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 Disaster or Success?, Demetria & Rabastan
DEMETRIA GREENGRASS
 Posted: Aug 21 2016, 11:02 AM
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Ani is Offline

Ice Cream Parlor Worker
22 years old
Dating Rabastan Lestrange
Neutral
31 posts



I'll Wait Here And See
Which Way The Wind Will Blow; I'm Taking My Time.
How on earth had she been able to comprise such an eloquent sentence? Never had she ever been good with words, and yet somehow she managed to open her mouth and say something so brilliant that he even verbally complimented her. She felt as if she were giving the wrong impression. Demetria hardly knew how to put together a coherent string of words, much less an entire sentence that was noteworthy. It made her rather nervous to open her mouth again. He suddenly possessed expectations of her speech abilities, something he honestly shouldn’t have. She had always been horrible with words, mostly because she was better at expressing herself with paper and pen- And if she was lucky, her paints. It wasn’t very efficient, being more talented in a skill that took materials rather than simply talking, but then again it seemed everything the girl did was less convenient for all parties involved.

Rabastan hid his stress very well, for she hadn’t a single clue he was fretting over something as silly as what he had ordered as an appetizer. Had she known, a talent she could have picked up had she been able to connect the little things he did to how exactly he was feeling, she would have attempted to ease him. Sure, it may have been insignificant to her, but if he was that worried about something, then she wished for him to be able to confide in her. It didn’t matter that the pair had just met; Demetria didn’t enjoy seeing anyone in distress or in disarray. Instead, she sat across from him, completely unbeknownst to his worries and rather wrapped up in her own. Did her acceptance of a certain dish say something about her? Surely not.

All of these dishes were both more expensive and more fancy than anything she had eaten in her entire life- Or, at least, since she and Desiderio had moved out and on their own. She hadn’t a single clue how to make most of these dishes, and even though she was the primary producer of food for the twins, she stuck to the basics. Neither seemed to have a problem with something like a frozen pizza or macaroni and cheese from a box. Of course, nothing Pureblood families did could be as simple and cheap as that. She was indeed impressed by the exquisite decorating and the place’s wide variety of wine and dine combinations, but she would have felt so much more comfortable at something as simple as a diner, or perhaps some sort of Mexican restaurant. Less complex and lower standard scenes allowed more comfort to be gained, and she would have found herself opening up a bit easier.

Nevertheless, they weren’t at such a place, and so she was taking a little longer to get truly comfortable. It seemed she was flickering between stages of massive awkwardness and low-key awkwardness, never escaping the air that came when meeting someone new in a forced situation. At least she wasn’t in this boat alone; it was obvious this was his first arranged date as well- Or at least, she hoped she was picking up on such signals properly and not just assuming. He gave her two options, one that sounded rather safe, for she knew just what a stew was, and one that sounded rather odd and foreign. Not knowing when the next time she’d be able to try something that came off as exquisite, she decided to skip out on something she could make at home and go with the former of his two offers.

“That, uh.. That first one sounded good.” How stupid of her; she couldn’t even pronounce whatever it was he was trying to offer. She must have looked uncultured, and so she took a decent sip of wine to try and ease herself some. Hopefully he would continue to order for the table, and so she wouldn’t have to worry about Pietro judging her pronunciation. The last thing she needed was ore judgement from that stupid waiter boy. Who the hell did he think he was to be able to have such judging capabilities anyways? This seemed like the kind of place where if somebody had such a pissy server, they could simply request someone else. She wouldn’t offer up such a suggestion, obviously; that wasn’t her place.

Now that they didn’t have menu items to muse over, a few moments of silence fell between the two. He saved the conversation before it grew past the point of no return, and she followed with a gentle smile. “Lame and generic questions are there for a reason, you know.” She set down her own menu, no longer feeling the need to hide behind it as a bit deeper of conversation started up. Rabastan seemed to be rather eager to talk about his own answer to his question of employment; perhaps he had a job he really loved. She wanted to see what he got like when he talked about something he was passionate about, so she answered rather vaguely to allow him to do such in the shortest amount of time.

“I work for an ice cream shoppe in Diagon Alley, but that’s only been for the past three or so months. I really do love this job more than the other ones I’ve worked before, but that’s mostly because I get to take some of the sweet treat home every single night.” It may have come off as a little childish, but she didn’t care. If there was one thing Demetria really, really loved, it was ice cream. The fact alluded to her other jobs, and the fact she had had quite a few, didn’t come up on her radar as anything bad. He, however, could take it as she couldn’t hold a job- Which, well, was pretty much the blunt truth of it.

