mare is tired

some more mr and mrs Spooky studies because the lighting in the first couple seasons is just incredible and i couldn't resist

HAPPY NEW YEAR’S ✨

I hope everyone had a fabulous Christmas and Winter Solstice! I, personally, am exhausted, but I wouldn’t have changed a thing 🫶🏻

This morning I am so excited to share a collab between @wantsgmarie and myself! Back in October, Mare shared a beautiful drawing that inspired You’re My Home, and I am so pleased to share a full fledge continuation of their story!

Mare, you captured Draco and Hermione’s elegance flawlessly! Thank you for being such a gem to this community! ✨

Happy New Year’s loves 🫶🏻

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It Will Rain — Bruno Mars

Thanks to the talented @wantsgmarie for representing the emotions of Maelle and Nevra so beautifully in this scene <3

“I've been sleeping so long in a 20-year dark night;

And now I see daylight, I only see daylight…”

Jewelry, rare books, all the opulent gifts he gave her, shoved into a box, sealed with Spellotape, and dispatched to Malfoy Manor. She returns everything but his old coat, then books a one-way Portkey to New York City.

It’s October, and it’s bleak and nobody in Manhattan spares her a smile. She hides her clenched fists in the oversized sleeves of her coat, shrugging off the phantom weight of his arms when he used to hold her in it.

Narcissa warned them everything would change when Lucius returned. But Draco left prison first, and for three years the two of them lived blissfully.

She sees him in the pale blond buzz-cuts of SoHo’s stylists. Who’s running her fingers through his hair tonight? He’s the all-black uniforms of Meatpacking’s hipsters and the tattooed baristas of Greenpoint and the tailored business men of Upper East, slicing through traffic with their ears suction-cupped to mobile phones. At the MoMA she is ferried back to Whitechapel Gallery, holding Draco’s hand as he scrunches his nose at the ‘Muggles’ peculiar talents’.

Weeks pass and seasons shift. London would be worse, she thinks. The sun sets earlier there and everybody recognizes her and––the obvious.

Hermione migrates from one shoebox apartment to the next, subletting whatever’s cheapest. She craves him when her breath frosts the air in her new studio and the heater jams up. She remembers her creaky, old Diagon flat and the way he always kept her warm in soft rumpled sheets.

She visits old bookstores, starts a jazz record collection, and takes up journaling in cat cafes. Her pockets fill with ticket stubs from comedy and drag shows and indie film festivals, celebrating the queer expression.

She feasts on oversized slices of pizza and fat doughy bagels slabbed with thick cream cheese. She thinks of his sweet tooth buying vegan brownies and wishes he could taste the peculiar smoky flavour of a campfire latte. In the back of a yellow taxi, braking so hard it makes her nauseous, she wishes she was on the back of his broom instead. Oh, how he’d laugh at that.

One November afternoon, Hermione dons her favourite coat and sets off to a local pottery class. The city is blurry in the rain, lights warbling; a swish of sound added to every beat of movement.

“Hermione!”

She doesn’t stop when she hears her name. It’s not the first time his voice deceives her. He lives in her head, disguised in the hum of traffic and drawling street conversations and music bleeding through automatic shop doors. It’s an awful trick, and she swallows the lump in her throat as she keeps walking.

“Hermione.”

She looks over her shoulder and the head-spinning pace of the city comes to a standstill.

His shirt clings to his chest, soft blond hair tousled around his temples, and all she can think to ask him is, “Where the hell is your coat?”

Draco looks into her eyes like he’ll lose her if he blinks. “Don’t you ever leave me again.” And then he’s striding forward, grabbing her face between his palms.

His mouth is cold and his hips are sharp and someone blares a horn behind them, but Draco holds her so fiercely it almost feels real.

She shoves him back, looking up into his cool grey eyes. They’re not grey like the clouds or the skyline or the sea, but something entirely different. She’d forgotten what it felt like being trapped in his gaze.

“I’ve been to France and Italy and Australia, searching for you. I was losing my damn mind.”

“How did you find me?”

He tugs on her coat. His coat. “I unboxed the package you sent me, and realised you never returned this rotten thing. You took it with you.”

“I love it.” She shoves her hands into the deep pockets.

“It’s yours,” he says, and she knows he’s not just talking about the coat.

“Your father––

“To hell with Father.” Draco shows his teeth. “To hell with home. To hell with everyone. I just want you.”

She’s shaky all over, her heart just catching up with the turn of events, and all she can think about over the sound of her erratic heartbeat is taking him home to her frigid studio so they can unthaw together.

He’s here. Draco is in New York.

“I have so much to show you.”

“Show me,” he says, drawing her into his arms again. “Show me everything.”

(745 words, cross-posted from twitter)

“She had stars on her cheek; he thought. The perfect alignment on her skin was the first thing he noticed. Not her eyes, or her hair, not even the scars that marred her body. It was the stars of freckles. He wanted to run his finger down the expanse of her cheek, tracing the outline of the constellation. He wanted to count the freckles, kiss each one. She watched him as he smiled softly at her; his stormy eyes were calm. Her chocolate orbs took in the intimate scene; together, they were vulnerable—alone. Trusting each other with their scars and their secrets. She wanted to run her blunt nails down his pale skin, kiss his neck, and trace the ink that covered his most horrid scar. Together they took in each other, committing their bodies to their memory, trying to memorize their imperfections and perfections. To him, no imperfection mattered. No. She was perfect in his eyes. Her stars, her constellations; it made his heart jump when he recognized the shape. How did he not notice when they were in Hogwarts? Perhaps it was the way her hair was always untamed that took away the attention of her stars? Or maybe he never really stared at her with the intensity of a lover, only as a rival? No matter, he wanted to slap his younger self for never realizing she bore the constellation of their namesake. He wondered, in the back of his mind, if this was a way of the gods? To mark her skin, to tell the world that she was meant for him and only him? Or perhaps it was only a coincidence? He didn’t know or care. All he cared about was her. This witch in front of him. This goddess. He cared only for her: Hermione Granger.”

Artwork from Twitter by @wantsgmarie

Dialogue written by yours truly!

Dramione Bridgerton AU ❤️❤️

Just another day of me stalking social media for more Gwynriel art 🤷🏻‍♀️😆💕

Credit: @wantsgmarie

Sounds accurate 😂