đđđđđđđđđđ good shit goŕąŚÔ sHitđ thats â some goodđđshit rightđđtheređđđ rightâthere ââif i do Ć˝aŇŻ so my self đŻ i say so đŻ thats what im talking about right there right there (chorus: ʳᜌáľĘ°áľ áľĘ°áľĘłáľ) mMMMMáˇĐđŻ đđ đĐO0ĐଠOOOOOĐଠଠOoooáľáľáľáľáľáľáľáľáľđ đđ đ đŻ đ đ đ đ đđGood shit
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Zayn attends the Universal Pictures and Legendary Picturesâ premiere of âStraight Outta Comptonâ at Microsoft Theater on August 10, 2015 in Los Angeles, California.
PREGNANCIES ARE NOT A GAME. IF REPORTS COME OUT OF HER HAVING A MISCARRIAGE I SWEAR TO WHATEVER GOD YOU BELIEVE IN I WILL DESTROY EVERYTHING YOU LOVE IF I SEE ONE POST HAPPY SHE LOST THE BABY  OR MAKING JOKES ABOUT HER LOSING THE BABY EVEN IF IT ISNâT TRUE. FUCKING TEST ME I DARE YOU. THIS IS NOT FUNNY. PREGNANCIES ARE SERIOUS. I understand the jokes going around now because they are assuming this is just a possible publicity stunt/distraction. But if this ends in a miscarriage, REAL OR NOT, we need to shut the FUCK up and let them have time. We do not know their personal lives. This could be true. This could be more serious than we are thinking now. We just have to wait.
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You're back!!! Where have you been and what have you been up to? How has life been treating you? I've missed you!!!! xxxxx
Hiya dollie!Â
Life has been CRAZY. My job took over my life (but I love it), I fell in love, broke my foot, got my car totalled, got kicked out of my house and moved. I mean super crazy. hahaha!
Other than that, itâs been super great. Iâve just been busy and lately Iâve been missing this fandom and writing so I came back!
Phaedra stood in the middle of her new forge, looking around in sheer disbelief. Her stomach turned and she realized it had been a full day since she last ate. She gently ran her hand over her stomach before sighing deeply. There was a good chance that she wouldnât be eating again today, not at least until she saw the Duke again.
She looked at the sword set haphazardly on the ground, leaning against one of the working anvils. She remembered the time she spent working on that sword. It seemed so little and frail now compared to what she could make years later.
Phaedra began to shovel coal into a pit and prepared the fire. The heat was immense in the small room and her proper dress was not going to be a good working uniform, but all her clothes were back home. She took a pair of scissors from the wall and began to cut carefully at pieces of the dress. First to go were the sleeves, allowing her toned, yet scarred arms to have a full range of motion. Next, she cut around the neckline of her dress, aerating her chest. Finally, she cut the dress short enough to not trip her up as she shuffled back and forth from the fire to the working area. By the end, most of her dress was a pile of scraps on the floor. Though it wasnât her usually work wear, it would do for the work she was about to dive into.
Once Phaedra tied on her long apron and slipped on her protective gloves she went to work. Holding up the slight sword, she was able to inspect the item with deft precision. She saw the imperfections and blemishes in the blade. She did this while one foot pedaled the bellows, allowing air to filter through the hot coals. Though she was miles from home, the forge felt right, and the warmth from the fire was comforting.
The fire and Phaedra had a long courtship. She had to learn how to respect the fire and its power. The light scarring on her arms and hands were all lessons learned. Each mark telling a story of the time she spent training to be a master bladesmith. When she finally felt the fire was ready and she plunged the blade of the sword into the fire. As it sat, she began to untie the old and tattered silk that laced around its handle. She ran it through her fingers before expertly using the silk to tie her hair back into a simple ponytail.
Phaedra hummed softly to herself as she began to hammer and smooth out the aged metal. The dried blood that once ran through her veins melted off in the heat of the fire, disappearing into the blade itself. The color turned from a darkened gray to a bright red and white, the colors fading with each strike of her hammer.
The metal was under her control, smoothing and elongating at her touch. She knew exactly where the breaking point was and made sure to ride the metal until it was at its point. Then sheâd let it rest and start the process over again. Once the blade was to her liking, she dipped the length into thick oil. She watched with excitement as the heat of the blade and the conductive nature of the oil created a fire that licked up the measure of the sword. Once the flames began she pulled out the burning weapon and dipped it into water. Steam rose like a ghost and the water hissed and bubbled as it cooled the metal inside the barrel.
