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theangelhipster.bsky.social
Bee 🐝
@theangelhipster.bsky.social
210 followers 260 following 130 posts
A girl, half savage and free| 28| Dramione, Panville, anything that makes my heart bleed| Castlevania and other gay things💫| writer-ish and full-time binge reader| screaming into the void| 18+

ao3| https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngleHeadedHipsters
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theangelhipster.bsky.social
Pansy is in both, so also sharing what originally started as a silly little something in honor of her.
“Let’s break his fucking legs!” Pansy had yelled over the off-key karaoke taking place behind her, waving away Ginny’s glare at the interruption with a clumsy hand that sloshed wine about. There had been a chorus of agreement around the room, the loudest of them from Ginny, who recovered quickly from Pansy’s rudeness and belted her pitchy “yesss” into her wand-turned-microphone. And there had been a bat. Why there was a bat in a room full of witches who were, when sober, deadly with their wands and also uninterested in muggle sports, Hermione couldn’t say. But there it was, gripped tightly in her hands until her knuckles were white. “Be reas”—and here it had taken Hannah an obscene amount of time to determine the word she required at the time was reasonable, though it remained undecided whether she’d lost the battle to the very similar raisin—“she can’t very well shag him if his legs are broken, now can she?”
August 6, 2025 at 6:55 PM
theangelhipster.bsky.social
My first WIPWednesday🚧 in…a long time. Feels good to be writing regularly again (now I just need to finish something).

Some Panville (left) and Dramione (right) I’m working on right now. One of these was meant to be a crack fic, but it’s all angst.
His back and his legs ache, and there’s a twinge in his hips, but it’s three in the morning and the moon peaks in twenty five minutes. He’s exhausted and unbalanced, but she’s so close now that he can almost taste her. He remembers her favorite cherry pie, how much sweeter it was coming from her mouth, and the ghost of it whispers across his lips, ripens and breaks over his tongue with each tick of his watch. Everything in him is hurting, but when he closes his eyes he can feel her. All of her. The softness of her skin, and her sharp curves. His body remembers the way hers felt pressed against it, strong and unformidable but also, somehow, delicate. Breakable. His hands tremble at the memory of her—the way her spine bowed under the weight of his fingertips, curved gently against his palm whenever he pulled her closer; how certain it felt when their fingers slotted together. “Look at me.” But he doesn’t want to. Not when the once-vibrant memories lose a little more of their shimmer every day. He wants to stay here, like this, holding onto every piece of her he can. In his mind, she’ll linger longer. The woman staring back at her is so far removed from who Hermione believes herself to be that she barely recognizes her reflection, with its smeared mascara and furious eyes. It’s her, she knows—the reflection blinks when she blinks, and it sneers when she sneers. But it’s also definitely someone else. Or maybe— Hermione turns away from the mirror in disgust, dispelling the unfurling thought with a rough shake of her head. No. There are no maybes; there are no extenuating circumstances in which she would need to believe otherwise. She isn’t that thing—pathetic, and hungover, and barely controlling the rage faintly visible in her trembling hands—that stared back at her, lips quivering as though preparing to laugh in her face. She’s Hermione Granger. Child prodigy (kind of, if you squinted, and ignored the fact that by eighth year the playing field had been so levelled that it devastated her); War hero (this…No, this she would never openly claim); Protector of the Golden Trio, therefore Wizarding London as a whole (because, truthfully, Harry and Ron would have gotten themselves killed without her pestering, mothering, and overall smothering); a Fucking Babe. And Hermione Granger doesn’t get hungover, nor does she waste her time stewing over grievances. She doesn’t allow bitterness to seep into her gut, burrowing so far inside her that she can’t dig it out—that it blackens, rots, becomes something worse than.
August 6, 2025 at 6:53 PM
theangelhipster.bsky.social
fought for my life trying to finish my first something in Forever. now i don’t want to see a keyboard for at least a week. celebrating by catching up on all the fics i’ve been saving. 🥳🥳
April 26, 2025 at 8:08 PM
theangelhipster.bsky.social
Not always, but sometimes I think of him.
March 5, 2025 at 3:49 PM
theangelhipster.bsky.social
I’m drowning in a million Wips right now, so I’ve decided to save myself by starting another. 🚧

Panville | I Fell In Love With the Moon (and she fell in love with me)
Neville stood on one end of the hall, and the moon stood on the other. She loomed in the doorframe of his bedroom, shrouded in the darkness that lurked behind. Had she bothered to leave a piece of herself behind, moonlight would have filtered through the small window. It would have lit her from behind, dousing her in celestial light. But the moon-Pansy, as he'd sometimes taken to calling her, on the occasion when the resemblance to the girl he once knew startled the bittersweet name out of him-had a habit of tearing all of herself down, and she hadn't managed to figure out how not to do so. He could see why so many before him had fallen for her. He understood just then, with clarity so vivid it made him dizzy, why so many had run. She looked down at him with those night time eyes, so dark they seemed endless, and he saw his present and his past and his future. He saw himself willingly drowned in the depths of her, lost to the craters bludgeoned into her being. That was a scary thought, and he couldn't decide which of them he'd become: The person who ran from magnificent beauty because they feared what lay underneath, or the one who embraced the unknown.
December 18, 2024 at 4:05 PM
theangelhipster.bsky.social
Neville’s only partially surprised when she shows up on his doorstep two weeks later. He knew she’d come back—that was the only way he’d been able to let her go in the first place. But doubt, and the beginnings of unbearable heartbreak, had begun to set in.
“I didn’t have anywhere else to go.” Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone Slow Dancing - Libra
November 26, 2024 at 2:25 PM
theangelhipster.bsky.social
From the bird app, pt. 2

