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occasionally subtle
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣

titsay
d e v o n
Sade Olutola

shark vs the universe

oozey mess
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda

Product Placement
cherry valley forever
Sweet Seals For You, Always
will byers stan first human second
Cosmic Funnies
noise dept.

if i look back, i am lost
almost home
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@cruciatvsaa
tessa birch and arabella figg.
@delirixms asked me for an angsty starter meme. – accepting.
It was strange, to look back and realise that less than a decade ago, Arabella Figg had barely had any ties to the wizarding world, when she had so many, now. So many people she had met through the Order, who had settled in her being before she could even stop them from doing so. And now they were dying, one by one, and all she could do was grow heavy with grief and feel powerless.
Arabella was stood in the new headquarter’s kitchen, scrambling to find tea bags, frustration building up in her chest. It had been a week since the former order headquarter’s had been blown up, since that explosion had killed four fellow members, and now Arabella couldn’t find the tea bags in a new kitchen. And it felt stupid to cry over teabags, when there was so much else to weep over, but she still did sinking down on a chair, head burying itself in her hands. Sometimes she was afraid that her grief would swallow her whole.
A door creaked, and she got up, resuming her search for tea bags, the kettle now whistling loudly. “Fuck,” she muttered, wiping at her eyes. When someone entered the kitchen, she turned around with a slight smile, trying to radiate warmth rather than whatever she was feeling. “Tessa, hi.” Her red-rimmed eyes softened, as she turned to turn off the stove. “I was just making tea. You mind summoning the bags? I can’t bloody find them.”
diana bletchley and mary macdonald.
@cruciatvs asked for a random encounter starter
the streets were emptier than they had once been. tensions were growing in the world, leaving the air a little thinner; each day it felt just a little harder to breathe. the suffocation in the air didn’t lessen even after a good, clean, summer thunderstorm. spared the wrath of the weather, diana stepped out into the street. she breathed in slowly, filling her lungs with the smell of rain, before setting off at a quick pace down the shining cobbles.
so far, the days had been quiet. diana didn’t let her guard slip though - that usually just meant that something was brewing. while she was technically off duty, the call might come at any moment to let her know there had been something new. another fight. another death. another mess to clean. the murders came thicker and faster, of late. each body that she processed made her hands itch. she would spend the rest of the day scrubbing them until they were raw. the quiet of the past days had allowed her hands to soften again, to clench without splitting and blistering.
just before she was about to turn down a side street, hands curling and flexing slowly by her sides, diana spotted a familiar face further up and sped up. “mar-” she half called, then cut herself off. times had changed, it didn’t feel right to shout to people in the street. there was something callous about making someone else’s location known. diana wouldn’t have liked it the other way around. “it’s been a while. are you on the job?”
It was too quiet. Mary moved through Diagon Alley with a bag filled with potion supplies and work files in one hand and her paranoia in her other, her empty fingers tapping against her upper leg. She longed for the days when the street was a place of excitement — of that day when professor McGonagall had shown her the magical streets, her eyes massive, hand constantly squeezing her mothers’ to make sure she was awake, that this was real.
Now, it was nerve wracking. Mary looked over her shoulder too many times, the soles of her shoes hitting the cobbled streets in quick succession, her mind awfully aware of where her wand was in case she needed it. She wondered, sometimes, if she would ever feel at peace again, safe to walk the streets of wizarding London. Most other times, though, she tried not to think of potential futures, as it just tended to depress her. There was enough to hold her attention in the presence, anyway.
When she heard her name – or thought she did, at least – she whipped her head to locate the sound and saw it was just Diana. Breathe, she told herself strictly. “Hey,” she said, unable to keep the relief from her voice. “Just got off, actually. Thought I’d head into town while I was in the neighborhood, and all. Had to run some errands.” A smile curled her lips. “Jesus, I sound like my mum. How’re you? Wanna go get a cuppa? I know a nice place in muggle London.” Where the war seemed a bit further away, where there was a false sense of security among people’s ignorance.
caradoc dearborn and lucius malfoy.
@cursesworn asked me for a dark starter meme. – accepting.
As Lucius Malfoy strolled down the gardens surrounding his grand estate, he felt quite satisfied. Not only had he recently added white peacocks to the ever developing and growing grounds, he was on the winning side of the war, father to a wonderful son and husband to a wonderful wife, and the heir of a family whose name was still held in high regard, despite the metaphorical blood on his hands. Yes, he was quite pleased with himself, and why should he not be? He regarded the fountains near the mansion’s entrance, the water flowing so very perfectly, a smile curling his lips.