She then laid the finished piece onto a table where she began to inspect the handle. She took a few measurements and went to find some wood she could lay onto it to create a more comfortable grip. She took the same time in sanding the wood, making sure it would be a sizeable companion to the long but narrow blade. She once again used fire to burn into the wood and slowly worked the wood onto the handle, creating a lasting bond.
Though the wood was smooth and natural, Phaedra decided to go around the edges of the wood with a hot piece of metal, burning a simple filigree design. Her father always taught her that it was small touches like this that showed the mark of a true smith: each small detail reflecting the character of its maker.
When it was finally done, Phaedra pulled off her protective gear and held up the sword in one hand. It was light and easy to work with, gliding effortlessly through the air as she swung it. Phaedra brought the small blade out of the forge, looking up at the sky as the sun began to sink into the horizon beyond the brick of the castle walls. She carried the sword at her side, letting it drag along the dirt as she walked around to where her wood was stored.
Phaedra let it rest on the pile of wood and she stacked up a couple of logs to create a makeshift target. She tested it for balance by shaking it with her hand before reaching for the newly smithed sword. She held it in both hands, standing tall in front of her target. She watched as the sinking sun bounced light off of the blade and reflected against her skin. With a quick movement, the light shifted and the sword hit the wood chipping off a sizable chunk.
Phaedra kept hitting the target, blow after blow without hesitance. It was an elegant dance of her body and sword becoming one. She used this time to transport herself out of the castle and back home in her village. She didnât think about the person she had killed that morning, the poor girl who was trapped in her own broken heart. Phaedra didnât have time for pain, there was too much of it in the world, and she didnât want any part of it. With each chop the world faded away, there was only her heartbeat, her controlled breath, and the few beads of sweat that rolled down her neck.
Louis had spent the day passing judgment on his people, leaving most of them dead. That was the problem if you had a birthday that fell later in the week positions were quickly filled. If you werenât needed then you were disposed of, that simple. Louis worked with his council for the rest of the afternoon, not stopping until he heard the rapid chopping of metal against wood. He stood from his desk and looked out the window, seeing Phaedra with a dramatically shorter outfit and her hair tied from her face hacking away at a stack of wood.
âAre you seriously thinking of keeping the human?â A tall, well dressed demon from his council asked, watching as his Duke rose and stared out the window.
âI am.â Louis replied without hesitation.
âBut sir, why? She is a simple girl with an outdated skill. We can get all the weapons we need from Hell.â
âHarry,â Louis began as he tore his eyes from the girl, âDo not question me.â
The curly headed brunette signed while pinching the bridge of his nose. âIâm sorry, your highness.â
Louis turned his head back to Phaedra, watching as she danced around her target so skillfully.
âYou all are dismissed.â Louis commanded to his council. âMy new weapon looks ready.â
Louis quickly left the room and his men behind and began his journey alone through the castle and down to the forge where Phaedra stood next to a rather ragged looking piece of wood.
âYou know that wood was meant to be for fires, not targets.â Louis commented as he entered Phaedraâs small fighting space.
Phaedra stopped and bowed slightly to her Duke when she heard his words. She smiled faintly as she straightened, using the back of her arm to wipe the sweat from her forehead.
âIt was all I had to use for today, sir. Perhaps you would be willing to provide actual targets for my use?â Phaedra asked as she let the tip of the sword stand between her legs, her palms resting against the hilt.
âWe can arrange for targets, Miss Williams.â Louis replied as he eyed the blade. âIs my gift up to par now?â He asked curiously.
Phaedra nodded and held out her sword with the blade resting on her palms. She realized at the moment that he was alone and without the normal protection of his guards.
Louis grabbed the sword and admired the smooth edges and decorative handle. It was amazing what the girl could do with such little time.
âYouâve done well.â He mused as he swung the sword in front of him. âMuch better than what you made me originally.â
âI know.â Phaedra replied confidently. âIâm surprised youâd let me have a sharp object around you since I tried to kill you yesterday.â
Louis laughed loudly as he swung the sword in front of his body.
âDo you think that little dagger couldâve killed me? It would take much more than that to pierce my skin hidden beneath this body.â Louis replied as he looked at the girl, a smirk coming to his face.
Phaedra felt the tension in her stomach release when she saw the Duke smile at her. She knew that he was pleased and his taunting was a good sign. She knew that her work was good, but you were never safe from a demonâs temper. The only problem with her stomach was the ungodly noise that erupted after. Phaedraâs hands quickly pressed to the stomach in hopes of quieting the sound.
Louis eyes widened in response and he let out a laugh. âPhaedra, are you hungry?â
Phaedraâs face turned red and she straightened once again.
