Orders from my shop help me pay rent. Orders from my shop help me buy groceries. Orders from my shop help me pay for gas. Orders from my shop help me pay for a gift for my fiance that I might not otherwise be able to afford. Orders from my shop help me pay for my future wedding. Orders from my shop help me pay for therapy. Orders from my shop helped me leave a toxic household.
Shop small, especially if you can afford it. I know sometimes corporations have cheaper options.. but that extra $5 is far more useful to a small business owner. If you can afford it, shop small any time you can.
i love how the line on the girl’s ass stops where it’s covered by her bag, like hello brainpoison regressing you past baby-level object permanence
Obviously horrible but also love the idea of someone going around being like: “every day I see men with luscious ass-cheeks, just, serious cake. And their eyes….so soft…soulful. Pretty. Anyway this is the libs fault for the men and their….their pretty eyes…”
Being a weird little girl as a kid provides two options to you: becoming transgender or becoming a weird adult woman. Both of which are things the world needs more of
Boston trans girls searching for a name should know that you get free lifetime admission to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum if your name is Isabella
You know, when somebody has a magnificent head of hair – that, honestly, when I was nineteen I would have loved to have had - and they shave it all off… I feel that somehow they’re kind of infringing on my territory. [x]
sometimes you hear a song you haven’t heard in years and find that you still know every word to it just as well as you did when you were 13 and suddenly you feel the connection between the person you were and the person you are
and sometimes that song is “draco and harry” by the whomping willows
Maybe at a restaurant Granger would have avoided a scene, but because they were staying in, yet again, and because Draco insisted on it, she takes full liberties in unleashing hell upon him.
At one point plastic cutlery and teriyaki-stained wooden chopsticks are airborne. Later, when Draco undresses, he finds a rice noodle in the buttonhole of his blazer. And for the grand finale, shards of his great-aunt’s vase become a mosaic on his foyer floor, once valued at some fifteen thousand galleons. Now, worthless.
She’ll be back, he thinks, quite confidently. He experienced a similar rockiness when he dated Pansy. They broke up and got back together at least every other fortnight.
A day goes by.
Three, five, ten—and nothing.
Fine, Draco relents, he’ll write to her.
It’s a fine letter. Bottomless black squid ink, proof-read four times, eloquently expressing that he misses her, that he’s sorry they haven’t been together in public places and, if she’s willing to hear him out, he’ll take her out for a proper meal. She can even tip-off the Daily Prophet if it pleases her.
She doesn’t reply.
Draco grows irritable. He begins to resent her a little.
Once, before the war destroyed his reputation, any girl would have been thrilled Draco Malfoy was giving her the time of day. He was good-looking. He was wealthy. His family was connected to top politicians and moguls in the Wizarding World. He was Slytherin’s Seeker. She would have been lucky to date him.
So what, they haven’t been out in public after a couple months of dating? That gives her no right to give him the cold shoulder and act like they never knew one another.
To hell with her.
Days pass, and Draco is gutted. Wrecked.
Her absence hurts and hurts and hurts.
He catches himself staring out into space at odd moments. Over a bowl of soggy cereal, trying to remember what her hair smelled like. Peach? Pear? Wiping the same spot on the window for five minutes, knowing it’s Sunday, and somewhere on the other side of town, she must be cleaning her flat too.
He caves and writes to her once more.
This time, with more apologetic and less arrogant undertones.
Radio silence.
He knows she’s receiving them because he prodded gossip out of Blaise who lives with Pansy who bumped into Potter at a party, and Potter drunkenly blurted out that ‘your douchy friend Malfoy’s still trying to win Hermione back. She needs to forget that wanker, if you ask me.’
Well nobody asked you, Potter, thank you very much.
And so Draco spirals a little.
He sends fifty-three bouquets to her office. One for each day they were together. When he hears nothing, he follows it up with fifty-three cauldron cakes. When that proves no bueno, he hires a mariachi band to follow her around the Ministry, singing cheery love ballads. He’s given them express instructions to perform until she visits him.
That should prove he’s more than okay with everyone knowing they’re together. He doesn’t care. All he needs is Granger back. Because-because—
“I miss you,” he says when she Apparates into his office precisely thirty-seven minutes after he unleashed the mariachi band upon her, holding out longer than he expected.
She’s red in the face, shoulders bunched up to her ears, eyes blazing, pointing a finger at his chest. “You are the most infuriating, conceited, over-the-top…”
“I miss you,” he repeats, speaking over her as he rounds the desk to meet her on the opposite side.
“…PRAT I have ever had the misfortune…”
“I miss you so much.” He has her shoulders, forcing them down a little, pressing his thumbs right where he knows she needs it most, watching delightfully as they liquify even as she’s going on.
“…encountering and when I’m done with someone, Draco, I am DONE…”
“I need you back, Hermione.” He draws his palms down her arms, grabbing her hands and pinning them to his chest when she tries to swat him away.
“…and I refuse to date anybody who’s even slightly ashamed of where I come from…”
“I love everything about you.”
And that about does it.
Granger stands there, mouth agape, no more screaming. She drops her gaze to her hands, splayed open on his chest, realising, perhaps, how close they are. Feeling, maybe, how her presence alone turns Draco on. Seeing, hopefully, the authenticity in his gaze.
“You… you…”
“I love you,” he says, prepared. “I’m sorry you had to leave before I realised it.”
“Harry says I need to forget you.” She’s staring at his lips now, making no effort to step away.
“Potter’s a wanker.”
She frowns, but doesn’t seem angry. Her eyes grow distant, lost in thought.
He waits.
When her focus resurfaces, she’s watching his lips again, heat creeping into her irises. “Kiss me on two conditions.”
“One?” he asks, heart racing.
“We tell everybody.”
Her breath is warm on his skin. Deliciously close. “And two?”