Taking a sip of her own wine, she smiled over to him and allowed her question to come before the consumption of the nerve-suppressant crimson liquid. “And how about you, Rabastan? What is it you do?” She only took a small sip again, wishing to remain in his strides. Demetria found herself genuinely looking forward to what his answer was going to be, and she even leaned forward a bit so that she could show how engaged she was in the conversation. A pleasant smile never left her lips, and her eyes never left his.

OUTFIT | WORDS: 1077 | He can check her out anytime he wants then.
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RABASTAN LESTRANGE
 Posted: Aug 28 2016, 03:16 AM
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Junior Journalist
23 years old
Dating Demetria Greengrass
Death Eater
41 posts



Easy Trusting,
Raise a glass to tomorrow's blues Have a word with my nerve Talk it off the ledge
He wasn’t quite sure how he was managing this? Maybe because he was good at making polite conversation whenever he had to? He usually wasn’t this talkative. He liked it when other people talked with him, and they talked more than he did. When people talked was when he could get the most observation in. When they talked they were distracted. Their eyes, their body language, usually went undisturbed. To watch someone’s eyes as they spoke could speak a thousand times more than what came out their mouths. Words could be lies, but the eyes were harder to lie through. Even the best of manipulators, the best of liars couldn’t stop the eyes from lying. No. The eyes really were the windows to the soul. The eyes spoke in raw emotion, only letting out what was truly going on in someone’s brain and heart. The raw emotion was the true emotion. Eyes were dangerous. Eyes were curious things. And Demetria’s eyes were very gorgeous. And they spoke of the nerves she was feeling. It was obvious in her body language too, but the eyes made it real. Not that he doubted she wasn’t being real. He very much realise she was. Which was unusual. Whenever he had girls talk to him, he knew what they wanted: sex, to hook up, to get married. They didn’t want him. They didn’t care. He was a Lestrange. He was gorgeous. He was their dream.

A dream he didn’t want to be. Of course he himself had thought about relationships before, he had had crushes. But nothing serious. Nothing that stuck. For those girls never looked his way, not really. He wasn’t his brother. He hid in the shadows, watching, invisible. He analysed and he didn’t mind being alone. Sure sometimes he would want companion. And he had friends. But a girlfriend, a wife was something different. It was something special. Arranged marriages weren’t about that something special. They were about a fit. A fit to the family. A gain in power, status, money. It was all political, and it had nothing to do with love. But he wanted love, even if he didn’t quite realise it yet. He wanted that companionship, that bond. And maybe Demetria could give him that. She was definitely something special. That much he had observed. Both through the windows to the soul, and her physical appearance.

She picked the first one, the Ratatouille. “Good choice. Especially for someone who hasn’t had much French food. If you hate it… Well. Then I’ll know for next time.” He almost choked on his own words. A next time? He couldn’t promise there would be a next time! What an idiot. But a pleasant smile managed to stay on his face. It wanted to falter. He felt like running in the opposite direction. It was an odd thing, to be struck by such intense thoughts. He was used to it, but it was still odd. He choked, often, unfortunately. This may be different than those situations where he had to torture or kill. Torturing he didn’t have a lot of problem with, but killing was something he chocked at. It wasn’t good. At all. But this was different. He hoped Demetria didn’t comment on it, and he tried to swiftly move on. “I think I’ll get the same thing. It’s one of my absolute favourites.” Wow, smooth, he thought sarcastically to himself.

She spoke about her place of work, she sounded excited. Ice cream apparently was a passion of hers. He made a mental note to remember that, if he ever wanted to see her again at a later date. So far things were looking good, nothing had scared him away. And he hoped it would stay that way. He was intrigued by her. Though to be fair he was intrigued by everyone, but most people could be crossed off that list within the first 5 minutes of meeting someone. She had yet to discourage him. A very positive sign. So for now he would continue observing and conversing. ”Ice cream is certainly delicious. Sounds like you have a fantastic job. Where else have you worked?” He was curious. It didn’t faze him that she had had multiple jobs. It wasn’t uncommon. What was uncommon was for a pureblood girl to work.

