A Crimson Leather

forever is the sweetest con…

girl help they’re playing music that was popular when i was in high school and making me feel nostalgic for an era of my life i have zero desire to return to

Keep reading

accidentally stumbled upon these pictures on google and simply can't stop thinking about them? the potential luvs....

Love all my sensitive girls who make the most mundane things seem vastly more intimate and romantic

Cho used to dream about her wedding day.

It would be late spring—the risk of a little light rain would be well worth the sweet, subtle scent of freshly blooming flowers—and the ceremony would take place in the quaint, elegant garden of a bed-and-breakfast somewhere in New England. She’d spend the morning drinking mimosas and getting her makeup done in the bridal suite with her bridesmaids, and her dress would be Vera Wang, sleek and white and mermaid-cut and covered in a delicate sheen of hand-sewn, gossamer-thin lace. Her father would walk her down the aisle. The groom would be unable to tear his eyes away from her. There would be roses and wisteria and glossy vines of ivy climbing up the latticed walls of the veranda she would say her vows on.

She would be happy.

She would be in love.

It would all be so, so perfect.

Cho marries Ron Weasley—yes, Marietta, that Ron Weasley—at approximately 2:30 AM in the Billy Idol Room of the Littlest Wedding Chapel four blocks east of the Strip. It’s early August, not April, and the only available “garden space” is a twelve-by-twelve square of grimy concrete out back that’s littered with squashed cigarettes and old, faded advertisements for massage parlors. There are no bridesmaids. There is no Vera Wang. Her father is in Sedona at an artists’ retreat, and the groom is too busy laughing at a shitty wax sculpture of Wayne Newton to even notice her stumbling towards him. The only flowers in sight are the fake plastic ones in her borrowed bouquet. 

The borrowed bouquet she’s, like, eighty percent sure they hosed down in the bathroom sink before giving to her.

Not that Cho actually remembers that?

Or much of anything?

At all?

Specifically?

There was dinner with Percy and Penelope and everyone else at that steakhouse, béarnaise sauce and grilled asparagus and increasingly loud jokes about the two most boring people in the world hosting a week-long joint bachelor/bachelorette party in Vegas, of all places, and then there were slot machines and casino lights and yardstick margaritas and shot glasses with colored sugar on the rims and a blur of red hair, dark with sweat, and taut, freckled skin under her hands, laughter and thumping bass and a strong, heavy arm draped around her hips, bluntly callused fingers dipping under the straps of her dress, trailing up the inside of her thigh—

If it weren’t for the tacky gold container on the hotel floor—it’s shaped like a Faberge egg and has a curlicue-scripted MEMORIES plaque glued to the front—Cho wouldn’t even know she was married, let alone to Ron Weasley.

Ron Weasley.

Ron Weasley.

Ron Weasley, who’s currently staring, pale-faced and grim, at a streaky Polaroid of the two of them kissing—a showy, dramatic, her-legs-around-his-waist sort of kiss—and looking like he would rather dig his own grave than confront the fact that he’s apparently now married.

To her.

To Cho.

Should she be offended by that? Is she offended by that?

“Harry is going to murder me,” Ron says dumbly, staggering backwards and collapsing next to her on the bed. She’s sitting cross-legged, inexplicably wearing a slinky black bikini bottom and an oversized men’s v-neck shirt that smells like Old Spice and sunscreen. “Harry is going to—he went to cop school, you know? No one is going to find my body.”

Cho considers this for a while. A long while. The only sounds in the room—it’s a nice room, she supposes; shiny and modern—are the whirring of the air conditioner and the distant, arrhythmic dripping of the shower faucet. She’s a planner. A thinker. Careful, despite her innate curiosity; deliberate, despite her more natural impulsiveness. However emotionally she’d have liked to react to certain things in the past—certain events, certain tragedies—she didn’t. That’s not who she is. That’s not who she’s supposed to be.

How did she get here, then?

How did this happen?

—— story concept: “the bro code” by provocative-envy

ron weasley didn't stand up to snape after he called hermione a know it all and lose 10 points from gryffindor defending her intelligence just for people to say he didn't appreciate hermione's genius enough

Hermione smugly presenting the findings of the international symposium that declared Pluto not a planet as final proof that astrology is made up.

But it turns out that’s what’s been throwing off everyone’s readings so a lot of divination quickly starts becoming more refined and accurate when they take that into account.

Hermione is hailed as a divination savant and that’s what she’s most known in the history books for.

this is some Arthur Conan Doyle shit

Wizarding World Locations Moodboards → The Burrow

You can’t just go anywhere and scream anymore

Everywhere is built up and occupied and peopled to the hilt. You should be able to let out a sonorous, aggrieved shriek and not worry anyone abt it. This is why we need more green spaces

The Canterbury Ghost- Oscar Wilde // I Know It’s Over- The Smiths // Ship to Wreck- Florence + the Machine // Work Song- Hozier

Hozier performs “Work Song” 

A week before the Opening Ceremony, Fleur shaves her head.

It’s not a big deal.

(It is, Gabrielle insists somewhat hysterically, her own still-intact mane of thick, glossy, silver-blonde hair gleaming like fairy dust beneath the glow of tastefully colorless designer lights strung up around their parents’ backyard, A Big Fucking Deal.)

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Molly Weasley asks, radiating a distinctly maternal kind of concern. It isn’t sincere, but Fleur’s own mother is very probably still passed out in a dead faint on the crushed velvet chaise lounge in her walk-in closet, so who is Fleur to complain? “This isn’t about Bill, is it?”

