#given a grant to attend that school and everyone else had a better education than him before so he was behind - and often punished for it)

[a-a-a-anon]

this is a random post but i stumbled upon an episode of a panel show called school's out that ade did (available here). the show did some research about his school days and it was a bit surreal to hear the stories they dug up in panel show format after listening to ade's reading of his autobiography berserker! ade was quite honest about his disturbing experiences as a schoolboy in his book, including the many times he was beaten. there's a story about how he was beat for threading a conker in latin class. in berserker! adrian describes the teacher as a bully, and says it hurt a great deal, and says he cried and no one laughed out of fear of being picked on next. it's a short section, and there's kind of a "punchline" in the sense that he points out the irony that he was learning the latin verb "to love," but he also points out he really only learned hatred. ade is quite seriously against corporal punishment in the book and talks about how he became emotionally maladjusted from his upbringing. in the school's out episode the conker story - without the sadder details - garners Audience Laughter and ade really does present it as a comedic anecdote. it's interesting how the very same story can be shocking (sad) or shocking (funny) and how ade can deliver it in both ways. ade says he's an accidental comedian but it absolutely takes skill and intention to take that experience and make people laugh from it. they also bring up his old school masters and i wonder how ade felt seeing the men who used to cane him..

[xfandomwritingsx]

Hold Your Breath – Chapter Three: A Strong Brew - Draco Malfoy

-gif source unknown-

Description: After decisions put you on opposite side of the war, returning to Hogwarts to finish your education proves to be challenging. Maybe closure isn’t the only thing you need from Draco.

Warnings/Labels: Tension. Lots of tension.

Approx. Word Count: 3,400

A/N: Okay… I reference “a foot” as a measurement of length here. I’m sorry. I’m American. I know it’s wrong. But a meter was too long and saying 30cm just sounds so specific. Please don’t skewer me.

Story Masterpost

October 1998

You sit in Headmistress McGonagall’s office the next day, wringing your hands in your lap and feeling small. You had no intentions of leaving your room today and had intended on staying in bed wallowing in your sadness. A summons from McGonagall put a pin in that plan however. You must admit, even though walking through the halls had been daunting, it did make you feel better to at least put on fresh clothes and wash your face.

McGonagall rounds her desk after shutting her office door and stands next to her chair instead of sitting in it. You take a breath, strangely nervous, and look up to her. Her face is fairly expressionless, but her eyes are soft.

“You have Hogwarts’ and my personal apologies for what happened at the ball,” she tells you sincerely. “The behavior that boy displayed was unacceptable and there are quite serious repercussions in process.” You give a small appreciative smile, but lower your head down again. Honestly, you didn’t want such a fuss to be made. It makes disappearing quite difficult. “We want you to know you have the full support of the Hogwarts staff and your efforts in the war are not forgotten nor minimalized.” Her voice is stern, but compassionate and while you feel as though you don’t deserve the praise, it does give you a little bit of validation which takes a little bit of weight off of you.

“Thank you.” Your voice is sheepish, but you at least look up to meet her eyes as you speak.

“Is there anything we can do for you?” she asks kindly. You take a moment to think, eyes darting side to side for a moment, feeling like you should have some kind of an answer.

“I don’t think so,” you say finally. Before she can speak, a knock on her door interrupts.

“Come in,” she beckons. You hear the door open, but don’t look back, not particularly interested in seeing who has entered. That is, until she greets, “Ah, Mister Malfoy. Please step in.”

The look on his face when you turn around is something between irritation and forced complacency. You notice a bandage on his right hand, but he shifts it closer to his side and tries to keep it out of view. You turn back in your seat and focus on your hands again.

“Madam Pomfrey assured me your hand will heal by the end of the day.” She nods her chin towards him as he approaches her desk to stand at the empty chair next to you. “Mister Dolohov’s face, however, will unfortunately have remaining bruising for some time due to a sudden shortage of arnica.”

Wait a moment. Did Draco hit Dolohov? You glance to Draco just in time to see him look away from you and avoid your questioning eyes. You take another look at his hand, the bandage around the knuckles. He did, didn’t he? But why?

“You understand we do not condone violence of any kind, even for altruistic reasons.” Her tone is stern, but there’s something in it that lacks the powerful scolding nature the words demand. In fact, she sounds even a little bored with the lecture. She hadn’t sounded particularly remorseful about Dolohov’s bruising either. “Therefore, you will be given two detentions each week for four consecutive weeks which will be served out in the library under my supervision.” Draco sighs heavily and barely contains an eye roll.

“Yes ma’am,” he says arbitrarily.

“Now,” she snaps at him, clearly not amused with his lack of respect. “As you understand I am a busy woman with a school to run and may not always be able to attend your detentions in person.” There’s a sly undertone despite her stony expression. “I expect that at these times, you will behave properly and serve your detention out on your own.” Both you and Draco catch up to her at the same time. Detention without supervision? Clearly just a formality. “Do you understand?”

“Yes ma’am,” he repeats in a much more respectful manner now that he realizes he’s not actually being scolded.

“Try not to punch anyone else if you can help it,” is her dismissal to him before she looks back to you. “Are you sure there’s nothing more we can do for you?” she asks in a much gentler tone. You simply shake your head, still trying to process the evening itself, let alone the apparent news of Draco punching the boy. “If anyone troubles you further, please don’t hesitate to let us know.”

Draco leaves first with you trailing behind. You feel as though you should thank him or at least say something to acknowledge what he did. It was an act of chivalry, even if it was a violent one. It was a protective gesture. Could he possibly still care about you? Or did he just feel personal offense since he also bears your same mark?

“Draco,” you call to him before he’s able to hurry himself away.

“What?” he snaps bitterly as he spins on his toes back to you, face full of irritation and impatience. The gratitude sputters and dies on your tongue and you feel yourself draw back with pause.