”Oh. Me. I’m a junior journalist at the Daily Prophet. I write a bunch of odd articles, usually between pages 3 to 9, depending on the topic.” He smiled. Oh how he loved his job. It kept him sane, and happy. Though the content of his articles were rather shit, and he didn’t care much for them. He did put the effort into them. Sometimes it helped to pay attention to the details and manipulate the news he did gain. Mostly his articles didn’t actually help the Death Eater cause. But Demetria wouldn’t know about this. At all. She couldn’t. Not… Yet? “But I really do love my job.” Writing was his passion, that much was evident in the way he held himself whenever he had to write, or talked about writing. “It allows me to pursue something I love. Which is writing.” He chuckled with a roll of his eyes. “I know. Crazy right? A pureblooded ‘asshole’,” he air quoted, “likes to write. Just don’t tell anybody. This will stay our secret, yes?” He held his hand out to her to shake her hand. He couldn’t believe it. He never talked about his love for writing. Nobody knew it. And yet he had just told his stranger his biggest passion. Who the hell was this Rabastan, and where was the real one, the one who always kept this a secret?

915 . notes: He's trusting her.... AH.
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DEMETRIA GREENGRASS
 Posted: Sep 3 2016, 10:23 AM
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Ani is Offline

Ice Cream Parlor Worker
22 years old
Dating Rabastan Lestrange
Neutral
31 posts



I'll Wait Here And See
Which Way The Wind Will Blow; I'm Taking My Time.
Many things were spoken in the matter of only a minute or two that took Demetria completely off guard: He took the fact she worked at an ice cream parlor rather than some prestigious job well, he began to talk for longer than just a few words or a couple sentences, and he had mentioned a next time somewhere in there. It was a lot to digest, and she realized each one had a special meaning. This was going better than she could have possibly guessed. Her best thought-up outcome had been resulting in her just not hating the guy. Sure, she hadn’t had a lot of time to thing of them, but it didn’t seem possible in an arranged situation to find a genuine connection. If the meeting was fabricated, then surely whatever formed would be too.

She had been so ungodly wrong. Over the span of the night so far, she was feeling open with him, like she could actually talk to him and he could genuinely listen, because he was acting like a true human being. There wasn’t any showing off in an ill-manner, any prestigious talk or vocabulary that all the purebloods seemed to use; all it was was him- Or at least, that was the way it seemed. Sure, there were layers, but he was slowly pulling back his as she was slowly pulling back hers. Perhaps she’d catch a glimpse of the real, raw him, that person he was on the inside.

Being polite, she attacked his passionate mini-monologue first. She maintained the pleasant smile, truly feeling happy and not feigning her interest in any sort. Demetria wasn’t good at lying anyway, and so she decided to not fabricate any of her emotions that night. Her hand would meet his, cold, dotted here and there fingers meeting his narrow alabaster ones. All she could imagine was a quill in those sturdy fingers, writing across parchment in an ardent fashion. Maybe something could be written about the two of them someday, joined as one. The thought took her by surprise, her heart hiccuping in her chest as she squeezed and shook the hand until she retracted her own. “Yes,” she had assured him before pulling away. “A secret kept between us- Just us.” Why she felt the need to clarify? She hadn’t a clue.

“It’s a breath of fresh air to see someone who loves their job, you know. It seems like everyone gave up on their childhood dreams and just settled; it’s good to see at least someone who wasn’t weathered by life.” She sure had been. Working at the parlor may have made seven year old Demetria think the current one was the absolute coolest, but it hadn’t been what she had wanted. “I always wanted to be a painter- And I still am. I used to imagine myself in other places when I was younger and inside the house, and this is going to sound rather pretentious, but it wasn’t just like every other kid’s imagination at work; it was so entirely vivid. I still paint, but nothing good enough to make a career. I’m not the next Monet, or Picasso, or Warhol by any means.” Was this too much? Had sharing her failed childhood dream made anything awkward? She really hoped not, and it wasn’t entirely failed. Demetria simply painted in her free time- Or what she thought was free time but was actually a date- This date.

“Where else have I worked? A more narrow question would ask where I haven’t worked.” She laughed pleasantly at the slightly deprecating joke, then held up her hand from having placed it in her lap and began to count off on her fingers. “I’ve worked at a robes shop, a bar, a candy store, a, well, I’m not really sure what kind of store that place was, a book store, a quills shop, and a pet shop, but only for a few hours. Essentially, the whole of Diagon Alley. I’m going to have to move to Hogsmeade soon enough so my horrible reputation won’t follow me.” Another laugh would escape her, and she waved her hands dismissively. There was the smallest hint of her self-deploring tendencies if he looked a bit deeper into some things and alluded to others. It had been ingrained in to her mind and actions since she was young. Demetria didn’t even recognize she did it anymore; it simply happened. Moving away from the toxic childhood home had allowed the trait to grow less in severity, but it was clearly residing- And with quite a large half-life.

