoned on the spine of the nearest book
• Draco clears his throat
• A smile - like a fish hook around his gut - steals across her mouth
• “I’ve been wondering when you’d finally come over and talk to me,” she says

My ink stained fingers grasp at the fragile worn pages of the soliloquy that I have been writing for days

They grasp and cry out in some pathetic and desperate attempt to stop you from wrenching that draft,
That unfinished and imperfect piece of my heart, away from me

And your eyes are fire, all fury and vindication. They spit rage as though despite their having never seen these pages before them, they know what words inhabit them

I fear that your eyes will drop embers across those dry sheets and devour them forever and that I will not have the courage to write them again

And in an action that is part submission and part rebellion I let go and withdraw

You stumble backwards half a step at the shock of my not fighting you

Or so you think but I’m not fighting you physically I’m moving differently now with some kind of wisdom

I found it when you weren’t looking

And now
Rather than flail against you so we both become bruised and so my words become torn in the skirmish I will give them to you freely and it will not protect me and I don’t know what words can do to you, if anything

But at least my writing and my words are being read so that I can say I have said my piece

And you read what I was not finished creating and crafting to express myself

And your eyes crinkle and your mouth curves and I see contempt

And you attempt to tear my words apart and render them useless but in reading them you have made them impervious to such actions

So you settle for spitting on them and crumpling them into a ball to hurl at me before you leave

It bruises me in a way you don’t see

But at the very least I know I did all I could for you and me

And I wash the ink from my fingers and burn the pages and thus remove those words from me.

But what if one day, John is looking in Sherlock ’s room, because he’s been acting strange lately and he’s worried that Sherlock relapsed. And as he’s searching the room for drugs he finds a book he’s never seen before. It’s old, worn, the pages yellowed and the ink practicality fading away. As he starts flipping through it, he finds himself reading the Adventures of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, except some of the stories are different and some haven’t even happened at all. And everyone in their lives are there- Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Irene, even Moriarty. But none of it makes sense to John, this book had to have been written decades ago.
As John was entranced by this story of man with his name who was not him, Sherlock walks in with Irene.
“John? You’re not supposed to be here.” Sherlock says.
“Sherlock, he has the book.” Irene points out.
“Sherlock, what the hell is this?” John demands, any worries of Sherlock’s addiction long gone.

Open When You Can't Sleep

Inspired by this wonderful and heart wrenching post:

I kinda cheated and used this to knock out too birds with one stone.

Ellison, Angst, SFW



When Elise finds the letters she’s confused.  Sure, she kept hers but they’re at the bottom of a shoe box at the bottom of a cardboard box somewhere in Jeff’s apartment.  Not in an easily accessible drawer in the kitchen where anyone could stumble across them when hunting down a bottle opener.  Who does that?  Who leaves letters from an old cabin mate, sent after a summer of clumsy experimentation over ten years ago, just lying around within easy reach?  Unless Allison never pushed the feelings away the same way Elise did.  Unless that summer was just as important to Allison.

Fuck, she is too drunk for this and she still hasn't found the bottle opener.

The minute she steps foot into the craft room, she regrets it. She regrets following Allison here, she regrets finding the letters, she regrets coming back to Takota this summer.

She regrets leaving that summer, ignoring every instinct telling her to stay, ignoring her heart screaming at her to turn around.

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