dolorsarchived

[dolorsarchived]

𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽:         the   minister   for   magic’s   office,   after   hours. 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚂:         closed,   to   ezekiel   burke.         (         @hoggleswart​         )

               antique   tumblers   are   a   solid   thwunk!   against   aged   mahogany   before   the   door   is   even   broached,   before   ezekiel   has   so   much   as   dared   to   enter      /      one   of   those   days,   another   in   an   endless,   toiling   series   of   one   of   those   fucking   days,   it   seems.   there’s   no   question   as   to   whether   oldest   friend   will   sit,   steal   an   hour   away   to   wilt   sorrows   in   barrel   -   aged   amber      ;      assumption   has   been   made   for   several   hours,   long   before   anton   flicks   a   dismissive   hand   towards   one   glass      &      sends   it   scuttling   forward.         “         do   you   know   who   i   despise   most   of   all      ?      journalists.         ”         unprompted   musing   is   clipped,   spat   like   muted   venom.   ladies      &      gentlemen,   one   guess   as   to   what   hallowed   institution   has   been   pestering   the   minister’s   office   all   day      !         “         pests,   the   lot   of   them.         ”

[dolorsarchived]

𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽:         beaumount   court,   marjoribanks   road. 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚂:         closed,   to   diana   dyer.         (         @dramaqveens​         )

               there’s   no   altar   quite   like   that   of   a   party   bathroom.      several   different   smears   disgrace   porcelain   by   the   time   mattie   slumps   against   it,   china   white      &      ruby   woo      &      godric   knows   what   else,   veritable   petri   dish      !      there’s   no   undignified   bow   towards   someone   else’s   coke,   though      /      instead,   ringed   digits   struggle   with   intricate   zip   on   an   impractical   bodysuit   chosen   less   for   its   function      &      more   for   its   fashion,   wild   divergence   from   traditional   form.      (      last   time   they   ever   do   that,   though,   what   with   the   cramps   in   lower   vertebrae   from   bizarre   angle   that   they’re   curled   at      !      )         “         motherfu-         ”         frustration   bubbles   up,   gurgled   growl   that   loses   all   threat   when   it   tapers   into   a   whine,   then   shifts   to   noise   of   utter   delight   when   they   twist   almost   directly   into   diana’s   path.         “         oi      !      can   you      ...         ──         HELP      ?         ”

[dolorsarchived]

𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽:         beaumount   court,   marjoribanks   road. 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚂:         open.         (         @startertms​         )

              “         ...         pardon      ?         ”         every   elegant   line   of   a   lithe   frame   angles   towards   figure   she’s   ended   up   tucked   in   this   corner   with,   crown   of   her   head   flush   against   the   wall   despite   curious   cocked   angle.   hues   glow   hazel   in   dim   light      (      though   they   shift   in   the   murky   light,   a   constant   kaleidoscope   spiral      )         ──         “         must’a   MISHEARD   you   there,   darl’.   someone’s   done   what,   where      ?      ”         not   entirely   sure   whether   it’s   body   shots   or   battery   uttered   beneath   the   noise      ;      is   she   convinced   she   wants   to   hear   the   answer      ?      stay   tuned.

[dolorsarchived]

#lmortem​,      or:      lorcan   d'eath.

“why are you looking at me like that ?"  @dolors​ /  astoria

Perhaps Lorcan has been staring for far longer than they should be. But it’s the scent that draws the vampire to them, strongest among the smell of delectably sweet treats. It’s the scent of death. Lorcan had simply been on a run to Honeydukes for more blood pops, since that damned Goyle couldn’t do it for them. And in the midst of examining the blood type on the wrappers, the stench had hit them. Lorcan smiles, “My apologies,” A quick sweep of their mind would tell the vampire if the wix was aware of their illness, but Lorcan doesn’t probe. “It might be crude to say, but I was admiring your beauty. I could use a face like yours in my next music video. Perhaps you are interested? Unless you don’t have the, erm, time…” they trail of uncomfortably.