It was uncommon for someone like her to work, but her life and current living situation weren’t either: Her and her brother didn’t live with their father as most pureblood children did. Unlike the rest of them, the next Greengrass generation- Or at least two-thirds of it- lived apart. Surely it had spawned many rumors in the community, but nothing could be done to get involved; went occurred behind locked doors was private to those behind them, and even if people could talk, and even if people knew just how cruel Jareth Greengrass could be, all they could do was allude to the actions that occurred behind the large, upright wooden planks. The girl worked so that she could pay some of the rent, some because what she provided was by no means half of the bill every month.

The topic of a next time swam around in her brain and gathered in mass until it threatened to spill over. Left unchecked, as she was worried about other things, such as her appearance and posture, the idea that formulated in her mind slipped out without her realizing it did until it was too late to stop it. “Don’t get me wrong: This place is absolutely divine, Rabastan. I think that next time should be in a setting more… Real. I just feel so out of place here, and segregated too with this curtain. I think we should just, you know, go out and get a burger or something like that. It’d make it more personal, and a little less stiff.”

That’s what she wanted. Demetria couldn’t lie, she really hoped something came out of this tonight, something lasting. All she wished was to make her father proud and happy, and if this night could result in something meaningful down the line, then she wished to continue it. Of course, she was also her own person too, sometimes, and so she wished for what every person wished for: Companionship. Maybe it could be him.

OUTFIT | WORDS: 1,101 | She Wants A Next Time~!
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RABASTAN LESTRANGE
 Posted: Sep 7 2016, 02:05 AM
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Merel is Offline

Junior Journalist
23 years old
Dating Demetria Greengrass
Death Eater
41 posts



Almost Shocking
I'm keeping cool while you keep smiling Saying all the things I'm thinking
She told him his secret was safe with her, and truthfully he trusted her. This date thing was going better than expected. It was unusual for him to feel so comfortable to tell someone his deepest secret, or at least this was partially part of his deepest secret. It was the one thing that he didn’t tell people. Why would they be interested in hearing his passions, and the fact that it was writing of all things was something that was frowned upon. Purebloods didn’t care about words, unless it was gossip or arguments. None of them really cared for the emotions that could be portrayed through writing, the imagery that could be created. Purebloods didn’t seem to have much of an imagination, especially those involved with the Cause. “Thanks. I don’t usually mention this fact. Not a lot of people understand.” He tried to explain himself, but why would he need to? She seemed to understand. The touch of their hands seemed to inflict this trust.

Her fingers touching his was an odd feeling, like a spark ran through his body, which quickly subsided. But there was a lingering effect; confidence. It was like the nerves had ran out of his body. Now that some sort of connection had been made things didn’t feel so awkward anymore. At least, he hoped not. Only time would tell. For now he was stuck on the high that was his passion for writing, and his passion for his job. Demetria seemed to take it well, talking about how it was a ‘breath of fresh air’ for him to be passionate. At the mention of him not being weathered by life his high started to fade slightly, not that his date would be able to tell. The huge grin was still on his lips, but now only painted rather than real. She had no idea that he was weathered, that he had to hide his passion away from most people- to hide his diaries and his fiction writings. From such an early age his personality had been contained to just a slight flicker of a candle. For many, many years this had been him. Deep down this wasn’t who he was. Deep down he was passionate, he was happy, excited, and full of life. But nobody would know. With each passing day the flame seemed to get ever so slightly dimmer. That was the life of a Pureblood, the life of a Death Eater.

Then she began to talk about her own passion, of painting. He listened carefully. He had never met a painter before, and it now explained the paint on her clothes. The paint had been noticed, of course. But never explained. There could be a million reasons why paint would be on her clothes. This explanation was fascinating, and very intriguing. Knowing that she was a painter made him look more intently at her. Her hands, her arms, her face. She looked like a painter. She was physically expressive, and it was endearing. “That sounds like a wonderful passion. Paintings are always beautiful things, to have something expressed so permanently, and interpreted by others. As they say ‘beauty is in the eye of the beholder’.” He almost didn’t realise he was looking straight into her eyes when he said those words. She was definitely beautiful in his eyes. “Besides.” He glanced away a second with a small shrug. “None of that sounded pretentious at all. Children’s dreams and passions are the best. Unfortunately most people cannot pursue such things. At least you’re still painting! That’s wonderful. I’d love to see one of your paintings someday, I bet it’s beautiful.” He meant every word he said. He himself drew a little, doodles in his diaries (not that he thought they were any good), but he wasn’t going to mention that. Not to a painter.

