Margot Robbie photographed by John Akehurst, 2013.
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oozey mess
we're not kids anymore.
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YOU ARE THE REASON
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he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda

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@youhavebeenadmired
Margot Robbie photographed by John Akehurst, 2013.
New stills of Margot Robbie as Jane Porter in The Legend of Tarzan.
Margot Robbie as Jane Porter in The Legend Of Tarzan
Margot Robbie photographed by Joseph Willis
A N D R O M E D A
I’m trying to get out find a subtle way out not to cross myself out not to disappear
@thechainedlady
Margot Robbie, photographed by Miguel Reveriego for Vanity Fair
Margot Robbie attending Harper Bazaar’s Women Of The Year Awards
Margot Robbie photographed by Joseph Willis
Stay High || Alecto & Narcissa
Narcissa’s eyes left burning trails as they swept not once but twice down her frame and Alecto fought to release the tension written in her limbs without shifting too noticeably. Already she could see suspicion clouding her friend’s initial pleasure at her appearance and she longed to brush the clouds away before they rained unwanted questions over her evening.
As usual Narcissa’s observations were sharp and well aimed. Alecto didn’t spare the downwards glance that would have reminded her of the dichotomy of work skirt and playtime heels at hand. Not for the first time she cursed the haste of her, near instinctual at this point, flight to Narcissa’s side for robbing her of the time necessary to hide the urgency of her visit. Alecto trailed after her friend excuses and misdirections already pooling in her mouth ready to back up the case of much-desired distractions in her hand.
There was a smile poised and ready whenever Narcissa turned back towards her and one hand was already sliding slowly down the smooth fabric of her skirt to play with its hem. She knew the wine meant Narcissa wanted her to ante up with words answers but Alecto was more than willing to go all in from the start to avoid spilling them. Her fingers twitched and the hem of her skirt crawled upwards revealing a hint of the lace band that topped her sheer tights. Alecto followed her friend’s gaze down her own legs taking a moment to admire the various advantages the sleek heels lent her legs. “Who says anything’s for you? I like the height.” She grinned and moved forward breezily setting her case on the kitchen bar and plucking her glass of wine from Cissa. The liquid was sweet and perfectly chilled against her tongue with honey tones that reminded her of another familiar taste. She leaned against the bar and looked over her friend as carefully as the blonde was wont to examine her,”I caught you on a free evening, how lucky I’ve brought something we can fill it with.”
Where Narcissa was filled with soft subtlety and deliberate intentions, Alecto was all action and impulse. It drew Narcissa to her, that heart-on-her-sleeve sort of passion, the inability to hide anything once it hit her too hard. Alecto was raw and electric. Distress showed just as easily as joy, no matter how she tried to conceal it behind those coy motions and teasing almost-flirtation. Sexual and direct, willing to jump in with both feet and stay underwater until the waves had finished cresting overhead. She pulled Narcissa in and held her down until they both drowned.
But she wasn’t intoxicated just yet, and she still had the upper hand no matter how much Alecto was trying to tempt her to change the subject. The heels were something that Alecto did not want to discuss. As familiar as Narcissa was with avoiding unsavory topics, this particular topic was one she needed to pursue--it was just a matter of how long it would take her to pursue it. Alecto could derail for an impressive period of time, but Narcissa’s persistence always wore her down.
For now, she’d play along, join in Alecto’s game and pretend that the purpose of tonight was not what both of them were intending. Narcissa feigned jealousy, a pout passing her lips. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a date and you’re taking the heels on a test run for him.” Her sigh was pretty and entirely feigned, her eyes on Alecto’s figure, enjoying the posturing.
Something Like Sympathy || Narcissa & Molly
Molly wanted to be helpful in their rescue, but her entire body seemed to have ceased working. The more she made attempts to fight to make kherself heard or to sit up or move her body fought her, resisted her. She could smell the burning building around her, worse she was afraid that the awful skin crawling smell was burning flesh. Maybe her own, perhaps her own if she could judge at all by the way her leg felt. She could hear the other woman screaming, something akin to a whimper escaped Molly, trying hard to fight against the darkness that seemed to be closing in on her.
Click. Click. Click. Over and over she heard the tapping of the sound then a brief shift in the noise and then again she heard it. Click. Click. Click. She didn’t feel dead, not that she knew what it felt like to be dead, but not this she thought. There was too much pain for her to be dead, not that it was the screaming unyielding pain she had felt when she first heard the explosion, but dulled. Which could only mean that they were somewhere else. St. Mungo’s probably or a muggle hospital, that idea made her sick to her stomach. Wherever she was though, she needed Arthur she needed him because–she…She tried to lift her hand to slide it over her stomach settling instead for attempting to use her other hand. The searing pain that had shot up her arm then her entire body was eclipsed by the panic she could feel rising in her chest. Her left hand clenched and fought against the weight she felt was confining her as she lifted her hand onto her stomach the swell was still there, but would it disappear immediately? She attempted to ask about the baby, but what came out sounded more like a noise from a baby toad rather than words.
