#don't match

[yeesiine]

When you actions don't match

[talltalememory]

Photography IG | Personal IG | Flickr | Prints

[kittcns124]

♡ ; @bvggcds​ !!

Bunny Deerling was done being left behind.

It wasn’t enough that her father, one of the head commanders in the coalition, had chosen tonight of all nights to disappear, but both her older brother and her new bodyguard had decided to take off as well. It wasn’t at all out of the ordinary, of course, for Adonis to come and go as he pleased without so much as a cautionary word, but hadn’t Carter been sworn to stay by her side no matter what? It wasn’t that Bunny truly believed that she was in need of protection; she was a grown adult, as far as she was concerned, and could take care of herself all on her own. But...why were three of the only people in her life, three of the only people she was ever able to talk to and spend time with, suddenly nowhere to be found on the exact same evening?

It made no sense whatsoever - not until, at least, Bunny had come across an unfamiliar looking invitation in her father’s study. The paper itself had felt odd to the touch, completely unlike regular cardstock, and the words had almost seemed to shimmer before she was able to make out what they were saying. It listed an address - one that she had never heard of before - and a rather...specific dress code that caused her young and impressionable mind to flare with irritation. That was what Carter and Adonis had abandoned her for? Some sort of - sex party?!

It was with a great deal of indignation that Bunny readied herself for an event she had no business attending. If the men in her life were so hellbent on abandoning her at every turn, then she would be left with no choice but to follow in their stead. She wished desperately that she would be able to ask Feliks for advice before leaving, but he wasn’t answering his phone either, and - she didn’t have the time to wait. She hastened to change into one of her prettiest dancing dresses - one that, even then she was certain wasn’t half as revealing as the invitation had suggested - and she curled her hair until it was flowing down the length of her back in glimmering blonde waves; despite how much she had rushed, she was still running late, and sneaking out of the heavily guarded Deerling estate was going to be another story entirely. 

Thankfully, she managed, and after not one, but two taxi drivers had firmly insisted that the address she was looking for didn’t exist, she was able to find one - a rather mysterious fellow, at that - who supposedly knew exactly where she wanted to go. The way that he looked at her, dark and leering and with eyes that were almost akin to those of a snake, made her incredibly uneasy and even more nervous than she already was, but...well, there was no turning back now, was there? It was at least a half hour drive from her estate to the party, and - similar to the letter she had found in her father’s study - the surroundings leading up to the supposed nightclub seemed to shimmer in the low light before finally revealing themselves. Was it the full moon playing tricks on her, with how bright and shining it was in the night sky? Whatever it was, it was unnerving not only to her but her taxi driver as well; something was bothering him, and Bunny sputtered in disbelief when he suddenly decided to boot her out of his vehicle when they were still ten minutes away from her destination. “I - excuse me!” she exclaimed breathlessly, clutching at her bunny-eared Kate Spade wallet as her eyes widened in surprise. “How am I supposed to - ?!”

He sped off before she could finish her sentence - or pay, for that matter! - and Bunny was stuck marching determinedly the rest of the way in heels. The closer she got, the louder the noises leading towards the nightclub began, and - once it finally came into view, she was struck speechless by the sight that awaited her. Sirens. Military vehicles, like the ones that had prowled up and down the streets of Amsterdam ever since the conditional had arrived. This wasn’t a party - it was chaos, and Bunny could even make out what sounded eerily like screaming coming from inside of the venue.  There had to have been hundreds of people rushing out of the nightclub as quickly as they could, and Bunny was further stunned to realize that the vast majority of them weren’t human. 

Oh god. Oh god, if Carter and Adonis were here, then they weren’t safe. Carter was a werewolf, of course, and a trained bodyguard, but - her older brother was a human just like she was, and no matter how upset with him she might have been...she couldn’t stomach the thought of anything happening to him. It was with that in mind that she shrugged out of her silky-soft, faux fur throw in favor of tossing it aside and rushing headfirst into the blazing nightclub; there was a strange sort of metallic scent in the air, and it didn’t occur to her that it would have to be the smell of blood. Inside, there was even more chaos to be found, and the sound of her racing heart in her ears was louder than even the constant series of screams coming from all around her. “Please - has anyone seen - “ she began fretfully, anxiously, shrugging her way through the crowd with wide, frantic eyes as she sought out a man with dark blonde hair and shadowed blue eyes, completely oblivious to her own vulnerability and the danger she was rushing into without any sort of thought or regard towards her own safety. “ - please, I’m trying to find my brother!” 