               dental   decay   be   damned,   sometimes   there’s   nothing   to   cure   a   nagging   ailment   quite   like   a   sugar   rush:      they’re   not   always   a   sweet   tooth,   but   honeydukes   has   always   been   bathed   in   something   of   a   gilded,   nostalgic   glow.   first   step   over   the   threshold,   wrapped   up   in   saccharine   embrace,      &      the   world   feels   right      !      astoria’s   never   quite   so   keenly   aware   of   percipient   observation,   though      ...      lorcan’s   watchful   gaze   has   been   a   laser   on   the   back   of   a   clammy   neck   for   a   beat   too   long   by   the   time   they   whip   around,   a   whirl   of   unkempt   tresses      &      features   knit   with   evident   bemusement.         “         beauty      ?      merlin,   i   wish.         ”         they’re   unable   to   contain   a   rueful   little   snort   as   the   weight   of   other’s   words   sink   in,   features   a   sharp   twist      /      not   like   a   knife,   not   like   a   weapon      ...      no   harsh   edges   to   the   way   they   resign   themselves   to   what   lorcan   knows.      salazar   alive,   is   it   that   obvious      ?         “         well,   if   your   music   video   films   in   the   next   three   to   five   years,   give   me   a   ring.   can’t   promise   you   much   after   that,   i’m   afraid.         ”

[dolorsarchived]

𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽:         beaumont   court,   marjoribanks   road. 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚂:         closed,   to   ron   weasley.      (      @corroding​      )

               holy   ground,   sacred   space:      pilgrimages   made   to   abandoned   corners,   sacrosanct   whispers   have   always   made   the   sweetest   benediction.   beaumont   court   is   just   the   latest   to   play   host   to   light   -   fingered   fun,   a   game   made   of   pilfering   the   kinds   of   things   so   easily   forgotten.   the   party   rages   on,   vivid   chaos      &      cacophanous   choir   of   laughter   that   rings   beneath   booming   bassline,   but   hermione   still   makes   a   BEELINE   for   ron      /      falls   into   his   gravitational   pull,   easier   than   breathing.         “         i   scoped   out   the   bathroom   earlier.   how   d’you   feel   about   magnolia   -   scented   hand   soap   for   the   collection      ?         ”         oh,   but   she’s   DEADLY   serious      ──      the   uptick   to   furrowed   brow      &      the   devious   curl   to   lacquered   grin   says   it   all      !

[dolorsarchived]

#rebuildeds​,      or:      tempest   clearwater.

tempest’s   fingers   play   with   the   folded   hem   brushed   against   the   harpies   tattoo   on   their   thigh   -   the   outfit   had   been   a   purposeful   choice,   of   course,   but   it   had   been   as   if   viewing   themselves   from   a   distance   as   they   pulled   the   shorts   from   the   depths   of   their   wardrobe.   half-comfort,   half-torture.   half   please   do   not   forget   her   and   half   don’t   you   fucking   dare—   and   they’re   not   sober,   which   helps   and   hinders   equally,   fingers   drifting   down   to   feel   at   the   fabric,   wishing   it   were   raised   in   some   way.   make   it   feel   real.

percy’s   appearance   at   her   side   is   another   one   of   those   half   conundrums.   here’s   someone   who   gets   it   at   war   with   no   one   could   ever.   half   salt   on   a   gaping   wound,   half…   something   reminiscient   of   those   evenings   curled   up   in   tattered   covers   with   a   hot   drink.   they   take   the   bottle   offered,   raise   it   in   a   cheers   to   clink   against   his   own.   there   are   no   words.   none   of   them   are   enough.   so,   they   settle   for   a   :   “   thanks.   you   good?   ”

               since   she   died,   he's   been   sleeping   with   the   window   open.      not   that   he   sleeps   much      /      no,   darling   that   it   is,   rest   evades   him   at   every   corner,   slips   just   out   of   recalcitrant   reach   every   time   he   so   much   as   tries.   stargazing   helps   a   little,   bloodshot   hues   tracing   imaginary   glossy   lines   between   DYING   sparks,   the   same   clusters   he   once   traced   between   the   freckles   on   penelope's   shoulders   with   a   featherlight   touch      ...      are   you   there      ?      a   pleading   requisition   into   the   night,   like   she's   watching   him   from   somewhere   between   andromeda      &      cygnus.      (      he   keeps   waking   up   to   iron,   incisors   sunk   into   his   tongue      ;      begging   has   begun   to   taste   like   blood.      )

