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Mar. 27th, 2014


(no subject)

I think my absolutely biggest pet peeve in writing is when the major conflict is miscommunication. Don't get me wrong - I think it's terribly realistic, this idea of two people that maybe love each other but are unable to get it out in the open. But if your entire plot can be resolved by Character A pulling his head out of the ground and saying two sentences to Character B, something's wrong. I think I just read it so often as a middle-schooler (Sarah Dessen, coughs pointedly) and in fanfiction that I'm just completely 100 percent sick of it. I'm also fed-up with this plot scheme of:

1. Two characters meet
2. Flirt
3. After some minor problems, get together
5. Break-up
6. Get back together in the last chapter
7. La-de-da, happy epilogue

Unbelievable frustration from this little formulaic writing. Again, don't get me wrong - I've seen it done right. But I've also seen it done wrong a thousand and one times. Is it so much to ask for for the major conflict to be something that takes more than two seconds to fix? It can still be miscommunication, but at least one of the characters should be aware that this is the problem. Having two clueless main characters make such a boring read.

Also, I was talking to one of my friends yesterday at dinner and she brought up something incredibly important: What is the point of epilogues? I understand its to stretch out the story, to give the reader a glimpse of what happened later... Yeah. I get that. But we were talking about it, and I just sort of realized that it usually completely weakens the main plot of the story. Too often, we get this clean, wrap-it-up epilogue where the main character is so far from the rest of the action in the story that it almost seems irrelevant. These are sort of pointless musings, but I'm still off Tumblr for Lent, and Reddit just doesn't allow for musings. Hmm. 

Mar. 15th, 2014


(no subject)

well, I gave up tumblr for Lent, and so far I have learned that I have a serious problem with focusing on one thing. It's like I start to watch a TV show or read (mainly Animorphs, God help me) or edit my fic and then I just have to randomly stop and go do something else. What's wrong with me? Why am I like that now? I got so used to scrolling down tumblr aimlessly that now I don't know what to do. Mainly I go and stare at Redidt instead. I basically just gave up tumblr for Reddit, wow.

As far as editing goes, it's all right. I think it's a sign that I've grown as a writer that I used to absolutely abhor reading my own writing and now it's rather all right. Still not the best thing I've ever read in my life, but I'm entirely unsure as to how to get to that level. If you ask me, I don't think I'll ever reach that point. I'll always be too far gone on the technical side of things, always looking for how to revise my sentence and paragraph structures rather than just enjoying it. Also, Stephen King advises removing at least ten percent of the novel when revising, which in my case would be 15,000 words - and instead all I've done is remove 2,000 and add 6,000. Seriously, how do I just find 15,000 words that aren't necessary? It pains me just thinking about it.

I also think I need to add at least 5,000 worth of completely new scenes, as opposed to just adding onto already existing scenes. I just want to post it so very badly, I have to be careful not to rush through anything. I've been working on it for FIVE MONTHS NOW. FIVE. I'm so exhausted of it. How do some people spend five years on the same novel? How do you do it, GRRM? How? Tell me your confusing secrets. 

May. 13th, 2013



Summary: There are some nights in which dreaming is more like drowning.
Word Count: 1300
Rating: PG ish
Author's Notes: Part of a thirty day challenge that I started.... ahem, in summer 2012. Written for the prompt 'Knowledge'.

AftershocksCollapse )

Apr. 14th, 2013


Sunbeams in the Sun, Part One

( You are about to view content that may only be appropriate for adults. )

Jan. 17th, 2013


a blowjob in three parts

( You are about to view content that may only be appropriate for adults. )

just watched amazing spider-man

UNF, Andrew Garfield, baby u are so precious and i love everything about you. when he is sad, i am sad. when he brings home eggs to his aunt may, i do not bring home eggs because i am poor but i MAKE eggs because i just learned how last night and now i'm literally obsessed with it. not sunny side up, mind you, i still don't know how to do that, but scrambled? i put in milk and salt and pepper and they taste SO FLUFFY and i'm not sure how i got on a rant about making scrambled eggs when this was supposed to be about the amazing spider-man and how amazing it was.

