Some Fucking Resources For All Ur Writing Fuckin Needs

INFJ Slytherin Taurus Req by @caraphernology

imagine you're out for drinks with your mates spouting absolute bullshit about how you're gonna live forever and the palest rich boy you've ever seen comes up with a sick ass ruby around his neck and black robes and dramatic hair and is like oh you're going to live forever? in the most awkward tone imaginable and your mates are absolutely losing it but the kid isn't bad on the eyes and it's obviously the first time he's been outside of whatever castle he cracked out of so you tell them to shut up and play along and then bam it's been a hundred fucking years and you're still alive and this guy is back in the exact same fit and basically tells you you're immortal now purely to amuse him for one night in a century and you have to just roll with that for the next six hundred years because what else are you going to do

the “tumblr community invents a whole mafia movie apparently directed by martin scorsese with an official soundtrack, movie posters, screen caps, and all enough to make one question if that movie really did exist at all like a mandela effect” was not part of my 2022 bingo card

The Umbrella Academy: 1x09 | 3x06

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@ fic authors what do you personally consider a successful fic? What’s the bar?

Hermione is alone on the porch when he arrives.

Everyone is asleep inside, drowsy after Molly’s Sunday roast and countless bottles of celebratory champagne.

Her stomach twists into a thousand tiny knots.

“Congratulations.”

“Don’t,” she says sharply, another knot welling up in her throat.

Beneath the amber lantern, his eyes are bloodshot. The last time they saw one another, they were bright and melting, burning holes into her skin that she wished to fill with him.

He stuffs his hands into his pockets and stands there, looking at her.

She can’t stand the weight of his gaze, so she stares at her knee. At her hand on her knee. At the sparkling jewel nestled around the finger of her hand on her knee.

“I still read Muggle literature,” he says, sitting beside her.

They used to discuss Muggle books for hours, far past curfew, hiding in empty classrooms where nobody could find them.

She notices he’s holding a slip of parchment.

“Different material, though,” he resumes. “Poetry. You know how you would look at the oil landscape on the fourth-floor corridor and say a storm was brewing, but I envisioned it as the end of one?”

“It was literally titled ‘Brewing Tempest’.”

“Not,” he taps her knee with his, “the point.”

She smiles.

“Poetry is kind of like that. Imaginative. Inclusive. Even a stranger can read a few lines and feel at home.”

“Why haven’t you written to me?”

“I was giving you time to be with your friends. You missed them.”

“I miss you.”

The parchment rustles in his hands. It’s folded eight times over. He folds and unfolds it restlessly. “I’m not a writer.”

“I know that.”

“Neither are you,” he adds, insulted by how quickly she agreed.

She breathes a laugh. “I never claimed to be.”

“Do you know what a haiku is?”

“Did you write me one?” she asks, amused.

“No. But I found one that expresses how I’ve felt these last few weeks, watching you slip away. It’s by an American poet. Billy Collins. Maybe it’s too late to give it to you, but I knew I’d regret if I didn’t at least try—”

Hermione snatches it from his hands.

Draco rebukes her impatience, but he rambles when he’s nervous and she's brimming with curiosity.

“Where are you going?” she calls after him.

But he’s already halfway gone, shaking his head like he can’t stand to be there anymore.

Heart in her throat, Hermione reads:

He may compare you

to the dawn, but I

stayed up all night to watch it.

She reads it again.

Twice more.

And then she’s running.

“Draco!” she cries, afraid the pop of Apparation will go off before she can stop him. “Draco!”

It’s too dark and she hasn’t cast a Lumos spell and she can hardly see where she’s—

“Oof!” he gasps as she barrels into him.

It’s the sweetest sound she’s ever heard.

Hermione throws her arms around his neck.

“I made a mistake! I never should have said yes. You didn’t write, so I thought you didn’t want me. You never said anything at school. But I’ve felt this awful regret since the moment he put the ring on my finger and I know it’s because of you. I know—”

He cuts her off with a bruising kiss, pressing into her with such conviction, a thousand knots come undone. Hermione buoys.

The next day, Ron awakes, groggy and hungover.

Alone.

A letter sits on his bedside table. Hermione’s engagement ring sparkles on top.

(588 words, prompt: it's a poem, I read this haiku by Billy Collins and remembered this prompt and had to do something with it.)

"im an eldest daughter" alright but are you the daughter of an eldest daughter. lets talk about that

Jude and Cardan

ian mckellen directed these movies actually