               “         i'm   alright.   you      ?         ”         this   is   a   strange   language,   that   of   the   half   -   truths   buried   under   pleasantries,   but   it's   one   that   grief   demands.   i'm   okay   translates   to   i've   been   screaming   in   my   sleep   again,   imploring   a   hardhearted   god   to   trade   places      /      i'm   okay,   dull   veneer   for   i   just   want,   i   just   need,   i   see   her   when   i   close   my   eyes      &      i   see   her   when   i   don't,   what   am   i   to   do   with   this   ghost   that   i   can't   let   go   of      ?      it's   the   kind   of   doublespeak   that   common   tongues   have   come   to   terms   with,   paired   with   a   knowing   glance   over   the   rim   of   a   bottle   when   he   pulls   off   of   it.   shoulders   heave   in   an   enervated   shrug,   weighted   with   something   unspeakable   that   tempest   knows   all   too   well      /      that   she   should   never   have   had   to   learn.         “         haven't   seen   you   since      ...         ”         the   funeral.   it   goes   SILENT,   this   new   period   at   the   end   of   every   devastating   sentence.   if   he   never   has   to   speak   the   fuckin'   word   aloud   again,   it'll   be   too   soon.

[dolorsarchived]

#sacchariines​,      or:      lavender   brown.

“it’s never just one with you ,  is it ?“ @dolors​

“i suppose not,” maisie made her best effort of being assertive with her response, her back straight, chest out, but the slight falter in her words likely gave her away. that and the way she bit the inside of her mouth as she studied the male in front of her. “is that a problem for you?”

               they   make   a   fascinating   study      in   what   it   means   to   fail:      this   is   the   last   time,   okay      ?      (      said   a   week   before   chance   grazing   in   the   three   broomsticks,   callused   touch   an   overheated   junction   against   satin   of   an   inner   wrist.      )      fuck’s   sake,   again      ?      really      ?      how   many   times   are   we   going   to   go   over   this      ?      (      venom   wrapped   in   rapidly   -   cooling   bedsheet,   all   mussed   hair      &      a   groove   pressed   into   unruly   brow.      )      a   push      &      pull,   aberrant   magnetism,   opposites   attract   or   something   like   that.   at   the   very   least,   this   exchange   lacks   quite   the   biting   heat   that   theirs   normally   take   on      !      instead,   there’s   something   uncomfortably   soft   about   slate   grey   as   he   peers   up   at   her.         “         ‘course   not.   i   like   at   least   two   rousin’   arguments   with   you   before   my   morning   coffee.   keeps   me   on   my   toes.         ”

[dolorsarchived]

𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽:         beaumount   court,   marjoribanks   road. 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚂:         closed,   to   tempest   clearwater.      (      @rebuildeds​      )

               it’s   the   stars   that   do   it:      constellations   on   denim,   a   shimmering   galaxy   made   manifest   in   the   half   -   darkness,      &      it’s   got   an   unsteady   pulse   jumping   to   a   noticeable   throb   somewhere   just   below   unshaven   jaw.      (      like   he   thought   she   was   going   to   rise   again,   like   it   wasn’t   real,   like      ...      godric   only   knows.   once   a   foolish   boy   infatuated,   turned   forlorn   man   with   half   his   heart   still   aching   for   someone   who   cannot   possibly   come   back,   what   could   he   expect      ?      there’s   a   certain   faith   in   love,   this   is   true,   but   there’s   no   boulders   to   be   pushed   aside   here.   no   empty   cave.   grave   remains   painfully   occupied,      &      no   crescent   moon   earrings   glinting   in   party   light   will   change   that.      )      when   he   recognises   tempest,   makes   the   connection,   it   doesn’t   quite   soothe   the   raw   burn   buried   somewhere   alongside   the   scorched   highway   that   bourbon   makes   down   the   column   of   his   throat,   but   it   doesn’t   make   it   worse.      (      that’s   the   baseline   he’s   working   off   these   days:      fine   is   a   pipe   dream,   you   can   only   hope   for   something   middling   that   doesn’t   twist   the   dagger.      )      it’s   not   comfort   he’s   aiming   for,   when   he   finds   himself   at   their   side   with   an   unopened   drink   dangling   from   a   lax   grasp.   presented   like   a   peace   offering:      i   miss   her   too,   like   a   phanton   limb.         “         drink      ?         ”

[dolorsarchived]

#hoggleswart​,      or:      lavender   brown.

