idk if u remember this

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“His fingers touched the strings, and all my thoughts were displaced. The sound was pure and sweet as water, bright as lemons. It was like no music I had ever heard before. It had warmth as a fire does, a texture and weight like polished ivory. It buoyed and soothed at once.”

- Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles, page 34

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4/17: Happy birthday to the awesome Madeleine (@suzuyahz)!

we need to be looking out for girls more than we need to be defending pop punk

primruesabcd  asked:

Prompt! Tomione with: are you?? sabotaging?? my dates?!?!?

Hermione had never been one to date frequently. She didn’t like the process–pick a potential partner, engage in small talk for minutes and hours and days and weeks, small talk mixed with desperate attempts to impress–it was stressful and messy and she just never liked it. She contented herself to a quiet life to herself, with her angry, vicious, but overall loveable cat as the receiver of her affection. 

Then of course, Tom Riddle happened. 

And then it ended.

(Horribly)

And somehow when it ended, when he was gone, the time she used to spend comfortably on her own was tainted somehow, thick with a horrible sort of loneliness that made every other relationship she had–friends and colleagues and cats–seem unimportant and useless. She had grown accustomed to spending time with him, even time alone or time unwinding had been with him, reading or cooking or sleeping or working with him, always with him, so that everything she did she was fundamentally lacking because he wasn’t there. She would reach up to the top shelf of her cabinet and he wouldn’t be there to swipe something down for her, condescending not-quite-a-smile on his lips. She would open up Nietzche’s Beyond Good and Evil and he wouldn’t be there at her back or at her side to tear into every word in the novel to try and incite her to a debate. She couldn’t so much as wake up in the morning or brush her teeth or take a shower or go to the grocery store without feeling the absence of him like some stupid lovesick–

So, she dated.

And it was shit.

And he was always there when it all went wrong.

Her first date she met on a dating app, because Harry and Ron had signed her up for three (and it was her opinion that they had much too much fun making those dating profiles for her) and though she had been staunchly against the idea of meeting someone on a dating app, she found that the person she met didn’t seem quite as horrible as she would have expected. His name was Oliver, and he was a bit older than her, and very obsessed with football, but he was also rather lovely. He was polite and fairly well-read, he indulged her in her brief literary rants when she started on them. He was nice.

Neither of them ordered shellfish–he told her at the beginning of the date he was rather fiercely allergic–but that apparently didn’t stop shellfish from making its way onto their plates without their knowing. And that imbecile didn’t carry an epi-pen on him, so Hermione had to rush him to the hospital while his face swelled and he could hardly breathe and she saw him there, at the bar, just sitting there and watching as she dragged her dying date out the door.

Oliver was fine, in the end, but they never went on another date.

Her second date she met at a bus stop which, to be fair, was a rather stupid place to meet a date. He approached her, offered a borderline insulting compliment about her hair, and asked her out for a drink. And Hermione was hungover from a night of drinking alone in her flat where she had drunkenly purchased an extremely expensive, brand new play tower for her cat which he would never use, so she said yes. 

His name was Cormac, and he definitely wasn’t the worst man she had ever met, but he was definitely near the bottom. He was narcissistic, and condescending, but then so was Tom, and she had loved him anyway. So she ignored the little things that annoyed her and tried for once in her life to just have fun and stop wallowing in her self-pity. Besides, she couldn’t expect a perfect date with a bloke she met only a few hours ago at a bus stop.

Then his girlfriend showed up, screaming, drunk, and Hermione didn’t stick around long enough to find out if it was a current girlfriend or ex-girlfriend before the girl tried to start a physical fight with Hermione, at which point Hermione just up and left. She was probably lovely when she wasn’t drunk, Hermione figured, whoever she was. It wasn’t as if Hermione was a perfect human being when she was drunk–she had bought a £250 play tower for her cat about 24 hours ago, after all.

And who should be there when she leaves the pub but him, across the street, waiting at the bus stop, smoking a cigarette. She remembered pausing on the pavement to meet his gaze from across the street, and she wanted to badly to cross traffic and punch him in the sodding face, but when the bus paused in front of him and blocked him from her view, she hurried down the street away from him and got drunk enough to buy cat-wine so she would stop drinking alone.