She wanted to sit up, she wanted to shout, because nothing mattered other than the baby, she didn’t know how she could live with herself if a frivilous stop had cost her the baby. Her eyes finally focused on the source of the clickingin the room, another woman. Judging from the sight of her it had been the woman with her during the whole disaster, when she turned to pace the length of the room again Molly immediately recognized her. “Narcissa.” She fought against the thickness in her throat. “The baby. Is the baby okay?” she managed to push the words out, her eyes wild as she was focused solely on Narcissa’s voice, watching for an twitch or cringe or sign that something was wrong. “Please?”
Baby. She’d forgotten. The baby.
The Healers had mentioned it--not to her, but to each other, not bothering to keep their voices quiet. Too easy to overhear intimate details of Molly’s health and status. The husband would be here soon, presumably. The authorities were still trying to notify kin; apparently the blast had caused a lot of confusion.
Molly was moving, and Narcissa started toward her, fighting whatever revulsion she felt initially at the sight of injuries and bandages tinged pink, of Molly’s freckles and unruly hair (she reminded herself she looked no better; the hospital lacked mirrors and she had not been permitted to fix herself). She halted a few feet away and forced herself to take a few more steps forward. Molly knew her name, which meant Molly knew her by sight, because Molly had not been conscious when they had been admitted.
How Molly Weasley knew her name without prompting puzzled her. If they’d met before, Narcissa had not retained the memory, and the Weasleys were not known for keeping up with society. The redhead had a desperate look on her face and a panicked tone that worried Narcissa more than how she knew her name, so she swallowed through the sudden dryness of her mouth and answered. “It’s fine.” Or so she’d gathered from the Healers’ gossip. “Stop moving. You’ll hurt yourself.”
Black Treacle and Tar || Sirius & Narcissa || August 4th, 2015
There was no pampering in Narcissa’s tone, only logic. Cold and snapping like a slap to the face in hysteria. Sirius swallowed hard and nodded, taking a sip of whine while giving Narcisas’s cup of brandy a wistful look. He mulled his thoughts over in his head and the wine over in his mouth before swallowing. Of course, he had one more stupid thing to say.
“It could have been me,” he said quietly. "I’d rather it was.” Maybe part of him felt he wouldn’t have died if it had been–that he would have gotten away. But mostly he knew that if anyone had to die, it should have been him.
He’d been the one to code it to go off early–the one to cause an act of terror in the middle of the day. He’d hurt a pregnant Molly Weasley as well as his own cousin–the one sitting beside him trying to drink off the stress that Sirius was no doubt adding to.
Sirius put the glass down and began pacing again. Septima was dead.So many people were still alive, but Septima was gone. Not only could Sirius not stand the idea of being alive and whole and left with his grief, but Narcissa had a point… they could easily begin to look for him.
He should leave. But go where?
As he paced, Sirius’ mind wandered to Alecto: her potions, her open mind toward dark arts. Her fire that could easily compete with his own. Maybe he could fight even his own fire with fire.
“Have you seen Alecto?” Sirius’ steps paused, stepped to the mantlepiece and fidgeted with a small glass figurine, staring at it and turning it over as though it had answers when really all he wanted was something to touch and to move.
“It doesn’t matter now,” she answered, probably too muttered for him to discern entirely her words and too muddled with bitterness for even Sirius to chance interpreting her tone. Discussing difficult subjects was not something Narcissa did often, and never willingly. She was close approaching a full shutdown; this line of conversation brought too much for her to risk discussing it for too long.
Bruises along her back, cuts on her hands where she’d dug Molly out of the rubble. Places that Lucius tried to touch, to heal, and she’d rejected him with harsh words and cringing skin. The week between the incident and the last mark fading from her body had been one of silence and a snappish attitude. She did not want to remember it. She did not want to confront it. She did not want to question why it had happened or wonder if the woman they blamed had been killed unjustly.
What was just anymore, really? Nothing in her life.