She talked about the different jobs she’s had and he nodded along, very curious. He had never met anybody who had had that many jobs in such a short amount of time. To be honest he had never met a female Pureblood who actually worked a day in her life. It was as she had put it so nicely, ‘breath of fresh air’. “Well. Just think of the positives, you have gained a lot more experience than most, and you have a lot more skills than others. I cannot say that I can expertly pour drinks and hand them over to people. One question though. How did you manage to only have a job for a couple of hours?”

Demetria seemed to roll with his comment about a next time, and it made him feel happy. He nodded. “Alright. It has officially been agreed upon that next time we shall do something more casual. And I completely agree with everything you said. This place is rather intense. I only enjoy coming here for the food. Definitely not for the wait staff.” He said just as the curtain opened to reveal his arch nemesis. Pietro was back with their entrees. Well, shit. Pietro almost stumbled in at the mention of the wait staff. A huge, unpleasant scowl clouded his features. Rab couldn’t help but smile back as the food was placed in front of them. “Thank you very much, Pietro.” His voice casually sarcastic.

Pietro grunted, still glaring. Rab had never seen him so angry before, and it was very, very amusing to see. “Would you like to order the mains now?” Pietro finally managed a very tight, and fake smile with all his perfect teeth showing.
Rab took a long time and looked over at his date with a smile and then back at Pietro. “Yes. We would, actually.”
There was a silence, a pause that felt like an empty room. “And… So. What would you like?” Pietro sounded annoyed.
It was fun to mess with him, and especially now that his mother wasn’t with him, he could do what he liked; even if he had a suspicion about his mother and Pietro being in cahoots. He didn’t care, the consequences could hit him like a train later. “We shall have the Ratatouille. Both of us. I’d also like some roasted potatoes on the side, you know exactly how I like them.” It wasn’t meant to sound nice, at all. And it seemed to work. Pietro sneered and wrote down the order.
”Anything else?”
”Nope, we’re good. You can go now. We’ll see you when dinner is ready.”

Rab turned back to Demetria before Pietro could even say anything, or before he could see the waiter boy leave their secluded area. He didn’t care, he was invested in having another conversation with Demetria. He had for a while forgotten that Pietro the Arch Nemesis was indeed here in this vicinity, looking after their table, until he had brought down the mood by giving them food. He smiled back at Demetria and grabbed one of the fondue sticks. “Just wait until you try this fondue. It’s like a cheese heaven. Terrible for anybody’s good health, but absolutely amazing in taste. Here,” He held out the fondue stick towards her. He hoped that she would like it, it would be rather awkward if she didn’t. It was a risk he was willing to take. She had mentioned she liked cheese.

1221 . notes: Pietro comes at the worst times.
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DEMETRIA GREENGRASS
 Posted: Sep 14 2016, 09:49 PM
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Ice Cream Parlor Worker
22 years old
Dating Rabastan Lestrange
Neutral
31 posts



I'll Wait Here And See
Which Way The Wind Will Blow; I'm Taking My Time.
Demetria knew all about people not understanding. They didn’t get the concept of her paintings, or they didn’t know why it was she felt the overwhelming need to release her thoughts onto a canvass. He must’ve felt the same way, with his own being a blank piece of paper. Suddenly she wished to read his work, but as he hadn’t asked to see her paintings (not yet), she didn’t request to read them. It must have taken a lot of confidence to grow comfortable in putting thoughts and creativity onto paper; most purebloods- Especially males, she had noticed- so often attempted to rid themselves of emotions. She soon found herself admiring him, something that made her tint.

Never had she met someone who could show such appreciation for painters. It made her calm down a little bit, not feel so nervous around him because surely if he could accept the fact that she painted, something in so many people’s eyes was considered ‘a waste of time,’ then he might be able to accept other things about her. The idea was invigorating. Demetria thought she’d have to section herself of and quarantine her feelings, but as the conversation went on, she found herself opening up just slightly.

He dropped another bomb, that he wished to see her paintings, and her heart missed multiple beats in her chest. “I-." The words were cemented in her throat, incapable of escaping until she thought a little longer, and his eyes weren’t on her anymore. “I’d love to show someone my paintings. Most of the time they just sit around my room and clutter the small space, but I can’t help myself from making more. Sometimes I’ll get to hang them up, if my roommate likes them enough.” It wouldn’t have come across right if she said that her roommate was her brother, and so she decided to stick with a more ambiguous title that allowed a whole variety of people to come to mind rather than her elder sibling.