“Nothing,” you sigh. “Nevermind.” There’s a small shake of his head and an angry eye roll before he twists back around and whisks himself away.

~~~

November 1998

The chatter and fascination with what happened at the ball calms down a lot faster than you expected. Dolohov was put on a strict probation and not allowed to use magic unless supervised by a professor. The opinion of his punishment was split amongst the students. Many thought it was too harsh for such a small prank. You were surprised to hear how many people had agreed it was fitting, however. Granted, they weren’t necessarily concerned about you as a person, but agreed that bullying in general was intolerable and severe punishment was warranted.

Jane, the girl from the dance who has become increasingly friendly towards you, walks you to potions this morning. She doesn’t loop her arm with yours like Ginny normally does, but she stands close enough and talks directly to you, making it very obvious that she is with you. You appreciate it. The halls are much easier to walk with a friend.

She leaves you with a wave and a smile and a little bit of hope that today will be a good day. That hope is broken when Slughorn announces the assignment for today; a partner project. You know what’s coming next because whatever God existed out there clearly has it in for you. There’s exactly zero surprise in you when he pairs you with Draco, only dread and defeat.

Everyone stands from their seats to shift around and sit next to their partners. It’s obvious Draco has no intention of moving from his original seat, so you gather your things and approach him. The bastard doesn’t even look at you. You give a huff and noisily sit down to his left, scraping your chair deliberately along the floor as you scoot in. He still doesn’t look over to you.

Two potions, one grade. That is the assignment. You can either work together to ensure a good grade or you can work alone, one on each potion, and just hope the other doesn’t mess theirs up. Judging by the way Draco slides the recipe for the Calming Draught across the table to you, you assume you’re going with the second option.

The rest of the classroom is filled with reasonable chatter as the other pairs discuss their assigned potions and how to handle them. It makes the silence coming from Draco all the more noticeable, but you push through it.

It’s about halfway through the lesson when your potion turns a dull grey and has a sickly smell permeating from it. You’ve clearly done something wrong. You rifle through your notes, the recipe, your potions book, trying desperately to figure out what went wrong.

“Merlin’s beard! Stop stirring it!” Draco hisses besides you. You look to your cauldron dumbly, not even having realized you’d forgotten to end the enchantment on your wooden spoon so it continues to spin round and round. You grab the spoon and snatch it out of the cauldron, embarrassed by the mistake. “You always were rubbish with potions,” he comments snidely.

“Rubbish at potions, dreadful at charms,” you say mostly to yourself, staring at the ruined potion with disdain. “Is there anything I’m not terrible at?” He gives an annoyed sigh at your side and then quickly stands to leave. You glance at his potion while he’s gone and of course, it has that indicative silver vapor floating up from his perfectly brewed Draught of Peace.

Your shoulders slouch and you put your face in your hands. Perhaps you could find some satisfaction from taking Draco’s grade down with you. Serves him right for being a prat.

There’s a clatter on the table in front of you and when you remove your hands from your face, you see ingredients splayed out on the table. You look at Draco quizzically as he starts to open the bottle containing lavender.

“I don’t fancy a failing grade today,” he tells you sharply. “Make yourself useful and measure out the peppermint.” He pushes another bottle to you before coming back around the table to sit in his chair. You expect him to pull the cauldron towards him in order to take over, but instead he moves his chair closer to you in order to reach it. You try not to look at him or pay attention to how close he is as he uses his wand to clear the contents. “Let’s not use a stirring enchantment like a first year this time.”

“Are you going to mock me the whole time?” you snap at him as you do your part and carefully put the peppermint sprigs on the scale.

“Only when you deserve it.” His reply makes your skin prickle and an anger bubble in you, but it fades rather quickly when he briefly looks at you from the side of his eye and his lips just barely turn upwards from his scowl. It’s a phrase you’ve said to him many times over the years, sometimes seriously and sometimes friendly or flirtatiously. And he’s repeating it back to you, making a callback to your friendship. You have no words for him.

You’d imagined saying that sentence in a completely different manner before. You’d had fantasies of him beneath you, begging for release and you kissing along his skin teasingly. Only when you deserve it. You never had a chance to attempt making that fantasy anything more than that, having only been with him the one time, but that didn’t stop your mind from conjuring the image up periodically. It has been quite some time since it resurfaced, but now that it’s there again, it’s hard to shake.

When you don’t offer him a reply, Draco returns to the potion, taking the peppermint from you and crushing it with the mortar. You feel as though you should have said something, should have acknowledged that his reference was not unwanted, but you can’t bring yourself to find anything appropriate to say.

“Measure these again,” he instructs, handing the mortar with the peppermint back to you. “After they’re crushed, you typically lose a little bit of weight. Usually not enough to make a difference, but every bit counts when the potion brewer is incompetent.” It’s said much more sharply than his last jab and you straighten your back, trying not to let it hurt you.

“Seeing as how you’re the one doing all the work so far, I am assuming you’re referring to your own incompetence,” you quip back at him. He leans back in his chair comfortably and fans his hand over the table.

“If you want to do it yourself, by all means, give it a try.” Bristling at his challenge, you huff and face the table fully with determination. You will not let him be so satisfied.

You dump the peppermint into the cauldron and pick up the jar of pre-mixed base liquids. You struggle momentarily with the lid, but manage to get it off without making a fool of yourself or spilling the contents everywhere. Chin held high, you begin to pour the jar on top of the peppermint. Draco’s hand is suddenly covering yours, holding onto you and titling the jar back up. The contact startles you, your body giving a small jolt as he puts a hand on the back of your chair and leans in near you.