[scorped-by-the-gods]

Jonathan Marks, he could take. He’d had a fun conversation with his former dormmate. Jon kept the false sympathy about his condition and about last year’s kidnapping light, he could match him sarcastic comment for sarcastic comment, and he didn’t get offended as easily as Scorpius remembered. Plus, it was flattering to be subtly recruited to help take over the Ministry of Magic, which there was no mistaking that was what the tangents on spirit user rights were supposed to be leading to. Scorpius said he’d pass on revolution for now, it was accepted with grace, and they spent another few minutes talking about business plans. It turned out Jon had been to Nott Scorpions a fair amount, and if he could be believed, a lot more recently than should have been possible, which could have been a mildly terrifying thought, but Scorpius took it in stride. The only tense moment was when Scorpius cracked a joke about how easily Jon had gotten rid of his wife compared to how long it took him to get Vasilisa to cry off their engagement, but even then Jon swallowed it after a moment of murderous eyes, laughed, and promised him a list of good names if he ever wanted to drown someone to get away from Diana. It was a good time catching-up, for what it was.

Criminals recently released from Azkaban he could take, a few of them came up and made weird comments about his father or grandfather, but no more so than he was used to from other audiences, less than some of the Ministry employees actually, and for the most part, he couldn’t even tell the groups apart, not remembering pictures in the paper that well. That was another thing, how well some of the escaped prisoners were getting on with those from the Ministry who actually showed up. It looked like there may even be a few offers to talk to the Minister about pardons being bantered. 

It was a cool night. Bizarre, but cool and strangely relaxed. He hoped the food wasn’t drugged. It didn’t seem likely with the no harm vow, but it would explain the sense of calm in ninety percent of the attendees. However it happened, he wasn’t going to question. He was going to have his required couple of dances with Diana, make some more business connections, and enjoy himself.

That was the plan until he saw what he couldn’t take. Lawrence Frisk, Joshua Radley, the redhead from the potion shop in Hogsmeade he’d saw later in the Forbidden Forest, and fucking Bellamy whatever-her-last-name-was. 

He had every excuse to go a bit stiff, to go paler than even usual, grip his drink more tightly than necessary, to forget what he might have been saying to whom, and to head straight for the bar. He would have been excused for heading right out the door.  It wouldn’t even  read differently,  if Lawrence came over, clapped him on the back, and started in on how good it was to see him, which wasn’t so unlikely. It would seem like his former kidnapper was taunting him. 

If Bellamy was warm to him, that was a bigger problem if the wrong people saw, but she wasn’t likely to approach him. None of them were likely to approach him if they really did consider him an ally. They were smarter than that, right?

He needed a drink. His drink was full but he needed another. 

“Three scotches,” he told the bartender. “Don’t look for other people. They’re all for me, and I do need them all at once. I’m going to levitate them out onto the balcony with me.”

[lefebvre-leo]

@ichorxd​

             He had seen him at the assembly and nearly went all the way down to the floor in shock. Could he be? Was he? The second the alumni had stepped forward, Leo had been unable to hear or look at anything else but that one man, the living and breathing image of his brother Cecil– but he couldn’t be. He was dead. Had been for four years, disappeared for five.                                                               It isn’t him, it isn’t him, it isn’t him.             But what if he was? What would it mean? That his father had lied to him? That he had been there all along, and was just hidden? Maybe he was on a mission– he had those often, Leo remembered, but why making him believe he had abandoned him and Bellamy? Why saying he was dead? He had buried him– he had seen the casket go down the ground right next to his mother’s grave, then why the FUCK was he standing there? It was a fucking joke. It had to be. 

            Leo went pale. Some girl sitting next to him asked if he was alright, he looked sick, and truth was, he was about to be sick, which prompted him to take off running towards the nearest toilet and empty his already empty stomach into the bowl. He was sweating cold, pale, hands shaking, bottom lip quivering. He was unwell, and perhaps he passed out right then right there, but nobody ever found out. Leo would never actually admit that out loud. He walked out of the bathroom with his head held up high as usual, like a Lefebvre would. 

            Everybody had gone back to their usual activities, but the mumbling and murmurs were around about this new crew, group of tutors, teachers, people– whoever they fucking were. Leo couldn’t stand it. It was the first week, and he skipped every single class that day, locked his room on purpose until night fell just so he could be alone. And even then, when he was supposed to be asleep, he found himself tossing and tumbling, which of course disturbed Toffee who bit his toe.             He cursed, sitting up at first then getting into some clothes and walked out of the room in silence. It wasn’t that late but definitely past the time to be out in the hallways. He was sneaky, and for a school full of spies, it was surprisingly easy to find out which room some people were. He could be in trouble for it, but he didn’t care at this point.