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓:                     ＂         do   you   remember   how   we   first   met?         ＂                  ft.      lavender   brown         &         parvati   patil               (      @dolors​​.      )

She   remembers.               ―               Of   course   she   remembers.         Lavender   doesn’t   have   a   lot   of   fond   memories   to   hold   onto   anymore.         Past   blends   into   a   haunted   present         &         thinking   back   on   better   times   does   nothing   but   weigh   her   down         :         taunting   the   wolf   with   a   life   that   slipped   right   through   her   fingers.         Some   images,      however,      are   HARDER   to   wipe   than   others   because   no   matter   how   much   she   pretends   otherwise         .   .   .         those   early   Hogwarts   days           (      She’s   eleven   years   old   with   tear   -   stained   cheeks         &         a   quivering   bottom   lip,      hiding   in   an   empty   train   carriage   on   the   Hogwarts   Express.         Lavender   has   never   been   this   far   away   from   home   before   and   it’s   all   a   little   overwhelming,      until   a   kind   soul   sits   beside   her.        /          Brown,   Lavender   is   the   first   name   to   be   sorted   into   Gryffindor   that   year.      She   saves   the   seat   beside   her,      in   the   desperate   hopes   her   new   friend   from   the   train   will   be   given   the   same   house.       )           are   still   the   clearest.         They’re   the   same   thoughts   she   once   used   while   attempting   to   conjure   a   patronus   in   fifth   year.         Yes,   she   remembers         .   .   .         but   what   good   would   admitting   that   do?         Reminiscing   on   a   bond   now   lost   tugs   too   harshly   at   an   already   -   aching   heart.                     ＂         That   was   forever   ago.         ＂                     The   muscle   in   her   jaw   clenches   tight   and   Lavender   doesn’t   DARE   make   direct   eye   contact,      fearing   longing   gaze   will   betray   true   emotions.         Instead,      they   stare   downward,      focus   on   anything   other   than   them.                     ＂         How   could   I   possibly   remember   that   far   back?         ＂

               a   momentary   lapse   in   judgment,   that’s   what   they’ll   chalk   a   badly   -   suppressed   curiosity   to:      an   itch   that   needed   to   be   scratched,   a   desperate   yearning   to   know      ...      WHAT,   exactly      ?      whether   lavender   is   haunted   by   the   same   persistent   spectre,   terrible   little   poltergeist   that   lingers   in   vivid   technicolour   at   the   frayed   edges   of   all   their   worst   days      ?      ...      she’s   right,   of   course   she   is.      it   was   forever   ago.      promise   of   something   greater   than   whatever   eleven   -   year   -   old   minds   could   cobble   together   glimmered   BRILLIANTLY   in   the   distance,   close   enough   to   taste      /      sharp   enough   to   puncture   into   softest   places   when   it   all   comes   shattering   down,   when   closest   friends   become   ghosts   in   steam   -   fogged   mirrors,   blurred   shapes   just   out   of   reach      &      yet   so   intimately   familiar   that   so   much   as   a   glimpse   of   a   buoyant   grin      &      bright   eyes   sends   stomach   tumbling   back.   those   hues   don’t   so   much   as   falter   now,   though      ;      parvati   tracks   each   fleeting   moment,   notes   the   distance.      liar.   you   remember   everything.      “         the   train.   chocolate   frogs.         ”         buzzwords   said   like   prayer,   moment   of   weakness:      please,   just   tell   me   you   remember.   tell   me   that   this   all   meant   something   to   you,   too.

[dolorsarchived]

#hoggleswart​,      or:      marcus   flint.