“Slower,” he commands, his voice almost a whisper this close to you. “It’s a Calming Draught. If you rush it, it doesn’t work.” He guides your hand, directing the liquid to flow languidly from the jar. “Better.” You can feel his breath just barely reach your neck. His arm is outstretched, nearly outlining your own and his chest bumps into your shoulder. He’s practically cradling you into him and you’re not entirely sure how you feel about it.

The warmth of his body is familiar. Your body remembers what it feels like to have his arms wrap around you, to hold you tight and give you comfort or pleasure. Your arm tingles at the memory of his fingertips gliding down your skin, intertwining his fingers with yours. You remember it, feel it, all too easily.

But there’s still that anger, the resentment that fights the warm, good feelings. It puts a block up and prevents the threat of euphoria rushing in. It’s the thing stopping you from turning your head to look at him which you’re fairly certain ran a high risk of ending up with his lips on yours. Instead, you focus on your breathing, on calming your racing heart.

When the jar is empty, Draco releases your hand and the jar, pulling away and leaving the space beside you with an empty chill. He crosses steps off of the recipe with a quill before tipping the feather towards the cauldron.

“Stir it five times. That’s all,” he instructs, seemingly oblivious to what his presence had done to you.

“Slowly?” you confirm, somewhat surprised your voice didn’t quake. He hums and nods approvingly, but keeps his focus on the recipe.

He continues to direct you on what ingredients to add when and how many times to stir the concoction. He’s firm in his instructions, but the jabs have ceased at least. He’s also keeping his distance and remaining in his chair, away from your personal space. And that… makes you anxious somehow.

You find yourself wondering if he’ll come back and when. Any movement he makes, you feel yourself tense up with anticipation, but he doesn’t come any closer than he already is. What’s more is that you recognize the tension is not unpleasant. You aren’t dreading his warmth. You’re craving it.

You glance down. There’s absolutely no more than a foot of space between your chairs. Almost unconsciously, you uncross your legs and shift your right one to shorten the empty space. It’s not enough to touch him and you take a moment to contemplate if you even want to. If he’s allowed to touch you, to get into your space, shouldn’t you be allowed the same?

You twist your hips towards him, planting your foot firmly in the space between the chairs’ front legs. You put your weight on it and lift up from your chair, reaching across the table in front of him to pick up a piece of parchment with notes on it that you don’t particularly need nor want. Your knee bumps into his and your sudden arrival into his personal bubble seems to shock him ever so slightly as he looks up in confusion. You sit back down quickly, but place yourself on the right most part of the chair which allows you to keep your knee pressed to his.

You give him a shy smile as a show of thanks for letting you steal his notes and pretend to read them. Your eyes gloss over the words, but you can’t comprehend a single one with Draco making no move to shift away from your touch. He doesn’t push back either though. He focuses back on the recipe and lets you just stay there.

That is until his hand is on your knee. It pushes you away and doesn’t linger and for a moment, dread drops down into your stomach like a stone, heavy with rejection. His push is gentle though and it has a purpose when he stands up next to you in the space your leg had occupied and leans over the cauldron to peer inside. He’s close again now, this time his hip is the part of him almost pressing into your shoulder as he hinges his waist and puts his hands flat on the table.

“Come here,” he tells you. You follow his lead, hands on table and leaning over the cauldron. “What do you smell?” You take a moment to refocus on the potion and inhale deeply.

“Lavender,” you tell him. “It’s faint though.”

“Exactly.” His palm shifts on the table and the side of his hand molds to yours. “That means it needs more. You shouldn’t have to think about it. It should be potent.” He leans away from you to grab the bowl with the extra lavender. In doing so, she shifts his hand again, the heel of his palm drifting away from you, but his little finger making up for lost contact by slipping casually over your own.

“I thought we used what the recipe called for?” It’s hard to focus on the potion, but you do your best even with air trapped in your chest and the urge to slip your entire hand under his.

“The heat was a little too high,” he explains. “It reduced too quickly. We can fix that by adding a pinch or two more.” He lifts the bowl up towards you, encouraging you to do the honors. His expression is even and unbothered by the two of you touching. He waits patiently, watching you carefully until you make the decision to use your left hand to pinch the lavender with and deliberately leave your right one with him.

His expression remains unchanged as his little finger reaches and strokes the knuckle of your ring finger a single time before resting back down over your pinky. Why was such a small touch so invigorating? How did he keep such a straight face? He must know you’re not unaffected by this.

“More?” you ask quietly after dropping a single pinch into the cauldron. He takes a moment, contemplating and curling his little finger to wrap under yours.

“Can you handle more?” The flirtatious tease comes to his voice just as quick as it comes to his eyes. It’s a challenge, but it’s at least recognition that you hadn’t been imagining everything he’s been doing. You keep your eyes on him as you add another pinch to the potion. “Good,” he praises. “Now stir.”

He pulls away slowly, letting his touch and his warmth drag along you as he sits back in his seat. You let out a breath you’ve apparently been holding and give the potion a delicate, calculated stir. Draco settles back in his chair and crosses his left ankle over his knee, causing his left knee to protrude into the space between your chairs. You have no doubts that the motion is made with intent.

You oblige his silent invitation. Sitting back down yourself, you lean over the table to take notes and shift your right knee out towards him again. It slips beneath his and he pushes down just enough to encourage you to stay there. You don’t dare to look at him, but you can’t keep the smallest smile off your lips as you wait for Slughorn to come by and grade you.

It’s only when he comes by do you break apart and you become acutely aware that you’ve been in a classroom full of people this entire time. Had anyone noticed anything? Surely, they hadn’t. The interactions had been so miniscule and everyone was focused on their own potions, yes?

