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Glen Powell and Luke Thompson are the advocates for romance/rom-com kings that we as a society.... Deserve.
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eternalsams · 2 months
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everyone's a sucker for How To Lose Hangman in 10 Days
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jomiddlemarch · 2 months
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While You Were Sleeping
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Chapter 4
Some people, primarily Muggles, count sheep when they have trouble falling asleep.
Wizards preferred Puffskeins or occasionally crups. Molly Weasley had once admitted she counted crups in Weasley sweaters, after George had spiked her tea with something she made him pull from the store shelves.
(Hermione did not believe anyone who said they counted dragons other than Hagrid, who listed them off by their forenames.)
Hermione preferred facts.
Fact: the Eguzkiko continued to think she and Draco were a married couple.
Fact: Draco was fluent in at least five languages.
Fact: Draco wore a subtle cologne that smelled like Hermione imagined the Silk Road would, minus the camels.
(Unconfirmed fact: this was exactly what Amortentia now smelled like to Hermione, forget cut grass and parchment.)
Fact: Hermione’s facts were usually about statistics, geopolitical historical alliances, and characters in Dickens’ novels because her father had loved those dearly but since the start of this mission, her facts had increasingly, exclusively become All About Draco.
Fact: Hermione appeared to have Feelings for sodding brilliant, widely accomplished and knicker-incineratingly fit Draco Black Malfoy, Esq., Feelings she felt ill-equipped to express.
Fact: She felt no more drowsy now than when she’d extinguished the reading lamp and turned on her side to avoid trying to make out his profile or the exquisite line of his neck against the pillowcase.
Fac—THUMP.
“What was that?” she exclaimed.
“I don’t—” Draco began.
THUMP. Thump. thump.
“What the bloody fuck?!” Draco said, sitting bolt upright. There was a yelping quality to his cry, that couldn’t be denied, though his voice was still pitched low enough that no one would have called it a shriek. Also, being bolt upright showed his broad shoulders to notable advantage (who knew pyjamas could be so impeccably tailored?)
In any case, Hermione had that covered, the shriek-department that is. She did manage to keep it to one solitary shriek that she choked back at the end, right at the moment when Draco reached over and grabbed her upper arms. She only had a split second to evaluate the grabbing, but it was definitely from the making-sure-you’re-real and I’ve-got-you-don’t-worry categories, not the get-a-hold-of-yourself-witch or I’m-about-to-shake-you-silly-for-being-a-silly-bint. Also, his hands were big and warm and transiently made her feel very much cherished and she was glad she’d tied back her hair so he didn’t accidentally pull any of it, though the prospect of his hands gently running through her curls was dreadfully appealing.
When she wasn’t devoting her not inconsiderable brain-power towards the mental recitation of facts, she was capable of noticing quite a bit.
“Are you all right?” he asked. With the grabbing, he’d closed the distance between them and they were close enough she could see the hints of green and blue in his grey eyes, the faint shadow of his beard, a darker shade than his hair. There was a small scar near his left temple and she wondered at what curse had caught him there, how badly he’d been injured to leave such a mark impervious to the Healers at St. Mungo’s. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine, are you?” she said. Her heart was still beating very fast, but it had more to do with Draco than the earlier noise.
“Yes,” he said. He loosened his grasp on her and let his hands drop, but they still rested on her forearms, lightly enough she could shrug him off. She did not.
“What was that?” she said when the moment had started to grow too intense, the hollow at the base of his throat too tempting.
“I don’t know,” he said. “At home, I’d guess it might be an old house settling for the night or a storm brewing, but here—”
“Could it be something magic?” she said. She swallowed, then said what she’d first thought, when all she had felt was terror, when she’d wanted to call out his name. “Don’t laugh at me—”
“I won’t,” he said.
“A monster. Under the bed. I know it sounds foolish,” she said.
