Jude And Cardan

some fucking resources for all ur writing fuckin needs

* body language masterlist

* a translator that doesn’t eat ass like google translate does

* a reverse dictionary for when ur brain freezes

* 550 words to say instead of fuckin said

* 638 character traits for when ur brain freezes again

* some more body language help

(hope this helps some ppl)

KJ Apa photographed for Hallenstein Brothers.

The Wicked King 👑

I have three modes of reading

Dont read

Read a 500 page book in a day

Read only fanfiction until my eyeballs drop out of my skull from exhaustion

It's from 2010, Tom Hiddleston, if you only knew. (x)

Now we're stressed and depressed and we're going around again in the emotional blender 🌀

“Those are rotten for you.”

Draco jumped, startled by Granger’s presence. He hadn’t heard her coming. How alarming. He needed to be switched on at all times.

A beat too late, he replied, “What do you reckon will kill me first? This,” he lifted the cigarette, “or the war?”

“They turn your teeth yellow.”

His grin bore no kindness. “Who am I trying to impress?”

He’d joined The Order three weeks ago, shared this house with her for eight days, and this was the first time she’d approached him to chat. He was in no mood.

She shouldered past him into the house. “Goodnight, Malfoy.”

-

Granger reached for his cigarette, incensed. “Put that out! They’ll see it.”

He stretched his hand beyond her reach. “We’re bait. Our job is to be seen.”

“Not so obviously.” She Accio’d the cigarette and extinguished it in a huff. “It’s like you want us to get killed.”

Why was she here? She was too crucial for this role. Too valuable to have Draco, the team pariah, as her back up. If he screwed up, she could die.

She didn’t, of course, because when the crack of Apparation shattered the silence, they fought fiercely side by side.

-

A stone skittered down the cliff face and Draco glanced up to find Granger approaching. She swung her legs over the ledge, sitting beside him.

“Can I have some of that?” Her knuckles were dirt-stained. Tears shiny on her cheeks.

He passed her the cigarette.

She took a generous drag, handed it back to him, then put her head between her hands and began to sob.

He didn’t know how to comfort her.

What was another casualty during war? But Granger internalized every death as if she’d committed it herself.

He offered her another drag.

She wound her arms around him instead, as if the offering had been an invitation to seek comfort from him, and buried her face in his chest.

He stiffened. Flicked the cigarette over the edge of the cliff. Then, gradually, placed his arm around her.

The sun slipped behind the endless woods and still they sat there.

-

Draco stubbed his cigarette beneath his shoe and lit another, pacing back and forth.

“I should be at the Forest of Dean tonight,” he said the moment Kingsley entered the room.

“You’re needed here,” replied Kingsley without give.

“Granger and I have been partners for weeks—”

“We’ve told you not to get comfortable—”

“That’s utter bollocks!”

“She’ll be fine,” interrupted Ginny. “She’s with Ron.”

Draco blew smoke in her face.

“Prick,” she spat, storming away.

-

“It’s not that deep,” insisted Granger. But her voice told him otherwise.

He sent her up to his room. Furiously nicking Blood-Replenishing potion and bandages from the emergency supply.

He cleaned the wound on her arm and wrapped it meticulously. Fuming when she flinched. He would strangle Kingsley with his bare hands. This was why they couldn’t be apart.

As Granger slept, Draco smoked through a pack, never taking his eyes off her. What if the spell had slashed an artery? What if it had been a different curse?

There was no freedom in war, but nobody would stand between him and this witch ever again.

-

He was sharing a dart with Susan Bones when Granger entered the yard.

Unaware they had company, Bones boldly suggested, “I’m down to fuck, if you are.”

Draco watched Granger’s eyes flick between them. Her mouth flattened, and she left wordlessly.

“I’ve got someone,” he said, watching her shadow retreat. He didn’t yet, but hopefully soon.

-

Granger said, “Will you brush your teeth?” as Draco discarded his cigarette.

He considered saying no, but decided it was in his best interest to listen.

In his very best interest, in fact, when she crawled onto his lap upon his return. Large brown eyes blinking up at him. “Do you want to kiss me?” she asked.

He dipped forward to show her exactly what he’d wanted for weeks, but she pressed her fingers over his lips. “Are you sleeping with her?”

He knew who she meant, but still asked, “Who?”

“Susan.”

“Never. Nobody.” He kissed her fingers.

She replaced them with her mouth.

-

“Where are you going?” he growled, as Granger rolled out of bed. It was still dark.

“I’m being summoned.” She searched blindly for her bra, her knickers.

He checked his wand, finding it unnervingly cold. They were separating them again.

He grabbed her wrist, and she stumbled into his arms. “Draco!”

He kissed her deeply, breathlessly. “Run away with me.”

“But—"

“We’ll still fight,” he added, lighting a smoke. “On our own terms. They’re corrupt, Hermione. We’ll wind up dead with them.”

She hesitated. They had discussed this many times. Going rogue. There was more to be done without pseudo-authorities policing their moves. Plus, they couldn’t be apart anymore without losing their minds.

“On one condition,” she declared, snatching the cigarette from his fingers and flicking it away. “You’ll quit smoking.”

He watched it burn out. Then considered the witch in his bed. Perhaps she didn’t know it yet, but he would do anything for her.

Draco and Hermione were gone before sunrise.

(861 words, photo and prompt on twitter)

Love this. So true ❤️️

Writing is not always writing.

Writing is being on the train and mentally seeing your OCs stumble into other people, or flinching away from the germ-ridden handrails, or sleeping on each others’ shoulders.

Writing is hearing a song on the radio and watching one of your scenes play out to the lyrics.

Writing is laying on your floor or sitting by your computer and spending hours collaging newspaper clippings or pictures or people or plants together and making something that is completely, uniquely, your story.

Writing is drawing your characters in your notebooks, and making tea only your one, picky character would drink, and writing an open letter to all your characters just to remind them you love them.

Writing is moodboards, and playlists, and crafts, and asks, and prompts, and pictures, and memories, and you.

So never think that just because you’re not putting words on a page, you’re not a real writer. Writing is something that follows you everywhere, beyond the word document, and beyond the screen.

Because writing isn’t something you do. It’s something you are.