Slughorn presents you a solid E grade which pleases you greatly. Draco, ever the perfectionist with his grades, had been holding out hope for an O, but it didn’t come to pass. This causes you to be unsure if you owed him a thanks or an apology and end up giving him neither as you clean up.

“Astronomy,” Draco says as he’s putting books into his bag. You look at him, utterly confused.

“Excuse me?” He doesn’t look at you.

“You asked what you’re not terrible at,” he explains as though it was obvious. “You’re quite brilliant in astronomy.”

“Oh.” A compliment. A real, no backhand compliment. “Thank you.” He gives a small nod in response before slipping the strap of his bag over his shoulder, ready to leave.

“Practice your potions more,” he advises and then turns to leave without another word.

You watch him go, still a little confused and excited by the whole lesson. What in the world did any of it mean? What did you want it to mean?

Best not to think about it too much.

---

Thanks for reading darling! If you’ve enjoyed, I ask that you like, comment, reblog, or if you’re really feeling generous, buy me a coffee! https://ko-fi.com/writerashley 

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[a-student-out-of-time]

“Good afternoon, everyone. I’m sure many of you remember me, and for those who are new here, I’m Gekkougahara Miaya, the one to whom they gave the title of ‘Ultimate Therapist.’”

“Looking back, it seems a little silly, doesn’t it? Giving that role to a woman who uses a text-to-speech device to communicate. It’s not that I can’t speak, of course. I’m just far better at articulating my words through text than I am through speaking, and my job requires listening as much as it does speaking, perhaps even more so.”

“This is my last year at Hope’s Peak Academy, and I’ve done a great deal of thinking and reflecting, seeing how much things have changed. To say it’s been a tumultuous time would be the grandest of understatements. It’s been home to...some of the highest highs and lowest lows of my life.”

“When I was a first-year, I was so nervous about actually dealing with patients. I was just a girl who enjoyed studying psychology, then I received a letter in the mail asking me if I’d like to attend the most prestigious academy in the world. I knew that meant starting my planned career early, but I worried if I could really help people. I was a high-school student being asked to jump into work as an actual therapist.”

“And then, I met the other students of Class 75. I met some of the kindest, friendliest people I’ve ever known. They were all so excited to begin their work, I felt some of that determination rub off on me. I felt as though, maybe, I’d been judging myself prematurely. That maybe I was more capable than I’d given myself credit.”

“But in my second year, as I’m sure you’re all aware, I was in an accident that left me paralyzed from the waist down. An accident that...also lead to a close friend of mine dropping out of school. A friend I haven’t seen or spoken to since. That remains one of the darkest days in my life, and I hope it remains that way going forward.”

*She takes a breath before continuing*

“During my stay in the hospital afterward that I really started to read through the Hope‘s Peak Forums, and I got to read the...criticisms of me that had been floating around for some time. Discussions about whether I was qualified to act as a therapist if I can’t talk, and especially now that I’d been confined to this wheelchair.”

“And it would be easy to just brush those aside, but I didn’t. I also used that time to really think about what I wanted to do from there. Whether those criticisms were justified, and if I’d failed at what I’d set out to do. And if I had, what could I do differently? What would be the best decision for me and for my patients?”

“I briefly contemplated also dropping out of the Academy, but then I really started to think. I wondered how I could channel what I’d experienced into helping my patients. I started speaking with some of my past patients and with friends through email, and I learned a lot.”

*She brings her hands together*

"There’s this recurring idea in much of our media that we should praise disadvantaged people for their all of accomplishments. That there’s all these ‘inspiring’ stories about, for example, people getting out of their wheelchairs and walking down the aisle, even if it’s painful. It’s what Stella Young has called- if you’ll excuse my use of the term- ‘Inspiration Porn.’”

“I won’t lie, my condition comes with a lot of pain. Every day of the last year, I’ve dealt with chronic pain and difficulty breathing. I’ve had to figure out how I was going to live like this from now on, and it’s been pretty scary.”

“But you know what’s scarier? The idea that this chair is going to define me for the rest of my life. That my role now isn’t as a therapist, but as just an object of inspiration. My goal is to help people, don’t get me wrong, but I aim to do that as an actual hands-on worker.”

“The reason I bring this up is because I’m fairly sure that, after my graduation, someone is going to make a captioned photo of me meant to be inspirational. That’s the last thing I want. I don’t want to be pitied for my condition, and I don’t want to be praised for overcoming the restrictions that have now been put on my life.”

“It’s part of this ongoing idea that to be disabled is an inherently bad thing. That your life is not a life worth living, and that the only role you have now is to be an inspiration for able-bodied people. That using a wheelchair or prosthetic limbs is a shameful hindrance, and that you should call someone outstanding for being able to get out of bed in the morning.”

“And that ties back into the ideas about mental illness as well. The depictions of them as violent serial killers and criminal masterminds, or romanticizing conditions like depression and schizophrenia, causes of real psychological pain, as sources of artistic inspiration or creativity. The fact is, they’re not.”

“There’s also this over-emphasis on letting these qualities be the defining features of people, rather than just small components of who they are. People live utterly normal lives with them every single day, doing what they enjoy even if they struggle with physical or psychological conditions.”

“For example, hello, my name‘s Gekkougahara Miaya. I’m 18 years old, I grew up in Akihabara, and I spent most of my childhood watching magical girl anime and probably thinking too hard about how weird Freudian Psychoanalysis really is.”

*The crowd laughs*

“I know, right? It’s okay, you can all laugh.”