Hermione was absolutely certain that every single one of her acquaintances, with the sole exception of Luna Lovegood, would agree it sounded foolish. And even Luna was likely to give her reassuring smile and tell her that kidakomori were far fonder of people than people ever gave them credit for and Hermione would have to pretend that she was aware of kidakomori and their undeservedly dubious reputation.
“It doesn’t sound foolish. Not to me,” Draco said. 
“What?”
“I didn’t want to say it first, because I agree it makes me sound unhinged, but I also thought of a monster under the bed,” he replied.
“You were supposed to talk sense to me. To tell me I was overreacting,” Hermione said.
“Are you even capable of overreacting?” Draco countered. “I realize I am tacitly validating your prior assault on me—”
“We were children! And you were beastly,” Hermione said.
“And I deserved it,” he said.
“Well, no one deserves to be hit,” Hermione said.
“I understand the progressive Muggle approach to childhood discipline and in general, I don’t disagree but in that particular situation, I must say I did. And not only because I was making a point.” He smiled at her and she liked it far too much.
“Do you really think there’s a monster under our bed?” she said, trying not to whisper and failing. 
“You said our bed,” Draco replied.
“That’s what you’re choosing to focus on? Not the monster part? And the fact that we have no wands and even wandless magic is verboten in here, even assuming either of us knew what spell to cast for a monster under the bed,” she ranted. Her exposure to Parseltongue had been so negative (whose wasn’t?) she kept herself from hissing, but it was a close call. Draco moved his right hand from her forearm to her wrist and then laced his fingers through hers. It would have been the sexiest move she could remember any man making except for the possible monster beneath them.
“Inanis belua, but you have to put the emphasis on the bel and let the final a drift. Like leviosa,” Draco said.
“Inanis belua,” she repeated.
“Perfect,” he said. “You’ve always had an ear for incantation.”
“How did you learn it?” Hermione asked. It seemed he wasn’t going to make her face the implications of our bed. At least not at the moment.
“Narcissa,” Draco said, again referring to his mother by her first name. Hermione almost wished for another round of eerie thumps to distract them both from the ticking bomb that was his relationship with his mother. “She coddled me, as much as she could—the Malfoy heir was expected to be superior in all regards, but the Blacks tend to be high-strung, overly sensitive. It was a secret, that she taught me the spell. I wasn’t to tell my father.”
“I don’t think it’s coddling to make your little boy feel safe,” Hermione said, hoping she’d picked the least inflammatory aspect of what he’d shared. The less she said about Lucius Malfoy the better. Even after all these years, she wasn’t sure she could talk about him without venom and however Draco felt, the man was still his father, albeit immured in Azkaban .
“Perhaps,” Draco said.
“I suppose you think it’s horribly middle-class of me. Or Muggle,” she said.
“I think you were raised by kinder people than I was,” he said. Hermione thought of the estrangement that existed between her and her parents and also how it had been as the Grangers’ little girl, the plush calico kitten that had been tucked with her under her covers, the bedtime stories, the trips to the library with a trolley to bring home her latest acquisitions. When she thought of them, they were still Mum and Dad.
“It was Bellatrix who taught her the spell,” Draco said, watching her face. His own eyebrows were drawn together, a serious expression similar to one he wore when wrangling with a particularly thorny bit of medieval Eguzkikan legislation.
“I take it you’re of the confront your fear persuasion,” Hermione said. “Or is this some kind of weirdly roundabout apology Or a Pureblood thing? If it’s a Pureblood thing, you’ll have to give me some context, like whether it’s all the Sacred Twenty-Eight or just the Blacks. It doesn’t feel authentically Malfoy.”
“I’m not sure what it is,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with his left hand, still hanging onto her right with his own. “I thought, we’re talking about monsters, from our past, we’ve never spoken about what happened with Bellatrix. We’re sleeping together every night, it seemed odd not to address it but perhaps that was better—"
“It wasn’t better. But this isn’t necessary,” she said.