Her third date she met at a club. Ginny Weasley dragged her to some club in London when Hermione confided in her how many horrendous drunken purchases she had made in the past week with the promise of stopping her if she tried to buy anything else for her bloody cat. And she met a man who called himself Gilderoy. He was older and very handsome, very drunk, and very loud. He kept telling her increasingly ridiculous stories and insisting they were true, and he kissed her like he was licking frosting off of a cake. 

But then there was a fire, apparently, and the entire club was evacuated, and in the freezing cold without the haze of the alcohol and the music his presence was marginally more difficult to endure, and she was cold and tired and angry and drunk and when his freezing fingers slid up under her shirt without even asking she just acted on instinct and elbowed him in the gut. And he, like an overdramatic lunatic, fell to the ground as if she had just stabbed him, and she swore she saw him in the crowd when she pushed through to get away from the blonde bastard writhing on the pavement, she swore she saw him–

So she just left and called an uber and went home and paid some artist on the internet to paint a picture of her cat to hang on the wall because he would probably be dead in a few years and she wanted to remember him, then she drunkenly cried about her dead cat who wasn’t yet dead for a few hours and texted Ginny in the morning to tell her she failed on her promise to be her impulse control.

Her fourth date was a friend of Harry’s boyfriend, his name was Blaise and apparently he was a ‘good match for her’ but Hermione was fairly certain when Harry said that he really just meant ‘you’re both single so just go for it what’s the worst that could happen’ and she agreed because it didn’t matter that it had been months since her break up, she still felt his absence like a hole in her chest, and she figured pointless dates that she didn’t want in the first place were better than sitting in her flat on her own.

But he didn’t show up.

Instead, Tom did. Just sat down in the seat in front of her in the much-too-expensive restaurant as if he belonged there.

“You can’t sit there,” She told him, “I have–”

“He’s not coming.” He answered simply, reaching across the table to pick up her wine glass and take a sip without asking, setting it down and picking up the menu to peer over it without elaborating.

“Why not?” She seethed. 

“Because he’s in the hospital,” He explained slowly, enunciating the words slowly and distractedly, and she was so angry at him she felt like she could reach across the table and throttle him until his face went blue and not feel a shred of guilt. 

The realization felt like a slap in the face.

“Are you–” She choked, her mouth twisting with disbelief, “Sabotaging my dates?”

He slammed the menu back on the table, the false-calm countenance fading away so quickly it was as if it had never been there to begin with the tension of his shoulders coupled with the heat of his eyes both unexpected and familiar, and it was only when she felt the headiness of his gaze that she realized he had not looked at her until that moment. “You shouldn’t be dating.” He said evenly.

“I believe I’m the one with the power to make that decision,” She reminded him viciously, “Not you. We broke up.”

“I never consented to breaking up.” He muttered, leaning back in his seat that was characteristic of him when attempting to appear nonplussed. 

“Never consented–?” She narrowed her eyes, her hands curling into fists in her lap, “You facilitated the break up!” 

“I did no such thing.” He even had the nerve roll his eyes as if she was the one being ridiculous, as if she was the one acting like a child.

“You are always like this,” She seethed, turning her gaze skyward with a bitter laugh, “Controlling and possessive like a petulant child–” His eyes snapped back to meet hers, the corner of his jaw twitching as if he was grinding his teeth, “–Just tell me where Blaise is.” 

“I already told you.” He intoned.

“Which hospital?” She pressed, but she could tell even before she asked it that he had no intention of telling her. She huffed, picked her purse up and made to leave, “Fine, I’ll find him myself–” But before she could manage, he had lurched forward to grab her arm to halt her from leaving.

“There’s no point,” He told her, “It’s not as if he’s in critical condition, he only broke his leg.”

“You mean you broke his leg.” She corrected.

“That is a bold accusation.” He drawled, and she hated how much she had missed that tone, teasing and sarcastic, the tone he used whenever she was right and he wouldn’t admit it. She couldn’t respond right away, just glare furiously at him, until she finally managed to make herself move, to wrench her arm away from his hand and throw enough money on the table to pay for the wine so she could leave.

She made it about ten paces away from the restaurant before he caught up to her again, his long fingers wrapping around her arm. She jerked away immediately, but he held fast this time. “Let go of me!” He maneuvered her to the side, pressing her against the wall to stop her from pulling away. 

“It’s not as if you even want any of these men,” He said quite severely, “I don’t understand why you are so upset–”

“You never understand why I’m upset,” She fired back, “Because you’re an emotionally-stunted–”

“Everything I do makes you upset,” He argued.

