Hyung: But are you okay?
What about?
Chansoo’s case is so similar to the one 13 years ago. When you investigate, you’ll probably be reminded time to time. Are you okay?
 I’m fine. It’s not the same; there’s a reliable reporter this time.

Hyung: Who?
Dalpo: Me.

Your brother, who is always most worried about you, no matter what else goes on in the world.


we’re phantoms in fifteengerhard freidl as lucius malfoy [entj]

lazy, long, and languorous, with the stench of cuban cigars steeped into his milk-white skin, he reclines. long white fingers play on velvet tassels, run through the white-blond strands. aquiline, avian, arrogant, ardent – an assiduous alloy of aristocratic artistry. alliterative, naturellement. white lips stained bitter plum from expensive merlots swallowed by a hungry tongue and a mouth more eager for words than food. he would call himself hawk, perhaps – but hubristic, lavish plumage betrays him, the ring of metallic coins ever more seductive than that meager, intangible thing some call life.


we’re phantoms in fifteenfarah holt as narcissa malfoy [intj]

she’s blistered and blue round the edges – a blur of lace and leather, whiskey and wine. her mouth glistens red and you can’t tell if it’s lipstick, cherries, or blood. backbone stacked of steel, vertèbre sur vertèbre, bones laced with calcium that might as well be cyanide. she’s got a mind that could make machiavelli cry; this little metallic lucrezia of the modern age. once a black, always a black – and, darling narcissa, even the pure blond of your hair cannot hide your shadowy soul.


we’re phantoms in fifteenmaria palm as bellatrix lestrange [entj]

she is more stallion than mare; her brain a tangled mess of lies and repression and corrupted cruelty. in bed, she makes him beg and scream and rub her skin red-raw. leaves kisses on a thin-lipped mouth and crescent-moon marks on broad shoulders. she cuts her black hair; jagged, uneven, brutally short. wipes the lipstick from her mouth and pours sweet perfumes down the swirling toilet drain. (dreams of girls and bruises blooming heather-yellow.) and 
in the darkness, power runs through her veins like poison, trembling white thighs needing something rodolphus can never give – his bride hardly eve; ever lilith.


we’re phantoms in fifteentonya vasylchenko as andromeda tonks [intj]

bull-headed girl, she roars and snorts and lets her blood run red and boiling. lips painted black, hair dark as burned-out coals, a gaze incisive as her sister’s. she is both mirror and reflection; narcissus’s watery image floating in bellatrix’s pond. sharp edges, hooded eyes, high cheekbones. blood running blue beneath porcelain skin. in ted’s swallowing kisses she lets her spine go limp, her mouth form moans both airy and desperate, loses herself to the burn of his touch. andromeda: the degenerate saint, the broken-winged crow.

Am I crazy?

I think there is a possible loveline between Cap and Yoorae… I’m starting to think that it is him who brought Yoorae to rest in their office both times she was drunk. Because otherwise, how would she have gotten there BOTH TIMES??

Also, Yoorae is always so supportive of Cap…

*detective mode*


we’re phantoms in fifteenbilly huxley as benjy fenwick [estp]

anarchist of the highest order, monsieur benjy. mangy and terrifying and tall, he sits in a darkened office, cigarette clenched tight between his teeth, fingers hitting the typewriter with all the violence of domestic abuse. conspiracies! he shouts. bloody fuckin’ capitalists, the ministry. they’re after the lot of us! ash drifts over his tangled beard like snowfall, the afternoon’s tea grows cold at his side. it’s not the dark lord he’s after, no – benjy darling swears the real enemy is one the populace has sworn into office. fools, he’ll call you. soddin’ sheep.

(he’s got one saving grace, thank god.)
(he really fucking loves disco.)