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓:                     ＂         what,      you   don’t   have   time   for   me   anymore?         ＂                  ft.         marcus   flint         &         julius   crabbe.                  (         @dolors​.            )

＂         Don’t   be   so   dramatic.         Of   course   I   have   time   for   you.         ＂                     And   if   words   don’t   convince,      actions   quickly   follow,      arm   sliding   around   Julius’   shoulder   with   a   natural   ease   to   tug   him   closer.                     ＂         You   know   how   mom   gets.         She’s   a   very   bossy   woman.         She   says   jump,         I   ask   how   high.         You’ll   be   thanking   me   when   my   inheritance   comes   in   and   I   take   us   on   that   vacation   we   keep   planning.         ＂                     Fingers   ruffle   hair   before   grip   loosens   up   and   they   let   out   a   long,      drawn   -   out   sigh.         How   tiring   it   must   be   to   play   the   role   of   doting   fiance!         Hard   to   believe   more   people   aren’t   showing   him   understanding.                     ＂         Of   course         .   .   .         that   vacation   might   also   be   my   honeymoon,      but   we   can   make   it   work.         We   always   do.         ＂

               “         could’a   fooled   me.         ”         sullen   patron   saint   of   bad   graces,   he   can’t   even   feign   indignance   when   marcus   wraps   a   lanky   arm   around   the   broad   slope   of   sagging   shoulders      ;      there’s   the   hint   of   something   mirthful   dancing   in   the   corners   of   narrowed   hues.         “         y’reckon   it’s   worth   me   sortin’   her   out      ?      puttin’   on   my   best   moves,   all   of   that.      oh,   but   mrs.   flint      ...         ”         dizzying   octave   change,   a   fluttering   of   sooty   lashes      /      perhaps   the   last   thing   that   marcus’   mother   needs   in   the   middle   of   planning   a   wedding   is   a   meddling   fuckin’   CRABBE,   a   spanner   in   the   works   if   ever   there   was   one      !      entire   expression   sours   at   the   mention   of   what   comes   after   nuptials,   though      ...         “         i’m   not   goin’   on   your   bloody   honeymoon.         ”         (         but   i’ll   spend   your   entire   wedding   shamelessly   ogling   your   bride.         )

[dolorsarchived]

𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽:         the   three   broomsticks. 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚂:         closed,   to   dudley   dursley.         (         @rebuildeds​         )

               “         budge   over.         ”         command   comes   in   tones   consumed   with   their   own   weariness,   soft   only   because   raising   it   to   something   more   audible   is   too   much   work.   several   reasons   unfold   themselves   into   complex   webs   as   to   why   he   seeks   dudley   out,   something   of   the   moth   to   light      /      distraction,   maybe      ?      distance,   from   those   who   know   the   kind   of   hazard   that   comes   with   shots   sunk   on   a   tuesday   night      ?      little   small   talk   necessary,   only   the   vaguest   brush   of   a   shoulder   as   he   slides   into   worn   position,   another   barstool   occupied   for   the   night.         “         you   eaten   yet      ?         ”

[dolorsarchived]

𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽:         fortescue's   ice   cream   parlour. 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚂:         open.      (      @startertms​.      )

               perservance   in   grief:      it’s   the   way   that   the   minute   the   bell   above   the   door   sings   its   mellifluent   chime,   there’s   the   ghost   of   a   hollowed   -   out   smile      /      the   spectre   of   reflex,   to   flit   back   into   customer   -   service   cheer.         (         as   if   anyone   would   chide   her   for   lack   of   spirit.   brother’s   portrait   is   still   shiny,   new   on   its   spot   on   the   wall,   not   up   long   enough   to   collect   dust.   he’s   the   first   thing   she   looks   at   in   the   morning,   bleary   -   eyed,   still   smarting   with   that   immeasurable   loss.      )         matilda   tracks   their   eager   gaze,   watches   with   a   growing   dismay   as   it   lands   upon   an   empty   tray.         GODDAMMIT.         “         ...         we’re   just   out   of   that   one,   sorry.         ”         read:      that’s   henry’s   favourite   flavour,      &      owling   to   reorder   it   feels   like   a   hot   knife   in   my   most   sensitive   parts.   can   i   offer   you   cookies      &      creme,   instead         ?