“I don’t blame anyone who’s held these beliefs or who were trying their best to actually be positive. I’m certain your hearts were in the right place if you’ve ever reblogged images like those. The problem is that, regardless of intent, it applies this ‘otherness’ to disabled people, that they’re inherently disconnected from the rest of us and only exist for our benefit.”

“Would I be making this kind of speech if I hadn’t been in that accident last year? In all honesty, I probably would be. Because my goal is not to be an inspiration. It’s to knock down that pedestal we’re often placed upon and to be down there with the rest of you.”

“If there‘s one thing I’d want to ‘inspire,’ it’s a shift in society’s attitudes toward disability. Where achieving normal things is seen as normal, and achieving great things is seen as great. Where the expectations on us are the same as anyone else’s.”

“As for my achievements, as of this month, I’ve helped over 355 patients since I came to Hope’s Peak Academy. I’ve studied different treatment methods, been granted opportunities to work with some of the most amazing people I’ve ever met, and I’ve been able to use what I love to help others. And this was a path I was on even when I could walk.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little more praiseworthy than telling me I did a good job getting out of bed this morning?”

“What I want is to break down that barrier between abled and disabled, and you can start very easily. Talk with people, get to know them, educate yourself, and don’t be afraid to ask questions. Above all, please listen to what they have to say too.”

“Thank you all for indulging me.”

[aliceslantern]

Heartlines, a Kingdom Hearts fanfic, chapter 4

Twelve years ago, Xemnas betrayed the royal court of Radiant Garden to his father, Xehanort. Prince Ienzo flees to another city and begins university in the aftermath, hoping the anonymity will protect him from eager eyes with ill intent. The darkness spilling across the country, as well as an individual from his past, cut short Ienzo's new beginning and bring new conflicts to light. Strained between the desires of his magic and his heart, Ienzo's choice will change him forever.

Modern Fantasy AU, Soulmates, Zemyx. Updates Fridays until it's done.

Chapter summary:  Ienzo starts classes. A lunch with peers ends up with more than he bargained for.

Read it on FF.net/on AO3

---

Later that night, still trying to reckon with the strange feeling Demyx had inflicted upon his magic, Ienzo went to Aeleus to tell him what he’d witnessed.

“A Heartless, here?” he asked. “You’re sure of what you saw?”

“I killed it myself.” Ienzo sighed. “Though--it did not reek of darkness, the way they usually do. Perhaps a newborn?”

He frowned. “Potentially. I’ll--reach out to my contacts, and see if they know anything.”

Ienzo nodded. Aeleus and Even had claimed the downstairs study as their own, jockeying for space in a strange show of dominance. “There’s… something else worth mentioning.”

“And that is?”

“The… boy I saved. He’s part of one of the bloodlines.”

“And he could not defend himself?”

Ienzo shrugged. “I was confused as well. I was going to wipe his memories--but he showed me this pendant, this rune. I wish I’d gotten a better look at it.” He sighed. “He also gave me his phone number.”

“Might be worth associating with him--if so just to learn something.”

“Unless his is one of the bloodlines associated with Xehanort.”

“It’s… possible, I admit. But if the boy could not fell one Heartless, I doubt he could hurt you .”

Ienzo felt a rush of affection towards Aeleus. Unlike Even, who tried to protect him from everything, Aeleus had faith in Ienzo’s abilities. Martially, he had trained him, and Ienzo’s spells spoke for themselves. “I shall… keep an eye on it.” He bit his lip, than forged forward. “When we spoke… I felt something in my magic. I’m not sure what , as it did not seem like any spell I’ve ever encountered, or read about.”

Aeleus’s eyes glinted. “That is… curious. Was it like a pull, a thrall, perhaps?”

“I don’t think so… but it was… odd.”

“What did the pendant look like?”

Ienzo described it, and Demyx, as much as he could.

Aeleus just seemed more confused, furrowing his brow. “None of the bloodlines have that resemblance. You said it looked halved?”

“Yes.”

He knotted his hands. “I will ask about that too… but Ienzo. Please, as charming and normal as this boy might be… be careful.”

“I… will.”

---

This settled, Ienzo began classes.

It was strange, to take transport by himself, to have some modicum of independence. Even texted and called him constantly, worrying over him. But for the most part, Ienzo’s first days at the university were… ordinary.

He found himself rather bored with his coursework. A lot of the general education classes were just that-- general , and given the limited amount of courses afforded to him due to his late enrollment, not what he was particularly interested in. He found himself saddled with Intro to Psychology, City-State Culture and You, Music from the 43rd Century On, Women in Contemporary Literature, and Magic and the Law. Of this courseload, only psychology and literature were intriguing, though, he found, incredibly easy. Five page papers? One chapter readings? He aced assignments easily, found himself both grateful and frustrated that Even had been so demanding in his education. It gave him plenty of free time to study on his own.

His psychology professor actually stopped him one day after class. The lecture hall consisted of ninety students, and Ienzo was not the most colorful character there, literally speaking. “Ienzo, right?”

He adjusted his grip on his bag. “Yes, sir?”

“Forgive me--you’re not in trouble for anything,” the man said. He was older, a little wizened, with thick dark hair partially pulled up. “I’m just a little… I suppose, bemused would be the word. Clearly--you’re already beyond the mark of anything you’ll learn here. Your last paper was testament to that. I hadn’t even read some of the sources you cited.” He smiled. “Why haven’t you tried to test out of these basic courses? I’d love to see you in one of my three or four hundred level modules, where you might actually be challenged .”

Ienzo hesitated, feeling something like pride and, at the same time, anger. It was Even’s idea for him to go to school. Why hadn’t he told him this was an option? “Simply because I did not know I could,” he admitted. “Though that must be lack of foresight on my part.”

“That, or an overworked advisor.” His professor exhaled. “Let me speak with them. I’m happy to keep you in this class, but you’d be bored to tears.”

“That would be… much appreciated.”

---

Ienzo was still pondering over this dilemma, unsure of how to respond to Even’s latest messages, a warm anger budding under his skin. Why would Even deliberately hold him back? He slid into his seat in his music class, prepared to simply disappear into the lecture hall and read for the class time. His professor chatted on about assignments (papers which were usually simply reactions to that week’s listening assignment), but before she launched into the lecture, she decided to introduce the class’s new TA. Ienzo felt him before she even said the name.