            Leo walked up to the sixth floor, each step heavier than before, but he was decided to end this horror story that had just started before he could lose his mind. If he hadn’t already. It was a joke– it had to be. Maybe someone else on a mission in disguise, who creepily looked like Cecil Lefebvre.                          603             His hand lifted up in a fist– he didn’t care who would open the door, if anyone else would open or if it would be the impostor himself.                                                                 Knock, knock, knock.             And then he waited, his hands sweating, ready to throw a hand at the man’s throat, corner him until he got an actual explanation. And so he did, the second he caught a glimpse of the blond man, he pinned him down against the wall, hand on his throat, making sure he could look at him.             “Who the fuck are you?!” He spat out, his words barely a whisper, not wanting to draw an audience for the scene.

[mitch--douglas]

UNREST || closed

[[ It’s getting late, and the training hall is cold and eerily quiet. Mitch’s last mentoring session ended hours ago, leaving Mitch to his journal, his Echo pad, and his spiraling thoughts.

He’s replayed the conversation with Mei Zhu a million times over in his head. Her descent from stoicism to agitation, the hurt look in her eyes when he’d essentially accused her of protecting the very people who delighted in keeping Mitch and people like him under their boot. He closes the journal that he hasn’t really been looking at for over half an hour, anyway, setting it aside and leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, face in his hands.

Mitch thinks back to the course of the parasite, and the time he spent without his ability. How the hollowed-out cavern in his chest had ached where that purpose had been carved away, the clumsiness in his body from the sudden disconnect from the world. He thinks about the time he’d spent genuinely entertaining the idea of asking for his Head of House position back to give him back some modicum of purpose, of usefulness. He’d nearly asked Cambie for her advice on the concept. Now he was glad he didn’t; it seemed so naive, so pathetic in retrospect.

The NWRF were never going to give him more power; they were only going to chip indelicately away at what he had left. Losing access to the labs is, of course, in no way as shocking or disheartening as losing his status as Calyset Head -- but it is terribly ominous.

God, he doesn’t want to think anymore. Mitch is tired of thinking. He’d only slept in fitful spurts last night. It’s times like these that make him understand why his biological father had felt the tug of the bottom of so many bottles. Mitch shakes off the feeling and pushes off of the lone chair sitting in the corner of a largely empty room, stretching his stiff back and opting for a different sort of self-indulgence.

The random assortment of objects used for telekinetic training are stacked neatly in the center of the wide, low-ceilinged room, so placed there by his last trainee as an exercise in precision. With a broad sweep of his arm, Mitch sends everything scattering and tumbling over with an invisible force, and much like a toddler having a half-baked tantrum, he does feel a bit better. He raises one hand palm-up to waist level, now lifting everything in tandem. This is one thing he’s had to put the most training in for, himself; control of so many objects at once. The movement of the individual items is clumsy, and everything seems to move in ripples or waves rather than in individual paths, but Mitch manages not to drop anything even with such a broad focus.

He thinks for just a moment that he catches a shadow, the shape of a body darkening the single square window in the door that opens to the hall, but he ignores it. Mitch doesn’t feel guilty; he doesn’t think this is ‘unsanctioned’ use of his ability. He can’t train others if he doesn’t take the time to sharpen his own skills -- or, so he tells himself.

The space between his eyebrows folds, and a twitch of his fingers sorts the items into categories; color, size, complexity. Mitch drops a pile of blocks in a clatter to focus on a few other worn-out toys instead, setting them down more carefully into a small, marginally meaningful scene with toy horses, and a barn, and a tractor. What’s left is some heavier objects, some more abstract. Piece by piece he sorts them into their own piles, and then he’s left with a single floating item -- an aluminum can, empty, likely left in the mix by one of his students.

He brings it closer and turns it to try and puzzle out the flaking label, suspending the can in a slow turn about three feet away. Then, purely on impulse and with a tightening in his jaw, Mitch makes a hard fist and abruptly crushes the can into an impossibly tiny ball, solidified and crushed into the smallest sum of its parts.

Having allowed himself that second, small flash of temper, Mitch nods wordlessly and lets the ball fall with a quiet click against the concrete. He turns to gather his journals and his Echo pad and, leaving everything else where it lay, he heads for the door.

Mitch nearly collides with his suspected audience right outside the door and, not realizing they’d stuck around, he lets out a quiet sound of surprise that melds into an automatic apology. ]] Oh-- I’m so sorry, excuse me. I didn’t think anyone else was in the building this late.