so yeah, last night i had a dream that i watched Lily give James a blow job so i'm just gonna go write up that up because it was sexy. good bye

Dec. 1st, 2012


FIC: A Mistake in Labeling (Harry/Teddy, M)

( You are about to view content that may only be appropriate for adults. )

Aug. 6th, 2012


(no subject)


You yawn, sitting back in your chair and lazily contemplating finishing up the paperwork still due for the latest case you've been working on… and then instead you Accio the Daily Prophet, flip to the back page, and start doing the crossword. The paperwork can last one more day - you'd started the damn crossword earlier and got stuck on 'Supernatural creature designed to guard the entrances to the world of the dead,' and honestly if you let Malfoy finish another one of these that you can't, you'll break something.

Preferably his face - even if you are reluctantly attracted to it.

"Nine letters…" you murmur thoughtfully, slowly swiveling your chair back and forth in a methodic manner as you tap your quill against your chin. "Sixth letter is an O…"

You're about to give up when suddenly it's there - and you shout, "Hellhound!" just as Astoria Malfoy walks into your office. You're distracted, jotting it down, and only look up when she says your name - and you jump slightly, waiting for the inevitable, "I know we've had our differences, Potter, but that's a bit uncalled for, don't you think?" but it never comes.

Instead, she stares at you with a burning in her eyes and her expression nearly unrecognizable - and you jerk to your feet, stomach already twisting in despair. "Is it - him?" you ask and why are your veins suddenly ice-cold, why do you suddenly feel like the world is tilting on its axis?


This can't be happening. Not after - you grip the desk, feeling alarmingly dizzy. "Astoria - fuck, answer!"

But when she does, you want to take it back, you want to go back to when she'd never walked into the room - when you knew nothing, and you realize that the saying really is true, ignorance is bliss. Ignorance is bliss because knowledge - this knowledge in particular - is horrific breaking shattering hopelessness rocketing through your brain and your mind and your soul. You stare at Astoria and you realize you hate her, you hate her with a fucking passion - for being the one to tell you this news, for knowing it first, for marrying him when you never could.

You hate her and yet, staring at her and seeing her stare back at you with those goddamn pitying eyes, you know she is the only person that understands what you're going through at the moment.

"H-how?" you croak out, still swaying, and you back up a few steps until you can collapse back into your desk chair. He would laugh if you could see you now, he would call you weak, pathetic (and then he would kiss away the insults and stroke your hair and call you gorgeous) but it doesn't matter, none of it matters, because he's fucking dead anyway.


"One of his cases," she says quietly. "He left without telling anyone where he was going… there were too many people there. He was overwhelmed. You know how he is."

Yes, you do, of course you do - you know better than anyone, you want to snarl, but you don't - instead you simply sit there with glassy-eyed panic. How the hell are you going to get through this? How can you possibly move forward with your lie of a life when he's gone?


"I should've been there," you manage, and she automatically shakes her head.

"You couldn't have known, Harry, that he would have run into trouble this time, when he's done so many cases on his own before now -"

"I SHOULD'VE BEEN THERE," you roar, rising from your chair once more and pointing your wand at her. When did your wand get in your hand? You don't know and you don't care. "He - fuck, how can you just stand there so fucking calm? He's gone - he's gone -" Maybe if you repeat it enough times, it will start to sink in. Maybe if you accept it, it won't hurt so goddamn much.


"The funeral is tomorrow at three," she says, looking away from you. "Narcissa thinks we should get it over with as soon as possible so that the press doesn't learn about it, and I agree."

Get it over with.

The words ring through your head, around and around until you want to vomit - and you can hear his smirking voice in your head, telling you just to go with it, that women are the bane of his existence and why do you think he needs you so damn much?

He's gone, you tell yourself.

Gone, gone, gone, gone, fucking gone.