âI am. I havenât eaten since breakfast yesterday.â She responded sharply, âYou were awfully quick to lock me up and put me to work I hardly thought youâd notice Iâm a human.â She grumbled.
âAh, hangry.â He replied. âIâll send food down to you tonight. Forgive me.â
Phaedra and Louis locked eyes as the sun began to make its final decent into the horizon and it was then that Louis saw what he remembered years ago: a fire inside her eyes. Though her eyes were a deep brown, he could see the spark of life in her. It was something that he only saw in his fellow demons, and yet it here in this humanâs eyes.
Phaedra wasnât immune to the gaze they shared. She saw the fire inside of him and remembered the time she first locked eyes with him some years ago. It was a bit different now, she could hold her own and recognize how powerful this pull was. She quickly pushed the feeling down and broke her gaze with the male.
âThank you. I donât want to keep you. You should return to your duties.â Phaedra smiled faintly and tucked her hands behind her back. Louis noticed how shredded and dirty her dress was when she did this and he sighed.
âIâm not doing a very good job of keeping you, am I?â Louis asked in a chuckle, slightly nervous.
âTo be clear, you are not keeping me.â Phaedra blurted. âIâm a person, not a pet.â
âRightâŚâ Louis murmured, his smile returning. âThough, you are mine. I did save you from a horrible death.â
Phaedra saw his smile and she couldnât help it, she rolled her eyes and waved him off.
âI think you should get back to your duties, sir.â She browed slightly and held her face together to hide the smile peeking from the corners of her lips.
âYes, wellâŚâ Louis started, âThank you again for the sword. Itâs much better than the original. Itâll look stunning in my study.â
There was a pause and the sun finally sank, leaving the two in an eerie twilight.
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I got an email from a reader earlier. Â The sender was a lovely young woman who had just re-read my first published fic and wanted to tell me how much she enjoyed itâhow it made her feel, how it made her smile, how it made her cry, how it made her excited to get home each night and curl up in bed with it, how it helped ease the pain of a difficult patch in her life, and how much she misses it now that itâs over. Â It was a beautiful letter, and my reaction to it must have been visible enough to make my saner half take notice from across the room. Â He shot me a questioning look, and I turned the laptop around and gestured to the screen.
I followed his eyes as they scanned each line, saw his lips tip up in a smile that grew broader as he read, then braced myself for the good natured snark Iâve come to expect when my little literary hobby comes up in conversation.
âWow.â He said. âThat was kind of amazing. Â How does it feel to be someoneâs favorite author?â
âDonât be a dick,â I said, slapping him on the shoulder.
âIâm serious,â he replied, gesturing to the screen. Â "Thatâs what she saidâright there: Youâre my favorite author.â
âI think she means favorite fic author. Â Not real author.â
âIs there a difference?â He asked.
âYes,â I said, rolling my eyes. Â âOf course there is.â
âWhy?â
âBecause, as someone in this room who isnât ME is fond of pointing out, self published gay mystery romance novels arenât exactly eligible for the pulitzer.â I said, turning the computer back around.
âSo what?â he shrugged, âSomething you wrote inspired a stranger to sit down write what it meant to them and send it to you. Â A lot of total strangers, as a matter of fact. Â You write, people read it and react. Â That makes you an author.â
âHuh.â I said, very eloquently, then got up and went into the kitchen to start dinner.
Hours later, sitting down to reply to the letter in question I find myself writing this post instead. Â Because hereâs the thing: That wonderfully crazy man who lives in my house is right. Â (But please donât tell him I said that)
From the moment I realized that letters made up words and words made up sentences and sentences made up worlds that were mine to explore any time I wanted to Iâve been a reader.  I have fallen in love with perfect phrases and epic stories and countless characters pressed between the pages of the thousands of books Iâve read in my life so farâand sitting down to string together those same 26 letters into tens of thousands of words of stories I felt needed telling?  That makes me an author.
I have adored the work of countless authors in numerous genres, and the world of fan fic is no exception. Â I have admired and cherished and savored the words of talented writers whose work is no less legitimate for the fact that their names include random keyboard characters and their words donât live on bound paper on a shelf. Â
Itâs not JUST fan fic. Â Itâs literature. Â Itâs published. Â Itâs read. Â Itâs loved.
It matters.
Thanks to all of my favorite authors for every word on every page on every screen that Iâve ever loved.Â
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how do i make sure one direction know there are fans out there who admire them for working so hard, donât put their personal lives before their music, respect their privacy, donât judge their personal choices, donât chase them around in cars, donât harass them and their families, understand when they donât wanna stop and take pics and love them immensely without expecting anything more than their amazing songs???