[olivier--fontaine]

Olivier should’ve known better than to go around his father’s old favorite bar in their old neighborhood. Most of the people there spoke a combination of English and French, which was about the only thing to set him at ease in a sea of familiar faces. Everyone knew him - and his mother, and his brother, and his late father. They all wanted to know the same thing: how was he doing without his father (as if he died last week and not twenty-two years ago)? The question was nearly always followed with ‘and when is your poor mother going to finally remarry?’ Inevitably, they always asked how Thomas was doing, too. You two were always so close...

Worst of all, there was a new crowd in the bar made up of even more familiar faces that he’d one sat through boring lectures with. They all still remembered him as the kid who got thrown out of classes a lot (and school that one time) and had enough pocket money to always buy everyone’s drinks in the months leading up to his departure for Paris. What the fuck are you wearing? they all wanted to know. Who’d trust you with a security job?

It was as if some people didn’t believe in the concept of growth and change. If not for an old friend’s dire insistence they check out the bar and see who might be around, Olivier wouldn’t have come. He desperately wished, especially as the conversation got rowdier, that he’d found something else to do that night. The way everyone was talking about his family like they were still all the same people as they’d been nearly two decades before was grating on his nerves and he had to get out of there. The agitation was obvious, though, and as he headed for the door a few stragglers followed after him with barraging questions that turned suddenly into insults.

Most were directed at him for being a cocky prick now, as if he hadn’t been a cocky prick at sixteen. A couple were about Thomas, but they were too oblivious to know why remarks about his brother didn’t evoke much out of him nowadays. He was on the pavement outside the bar, in full view of any passers-by coming or going from the various shops and restaurants in the area. He was going to just ignore them, let them embarrass themselves in front of so many people. 

And then, not more than a few yards from the bar where others were curiously peaking out the doors and windows, one had the utter gall to say something unkind about his mother. 

She taught that motherfucker his damn times tables.

He wanted to break the man’s spine over a nearby bench and beat him until there wasn’t enough blood left in him to possibly be saved. In a more private setting, there was no telling just how much Olivier might’ve let out the sudden, all engulfing spark of rage inside him now. They were in the public, though, and he cared more about the decorum expected of him than he cared about the filth following him. Still, he couldn’t let it go without consequence, and slipped his hand into his pocket to hook a finger around his gold knuckles. He pulled them out, swung them to align with his fingers, and slid the cool metal into place before turning on the man who’d spoken with one precise, forceful punch that sent the man to the pavement. Out cold, fast and hard enough that his buddies were more concerned about his lack of immediate response than they were about trying to avenge him.

Olivier removed the gold knuckles and placed them back in his pocket as he turned to make his departure again, more hastily this time. Almost directly in his path was an unexpected audience that he could only meet with a somewhat amused smile. The one hit had relieved enough of his anger that he could see some humor in the situation now, though likely not everyone else’s kind of humor. “Crazy, the way people just walk into fists sometimes.”

[nora-berkeley]

@mobscene-starters Location: St. Catherine's Hospital. Date: Early morning, 22/8/24.

They'd officially confirmed the rumours via the BBC.

Of course, she already knew. The blood on her shirt was almost certainly more her brother's than her own.

Patching her up hadn't taken long—the wound to her arm a papercut in comparison to his suffering—and she was almost certain they'd only hit her with the strong painkillers in a merciful attempt to dull her panic. Nora was so used to being calm, composed, put-together no matter the circumstances... But faced with the very real possibly she might lose another brother, she was struggling to hold it together. Maybe her grief was a blessing in disguise, though, because she certainly hadn't had time to process just what the hell had happened back there, either.

"My sister is calling. Don't move. I'll be back," Cassie had told her.

As if she had anywhere else to go.

They'd completely closed off the section of the hospital Spencer was being treated in to anybody outside of those attending to him and government security. A precaution, she understood, but difficult when all she wanted was to be by his side. And so she was left, waiting for her mother to finally make it back from Scotland, utterly helpless to do anything but stare at the sterile white walls of the waiting room in anticipation of any update on his condition. So far, nothing.

There were so many people coming and going. For all her years working here, she wasn't sure she could remember such a tense atmosphere. Crying, arguing, reporters trying to subtly sneak their way through... Nora (maybe with a little help from the opioids) was doing a good job at shutting it all out. Until someone wandered into her path for just long enough for her to look up at them.

"Sorry. Did you say something? I was...a little out of it for a second."