(dead as a doornail)

"I should… go," says Astoria when it becomes clear you can't speak, won't speak, refuse to speak. "To help prepare things. I really think he would want you to be there, Harry -"

"You don't know what the fuck he would want," you spit, eyes flashing flames. "You knew nothing about him - nothing!"

She stares at you with dark eyes for a long moment and then bows her head, allowing this. "I knew that he loved you. I knew that, even though he was with me, he only ever wanted you."

And that cuts you deeper than any retort she could have possibly said.

She leaves and you are left alone with your fucking crossword and your fucking paperwork and how are you ever supposed to get anything done now? How are you supposed to eat when eating simple foods reminds you of him ("Your tastes are so mundane, Potter, when are you going to get sick of your fish and chips and admit that I know best?") and eating rich foods reminds you of him ("Try and get it through your thick skull that my restaurant choices are, and always will be, better than yours. Except - fuck you, okay, yes, I liked that Japanese one, stop laughing. Prick.") and alcohol reminds you of him ("Here. What do you mean, what is it? It's a book on wines. Yes, they make those. Happy Christmas. Maybe one of these years, you'll actually choose an appropriate wine for dinner.") and even fucking breathing reminds you of him, and oh God, it hurts so much and how how how are you supposed to go on?

Ginny finds you laying on your back on your side of the bed, staring up at the ceiling and trying not to die. The bed dips as she sits down on her side and starts taking off her shoes and you hear her pause once or twice to glance over at you but you refuse to say anything so she doesn't either. Best for both of you, really. And what is she supposed to say - I'm sorry the man you were cheating on me with got what was coming to him?

The lights go out, but you stay awake, trying to forget.

You know she's awake too.

You can't bring yourself to care.

"Harry," she finally whispers.

You don't respond.

"Harry. I'm… I know you loved him."

Fuck, did you really have to go through this as well as everything else?

"I'm sorry."

This is the part where you deny you loved him, where you accept her apology, where you turn to her and finally let loose the tears that have been building all day.

Instead, you turn on your side and close your eyes as tightly as you can, wishing you were dead as well. She doesn't say anything else after that.

You wake up the next morning and for an instant you have forgotten that he's dead - and you feel a smile tug at your lips as you remember the plans you have with him - and then suddenly Ginny is cautiously touching your shoulder and you tense and then you hate her too, for reminding you of what you've lost, for not being him, for being so fucking sympathetic after everything you've put her through.

You can admit that she's too good for you, not that it does either of you much good. You still hate her. She's still married to someone who doesn't lover her - worse, to someone who loves someone else. A dead someone else.


You sit up, feeling suffocated. "Sleep well?"

"I slept okay." You can feel her hesitating and you close your eyes, knowing what she's going to say. "Harry… the funeral -"

"I'm not going." But you are. You know this and she knows this.

"Did you want me to?"

You stand up and whirl around, your anger lighting up the room. "Do I want my wife to attend the funeral of the man I've been fucking for the past three years? Fuck, Ginny, does that even make sense?"

She's quiet, watching you. "I know you're in pain, Harry -"

"You know nothing," you hiss, and it's startling how alike this conversation is to the one you had with Astoria. Your wife and his wife. His widow?


Her eyes flash; she knows you and she is no Astoria Malfoy. She is Ginny Weasley, and she is stronger than you ever will be. "I know you're in pain, but you still have a family to think about. Our children -"

You wince. How dare she throw that card at you? Now, while you're suffering?

"- are still ours, and you can't ignore that."

"I wasn't planning on it."

"Really?" she demands, getting to her feet and glowering. "Because you've been doing a damned good job of it since you met him and started this fucked up business with Draco Malfoy!"

You flinch, then sneer. "Yes, well - guess you won't have to worry about that any more, will you?"

She stops. "I - you know I didn't mean it like that."

"How did you mean it then, Ginny?"