“I think it is,” Draco replied. “Necessary, but not better. She’s so hard to talk about and no one wants to, beyond cursing her, and I understand, but to not talk about her, it’s as stupid to me as blasting Andromeda off the tapestry. And I’ve never told you how terribly sorry I am that I couldn’t figure out some other way to help you, when she was hurting you. I don’t know what I could have done but that’s not enough, Hermione. It never was and now—”
Draco broke off and Hermione found herself raising her left hand to cup his cheek, stroking her thumb across his cheekbone. It went on far to long for him to mistake is for only gentleness.
“D’you know, I think we’ve had enough of monsters,” she said. “Only I wonder—”
“What?” he said.
“There’s been no more noise. Might we have done wandless magic with that spell of yours, banished the bedframe’s resident horror to parts unknown? And if we did, will the Eguzkiko be deeply offended and break off diplomatic relations?” Hermione asked.
“I won’t tell,” Draco said. “Wandless is near-impossible to trace and tandem wandless hasn’t been recorded. Or regulated in any magical region. I think we’re safe.”
*
Fact: Draco’s eyes weren’t only grey.
Fact: Draco had been a little boy afraid of monsters.
Fact: Hermione wanted to fall asleep holding Draco Black Malfoy’s hand. And he let her.
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viviseawrites · 3 months
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merry steddiemas, @malikat24601!!!! i hope you enjoy your gift!!! (and sorry it's so very nearly late!)
tingle, tingle
rated E | 17900 words | Steve needs a date to his ex's holiday wedding, and Eddie agrees to go if they can be "the worst dates possible for each other" while still being convincing as a (fake) couple. Shenanigans ensue with holiday fluff, mistletoe, smut, and the classic fake-dating miscommunication. 
read an excerpt now:
“Feels so good,” Eddie says, pouring the words onto his tongue. “Can’t believe you’re real sometimes.” 
“‘m real,” Steve murmurs, framing Eddie’s face. He sweeps a curl back from where it was sticking and Eddie loses all of his words. He just stares, enraptured.
His mother always told him not to look directly at the sun. He heard it again in school, especially on days when there was an eclipse. “The sun is dangerous to look at without protection.” Over and over again, he heard it. But he liked looking at the sun. He liked seeing the bright lights imprinted in his vision. He liked the halo effect, the ghostly spots that slowly faded as he blinked back to normal.
This feels just like that. He hopes it follows the same course, that it brands his sense of sight with Steve, the holy aura of his pleasure and eager surrender, the brightness of his rumpled beauty. The collapse of an interstellar cloud; the formation of a star, a sun, a gravity well born right at the center of him, intense and inescapable. 
Steve stares right back. One day, Eddie will wonder what he sees in this moment.
and read the rest on AO3!
written for the #steddiewinterexchange
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melodyvega1967 · 6 months
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Okay so I watched 'Elemental' a few days ago, and… imo it's the MOST romantic film that Disney has ever made without a doubt, and it even tops the Disney princess romances.
Not to mention the whole discrimination and immigration story of Fire and the other elements tying beautifully and realistically to real-life racism and immigration struggles.
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agospei · 4 months
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Jude Law in The Holiday (2006)
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rickchung · 3 months
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Anyone But You (dir. Will Gluck).
Starring two extremely good-looking actors, Sydney Sweeney and Glen Powell, their quick meet-cute turns into an expected misunderstanding when they realize they're connected through friends and family before an Australian destination wedding full of all the typical but fun rom-com genre shenanigans.
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cieuxgris · 11 months
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Le fabuleux destin d'Amélie Poulain (2001) Posters
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shelbbswrites · 1 year
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I didn’t have the time (or power. I’m experiencing some severe weather.) to write a Prom Pact review for work. In an effort to write more long form content here, would that be something you all would read over here?
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cybersexuality · 6 months
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Martin Short is so pretty in 'Cross My Heart', like he looks so good. A kind of handsome that is all his own. A beauty you can not replicate.
