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 insomniac's lullaby, coffeemate
grayson d. pierce
 Posted: May 17 2017, 05:42 PM
Quote
27 years old
HIT WIZARD
PUREBLOOD
played by asia
29 posts Offline


to you i seem much smaller but i know it might be you, how much better could i do to be myself, not someone else? i’m losing sleep. i live only for the week
He did not consider a waste of time - that would require him thinking it was a time at all. It was more of the torment of afterlife come early; maybe he died younger than he thought. A cruel punishment beyond the wall of the Ministry. Somewhere between medieval torture and Azkaban, far more creative, for those free and without actual reason for the former (or latter, he was unsure of which sounded better). Spending hours in the suffocation of purebloods was the most delicate of the afflictions. It was like purgatory. Suspended, because you couldn’t die here, no good, no definable bad, just grey areas that were more worse than better. A waste of time would require neutrality, boredom, all he felt was bitter amusement.

It was far worse, what they wanted to call this world (it wasn’t, they did nothing to deserve the title of another world). The highest of the realities he had been born into. Skulking around in the shadows, hiding behind a badge of good, in seedy underbellies, what with undesirable companions and even more undesirable actions - it was more of a world than this. More of a home. At least the trails and tribulations were obvious, the weapons of drawn-out pain visible. Where he felt the most comfortable, it was the black to this very place’s white. It felt like forever, being away from it, back here in these walls (walls, not world, never world), like he had really died and had been sentenced to even more purgatory. Somewhere between the liquor and pretending to be this date and that, he forgot why he was even here.

He could leave. Why shouldn’t he? Isla was gone. The fad of charming mothers (or fathers), grandmothers, he didn’t care anymore, was growing tired. He was sure he had been introduced as three dates, dangled as an engagement or two. Maybe he could get married. To someone on the outside of here, out of the puppet reach of this ridiculous fantasy. He was content alone. But as one of the few single pureblooded (tarnished or not, the title still remained) men remaining, with a job and everything, the allure was there. His smile remained amused, the same bitterness in his eye. Every fantasy had made the time pass tonight.

Instead, he continued to charm and dance and sit at their empty table and talk to the same bartender. He lost track of time. What time was it? Who was here? He had consumed far more whiskey than in months. Either out of boredom or because of everything else, he didn’t want to know. Loosening his tie, he idled near one of the closest bars, his only friend the bartender he forgot the name of. He waved, somewhere between stoic and flirtatious, to one girl or another who he remembered dancing and introductions of hours before. Somehow, work seemed appealing now. Moving to lean his elbow against the counter, tapping his foot to the magical songs, spinning his half-empty glass of scotch around, he simply searched. If he knew for what, maybe it would appear and answer every question he ever had.
style ■ yaay ■ @erin
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sabrina m. lestrange
 Posted: Jun 27 2017, 05:22 AM
Quote
26 years old
auror
PUREBLOOD
played by ERIN
86 posts Offline


There's so many bodies on the floor, so Baby, we should go and add some more

At first, it had seemed like a good idea. Get your mind off of work, Brina. It's only a party. She ought to have known her mother's request would have strings attached to it. Maybe she did need to get her mind off the job for a while – she was losing her edge when it came to her mother's social machinations, and losing that battle could very well mean a ring and and irritating Mister Some-Pure-And-Clean-Last-Name. Ugh.

Still, her inner Lina voice had agreed with her mother, and so here she was, dolled up and glittering and oh so eligible. She had started longing for a long stakeout about thirty seconds into the conversation with her mother's first absolutely coincidental run-in with a single pureblood male just around her age. By the second, she was checking the ballroom for escape routes.

She'd had to promise three dances before her mother was distracted enough for her to slip away, and after that she stayed on the move. Staying too long in one place meant running the risk of detection and further match-making, and she wasn't sure that she wouldn't lay a hex on the next idiot who came sniffing after a bride. That probably wouldn't go over well with their host – some sort of royal so-and-so, she gathered, although she'd let her mother deal with the details.

An elegant drink tray floated past her periphery and she automatically snagged one of the goblets. She had to admit, even by her standards this was a decadent affair. It was larger than most of the we're-not-purists-but soirees that she usually attended, although she'd seen many of the same faces peeking out from under the edges of masks. After so many years of seeing certain jawlines, it was difficult for an eye mask to truly hide any of their identities – though it did at least provide a convenient excuse for not talking to someone and feigning lack of recognition.