[dolorsarchived]

#sibylliine​,      or:      damaris   vector.

𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽  :  anywhere ( knight bus shenanigans )  !

they’d never have gotten away with indulging in their side hustle if it were ANY busier, but between it being midweek and word getting around that otto was the one driving the 59, tonight, damaris was getting a shocking amount of down time. the greying wizard was notoriously slow even by muggle standards, nevermind other knight buses, and more than once in the last few hours had they slowed to pick someone up in the middle of the english countryside only for them to have ‘forgotten’ something crucial and insist they’d catch the next one. with rent due friday and bills going out of their account first thing monday, they’re lucky & they know it. the sickles they make off a susceptible customer each time they spread a tarot deck across a spindly table aren’t much, but they build up enough to be worth it, over time. they just have to keep going - which they do, though with everyone else on the bottom floor now sound asleep, they feel like they’re able to be a little more dramatic without fear of being overheard. usually, it pays more. “it’s not looking good, bruv,” they suck in a breath for emphasis and make sure to look at the chosen cards with appropriate levels of horror. tonally, it’s actually a really good imitation of the tik tok - and they’re a little chuffed by it - but they don’t have high hopes of their wixen comrade actually getting the reference, “it’s not looking good.”

                  it’s   a   strange   habit   to   indulge,   almost   as   if   prodding      &      prying   at   a   yellowing   bruise      ...      (      dig   the   pads   of   indelicate   fingers   into   sensitive   flesh,   but   don’t   have   the   gall   to   YELP   when   it   thuds   with   a   dull   pain.      )      tarot   cards,   crystal   balls,   tea   leaves,   they’re   all   a   variation   on   holding   a   steam   -   fogged   mirror   up:      nothing   good   is   coming.   what   else   is   new      ?      &      despite   it   all,   the   dreadful   weight   of   knowing   that   no   salient   hues   will   ever   gaze   on   future      &      see   a   silver   lining,   astoria’s   still   drawn   to   it.   there’s   a   greek   tragedy   there,   in   knowing   that   your   end   is   limned   in   something   grimy   but   still   digging   around,   hoping   for   gold.         “         how   shocking.         ”         words   catch   the   tail   end   of   a   huff,      &      they   only   just   fight   the   urge   to   roll   honey   hues.   settling   for   gnawing   on   the   chapped   skin   of   a   lower   lip,   they’ll   dare   another   peek   at   the   cards   spread   across   the   table   again.      (      with   the   way   their   gaze   hasn’t   broken,   the   image   is   burnt   into   the   backs   of   their   eyes,   destined   to   haunt   in   vivid   colour   whenever   they   dare   close   them.      )         “         so   what’s   going   on   there,   anyways      ?      what’s   killing   me   this   time      ?         ”

[dolorsarchived]

#aliciaxspinnet​,      or:      alicia   spinnet.

location: the three broomsticks, hogsmeade status: open ( @startertms )

Alicia was relieved that practise was over; that one had been especially gruelling, which could only mean one thing. A quick shower followed by a trip to The Three Broomsticks for a cheeseburger and fries accompanied by a butterbeer.

That sounded like heaven.

Alicia quickly showered before apparting just outside The Three Broomsticks. She walked into The Three Broomsticks, hoping to find a seat at the bar and noticed there were a few open spots. Great. She was just about to sit in one when she heard footsteps beside her. She turned to face whomever it was before asking, “Oh, were you sitting there?”

               &      a   proper   barfly   she   has   yet   to   make      (      perish   the   thought      ),   but   there’s   a   certain   comfort   sought   from   the   way   an   ice   -   cold   butterbeer   goes   down.   something   holy,   something   sacred      /      blanches   away   the   taste   of   hours’   worth   of   paperwork,   dotted   lines      &      scribbled   signatures   washed   away   with   nectarous   gulps   that   soothe   something   she   was   unaware   ached   quite   so   much.   perhaps   that’s   why   she   tightens   quite   so   visibly   upon   returning   from   the   bathroom,   palliated   profile   turned   sharpened   once   more.   something   twitches   at   the   corner   of   her   mouth,   junction   between   a   sneer      &      a   bemused   smile.      “      a   full   glass   normally   denotes   someone   sitting   there,   yeah.      ”

[dolorsarchived]

#antigonai​,         or:      antigone   xu.

𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽  :  outside slug & jiggers, diagon alley  !

the apothecary hasn’t reopened since the attack. that’s what she’d heard, anyway, and from the looks of it, that was about right - the many bouquets and bears and candles that have been left by well meaning wix have formed a memorial that has clearly gone undisturbed by regular business. antigone isn’t sure whether it’s a staffing issue or an undeniable sense of doom, about the place ; then again, she’s not sure whether she’s making the latter part up, based off what she knows. in one hand, she holds argos’ leash and keeps him from barging through the sea of tokens, and held securely by her other arm is the wreath of gerbera daisies she had wanted to lay closer to the door, though it’s going to be a bit of a trek. she’d made a mistake bringing the german shepherd with her, but she hadn’t wanted to leave him behind. with an air of desperation about her, antigone turns to the nearest to ask, “would you mind holding him, a second? he doesn’t pull, or anything- he’s very good.” 

he   hasn’t   moved.      the   sun   is   too   bright,   strains   something   fucking   dreadful      /      there’s   a   pounding   building   behind   his   left   eye,   a   migraine   borne   of   dante’s   seventh   level      /      he   can’t   move,   still   rooted   to   the   spot.      (      there   are   too   many   flowers,   none   of   which   she’d   like.   what   do   you   do   with   the   knowledge   of   your   first   love’s   favourite   flower   when   you   can’t   give   them   to   her   anymore,   can’t   surprise   her   𝙾𝙵𝙵𝙷𝙰𝙽𝙳   with   a   bouquet      &      a   boyish   smile      ?      )      he’s   got   to   be   making   quite   the   sight,   all   unshaven   jaw      &      thousand   -   yard   stare,   doing   his   best   to   simply   get   through   the   day      &      being   pulled   up   short   by   the   sight   of   a   veritable   tidal   wave   of   sympathies.         “         huh      ?         ”         it   takes   a   minute,   to   yank   himself   back   into   some   semblance   of   reality,   to   gather   the   proffered   leash      &      antigone’s   apologetic   look      ;         “         yeah,   yeah,   i’ve   got   him.   you   go.         ”

[dolorsarchived]

#kxbellem​,         or:         knox   bellamy.

location: outside the wet gillypad

status: open ( @startertms )

“oi! watch where you step!” knox grumbled at the newcomer. the last thing knox wanted to do was spend thirty minutes sweeping some of the ash off the ground from a fiery plant gone wrong accident. some asshole customer thought it’d be funny to leave a bunch of them at the front step of her shop. despite her prior annoyance though, she had to put on her best customer service face, like her mother taught her. knox set the broom aside and gave a pained—it was supposed to be welcoming—smile to the other, “welcome to the wet gillypad—no it’s not as dirty as it sounds—what can i help you with?”

“         motherf-         ”         it’s   what   he   deserves,   maybe,   to   catch   the   corner   of   a   sneaker   on   a   stray   flowerpot   unaccounted   for   on   his   ascent   to   her   shopfront.   balance   is   sent   momentarily   askew,   one   palm   pressing   FLUSH   against   cool   brick      ;      scornful   gaze   could   laser   the   damned   pot   in   half      !         𝚜𝚘   𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑   𝚏𝚘𝚛   𝚊𝚗   𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎         ...         “         what   if   i   wanted   it   dirty      ?         ”         it’s   the   way   he   breezes   in,   all   lazy   limbs   that   carry   the   faintest   air   of   an   unearned   arrogance      /      crooked   grin      &      something   warm   that   glints   under   flinty   gray,   he’s   too   cocky   for   a   man   whose   knuckles   are   only   just   returning   to   normal   colour   after   a   𝗰𝗹𝗼𝘀𝗲   𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿   with   a   fire   seed   plant.         “         came   ‘ere   to   get   a   plant   for   a   mate,   but   honestly,   i’d   rather   y’go   on   talkin’   filth.         ”

[dolorsarchived]