"I am your wife," she says quietly. "I gave you three children. I've tried so hard -" she chokes and then continues, struggling forward like the soldier you know she is. "To let you be happy, because Merlin knows you've sacrificed more in a lifetime than anyone has a right to. But -"

You know she is only trying to help, just as she has been since day one - plodding along despite everything you've thrown at her, always there for you, always at your side. She has kept your secret and ignored the nights where you don't show, feeding excuses to anyone who asks. Yet she is not him and she never will be - and for a moment you have the darkest thought of your life, you have the thought of, I wish it had been you instead of him, and then you immediately retract it, feeling ashamed. "Please can I just get through the funeral," you interrupt in a whisper, and she stops, staring at you with saddened brown eyes.

"I will give you your time to grieve," she says, her voice almost as soft. "I will let you have this final time with him, Harry, but I don't know how much more I can take."

You nod and she disappears and you are left with nothing to do until three in the fucking afternoon.

You miss him. It's only been one day but you already miss him more than anything else, because he has been the one thing that has kept you sane through work and stress and struggling to support your family. Honestly - that was how this all started out. Not as sex, not even as passion; merely a friendship that started five years ago and escalated into… this.

Whatever this is.

Or - rather, was.


Three o'clock appears both too slowly and too quickly and suddenly you are standing in the back of a half-crowded room, with a priest at the front and a coffin there as well.

You have the strange desire to laugh as the priest begins talking because Draco was never religious and neither are the Malfoys - so who invited this man? It should be you up there talking, you discussing Draco's merits because you are the one that knew him best - you are the one that heard him discuss his cases, you are the one that's fucked him senseless, you are the one that's held him when he's lonely.

You, no one else.

A wave of emotions crashes over you as the priest drones on and you struggle to identify each separate emotion churning inside you - there is regret (shoulda married him, shoulda loved him better, shoulda done this and that and not been so fucking cautious) there is heartache (no one else will love you the same, no one else will ever compare) there is anger (FUCK YOU, DRACO, FUCK YOU FOR NOT STAYING SAFE, FOR ME, DON'T I MATTER) there is sorrow, endless pools of sorrow that you find yourself sinking in, drowning in, choking in.

The priest pauses his sermon and invites anyone that knew the deceased personally to come to the front and share a memory with the gathered mourners.

There is a long silence, stretching out over everyone like an oppressive cloud, and you know you should go up there - but what would you say? What is both impersonal enough and meaningful enough to share with these strangers? All the things that truly define Draco, that define your relationship with him… The idea of sharing those memories makes your stomach clench into knots.

You could, for instance, share how completely vulnerable he looks (looked) after sex, while you prop your head up on his chest and stare into his sleepy, content face. You could share how he whispers his fears to you late at night, how his fingers never stray far from your skin, constantly brushing back your hair or catching hold of your hand or trailing lazily across your chest.

You could share how his eyebrows furrow together when he reads - and that he chooses to spend his time reading thick Potions books, a fact that you teased him about constantly… until the day you found a thin, cheesy romance novel tucked inside the Potions book and then you teased him even more about that. You could share that he loves cooking just as much as Potions - how he can prattle endlessly on about making the perfect soup, while pretending in public that he uses house elves for everything. You love tasting his experimental food - you love pretending to choke and gag on it and ducking his reprimanding smack as he tells you that it is better than any other shit you've ever tasted. You tell him you've never tasted shit - and he goes to smack you again before catching you instead and kissing you.

You could share how he looks after a shower, all flushed skin and mussed hair - you could share how beautiful his smile is and how picky of an eater he is as he gets older - you could share how he laughs at all your corny jokes, how he's such lightweight when it comes to hard liquor, how you catch him humming Muggle songs when he thinks you're not listening, the same Muggle songs that you forced him to listen to - not knowing how much he would grow to love them.

You could share all this and more - so much more, so much that it overwhelms you and breaks you and maybe gives you the littlest bit of strength at the same time as well, just because it's him and because he's always somehow managed to give you strength, even when he's not there.