It dropped when he saw a figure standing in front of the gate, though. Suspicion crept up Lucius’ spine, and he regarded the shadow for a moment before regaining his smirk. Anyone who visited his manor without invitation, without making it past its enchanted gates simply had to be a fool. Arrogance often won over suspicion, in Lucius’ case, and it continued to do so even when he made out Caradoc Dearborn’s face. Besides the arrogance, though, there was a healthy hint of concern, though he hid that behind an expression of confusion. “I’m sorry, can I help you?,” he asked, as if he didn’t recognise the other at all. ( And he most certainly did, his mind flashing back to the St Mungo’s siege, his wand and curse aimed at the man in front of him, Caradoc becoming the puppet to the Death Eaters’ strings. He felt something close to amusement, as well, as he held more knowledge than the other did --- and yet, another part of him was worried; why was he here? ) “There’s no soliciting here, I’m afraid.”
me as john boyega
Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 1: 1931-1934
nikolai volkov and mundungus fletcher
@sectumscmpra asked me for a random encounter starter meme. – accepting.
Mundungus might not want to admit it, but he was tired. Not from lack of sleep ( although he suffered from that, too ) but from all the fighting and the constant losing. From the deaths. First Dorcas, almost a year ago, and now Caradoc, and countless others between and before them. He’d never intended to care this much, to have this much to lose, and yet he seemed to be floating with the gaps the losses had made in him. Well, that and the weed he’d smoked, the beers he’d drank and --- there was something else, he was sure, but he couldn’t recall. In all honesty, he didn’t really care. All he cared about, was that he felt lighter, detached from the world, as if he was moving soundlessly. Like a ghost.
Like Dorcas.
Eyes scrunched up. Drinks and drugs usually kept away the bad memories, the grief, but sometimes it just seemed to multiply. He sank down on a window ledge of a boarded up store, digging into one of his coat pockets to retrieve a pack of smokes, tried to ignore his shaking fingers. He flicked his Zippo, watched the flame dance for a second before lighting the trembling cigarette perched between his lips. Smoke curled, and his eyes moved to that, now. The knowledge that he should leave Diagon Alley tugged at the small part of his conscience still awake, but he wasn’t sure where. For once, he felt too heavy to knock on doors, asking for a couch to crash on. And so he remained on the windowsill, lighting a second cigarette, eyes traveling down the street.
And then, he saw Nik, moving through the street, and he felt his legs moving the rest of his body up, his fingers flicking the half-finished cigarette in the gutter. “Oi, Nik!,” he shouted, sauntering over. There was a grin on his lips, his body moving playfully, but his eyes were absent, shooting across the street, paranoid, tired, heavy. “Fancy seeing you here, mate.”
rubeus hagrid and minerva mcgonagall.
@sectumscmpra asked me for a fluffy starter meme. – accepting.
Sometimes she was scared she’d forget how to laugh --- how to properly laugh, with heart and devotion and sincerity. But then there were nights like these, when the war seemed far away, and things seemed simple. ( Of course, the war never fully left Minerva: how could it, with so many of her former students dead, with so many of her current students afraid and grief-stricken, young and scared of the world in front of them. ) She let her laughter fall from her lips, a waterfall of sound, not showing restraint as she usually would. “I usually feel bad, laughing at students, but ---” She broke off, letting out another burst of laughter.
Rubeus had an effect on her, even if he didn’t know it. While she often frowned on his more laid-back nature, it brought out a side of Minerva that was often buried deep by her need to be professional. She supposed that the whiskey helped, too. As they were sat in front of his hut, the warm summer air enough to warm them, she felt lighter than she had in weeks. Months, even. “He transformed himself, rather than the pincushion. Quite a bit of extraordinary magic, actually, though I wish he’d directed it at the object he was supposed to transfigure, rather than himself.” A flush threatened to creep on her cheeks, and Minerva straightened out her face, somewhat. “Ah, but if magical mishaps have to happen, it better happen at Hogwarts, right? With a professor present who can easily transfigure a hedgehog back into a fourth year.”
benjy fenwick and mary macdonald.
what made the passing of young lives weigh so much heavier than those older than them? because, really, edgar and hana weren’t so old themselves. early thirties, with years ahead of them – but once one has children, isn’t that what they’re always defined by? the little ones bearing their last name, their features? benjy never had a father, not one that mattered, so maybe that weight just didn’t register the same with him. but they were gone, the entire family, and it’s a unique sort of loss. sometime in the midst of the meeting benjy finds himself passing a hip flask beneath the table with one of the prewett twins, taking swigs when eyes aren’t on him ( or even when they are. he begins to lose track ). during the meeting, the tick tick tick of a clock rings like a reminder of time passing on. even if it feels like all had stopped in the tide of the news.
