The Wicked King 👑

Wow.  These are beautiful!  I wish I had the time to try and replicate <3

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Hate hate hate how when I get angry there is a physical reaction but it's not glowing eyes or growing claws or something it's crying. This feels unfair.

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.

Extremely displeased to announce I just opened my writing doc to find the fic has not yet written itself. Will check back in tomorrow to see if it’s made any progress

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

People who switch pronouns in songs to no-homo the situation are so funny. The idea literally never even occurred to me as a kid. Couldn’t be me. I am a woman scorned. I am a man who had his heart broken. I am a guy who hates his hometown. I’m a country boy, I’m a city girl. I’m a slut. I’m addicted to cocaine. It’s a song, man.

Dream moping more than Death........😂

13/06/15

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

#dramione ficlet #draco x hermione #draco malfoy #hermione granger

As her charity event draws to a close, Hermione is tired, but pleased. 

The crowd is larger than she’d dared to hope for, and heavily engaged, friends and admirers cheering and whistling with each new announcement. The night has gone smoothly, no hitches or scandals. And with one bachelor left, the rest should be easy.

She smiles to herself from where she stands just off-stage as the inevitable crowd favorite is announced.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our final lot for tonight...Draco Malfoy!”

He walks onstage with faltering steps, handsome as ever but lacking his usual cock-sure attitude. The man is nervous.

She feels a flash of something. Is it…pity?

They’d come up with a strategy for tonight, and it’d gone almost exactly according to plan.

Almost.

Ginny had won Blaise easily, avoiding any need to share her boyfriend. 

Theo had (dramatically) over-bid on Harry, happy to publicly embarrass his husband for a good cause. Plus, he knew the large sum would be good publicity for his firm.

But then Pansy, meant to protect Draco from misguided witches with delusions of betrothal contracts, had gotten…distracted.

Viktor Krum offering to participate had been a boon for Hermione’s Charity Bachelor Auction. The addition of such a high-profile celebrity brought in significant interest and advanced press coverage, and Hermione had known Viktor would be a good sport about the whole thing. It had been an easy decision with no foreseeable downside.

Until a glassy-eyed Pansy Parkinson had used all the galleons she’d brought to bid on Malfoy to secure a date with the international Quidditch star, leaving the tall, sought-after blonde on stage looking vulnerable and unsure. 

Hermione offers him an encouraging smile. 

He grimaces in return.

It’ll be fine, though. Right?

It has to be.

Her event can’t be the thing that forces him back into marriage dates after years of successful avoidance. Narcissa would be over the moon, of course. But Hermione would feel terrible.

She breathes a sigh of relief when Padma, a mutual friend with a known preference for witches, bids. A platonic date would solve all of their problems.

Her relief is short-lived.

The crowd parts to reveal a determined-looking Astoria Greengrass raising a paddle in response.

Malfoy’s panicked eyes find Hermione’s.

Please, he mouths. Desperate.

Her heart aches for him.

He’s a good friend, has been since eighth year.

He’s also a great backup date for functions, far more attentive than any of her exes. He has impeccable manners, grabbing her drinks and anticipating her needs before she has a chance to ask for anything. And he’s particularly great at subverting awkward conversations.

He’s gone to dozens of stuffy affairs, and he’s never asked for anything in return. 

Until now.

Ron, who’d volunteered to MC when Lav refused to let him participate as a bachelor, calls for final bids.

Hermione sighs.

It’s not smart. Instead of the cause, this will be the story in tomorrow’s Prophet. 

But he’s begging her with those sad, puppy-dog eyes.

Resigned, she steps onto the stage and raises her paddle.

A hush falls over the auditorium, a sudden blanket of near-silence. 

Through the quiet, someone in the crowd actually gasps. Which is ridiculous; their friendship has been well-documented. Hermione suppresses the urge to roll her eyes.

Astoria keeps bidding, and so does Hermione. In minutes they’ve promised more than the event had previously earned twice over.

Hermione is going to murder Pansy.

When they hit a landmark sum, Astoria finally backs off, and Hermione is pronounced the winner to a tittering crowd.

She walks on stage, giving Malfoy a perfunctory embrace.

“You’re paying me back,” she whispers.

He returns it, gripping tightly, wrapping her in a warm embrace. A warm, friendly embrace. “Every knut,” he agrees, his voice a low growl. Not gratitude, but something else.

A shiver travels up her spine. Which is silly, of course. This is Draco Malfoy. Her friend.

“We don’t have to go on the date,” she says as they’re engulfed by the din of the applauding crowd. “I know the organizer, she’ll let it slide.” See? It’s funny. One big joke, nothing more.

“Granger.” It sounds like a warning, but he won’t let her pull back. “I’m taking you on the best date of your life.”

He kisses her then, swallowing her confusion, and it’s even better than she remembers.

Before they were friends, there’d been that one kiss that one night that neither of them had talked about after.

The one she thinks of sometimes after a bad day, or a bad date, or a particularly long dry spell.

Blood pounds in her ears as the crowd responds enthusiastically to the new development. Hermione looks around wildly–at Ron, in the announcer’s stand. Out at the crowd. Anywhere but Draco’s intense eyes, trained on her.

From the back of the room, Pansy gives her the kind of encouraging glare only she is capable of.

In fact, all of their friends are watching them, rather expectantly.

She finally meets his gaze, and finds him grinning. “I don’t understand.”

“Parks’s been hot for Krum for ages. She begged me to let her out of our deal,” he says, with a carefully practiced shrug. “Seemed like a good time to try something I’ve wanted for ages, too.”

“...And you just left it up to chance?” she asks, suspiciously.

“Of course not,” he scoffs, leading her from the spotlight as though she’d already agreed to the date. “Who do you think talked Astoria into bidding?”

A Malfoy always gets what he wants.