“Well then maybe you should stop being such a rotten bastard!” She snapped, “You were the one who caused this. I asked you–I asked you if you saw a future with me and you said no. What the hell am I supposed to do? Just wait around for you to get bored of me like you do everyone else?”

“You’re not everyone else.” 

“I don’t know what that fucking means Tom!” She snapped, “Why can’t you just for once say what you feel instead of counting on me to read between the lines?”

His palms cupped her jaw suddenly, his fingers threading through the hair at the back of her head in a way that was almost painful as he held her still. But he didn’t say anything, he just stared at her in a moment of silence, his lips parted as if ready to speak but instead, he kissed her.

She really shouldn’t have indulged him. She should have pushed him away and maybe punched him for good measure, but she had spent months dreaming about his lips and his tongue and his hands and his everything. Maybe it was a little pathetic that she caved so easily, but all it took was the scrape of his teeth on her bottom lip for her to sigh against his lips, her hands gripping at his back like a lifeline.

His face felt rougher, which was an odd sensation in and of itself. He always kept himself meticulously put together, closely shaved and finely styled. But as he licked into her mouth she could feel the coarseness of his chin against hers. His fingers dug into the back of her head, the length of his body pressed against hers. There was something shockingly tender about the way his thumbs fanned across her cheeks, the way he relaxed his fingers to allow his hands to rest against her throat as his mouth eased away from hers.

She thought she recognized the look in his eyes when he pulled away enough for her to see. She thought she understood when she reached out and felt the coarseness of his cheek against her palm. 

“You told me no.” She reminded him.

“I didn’t mean it.” He said.

“Then why did you say it?” She asked a bit desperately, trying to reconcile the strangely tender way he handled her now with the disregard he had shown her before. His jaw clenched, she saw the twitch in the corner of his jaw and felt it under her palm. She thought that he wouldn’t answer, resigned herself to his silence and weighed her options in her head, whether it was worth it to risk his inevitable disinterest just to have a few more moments with him.

“Nothing good lasts.” He told her finally. Startled, her hand fell from his face ot lay limp on his shoulder. It was the most personal admission she was sure she had ever heard from him.

“You think we’re good?” She asked carefully. His lips twitched downward into what as almost a frown.

“No,” He said, his thumb brushing across the skin under her eye. “I think you’re good.”

“You told me you don’t believe in ‘good.’“ She said quietly. He didn’t answer except for another clench of his jaw.

She took a deep breath. It was filled with the sent of him, a heady reminder of his presence, as if she needed one with him pressed against her. She didn’t think about the fights they had, the inevitable blow up that was their break up, the controlling possessive way he regarded her when it suited him and the tenderness he offered almost as a tool to draw her back in when his control wavered. Instead she thought of how miserable she was without him. She thought of the way he sometimes looked at her like she amazed him, she thought of how easy it was to share her time and space with him. She thought of how desperately she wanted to let go of all the horrible, sad things just to be with him again.

So she let it go. She curled her hand around the back of his neck and kissed him again.

When she pulled away she said, “You’re paying for Blaise’s medical bills.” And in spite of his irritated frown she continued, “And you’re taking me to whatever hospital he’s at so I can be sure he’s alright.”

Begrudgingly, he did as she said. 

Afterward, they went home, and for the first time in months she didn’t feel like a stranger in her own flat.

(He did raise a judgemental eyebrow at the sudden influx in cat toys and may have scoffed at the sight of Crookshanks looking down upon them from the top of his cat tree, but he said nothing.)

so i was reading this magnificent fic named “quid pro quo” by anon8043 (pls read if you haven’t yet, it’s amazing trust me) and there’s this scene towards the end… i couldn’t get it out of my head okay.

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“Anytime the Foxes mentioned Andrew’s upcoming sobriety or Andrew’s name popped up in write-ups on the team’s performance at games, the focus was on what a danger he was. People talked about his trial and how it saved them from Andrew. No one said what they were doing to save Andrew from himself.”

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dont adopt him he’s gonna destroy your clothes… boi are you even listening

speakng of drawings i think @bananahut did this one 4ever ago and i’ve had it saved on my desktop ever since because i love it

i love u all so much i can’t believe ur this interested in my characters that you’d DRAW THEM WTF!!! i’m gonna cry

p.s. i made a fan art tag finally (i thinkkkkk i managed to gather up all the drawings i’ve reblogged, but if i missed any i’ll add them in later)

more poses more lineart more testing…♡ // twitter