Demyx.

The boy must’ve felt him too; his eyes snapped towards Ienzo’s, and he gave him a smile. Ienzo returned it hesitantly. Demyx sat at a desk besides the professor’s podium before he was asked to handle attendance, which he did, carrying around a clipboard. When he got to Ienzo, he said in a low voice, “got to say, did not picture you as the music appreciation type.”

“I’m not. Most other classes were full.”

The grin got wider. “I do not want to be back where you were.”

Ienzo scribbled down his name. “Nor do you seem to be the type to be a TA.”

He shrugged. “I could use the free credits. Besides, Ariel is an awesome teacher. Say. You busy, after this? Couple of us were going to go get lunch in town.”

An opportunity to learn more, Ienzo reminded himself, feeling his heart catch bizarrely. “I could eat.”

“Good. Now I gotta get going. See you, Zo.”

It took Ienzo a moment to realize this was a nickname, too long to form a witty retort. He’d had aliases before, of course.

He’d never had a nickname.

The warm prickling feeling in his magic increased, and for some reason, he sighed.

---

As class wound down, Ienzo felt himself getting anxious. Talking to Demyx was one thing, given how they'd met. But talking to others? Ienzo did not know how to socialize, what to talk about. What were people his age into, their music and TV shows and entertainment? What did they do for fun? What if one of them figured him out? Should he simply be very boring so he was not invited back?

Should he be himself?

(Who was that?)

"Zo! Ready?" Demyx had a messenger bag slung over one shoulder.

"Yes."

Demyx clapped his shoulder; the touch was startling. "Awesome. Come on. We're meeting people there."

"Oh, who?" How much did he have to mentally prepare?

"My friend Lea, his roommate Roxas, this girl Yuffie, oh, and one of my roommates, Riku. Just a few of us. And maybe Riku's boyfriend and girlfriend if they're free, I have no idea." He shrugged. "Depends if I run into anyone else."

"Collecting people," Ienzo remarked.

Demyx laughed a little. "Sort of."

Ienzo tried to swallow his nerves. Demyx chatted happily as they left campus, going down some of the older and narrower cobble streets of the city. Ivy spilled over everything, the warm and soft light soothing on Ienzo's eyes after the harsh fluorescents of the lecture hall. "Are you from here?" Ienzo asked. "This city."

"Nope," Demyx said cheerfully. "I'm from Destiny Islands."

An archipelago off of the west coast. "A long way traveled for school," Ienzo said carefully.

Demyx just shrugged.

"Demyx!" The voice was shrill. A small, dark haired woman had her hands on her hips. "I've been waiting for ever. I'm starving."

"I'm sure you didn't die," Demyx replied. "Everyone here?"

She sighed. "Nope. They wouldn't let me grab our normal table until I had more of a "party." I cannot believe , after how much we've invested in this place." She smiled slyly. "Who's your friend?"

"Ah--right. This is Ienzo--uh--"

"Avella," he provided the fake name helpfully. "I take it you're Yuffie?"

"The one, the only." She grasped his hand and shook it roughly. "And don't you forget it."

"...For some reason I don't see that happening."

Demyx smiled. He rested his hand on the small of Ienzo's back, simply meaning to usher him forward. The touch was sudden and disconcerting. He thought of that blue pendant, beneath Demyx's shirt, probably warm with skin--

They were granted a table this time, a corner booth in this small restaurant. All the furniture was mismatching, and Ienzo could see the cook working at the grill behind the bar. "Is that the whole kitchen?" He asked.

"Yep!" Yuffie said cheerfully. "So I hope you're not in a hurry."

Ienzo sighed. He was rather hungry. "I suppose lunch is now an afternoon, isn't it?"

She laughed. "Demyx, you didn't say he was this cute."

Demyx flushed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Aw, come on," he said instead.

"Table of losers, anyone?" The lankiest person Ienzo had ever seen added.

"Ugh, who brought in the trash?" Yuffie asked, wrinkling her nose.

"That would be me," a blond boy said, rolling his eyes. "Demyx."

"Hey."

Four people was a lot to juggle, Ienzo realized. A waitress gave them some water. As Lea and the blond (Roxas?) regaled Demyx of some skateboarding incident, Yuffie leaned over. "You been here long?" She asked.

"To town? Is it that obvious?"

"You smell like a freshman, but you don't look like one. Dope hair, by the way. How'd you get it to tone down that color? I tried going gray once and it was a disaster." She grinned widely.

Ienzo sighed heavily. "I'm afraid it was all a bit of a mistake," he lied smoothly. "A friend of mine was a cosmetologist and needed a guinea pig. It was supposed to be blond--or so she said." He shrugged.

"Gotta stand out, right?" Lea said. "Where are you from, and how did you con your way to us?"

Meant to be a joke, but Ienzo found himself fighting to stay composed. "Demyx collected me at the library," he said vaguely.

"He was lost," Demyx lied, equally as smoothly.

"You can never leave well enough alone," a new voice added, and Ienzo's head snapped up. He felt the prickle of magic before he could really comprehend who he saw; a tall boy with silver hair. They held eye contact for a moment too long; Ienzo noticed Demyx's jaw clench the slightest. So he knew, too. What was going on? Had Ienzo been lured here? He realized he'd been seated in a corner. Should he excuse himself for the restroom, and leave? Or mine what he could from this exchange?

"This is Riku," Demyx said, taking a sip of water. "My roomie. Remember?"

Ienzo nodded. "Ienzo. Pleasure."

Riku dropped his things at the only available seat. "Nice to meet you."

Ienzo probed at the boy's energy. It felt… odd. Not quite normal. That hair--he couldn't not have magic. Equally, he felt Riku probing him , his teal eyes cautious and calculating. Riku knew something.

"So you're new to Twilight Town," Riku said, with a hint of skepticism. "Why here?"

Ienzo had to be careful. "I've heard good things about the marine biology program," he said. "That aside… my family thought it might be a good fit for us. The city, I mean."

"The darkness has been driving a lot of people out of their homes," Riku said. "It's… it's horrible."

"Indeed it is," Ienzo levelled. He didn't know what to read into that. "Are you from here, then?"

"He's from the islands, like me," Demyx volunteered. It was a casual enough remark, but Ienzo could grasp at the implications. They were magic users who had found one another.

"How fascinating," Ienzo remarked, consulting the menu. "I thought Destiny Islands had a rather small population."