the evening was long, but eventually he finds himself one of the last few remaining at headquarters. but he was so aware of mary. when she rises, his eyes follow – always following, a hand twitching as if with the desire to touch her himself, chest opening as if her proximity calms him – as she drops into the seat at his side and swipes the bottle. a wry grin pulls at his lips, and it’s more facade than truth. “impeccable company to have, really.” there returns the unwavering confidence. the exact thing his father ( he ought to have choked on the word in his throat ) told him he had no business having. benjy pauses. takes a swig of the whisky no longer burning the back of his throat. wonders if she can see the slight tremor in his hand – and hoping she doesn’t. his thumb brushes over the back of her palm before returning her grip, his fingers lacing through her’s. he should do more, he thinks, but instead he settles for this. whatever this is.
are you – what, mary? okay? it’s all so subjective anyway. he finishes the finger’s worth of a drink in his glass and slides it aimlessly toward the center of the island.
“what do you say we go for a walk?”
And then there was that fucking grin. Mary responded to his cheekiness with a grin of her own, and a cocky, “I know – you’re a lucky fellow.” Her face hid the bitterness that she tasted on her tongue. They were the farthest thing from lucky, even she – not prone to self-pity, having accepted that the world was a cruel place a long time ago – was well aware of that. They were luckier than Edgar and Hana had been, though, she supposed; still breathing, hearts still beating, lives still ahead of them. But if not having been gruesomely murdered was all there was that made them lucky, Mary decided that was a measly victory. She tried to wash away the bitter taste from her mouth with another sip of whiskey, willing it to burn everything away.
At least there were their fingers laced together. Mary tried not to think about what it might mean, about why it was Benjy’s touch she craved – because it wasn’t just anyone’s touch she needed, she knew that deep down – and how it seemed to calm her. She focused on just their hands, his eyes, his voice. It was easier to focus on the details, to lose herself in them, the big picture fading. The whiskey certainly helped, too.
She didn’t think about his question long. “Please,” she said, relief spreading through her at the idea of fresh air and a cigarette, of the night sky and them getting out of the headquarters. Grief hung around the room in a suffocating way. She unlaced her fingers from his, only to get up and get her coat, knowing – hoping – that they’d find their way back soon enough. “Let’s get the fuck out of here, yeah?” Shrugging on her coat, she moved to the kitchen door, eyes catching Benjy. No one had ever told her how hard war it made to be honest, not only to others, but oneself, too.
alastor moody and mary macdonald.
The devil makes us sin. The unexpected words made him chuckle, head shaking as he leaned against the empty desk next to hers. Most of the heart of the office was empty ( not the offices, the seniors often under the same pesky habit of sending the younger aurors home while they spent most of the night on their own desks - his blue eye did a quick check just some minutes earlier ) so the sound seemed louder, misplaced almost. “When they do, Radfort will owe me three galleons.” It was a bit like playing bingo, all the possible excuses building up to a victory. Yet it carried no triumph or cash prize, just more anger with no possible release. “In a way, they have, though. Imperius? The Dark Lord scared me into it?”
There was bitterness in his voice, the few seconds of laughter dead and buried. In his mind all the trials so far played out, years of excuses and admissions. With his head hung back, the auror exhaled deeply as if all that anger and all that exhaustion was trying to crawl out of his throat. “Aye. Why not.” Alastor sat on the chair next to him, rubbing his eyes closed for a few seconds before pulling himself back to the warm light of the office. He reached for the photographs, reviewing them once more. “If not the devil, what does it? Is it just some missing bits in them?” He didn’t ponder much about the moralities of the other side, his own already far too much for his head. “‘Cause we can all kill. We can all damage and play revenge but I reckon there’s still a line - so it’s not from that. So what gives?”
Mary let out a huff of air. “Those two are very different,” she said pointedly, although she knew that wasn’t what Alastor meant. She was just tired, and any mention of the imperius curse tended to put her on a bitter edge. “I’m afraid all the time, and you still don’t see me joining the ranks of You Know Who.” Mary chuckled, then, stuck between amused and cynical. She seemed to be stuck between those quite often, nowadays. “Not that they’d have me. They’re missing out.” Frustrated, she realised that she was deviating from the original topic --- trouble focusing wasn’t rare, nowadays. In quiet moments, at least. “But yeah, I suppose. Voldemort’s kind of the devil, anyway.” Another chuckle. As if it was all a hilarious joke.