Dramione | nsfw; pseudo-incest| for the good of the country
“I don’t like it when he touches you.” The pulsing ache between her thighs begins anew. Desire coils tightly in her stomach, and she feels stupid. His spend spills out of her, and she hates him. She loves him. She needs him, again, to soothe the emptiness inside her. “Then perhaps you should have considered that before giving me away, brother.” The king laughs, trailing his fingers up the length of her exposed back. He brushes her damp hair out of her face, and she hates herself for softening underneath his touch. For the good of the country, she remembers him saying when he announced her betrothal. For the good of the country, he said when his men brought her back to him in chains. For the good of the country, he murmured in her ear after slipping into her chambers. For the good of the country, he groaned when he pressed her face into the settee, pushed so deeply into her that for a moment she forgot to breathe. Forgot to remind him that he didn’t own her, that he couldn’t keep doing this. Not anymore, not after reducing her to little more than their country’s most expensive whore. “For the good of the country,” he says now, pushing two thick fingers inside of her, catching the mess that has spilled and stuffing it back in. “I’ll learn to share.” For the good of the country, she thinks, trembling and moaning in his arms, hips desperately seeking more, body all too willing to bend to his every injunction, I will destroy you.
November 13, 2024 at 5:15 AM
theangelhipster.bsky.social
6.
6) Pansy tells a joke, and it makes Hermione laugh with her entire body. She is nervous and afraid and so full of hope she could burst. She laughs first, loudest, because it will hurt less when Pansy drops the facade and joins in on her laughter. “Come home with me,” Pansy says again, still not laughing. Still keeping up the charade. But it’s unaccompanied by the usual twitch in her lips that says she’s going to break character at any moment. She isn’t even in character, really, because her voice never takes on the poor mimicry of what all men apparently sound like to Pansy Parkinson. She’s just Pansy, and that makes it worse. Hermione frowns, shaking her head. She pulls her hand out of Pansy’s grasp and blinks away the all too familiar sting in her eyes. She wants to be angry that Pansy would pull this stunt in such a public setting, but she’s only sad. “Stop it.” Draco and Charlie finish their first dance, and laughter erupts around them as their best men encourage the guests to join them on the dance floor. Bodies around them begin to move, shedding shawls and suit jackets and surrounding the newlyweds, but Pansy and Hermione stay where they are. Hermione is wound tight, ready to run; Pansy is coiled even tighter, prepared to chase her. Hermione is nervous and afraid and full of hope, but so is Pansy. Pansy is afraid of being rejected, but she’s terrified of letting another year pass them by. “Hermione.” A plea. The thundering of their hearts, of all their repressed feelings clambering to the surface, drown out the music. The people around them vanish, leaving them alone in this venue full of too much love and not enough room to store it in. “Hermione.” Long lost courage. Pansy takes Hermione’s face between her gentle hands and leans forward; she kisses her forehead and her cheeks and, just because she needs to replace that look of anguish on her face with something better, her nose. “Hermione.” A declaration. Every word left unspoken, every touch ended too quickly. “Come home with me, and let me apologize for all the time we’ve wasted.”
November 13, 2024 at 5:12 AM
theangelhipster.bsky.social
5.
5) At Ginny and Harry’s wedding, they hardly see each other. By choice; by design. It’s hard to say. But when they do, they’re pulled together by a magnetic force too strong to resist. Pansy hardly notices when Hermione pushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. And Hermione thinks nothing of it when Pansy pulls her down onto her lap to pose for the group photo. It’s a completely normal sight to those in attendance when the two women find themselves together in the cake line, arms linked. There’s nothing strange about Pansy rubbing Hermione’s exposed back while she gives her maid of honor speech, which makes the whole room laugh and cry simultaneously. And there’s nothing peculiar about the way Hermione catches the bouquet and immediately grins in Pansy’s direction. The only thing out of place tonight is the distance in between all the moments they’re together.
November 13, 2024 at 5:12 AM
theangelhipster.bsky.social
4.
4) They sit at a rundown bar three years later and say nothing, and Hermione is grateful for the silent company. She’s never been good at talking about herself in general, least of all her feelings. Least of all her heartbreak. Partly because she’s always hated being exposed, vulnerable; mostly because it’s really fucking embarrassing. How does one explain that they’d spent an entire month shelled away, crying, mourning a relationship they knew was never going to work, without dying from shame? Most of all, she didn’t want the pity. Not from anyone, but especially not from Pansy. She would most certainly die if Pansy turned those large, dark eyes full of sympathy on her, and apologized for another failed relationship. Held her hand and assured her the right one would come along. Kissed her forehead and her cheeks and, just because it always makes Hermione smile, her nose, and promised they would always have each other. She would die the most painful death if Pansy followed her home and climbed into bed behind her. Pulled her close and slipped her hand underneath her thin nightgown, pressed her delicate fingers into her stomach. It’s how they always get each other through their many rough patches, but Hermione doesn’t think she’ll survive it this time. “I think I’m going to go,” Hermione says. Her beer has gone warm, left untouched for however long she’s made Pansy sit beside her in this sad, embarrassing silence. “I’m not much company tonight.” Pansy’s knee bumps hers, only once, and so gently she almost misses it. She smiles, tapping her black, pointy nails against her own beer bottle. “You’re always good company.” Hermione grunts, and it takes considerable effort to pull her eyes away from Pansy’s fingers. To stop thinking about them on her skin. She watches the football game playing in silence above them, finding it easier to be honest when she pretends she doesn’t have an audience. “I’m too sad.” “That’s fine. We can be sad together.” Hermione feels a hand ghosting over the small of her back, brushing at her curls, but it’s gone before she can work up the courage to ask Pansy what she has to be sad about.
November 13, 2024 at 5:12 AM
theangelhipster.bsky.social
3.
3) “What do you think?” They’re walking toward the Tube after a successful double date, their skin flushed and eyes glassy from good liquor and good company. Their dates are behind them, voices alight with hope and lust. Pansy peaks over her shoulder, eyes raking over the lanky form, the ridiculous glasses, and the mop of dark hair. Harry smirks like he knows what she’s thinking, and she rolls her eyes. Turning her attention back to the path ahead of them, she shrugs. “I think I might keep him around for a bit. He’s sweet.” The pathway narrows, and they bunch together. She moves, and Hermione moves, and their pinkies collide. “And you?” Hermione laughs, and it’s liquid sugar pushed straight to the bloodstream. She glances over her shoulder, too, eying the tall blond Pansy thought might pull her out of the rut she’d been in, then quickly turns back. She presses even closer, wraps her pinky around Pansy’s. “I hate him,” she declares, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. Her grin is big, obnoxiously so, and has nothing to do with all the drink. “I love him. I think I’d like to keep him forever.”
November 13, 2024 at 5:12 AM
theangelhipster.bsky.social
From the bird app, pt. 1