(even when he's dead)


"Harry?" asks a quiet voice, and you blink, startled to find Astoria Malfoy standing directly in front of you - and over her shoulder you see people standing in small circles and already trickling out.

The funeral is over and you hadn't even noticed.

"You came," she says.

What the fuck are you supposed to say to that? But she is your only comforter at the moment, the only other person that knew him like you did - even if she is a fraction of what you were to him. "I came."

"He would - it means a lot… to me," she says, eyes downcast.

"Yes, well… I suspect we won't be seeing much of each other any more after this." Not that you went out of your way to see her much before, but well - paths will cross when you're both walking around the same drafty Manor. God, you hated that Manor. Tried to convince him to sell it a thousand times, to no avail. Now you inexplicably miss it.

"No, I suspect not. Your… wife didn't want to come?"

"I told her not to."

"Ah. I see."

Does she?

You see her hesitate and then before you can blink she is leaning in and engulfing you in sweet perfume for the briefest of moments as she hugs you - and then she is pulling back, her Malfoy mask back in place. "I should go see to the other guests."


"It was… it meant a lot."

"Goodbye, Astoria."

And then she is walking away and you are left alone with your goddamn memories at his goddamn funeral and slowly you walk up the aisle - and his coffin is directly in front of you, halfway open, and you want to die, want to black out before you can reach him - but you don't, and then there he is. Frozen and dead and lifeless and dead and no longer yours.

You want to touch him, but you can't.

You want to walk away, but you can't.

Instead, you simply stand there and stare at him - your eyes burning in the familiar way they've been burning all day. "Draco," you say quietly, and he's (dead), "This - fuck - you weren't -" You're already breathing heavily and you clench the side of the coffin, feeling sick, "You weren't supposed to leave me like this. You weren't supposed to leave me ever, and -"




You can't do this any more.

There is a haze everywhere; filling your thoughts, tugging you towards the numbness. Numb sounds good; numb sounds safe. And you have a wife, you have children… but the haze is trickling throughout your body like a slow, thick fog, whispering soft things to you… And you never did want to continue on living without Draco, that was never the plan. The plan was for you both to grow old together, for you to leave your wives and move away and forget responsibilities…

(but now he's dead)

And so you let the haze consume you, falling down down into yourself as you stare at him and you know, if you had a mirror, that your expressions would be the exact same.




goes as follows:

- waking up slowly and wonderfully and not rushed
- Mother is going to try and get this photo deal on my senior pictures, fingers crossed
- going to lunch with my sunday school class
- then we go to Wal Mart
- Mother needs to develop some pictures or sommat
- i get my cartilage pierced (!!!!!)
- go to the library

yay. it's a fun day tomorrow. except i'm still coughing and i think i have walking bronchitis and no one will believe me about it. hmph. but other than that, life is pretty swell. i'm going to the beach on Friday and i'm not sure if Arianna can go or not, so ajdlkfajkl let's hope so. parental permission is a pain.

Jul. 30th, 2012


(no subject)

i am sick, sick, sick and it sucks, sucks, sucks. blegh, this is horrible. i got back from World Changer's (which was AHHHMAZING!) around twelve on Saturday and i had the worst sore throat ever, so my mom immediately pushed me into the car and drove me to the doctor's office, which we had to sit at for around two hours for a ten minute meeting. i got to find out what my new weight is (yay) since i haven't stepped on a scale in almost a year, so that was depressing, and then i found out i didn't have strept, which was also depressing. i mean - seriously, is there nothing worse than waiting a doctor's office for two hours and finding out they don't even know what you have?


so they gave me some random pills and i started reading the booklet that came with it and one of the serious side effects is deafness/hearing loss - like, what???? i'll suffer with this stupid cold, good gracious, if it means i'll still be able to hear at the end of this! i don't know if i'm just being paranoid but it honestly seems like i can't hear as well, so i'm gonna wait another day or so and see if it gets worse.

hopefully it doesn't.

i'm actually really fond of hearing, you know? go figure.

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