It now seemed like the right time to ask to see some of his writings, an exchange of their works would make a fantastic second date in her opinion. The swap would allow them to discover more about one another. Even if this was arranged, who was to say that they couldn’t enjoy themselves and possibly form a connection that wasn’t forced at all. So many of the arranged marriages headed south faster than a stone falling to the Earth, and Demetria didn’t want her future to possess an ill fate.

The moment passed however, and he carried the topic onto her jobs. She felt herself grow disappointed before she assured herself that if the opportunity arose once more for her to request to see his writings, then she would not let it slip from between her fingers; she’d strike up the courage and not be clumsy with her own self-consciousness, placing her wants first. “Let’s just say I cannot say I can pour them expertly nor hand them to people either. I got to keep the tips, but they were rather low. Don’t blame them, to be honest. I did spill bourbon on this one woman’s super fancy white dress; bless magic for removing stains, but curse it for not removing anger.” Her tone was pleasant as she recounted the event, letting out a little laugh at herself before shaking her head.

A previous statement concerning a next time surfaced once more, and she couldn’t lie: She did want one. He had her hooked, like a drug that only took once. Rabastan was something different, something she hadn’t ever encountered before and wasn’t too sure she ever would again. A massive part of her told her to cling to him, to not just shy away and be cautious. Many tales of love were told with characters who possessed courage, and if that is what she needed to do, then she would do it!

Just, after Pietro left.

As the boy magically appeared on the scene, right after a comment from her date across the table, she raised her hand to try and hide her laughter, simply laughing at the irony of the situation. As Rabastan ordered for the two of them, she kept her gaze on her lap, deciding it best for the situation. He had already made it rather clear he didn’t like her in the slightest, and she wished for this to remain a peaceful evening. The girl despised violence and conflict, and so she prayed it would be avoided at all costs. He handled the snobby boy rather well, his sharp tone being enough to threaten the boy away from the couple. With his leave, Pietro took away her worry, leaving her to once more look at him, her heart beating away in her chest.

In the few moments in which her eyes weren’t on him, she had forgotten how utterly handsome he was. Her first taste of the night and been dulled by how late and embarrassed she had been and then her massive nerves, but now as she looked at him with a clear conscious, it struck her, hard. The smile he gave her made her heart flutter away in her chest, and she almost wished to fiddle with her hair. Thankfully she had tied it back and away so that he wouldn’t see how nervous she was. Instead, she fumbled with the hem lining her pants down the sides, hidden by the angle of elevation his eyes sat at in comparison to the table.

A stick was offered to her, and reaching across the table with caution to not spill anything with her clumsy arm. Her hand was steady as they took the thin, small metal fork from his hand, only the tiniest bit of contact coming from such, but massive amounts of internal sparks were produced. “I both don’t care about my heath and adore amazing tastes. This truly sounds like heaven on a plate.” Flashing him a pleasant smile, she’d wait for him to go so that she could follow his lead, having never eaten fondue before. There was some sort of meaning gained from it, and it went a bit to the brunette’s head: She was being treated kindly and fairly, and in all honesty, she felt like she had never felt before when she was with him. He didn’t belittle her numerous jobs or her painting hobby, he was introducing her to exotic dishes, and the two seemed to really be having a good time- Demetria sure was.

OUTFIT | WORDS: 1,094 | TFW You Realize How Handsome Your Date Is.
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RABASTAN LESTRANGE
 Posted: Sep 28 2016, 11:46 PM
Quote
Merel is Offline

Junior Journalist
23 years old
Dating Demetria Greengrass
Death Eater
41 posts



Almost shocking
I'M KEEPING COOL WHILE YOU KEEP SMILING SAYING ALL THE THINGS I'M THINKING
Rabastan was quite surprised at the turn this conversation had gone. They had only just gotten an entrée and the conversation was already quite personal. It was intriguing, opening up to someone he barely knew. He found it hard to open up to anybody. Although this wasn’t entirely earth shattering confession from the heart, it was a confession nonetheless. To Rab that meant a lot. He wasn’t entirely sure where it had come from, and why he had felt the need to tell her. But he was kind of glad he did. She seemed to understand, and to appreciate it. He was pleased by it. Surprised, but pleased. She was something special, and he hoped to hold onto her, whether that was as his wife or just a friend he didn’t care. He just wanted her in his life.