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girl-with-goats · 10 months
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Season of Gold || dramione
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I posted another chapter of my fluffy dramione thingy based on 10 things I hate about you, so I'm yeeting it out here again ❤️
It's getting fluffier and Hermione is being her very sassy self, and I enjoyed writing the whole thing at night. Enjoy!
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animezinglife · 11 months
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UK friends, are there any cute rom-com (ideally contemporary) or similar books you’d recommend that take place there? It’s been awhile since I’ve read anything set outside the U.S.
I’m looking for adult fiction.
Thanks!
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jomiddlemarch · 7 months
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let's call this a win-win
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Part 2
Meghan figured she’d be holed up in the cabin they’d given to her for an infirmary, reading old copies of whatever magazine had made their way to her, Seventeen and Cosmo, Bassmaster and and Runner’s World washing up like the scrum of sticks and leaves on the shore of an eddying brook, playing endless games of solitaire on limp cards, cleaning up cuts, dabbing on ointment, bandaging ankles, for the entire duration of the summer, which would make any encounters with Joel Miller few and far between.
She had been wrong.
To be clear, it wasn’t that he was constantly right there when she turned around or looked up in a classic stalker-y kind of way or that he was seeking her out with increasingly inane-frivolous-nonsensical medical complaints requiring her assessment in a pathetic stalker-y kind of way or even that he just seemed to appear when she’d just thought of him, how deft his hands were ladling out a rainy day dinner of beanie-weenie or strumming his guitar in the firelight, in a telepathic mind-control stalker-y kind of way. 
It was just nice.
Sometimes, she lollygagged over her morning coffee and Joel didn’t exactly rush off to his next repair. 
Sometimes, he found he was walking in her same direction and fell into an easy gait beside her, for all that he was at least a foot taller than she was. The trees loomed, but Joel never did.
Sometimes, he held the door for her when her hands were full or pulled out her chair at the table the staff sat at for meals, the almost old-fashioned politeness of it somehow part and parcel of the camp itself, though Meghan suspected he’d do the same back home in Texas, though he thankfully never called her ma’am.
It wasn’t just nice. It was very nice. Very nice indeed.
So sue her, she liked him. (Actually, the camp’s malpractice policy was skimpier than she’d anticipated and she devoutly hoped there would be nothing worth litigating in her work, since she was not getting paid especially well to begin with and Ellie’s new school had a uniform policy so extensive that even Old Navy and Lands’ End were unlikely to keep her from racking up some credit card bills in the fall well before Meghan had to ante up for the field hockey team equipment and the God-forsaken trumpet Ellie had decided to play, an evil glint in her eye.) 
After all, why wouldn’t she like Joel? He was competent, intelligent, uncomplaining, a good listener, a devoted father, a guitarist who more than delivered when he played at the campfire—and that was before she considered how absolutely smoking hot he was in worn jeans, work boots and what seemed like an infinite supply of plaid shirts and grey tees, but which was probably about five and she’d just lost track. She’d never met a man who looked better with a scruffy beard, so much so that she wondered if she’d even be attracted to him if he ever shaved properly. (She would, who was she kidding? Those eyes and that lower lip and that ass…) 
He also always smelled good, which given the limitations of their bathing facilities, the lack of AC on hot days and the general organic funk that seemed to cling to everyone after their first dip in the lake, was impressive. And irresistible. 
She was resisting though, a little. She hadn’t thrown herself at him or ever found she needed to reach something in the bottom drawer of her filing cabinet when he was repairing the rotting window trim on the infirmary, bending over to showcase her natural assets augmented by the squats her best friend Alex swore by (Meghan was less convinced, but best friends did what they had to do and she herself never shut up about calcium.) She hadn’t let her hand linger on the salt-cellar or ketchup bottle when he asked to have it passed and she certainly hadn’t requested he play “Make Believe” or any other Rodgers and Hart love-song around the campfire (though the temptation to ask for “Blue Moon” once she’d discovered who wrote it was huge, even more so when she found out there was one coming up in August.)