Her friend’s name sounded foreign in Sirius’ voice; Narcissa started and stared at him, suspicion clouding her browline. “Why?” An accusatory tone was the most pleasant she could manage. That she was close to Alecto was well known; that she was fiercely protective of the girl was a close-kept secret. Any threat to Alecto raised Narcissa’s hackles faster than most anything. To the best of her knowledge, Sirius had not retained contact with her closest friend after leaving the family--whatever casual friendship existed then should not have persisted.
Too many worries flashed through her brain when he didn’t answer immediately--was this a clue? a hint? a threat? did something happen to Alecto? what did Sirius know that Narcissa did not?--but she clenched the glass harder, brandy taste still on her tongue but no desire to drink any more, waiting for a response before she let her foul mood spill over. Biting her tongue physically seemed almost appealing in the moment.
Margot Robbie photographed by Emily Berl for The New York Times (2016)
Margot Robbie by Emily Berl for The New York Times, April 2016.
Margot Robbie in The Wolf Of Wall Street
Color in Your Cheeks || Lucius & Narcissa || August 2, 2015
That was hesitancy, wasn’t it? Not a game, not a coy step forwards when she paused or when she looked up at him, breathing deliberate. His every muscle was tense, anticipating some sort of outburst, either from her or himself, the emotions inside him, flaring and sparking until it felt like a thousand spells releasing, and he had no way of describing the roil of something in his stomach.
Or was that anger, her knuckles whitening as she stood by the chair, and then again in the center of the room, her lips pressed tight as though trying to prevent the words from flying out and attacking him. Would it be anything more than he deserved? Would he be able to take it?
Or was it determination and understanding, as she moved infront of him with the grace of a otherworldly queen, bearing and poise that made him feel insignificant as he stayed seated infront of her. Lucius couldn’t bear to look up.
But then she sat, and they were at equal levels, as they always had been, giving and taking and taking for themselves, as was the way that they only knew how, unable to deal with their own humanity. But he stayed until he exploded, while Narcissa never seemed to crack, the perfect pureblood bride.
Yet here they were, exchanging words of emotion, and it felt like the world was going to end. Then her words filtered through, and something in the air changed between them. Was she forgiving him? Narcissa had always blamed him for the direction that their lives had met and then continued in, blamed him for destroying what she had. Somehow, though, there was no lie here.
Lucius took the words and held them close to himself, letting them emblazon itself across his heart and brain, feeling some of the tension in him begin to bleed away. “I-.” His voice cracked, and Lucius had to look away again, away from the serenity and peace and forgiveness and goodness that she excluded. “Thank you.”
There was something more that he should say, some similar token of appreciation or something, but the words, for once, fell dead upon his tongue. A flicker of panic sparked when the moment continued to stretch, and Lucius tried “But that doesn’t mean my decision was right. There are many things I have done wrong since we started this relationship, and many of them I regret.”
He didn’t want them to start the relationship again, as though the misunderstandings had never happened, or to ‘turn a new leaf’ and change everything. Yet he couldn’t bear to continue the way they had been, or without the knowledge he now had. That he did, in fact, love her.
“How are we going to continue, with these words, and that text, hovering between us? What should -” I? We? You? “What can I do for you?”
All the emotional strength she had in her had gone out to Lucius that day. All her weaknesses were trembling, eager to flood the soft point developing in her protective walls. Ready to expose her and ruin her forever, as her mother always said emotions do. There was no sense in being emotional--only faking it for someone else’s sake.
Lucius was surprisingly willing to speak candidly, in a way that made Narcissa numb and made her hurt all at once. He wanted to move forward and all she wanted was back. Back back back until she was eleven years old--no, farther, before Andromeda and Bellatrix had begun their strife. Back to where everything was simple and she was too stupid to know what torment awaited her in her adulthood.
Rings on fingers meant nothing but endurance. Tolerance, really, was the farthest anyone could get in a pureblood marriage, and she didn’t count Bellatrix’s affection for her husband as something genuine. That was pure manipulation and dependence and an expression, Narcissa saw, of tolerance.
She’d spent too long tolerating Lucius. Enduring his presence when it was not strictly necessary. Throwing her energy spent desiring him into Alecto, turning any statement that made her uncomfortable with their status into a fight so she could pretend it never happened. Emotions were never something Narcissa handled well. Nor, though, was her marriage.
She wished she could feel the release that Lucius was clearly feeling in this conversation. The relief of hearing the things she told him. Emotions were so pent up--he always felt better releasing them, whether in anger or passion or conversation.
Conversation had never been Narcissa’s strongest point. Expressing this took more effort, for her, than keeping it in. And for all Lucius wanted--needed--more, she had none more to give him. Only practicality and endurance.
“We endure, as always. Laugh if anyone asks about it. We are fine.” Please, let us be fine.