Speaking of recognition – that was her mother's dress, edging closer and closer. Sabrina realized that in her study of the room she'd slowed her pace, and if the suit next to her mother was any indication she was shortly to be asked to dance with that damned Nott again.

She turned and ducked between a pair of twirling couples, beelining for the bar and whatever cover she might find there with the other unattached attendees. It wasn't until she was halfway to an open spot next to a figure all in sleek black that she realized something was familiar about the back of that head. The gap was almost gone when he turned and there, half a scotch in hand, was her tagalong hitwit.

“...Pierce?” Her dubiousness was less that she was surprised they'd let him in (after all, she'd seen many, many unfamiliar faces) and more that she was surprised he had any interest in being social. Still... between a rock and a hard place...

“...you look almost respectable.” She was careful to be grudging as she joined him without waiting for acknowledgment, although if she were to be fair (where was the fun in that?) he looked more than respectable.

Come on, baby, catch me if you can, I Know you don't have any other plans
{{pretties}} let the shop talk begin @grayson d. pierce
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grayson d. pierce
 Posted: Jul 2 2017, 09:42 PM
Quote
27 years old
HIT WIZARD
PUREBLOOD
played by asia
29 posts Offline


to you i seem much smaller but i know it might be you, how much better could i do to be myself, not someone else? i’m losing sleep. i live only for the week
He was no stranger to this impenetrable bubble (try as some might, it was never successful). It was gold and glittered with diamonds and rubies, floating above reality. There was a difference between pureblood and Pureblood; subtle, but it counted. A strong majority of those around him, saying hello and dancing and most definitely not gossiping the moment a back was turned - they were the kings and queens of it. They put up guards so no one could come close to their little dome of insanity. Lineage meant everything to them. Surnames and reputations and nothing deeper than a puddle were the important things. You are taught nothing more as a child, carved from birth to be exact replicas of parents and siblings and incest (they denied it, but he knew it existed). They had an image to maintain. There had to be pity members, just to tell the realities that, yes, they were nice and accepting and most definitely not the invincible stains that books boasted. His family had been a last-minute invite, to reach the quota for acceptance, but he was here all the same.

Not raised like them. He had not been taught languages and dancing and the importance of shallowness. Even if he had wanted, there had never been a chance. A Pierce is rejected. A bastard is an abomination. Once he realized that, he wondered if he had been kept around as an amusing toy. He was taught logic and weapons and how not to look back at them. It took his own experience to develop those same dagger eyes, some sort of mask to breath in the thin air of their bubble. He was not pureblood, but he was not Pureblood either - he was somewhere in the middle (not in an odd, charming way, either).

It was why he could survive here. At the most decadent of affairs, obviously not lying about gold and diamonds and exclusion (most certainly not, he had been told by a giggly girl five years his junior). He fit in and did what was expected and did not talk, did not attract more attention than paid. It was the only way to maintain saint at soirees thrown by egos and money. Be fucking nice to the help and they won’t plot your murder; that was something he had been taught, however. His banter with the bartenders proved as such.

Exchanging his first genuine words in hours with the bartender, still looking out to the dance floor because appearances matters, he tapped the counter for more scotch far too often. He had played his role as bachelor - now he got to perform the second part of it, drinking and being alone. How you take that is up to you (he could hear the whispers, as with any unmarried professional under the age of thirty). Draining his glass, finally feeling something regretful, he laughed at the bartender’s tease, offering the same humour he actually knew. He refilled the glass and it continued seamlessly. Loosening his tie again, once more filling the stereotype of exhausted bachelor (not promised, they were still looking), this glass he toyed with. Watched the front, blurred people, paying attention to nothing. He only blinked when he heard his name, not in the charming simper he had been hearing the entire night. It pulled him back to their faux reality and he silently swore.

Rolling his head, he raised his eyebrows at Sabrina. He had both assumed and rejected the idea she would be here. She was the Pureblood he danced around his entire life - moreso. It was both amusing and not that she was, indeed, here. She had to be suffering more than he was. “Miss Lestrange,” he spoke lightly, far more casual than he had ever been, placing his glass on the bar. Scratching his head, his hair messy and careless, he watched her momentarily, an amused smile breaking his silence. “Was that an uncharacteristic compliment or bad seduction technique?” His words followed with a smirk, picking up his glass again.
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