"Oh, it does," Riku said, with an eyeroll. "Somehow we're the only two idiots who didn't know each other."

"That is quaint," Ienzo said. "Now. What is good here?"

He spent the rest of this lunch participating in inane conversations about nothing much. It took most of an hour for the food to arrive. Riku glanced at Ienzo now and again, curious, suspicious; the boy's magic could not penetrate him. Once the meal was over with--the check split awkwardly--they all left.

"Hey, Zo, wanna hang?" Demyx asked. "Or do you have any more classes?"

"I've got some time," he said. He had to know more about them.

Demyx smiled. "Awesome. Our place isn't too far from here."

Ienzo followed them, letting his magic wake up. Demyx brought him to an apartment building; Ienzo immediately sensed wards. They climbed two flights of stairs before Riku unlocked the door.

It certainly seemed like an apartment two young men lived in; the furniture was haphazard at best, and while it was clean, it was cluttered, and dull. Riku shut and locked the door, whispered a spell. Then, to Demyx, "what is going on. Is this a joke to you?"

"Hey! You told me to keep an eye out, and I did. So." He scowled.

Oh. So Demyx's friendly interest in him was a ruse; he shouldn't have been so disappointed. He braced his magic.

"I didn't think that the person you referred to would be--" He exhaled heavily, raking a hand through his hair.

"Care to explain?" Ienzo asked coolly.

Riku locked eyes with him. "What's your line?"

"What's yours?"

"Does it matter?" Demyx asked quickly.

"I mean, yeah, it does. If he's one of Xehanort's puppets --"

"I most assuredly am not," Ienzo said. "I take it you're not either."

Riku tried to frisk him again. "Who are you?"

"A person of no importance."

"Yeah, right. With the magic you're packing?"

"Guys. Guys. Let's settle down, okay?" Demyx asked. "Let's just talk."

Ienzo furrowed his brows. "Okay. Talk." He knew he had to be careful. “Were you looking for other magic users?” he asked Demyx.

He shrugged. “Not, like, consciously. But if it happens…”

“So you’re a seeker, then.” He shook his head.

“Not a… dark seeker,” Demyx said. “That sounds way too tiring. I just… I dunno. If some kid pops up, gotta keep them safe, you know?”

“Not that you need it,” Riku said. “You’re the one that saved him, aren’t you?”

Ienzo sighed. “Yes.”

Riku sat on the lumpy, ancient couch. “Guess our friend was right,” he said to Demyx.

The accused shrugged, his eyes on the ground.

“Right about what?”

“Things are changing here,” Riku said. “You can feel it. Something’s… not right. I’m not sure what you have to do with it.”

“He says he’s not with Xehanort. Shouldn’t you trust that?” Demyx asked.

“People lie,” Riku said simply.

“I’m not lying ,” Ienzo spat, feeling his anxiety spike. He had to remind himself he was the strongest of all of them; not that he particularly wanted to fight. “For all I know, maybe you are.”

Demyx rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Then prove it,” Riku said. “Why shouldn’t I report you right now?”

“Because--” How to prove his innocence without revealing his real identity? He took a breath. “Reporting me will just make the situation go from bad to worse.”

“Why?”

“Lives could be on the line.” He stuck his chin out defiantly. “I’m with the resistance. Report me and part of the network collapses.” Not technically a lie. “I suspect you are as well.”

“...We’re independent,” Riku said instead. “We’re not with anyone. But…” Cautious now. “The resistance is still around?”

Had he just made an even bigger mistake? “...Yes.”

“Thought all those guys were gone,” Demyx said.

“Most of us are in hiding in some form or another.”

“Huh,” Riku said softly. “Who would’ve thought.”

“Fighting Xehanort might be futile… but if we don’t, we’re complicit,” Ienzo said.

“He’s collecting them,” Demyx said. “When he can find them. Bloodlines. Made easier by the government rounding us up.”

“Like cattle,” Riku added. “Easier for the Heartless to breed if nobody can kill them.”

“But Twilight Town’s been neutral,” Ienzo said. “They wouldn’t just hand over--”

“A few people in exchange for stopping the darkness causing complete collapse of everything? Dunno.” Riku shrugged. “But right now here is the safest place to be. After the islands…” A sigh.

“I’d heard. I’m truly sorry. I… know how it feels.”

Demyx worried at the pendant. “I try not to think about it too much. All you can do, you know?” He cleared his throat.

“This… resistance,” Riku began cautiously. “Could you get me in touch?”

Ienzo kept his expression blank. “I could.”

“I know you don’t trust me. Why would you? I wouldn’t trust me either.” He held out his hand. “But I won’t sell you out if you don’t sell me out.”

Ienzo took it. Riku was telling what he believed to be the truth. “Alright. Deal.”

Ienzo left soon after; Even was bugging him incessantly. Your class ended three hours ago, why aren’t you home? Ienzo scowled. Demyx followed him out. “Hey… Zo,” he began.

“Yes?” he asked neutrally.

Demyx rubbed his arm. “I didn’t… look, I didn’t invite you along so Riku could interrogate you. Honestly. I wanted…” He trailed off. “I do want to get to know you. Really.”

Why ? Ienzo nearly asked. He thought briefly of how it had felt when Demyx touched the small of his back.

He blushed. “Why don’t we… get together, sometime? As--as friends,” he backpedaled quickly. “Real friends, not…”

Ienzo smiled tiredly. This day had sapped his energy. “I might enjoy that--if you don’t get killed by more Heartless, that is.”

Demyx laughed a little. “So… I’ll call you sometime?”

“Sure.” There it was again, that warmth.

“And Ienzo?”

“Yes?”

“Get home safe, okay?”

[kpopisthereasonihavenolife]

Lucky Cat

BTS

Kim Taehyung/Reader [F]

Genre: Superhero/Civilian, Miraculous Ladybug AU, Flirting, Bad puns, Tae = Chat Noir, It’s in France (duh)

Warning(s)?: Did you think I’d leave out the awful persona of Chloe Bourgeois? She’s here folks. 

Words: 2.6k

Summary: Taehyung grew up homeschooled his whole life until he finally broke away from his father’s iron grip in highschool.  Finally permitted a public education, he’s learned a lot of new things and met new people and of course, experienced the ever-blooming flower of romance.  Though, even as sheltered as he was he knew not to go blabbering off that he happened to be one-half of a pair of superheroes that Paris knew all too well. He knew to keep this secret all through high school as he started his college courses.  Not even able to tell you. 

-XXX- 

Taehyung nearly barrelled out of his house as he looked at the time.  He was so exhausted from his patrol last night that he slept through his first 4 alarms and on alarm 5 he was bounding up and throwing on his clothes.  Thank god he learned to set out outfits the night before so he’s not taking up time being picky on what to wear to school. 