She could have convinced herself it was all coincidences and hormones, a commodity Camp Firefly had in spades, though not emanating from Bunk 3, except for the fact that Joel hadn’t let her.
“So, here’s the deal. I like you and I think you like me. As Sarah would say, like that,” Joel announced as they took a mid-morning coffee break from her Thermos, the merry sound of campers with first swim distant, mingled with some birdsong.
“Um, that’s quite direct,” she said.
“Yeah. Because I’m a grown-up,” he replied, smiling. “Tell me if I’m out of line. I won’t bring it up again.”
“No?” Meghan knew she was partly stalling for time and that Joel probably knew that as well, but it didn’t hurt to push a little and see what he said next. Grist to the mill, Alex would say, as if Alex were not in a perpetual pitched battle against carbs and wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere near a gristmill unless arson was involved. 
“No. Because I respect you and myself. And my whole ego isn’t tied up in whether you feel the way I do,” he said. Meghan had to do her best to raise an eyebrow, because Joel was starting to sound unreal, like someone’s concept of the ideal man, not Plato’s, because even Philosophy 102 had taught Meghan that Plato had maybe spent too much time in a cave, away from sunlight, at least for her taste. “I mean, I also won’t spend all my free time replacing the perfectly adequate wood trim of this cabin’s windows or discovering that the floor near the back door is warped and ripping it out and asking you to hold the level 12 hours a day.”
“You’re making this hard,” Meghan said. “Because I do like you but I hate unnecessary renovations that take forever. Could we hang out without wood being involved?”
He grinned then as the words hung in the air for a moment and she blushed, she could feel it, red as a cartoon beet, not a real one. She tried a combo shrug-head-toss that would have been more effective if she’d put her hair in a ponytail instead of braids but from Joel’s expression, it was good enough.
“I had to play to my strengths,” he said. 
“I’m not reciprocating with an unnecessary physical and don’t try to tell me you sprained your ankle or something,” she said. “I have standards. Ethics. I’m a goddamn role model.”
“And I’m not interested in you playing a sexy nurse in a skimpy costume,” he said. 
That was when Meghan’s brain sort-of shorted out and she heard herself saying Holy shit before she could have thought about stopping herself. 
“What about a walk around the lake later?” Joel said. “Or we could take a canoe out. Stars are bright up here, brighter than Austin, and the moon’s nearly full.”
“Yes,” she said. 
Yes, she said when he looked at her before taking her hand in his.
Yes, when he rowed them into a cove and the moonlight was silver in his dark eyes.
Yes, just as he leaned in to kiss her, waiting to hear her first, and again into his ear before she kissed the side of throat, waiting to hear him moan.
She wasn’t disappointed.
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destinyc1020 · 7 months
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One thing I want you Anons to tell me....
I noticed on my survey results that a LOT OF you all want Tom to do a "romantic comedy" type of film lol 😆
But what TYPE of rom-com are you all wanting?? 🤔
Are you all looking for smthg like....
"Love Actually"? 😅
youtube
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"When Harry Met Sally"?
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"Just Friends"?
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"Friends With Benefits"?
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What are you all thinking along the lines of?? 😅
Cuz some rom-coms are VERY different lol.
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lostgir245 · 1 year
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Uncommon DRs
I love the idea of shifting to an uncommon desired reality and thought I’d share some that I’ve seen or that I’m attempting to go to myself
Y2K Fame DR
Malcolm in the Middle
The School For Good and Evil (movie or books)
Big Time Rush
Ghost Whisperer
Charmed (OG or Reboot, whichever you prefer)
Wizards of Waverly Place
Titans (the HBO show)
Lab Rats
Aquamarine (the movie)
The Halloweentown movies
Hocus Pocus
Neverland
F.R.I.E.N.D.S 
Superhero DR
Agent Cody Banks
Rom-Com DR (where you’re life is basically a romantic comedy)
You get the point. But if anybody shifts to any of these or has an uncommon DR let me know where to and tell me about it!!
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