Pansmione | 5 + 1 | The Games Girls Play

It’s their favorite game to play, though both would deny playing at all, just as they both would deny being the one who started it first.

1-2.
1) Pansy squeezes past Hermione on her way to get their table more drinks, her hands on the small of her friend’s back, fingers briefly coiling around her loose curls. She’s gone to the bar by the time Hermione looks up, and neither acknowledges what happened when she returns. 2) Hermione joins Pansy on a trek across Europe; her friend is undoubtedly headed toward a profusion of mistakes in the shape of a no-good, too easy on the eyes man, and Hermione won’t let her go alone. Hermione, in true moral support, glues herself to Pansy’s side. She lifts the armrests between them and presses her body against Pansy’s. She puts her hand on Pansy’s knee, soothes the nervous bouncing with a soft press of her fingers into her skin. Pansy relaxes under her touch, but Hermione is an overachiever. Being relaxed isn’t enough. She wants to burn the feeling of her moral support into Pansy’s skin—touch her so deeply that when she steps into the pied-à-terre of the man who doesn’t deserve her, Pansy will think of her, her infinite moral support, and know she deserves better. “Do you think I’m making a mistake?” Pansy asks, the lightness in her tone stiff and hardly believable. She stares out at the world blurring by, the parting of her thighs inconsequential to the fingers dancing along them. Hermione hums thoughtfully, dragging her fingers back down the length of Pansy’s thigh. She hums again, and her fingers crawl back up, dip underneath the hem of her little black skirt, and pause there, waiting for something unknown. There are a number of ways Hermione can answer the question, but only a handful of answers Pansy will accept. “Undoubtedly one of the biggest yet, but what are your twenties for if not to fuck the wrong people every now and then?” Hermione snatches her hand away, and Pansy’s thighs snap close. In unison, they put their armrests down, cutting off the stream of moral support indefinitely. They look up, and Theo and Blaise stare down. Something heavy passes between the four of them, and then their welcome intruders take the seats across from them. They’re a happy couple, fingers twined, knees touching, smiles easy and certain and radiant with love. Hermione wants to tell her it’s only a mistake if it doesn’t feel like that. “You didn’t think we’d let you girls run off to Paris without us, did you?”
November 13, 2024 at 5:12 AM
theangelhipster.bsky.social
I’ve decided I want to organize all my fics, so I’m making a spreadsheet to help me figure out how I want to categorize them and I’m not even almost halfway done. 😭

But im having fun, and I think it’ll help my poor memory + fic blurring.
November 12, 2024 at 5:24 PM
theangelhipster.bsky.social
My book club read has been hitting rather close to home in light of recent events; it’s like looking into a mirror of the sentiments that I’ve been feeling lately.

Communuty is what’s keeping me together. That other feeling is “you’ll see.”
November 9, 2024 at 3:41 AM