Halfway across the airport lounge, there’s a startlingly loud, hastily muffled snort of laughter. When Fleur turns to glare, it’s Hermione Granger—in an oversized TEAM USA sweatshirt that’s shapeless and unflattering and liberally streaked with bright white fuzz from the yarn ball she’s been valiantly pretending to know what to do with—who’s coughing as she studiously averts her gaze.

“Just a little, um,” Hermione says, gesturing to her throat. “A tickle. From the—the air conditioning. And the Perrier. It’s … it’s really bubbly.”

“It isn’t about Bill,” Fleur says with a sniff and an instinctual—reflexive, defensive—tilt of her head, making a motion to toss her hair back. Which doesn’t work, obviously, but does give her a deeply disorienting neck cramp. “I am delighted for Bill. And his new—whoever. Whatever. I hope they are very happy together.”

Molly looks politely, pityingly doubtful.

Fleur goes back to stretching out her hamstrings.

(Fleur was only eighteen when she’d met Bill; when she’d impulsively decided that he was hers. He’d indulged her—reciprocated, even—but there was never enough friction, never enough sour to counteract the sweet. The ensuing cavities were as painful as they were inevitable.)

“Hey, where do you want all this Gatorade, my arm’s about to—holy fucking shit,” Ron Weasley all but shrieks, stumbling backwards and slamming a dark blue YETI cooler against the hotel room wall. He’s gaping at Fleur, his mouth hanging open, his nose pink and shiny from the sun. “What did you—um—that’s—was there an accident?”

“Ronald,” Molly hisses from behind him. “Language!”

“It’s fine,” Fleur says, arching a brow. Imperious. Unimpressed. Perfectly sculpted. “I simply felt like a change.”

“Because of … the accident?” Ron tries. He hasn’t blinked yet.

Gabrielle appears in the bathroom doorway, already in her geometrically-cut TEAM FRANCE competition bikini for their mid-afternoon photoshoot with the men’s basketball team, and flashes Ron a smile with far too many teeth.

“I see you’re still doing the whole—” She swirls her fingers. “The hipster mullet thing. What, no racing stripes this year? Ryan Lochte beat you to it?”

Ron shoots Gabrielle a startled, wistful, vaguely constipated glance. “I lost a bet with the twins.”

“About the racing stripes?” Gabrielle asks innocently. “How unfortunate.”

Fleur smooths her hands down the front of her plain red tank top, plucking idly, with affected, exaggerated disinterest, at a stray thread that’s sprouting from the raw cotton hem.

(There’s a delicate little divot, about a half-inch wide, at the base of Fleur’s skull. A soft spot. A weak point. She hasn’t been able to stop noticing it in the mirror, beneath the pads of her own fingertips—this exposed nerve, this naked vulnerability, this stark red bullseye that she’d been utterly oblivious to for most of her life.)

Fleur says, “I’m going for a walk,” immediately after she and Gabrielle win their qualifying match.

She barely pauses long enough to brush the sand and the sweat and the victory off her skin.

Her ATHLETE badge gifts her unfettered access to the whole of the Olympic pavilion, from the equestrian rings to the diving pools to the rowing docks—she winds up on the edge of a large green field, sun-dappled and picturesque, one of maybe fifteen spectators, across from a row of quaintly wood-framed archery targets.

An archer, small and slender and so, so still, is preparing to shoot.

Fleur is … enchanted.

By the calm. The quiet. The focus. There’s no outside noise; no cheering crowds, no rough-voiced coaches shouting plays. It’s just the archer, and her bow, and the steady rise-and-fall of her chest. The ruler-straight line of her shoulders. The graceful bend of her spine. Her hair is shiny. Blue-black. Braided into meticulously neat pigtails on either side of her head.

And then—

The archer, CHANG - USA, releases the string of her bow on a long, endlessly patient exhale.

When she finally turns around, Fleur forgets to even check where the arrow went.

Fleur Delacour though 

like omg this girl willingly entered a deadly competition, knowing full well that she could die and she fought so hard and the thing she would miss most was her baby sister like how precious is that

and then she moved to a different country on her own do you even know how hard that is and she basically didnt know anyone besides Bill, who she couldnt really know all that well

she got a job, she worked hard to improve her English, so that she wouldnt be discriminated against, but still was and she had to deal with her fiances misogynistic family, had to deal with Mrs. Weasley, Ginny and Hermione being so incredibly against her and I bet she just really wanted to be friends with them, to earn their respect and not be seen only as a pretty dumb girl because she was so much more than that!!!!!

Fleur Delacour, who spoke her mind even though she knew most of the Weasley family would like her even less because of that, who never backed down, who stood up for herself, who proved to everyone that she wasnt shallow, that she truly loved Bill and wouldnt even let a fucking werewolf attack come between them

Fleur Delacour, who had a wedding in the middle of a war, making at least one day happy in the midst of death and destruction

She took in fugitives, she took care of an ungrateful goblin, when she had absolutely no obligation to, she made her tiny home a safe place for the Trio and Luna and, I mean, they showed up in such a bad condition, Hermiones been tortured, Luna and Griphook have obviously been starved and possibly tortured as well (as far as she knew), Dobby died not far from her home and she asked no questions, she took care of them all

Fucking Fleur Delacour man, shes my hero

and im so angry that I used to dislike her so much, I used to find her annoying and I wished she would just go away and now im like ????????

shes literally amazing why is she portrayed in such a bad light