He thought he had something wrong, but admitting he wanted to see her painting- a genuine suggestion; as she sounded almost unsure about her answer, having paused for a moment. Shit. Had he just messed up the whole date with that one sentence? They did say that it only took one word to mess everything up. He had seen it happen before- not something he had said. Words could be used as a weapon. Very harsh weapons if used in the right way.

But she answered him in a reassuring way. She didn’t specify that she would like to show him but he didn’t take offence. It was an odd request to ask someone to show their paintings, and it was rather blunt of him to ask. Paintings, like writings was a very personal thing. The connections someone had with their art work was deep and intimate. Some people were more inclined to show others their work. Rab was not one of those people. But she seemed okay with it. In one way. But it was hard to tell. “Well that’s up to you entirely, of course.” It was also interesting for him to hear she had a roommate. Curious. “Oh, I didn’t know you don’t live at home! What’s it like, living away from home?” He wasn’t allowed to, that was one of the rules. And it sucked. Not until he had himself a wife. His parents really liked to keep an eye on him.

He laughed lightly at her story. “Ah well. At least you gave it a go. The only alcohol I’ve had to pour was for myself, and I guess that’s a bit different.” He realised himself that he didn’t possess any other skills other than the ones he had acquired at birth, and what he had been taught on the job- as both journalist and death eater. The skill set he had wasn’t particularly useful in everyday life. He wasn’t sure whether that was a good or bad thing. He had lived a rather sheltered life, and privileged. And he loved it, most of the time. Sometimes he was too privileged. Working and moving up in the Daily Prophet was something he had done on his own. That was all he had accomplished in his life. Everything was just handed to him.

She smiled and took the stick from him. Honestly he was curious to know whether she liked it, and he really wanted her to approve. He wasn’t sure why. But he wanted to make a good impression on her. Not something he had planned on doing at the beginning of this evening. He had hoped that his date would make a good impression on him, and she definitely had. No matter how she had turned up late and with a less than desirable outfit. No. That didn’t matter to him. Her personality, her connection to him already was what made the impression. She had struck a small nerve in his heart and was slowly wiggling her way in. Not something he was aware of. But it was happening, right here, with every second that passed between them.

He took one gulp of his wine before spearing one of the cubes of bread with the stick before dipping it in the fondue and quickly shoving it in his mouth. He grinned brightly after swallowing. “Delicious. I haven’t had fondue in a while. I do hope you enjoy it.” He wasn’t sure when the last time was he had it. His mother forbade him from eating it in front of her. It ‘disgusted’ her. Which would be hilarious if he came back home and she had been keeping an eye out, what she would say. She just liked to keep an eye on his figure, make sure he kept healthy and eligible for the face of the Lestrange’s. That was all she cared about when it came to him- to be the face of the family name. That was his purpose. Especially now that his sister in law couldn’t reproduce, he was going to have to bear children who would take over the family legacy. That was all he was good for- being a public face.

”So, are there any other passions you have? Weird fetishes or odd loves?” He asked her, joking a bit. He was of course curious about her passions that bit was serious, but the last bit was just meant as a joke. He wanted to keep the atmosphere light, that’s what he was hoping for. By keeping the atmosphere light it made things more comfortable and certainly less stressful for the both of them. But he hoped his joke didn’t turn her away from him, and he regretted saying it. So he looked away and took another sip of his wine, stabbing at another piece of bread to dip into the cheesy goodness that was the fondue.

956 . notes: Dat awkward question at the end. Rab no.
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DEMETRIA GREENGRASS
 Posted: Oct 14 2016, 08:43 PM
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Ice Cream Parlor Worker
22 years old
Dating Rabastan Lestrange
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I'll Wait Here And See
Which Way The Wind Will Blow; I'm Taking My Time.
Getting around to asking him if she could see his works hadn’t happened yet. She had grown a little reserved, despite her attempt to rally up any courage the Hufflepuff had inside of her. The time frame in which it would’ve been okay to ask seemed to have passed, mostly because the topic of paintings had been touched upon and then departed from. His frame of mind was on something else, now, and she was too shy to bring it back to a possibility of an exchange in works.

Rabastan instead questioned her on what it was like to no longer be at home. It was a difficult inquiry to answer, perhaps more than he understood. The only thing that had ever made the Greengrass estate home was Desiderio, her brother, and now that she lived in a flat with him, nothing had felt different- Excluding the feeling of freedom, and the ability to breathe a bit easier. She couldn’t tell him that, though. Demetria couldn’t possibly get into the nitty-gritty of her violence-filled childhood and why since she wasn’t there she felt free. She’d look like a fool, like she was asking for pity, and that wasn’t what she wanted.