She got up to pour two cups of coffee, returning to her desk to retrieve a bottle of scotch. Mary let Alastor’s questions echo for a moment, lost in thought. Her parents would think it was the devil, that was pushing her -- if they knew, that was. She would have thought so too, had she not seen how cruel people could be over and over and over again. “I think they are missing something, yeah. Humanity, for one.” But that couldn’t be just it. She sometimes thought she was lacking in humanity, too, and yet she wasn’t as monstrous as the Death Eaters were. She had to be. “It’s what motivates them,” she said. “That makes them different, their actions worse. Even if we both kill.” And then Mary sighed, pouring a considerable amount of whiskey in her and Alastor’s mugs. “Fuck knows where their prejudice and willingness to contribute to genocide comes from, though.” She got up, handed Moody his cup. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand such cruelty. Don’t want to, any way.”
amycus carrow and sophie carrow
@magicalypse asked me to use a line from the last TV show I watched as a starter ( élite ) meme. – accepting.
A glass of bubbly rosé dangled in her hand, as if she couldn’t care less if it slipped from her fingers and fell apart in a thousand shards of crystal. She supposed she didn’t. Her eyes moved to look up to Amycus -- darling, darling husband -- a smile curling her lips. Mischievous, devilish. She uncrossed her legs, kicked her bare toes up in the air to admire her pedicure before pulling her feet up beneath her. “We have to be prepared, sweet.” Sweet, a term of endearment that meant nothing, not really, but she liked the way it sounded, and that was what life was about.
Sophie took a nip from her glass, swishing the pink liquid in it -- back and forth, back and forth -- her attention span short now that she was bored. “If one of us dies, and their allegiance is revealed ... the other can’t go down with them. So we lie.” What else did they do? Life was build on lies, a perfectly crafted castle, spun like sugar so sweet. “And please be dramatic, if they ever end up stealing my life from me. Extravagant --- paint a devilish picture.” Sophie was not planning on dying, but she was clever enough to be aware of her own mortality. And if she was to die, she wanted to go down in history. “Lies make life easier.”
inkskinned:
i made a mistake not holding onto you this morning in your winkled shirt, you with those lonely eyes all rimmed in the black of your lashes, keeping you with me, making you stay for just another selfish moment
i made a mistake that night we slept next to each other i swear i wanted to reach out and pull you tight against me and brush the soft place in the hollow of your neck
the number of times i stopped myself from kissing you outweigh the blades of grass on this planet. i wrote more poems about you than i should have. i promised myself that we were friends first and fell asleep dreaming of the way you kiss me, the soft sigh of you, the way you say my name like you’re drowning
i write don’t, she is your best friend fifty times on a piece of paper and then i set it on fire. it doesn’t make me feel better.
i made a mistake. i have been trying not to love you. i’m sorry. i fucked it all up.
benjy fenwick and mary macdonald.
@cursesworn asked me for a fluffy starter meme. – accepting.
There had been Order meetings like this before. Meetings where no one really knew what to say, the loss between them devouring any possible words that could be spoken. But this time it seemed different -- this time things seemed to be weighing even heavier. Not only had Edgar been killed, his wife and four kids had been slaughtered alongside him, too. When the news had been shared, Mundungus Fletcher had provided a questionable amount of bottles of liquor ( most of them already open and half-empty ) from his coat, and Mary had for once been appreciative of the other’s presence at an Order meeting.
Slowly but surely, people had left the kitchen of the headquarters, the night stretching on. And suddenly it was just her and Benjy, a silence lingering between them, too. Mary’s eyes scanned the table for another sip of whiskey -- she just wanted to be somewhat numbed, to be able to deal with this atrocity, to not feel as raw as she did. She got up, swaying slightly, plopping down next to Benjy and grabbing the bottle in front of him, pouring a layer of scotch in her teacup. “Are you --” Mary didn’t finish her sentence, in stead taking a small sip from her drink. Her hand extended to Benjy’s, her fingers lingering on his to grab it. She wanted something that was more real than the empty words that had been on the tip of her tongue all night, something she could feel that wasn’t grief or sorrow. And Benjy was there, and maybe the touch of his hand was enough. And maybe there was something longing for more, underneath it all, when she locked eyes with him. “And then it was just us two, hm?” Empty, empty words. Hug me, she wanted to say, hold me. Did she just want a pair of arms to cradle her, or did she want Benjy? She wasn’t sure, and didn’t have the energy to work through that confusion and the potential guilt. Her fingers curled around his now, grabbing his hand properly. A lifeline, an anchor. Something solid, amidst all this chaos.