She wanted a blank slate with someone, and even if he was in the pureblood community that had talked back when she was young and cowering and wearing clothes too big that were assumed to be hiding things on her skin, he possibly didn’t know- And that possibility was enough to keep her going.

Now came the difficult part of phrasing everything correctly without letting anything spill out. She wasn’t lying! No, not by any means. She was just . . . Twisting the truth for her benefit, as well as the evenings. Surely that latter meant for his as well. “No. I don’t live at home, and it’s really great.” Not too eager, but she said it with a smile and a tone that showed she truly believed her words for perhaps a desperate reason if one looked into it; she prayed he didn’t. “I live in a flat, and with a roommate, so it’s definitely smaller than what it was back at Greengrass Heights. I can’t lie, though; I’ve never felt less constricted. Y-You know how it goes. Planned meals, a constant standard of cleanliness- Not to say that my flat is messy, or anything.”

She let out an awkward laugh as she realized she had talked too long, and as she grew embarrassed, she turned to the appetizer to stuff her mouth with so she couldn’t talk anymore. Stacking two of the small cubes of bread, she dunked them into the cheese with both lack of thinking or grace. It was her nerves making her eager and quick to action, slow to thought. Her serving of herself followed his, and while she had watched him, hers ended up a bit messier. She quickly escorted it to her lips, some of the cheese dripping into her lap, but luckily her napkin had been there to prevent stains and from some of the hot cheese from landing on her thin jeans. Her mouth, however, wasn’t as spared. Awkwardly she did some sort of breathing maneuver to allow air in to cool the cheese, then chewed and looked to him.

She could’ve just fallen over and died right there out of sheer embarrassment.

Her cheeks were redder than any other time before their date, even when she had come running in and was flushed or when she had caught herself staring at him and blushed. She then avoided looking at him, her hand reaching up to rub the back of her neck and fiddle with the plait. “It, uh, it was good,” she mumbled, her eyes flicking up to look at him, regretted the decision, and scrambled to look somewhere else. Grabbing her wine glass, she took a good gulp just as he asked a killer question.

It took all of her willpower not to send a stream of wine going everywhere. Instead, she held it in, causing her to choke some. Luckily the wine went down, but the air flow was restricted and she began to cough. Demetria didn’t know the exact definition of a “fetish,” but she knew that it meant something sexual in most cases. Why on earth was he asking her something like that? Was he suddenly every other pureblood out there with their brains and intentions somewhere else? According to Derio it was most men, but she wasn’t one to believe in stereotypes. After all, supposedly all pureblood girls were deviant and ones who enjoyed in violence and, well, legitimate fetishes.

That wasn’t Demetria in the slightest. She was soft-spoken, kept to herself, didn’t like arguments and violence, and had never done anything ever involving whatever the hell a fetish was. Deciding she had to say something at least romantic, she stopped coughing, her face somehow even redder, and spoke to her jeans. “I-I, uh, I like holding hands?” That at least she had done, despite it being drunk at a party with some random guy (Or at least, she thought it was a guy) and it seemed like something she had relatively enjoyed. Touch wasn’t something she was used to in a loving sense, but she wanted the muscle memory to be tweaked from fear to love sometime soon.

“I have a bunny!” Instantly she tried to change the conversation away from the second question and more toward the first. She had very few passions as she was more submissive to what life threw at her, so other than her painting, her pet rabbit was the only thing she could think of. “His name is Lysander Barnabas. He’s very sweet, and he’s huge. Like: This big.” She opened her hands to show him, the distance only a little short to be able to hold a ruler between the speckled hands. “He’s a velveteen lop and has gray fur. Once, Lysander got into some of my, uh, roommate's potions and he hasn’t ever got sick since! He also turned purple.”

Demetria felt a little more at ease, even after she flat out rambled about her obsession with her pet rabbit. It might have sounded childish, but she didn’t care. She loved Lysander Barnabas. “He’s honestly like a pet dog. He just roams around the flat, but I lock him up when I go out.” Only she hadn’t this time.

Her eyes went wide as she realized it. Having dashed out of the flat to get here, to this date, meant she had entirely forgot about locking the bunny up. She suddenly prayed to any higher being that would listen to not let him get into any of Derio’s things. Normally her roommate was calm and relaxed, but if it was one thing that would set him off, it would be her ditziness resulting in loss of his wares’ ingredients, or into his socks again.

OUTFIT | WORDS: 1,163 | Demi's A Mess.
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