Jeans, gold shirt and black jacket with his clean shoes he swiped his bag from his desk and bolted out of his room.  Planting his rear on the stairway railing, he slid down it with skill as he hopped off at the last moment before he was pushing towards the front door. 

“I’m leaving!” He screamed into the empty, echo of his home.  His home was far too large and grand for his taste.  Wealthy family or not, it was overkill to Taehyung and he could frankly do without it and all the memories that it held that have gone cold. He was due to move out eventually, but nothing seemed to ever work out his way; he had some damn rotten luck. Scowling, he slammed the door shut. 

Just barling making it in time, he slid into his seat with a slump and an overly dramatic exhale.  Hearing the bell not moments after he planted his rear down, he groaned.  He didn’t even have time to catch his breath before the lesson started and the teacher soon walked in.  

Fanning himself with his palm (as if that would relieve him of anything) he pulled his laptop out to take this note just as he did any other day.  He was mindlessly taking notes, probably 10 minutes into the lesson as the teacher had dimmed the lights to allow the projector of whatever slide show he was copying down was when the back door of the classroom slid open.  

His days as Chat had not only helped him in the physical department, he had some hearing and reflex improvements thanks to it.  Looking slightly, he wasn’t the only one to hear the old door creak.  Other students back; some holding back snickers others rolling their eyes as studious students being interrupted.  

Taehyung leaned forward on his desk, cupping his hand over his mouth as he hid a grin.  

“Y/n, everyone can hear you, just sit down,” the teacher announced mid lector.  You sprung your crouched body up. 

“Yes, ma’am,” you squeaked as you ran and slid into your seat next to Taehyung.  Plonking your bag on your lap and pulling out your notebook and pens.  He found it utterly precious you still took handwritten notes and even color-coded them or flagged them with small sticky notes and small doddles.  

As the lesson moved forward, you noticed the rich boy trying not to laugh at you.  You looked over to him as you made eye contact and immediately retracted it.  You’ve never been a people person, even back in high school.  How fortunate for him that he was able to pull strings and get into the same college as you.  His father and he fought over it for weeks, him wanting Taehyung to go to a prestigious school and Taehyung wanting to tone it down and just attend a community campus.  

Obviously, Taehyung won.  

Another thing he wasn’t, was dumb.  He could read people as easy as he could read a book meant for a child.  Facial expression and body language was something he was fluent in.

You were a friend of his and he’s held conversations with you before many times. Though, sometimes you would become a shy bumbling mess out of nowhere.  He often teased you about it, making it that much worse- or at least making your red face redder. 

“Sleep in this morning, did we?” He whispered in a tease at you as you shook your nose at him.  An attempt to deter him and his teasing.  He pushed his hand into his cheek as he watched you scribble down as many words as you could before the slide of the presentation disappeared and a new one appeared. 

When you didn’t quite get everything down, Taehyung was sliding his desk towards you and showing you his laptop with all the information you had missed from the beginning until now.  He easily caught up with the teacher and would copy the notes he needed before he saw that you were taking notes directly off his screen.  He smiled when you thanked him. 

Taehyung was a pretty lenient person who just went with things.  Obviously, he had a bone to pick with his father most of the time, but that was a given as he was pampered into discomfort most of his life. Though, there is one other person who can grind his nerves almost immediately.  

“Why so late, Y/n?” A primadonna and the well sought after beauty-queen of the campus, despite her lack of any human decency.  Kang Huni was probably the lowest tier of people TAehyung wanted to be affiliated with.  However, just like his luck, he’s known her a better part of his life because of her father’s power.  

Mr. Mayor was the biggest suck up to Taehyung’s family since ever. Taehyung was known for not only his fame in wealthy but his skills in fencing, horseback archy and of course his face.  Growing up with a cute face that matured into a handsome one was something he both loved and hated. So, Huni was his only ‘friend’ until he saw how absolutely awful she was. 

Not to mention, her prime target seemed to always be you.  

You looked up from your seat as Huni swiped your notebook in her hand, you reaching for it and standing up trying to get it back.  Huni held it out of your reach before you rounded your desk and started to run in circles to try and get back your notes.  

“Handwritten?  What are you twelve, look at all those colors! Who still color-codes stuff with such cheap- what are those?  Gel pens?  Honestly, you’re still living in the past- but I guess you can’t afford much of anything else!”  Another thing Taheyung positively loved about you, is your outlook.  

You’ve never really been good at money.  Growing up you and your father were almost always damn near broke, but even with so little to your names for so long- you both made it work.  You stood as a family together and made it so far for so long and we're happy as a duo.  Though, two years ago your father got sick and just didn’t get better, leaving you with the little savings he’s kept and the run-down apartment you lived in with him.  

It was a top floor apartment, barely large enough to fit two.  Now that it was just you, he was decked out in canvas’s, and curtains and framed photos of your family you missed so dearly.  Your kitchenette stuck out from your wall as you could view your stove as you sat on your bed that was just a box spring- on its last leg of life- with your mattress and favorite blanket.  A blanket that Taehyung got you for your last birthday that happened to be black cat-themed. 

You had to do your laundry by hand and hang it out to dry or take it to the laundromat, but you didn’t mind.  Your home was small, but it worked and kept your sheltered, so you didn’t complain.  Plus, from your part-time job at a barkery, you were able to afford the penny-cheap rent!  

How did he know all this?  Well, it certainly wasn't because when he’s not on patrol with his partner, he was sitting at your rooftop home with you as Chat Noir.  No- not at all. In fact, he got to know you so much better as Chat than as Taehyung.  Taehyung wouldn’t be able to talk about all the stuff you and Chat did.  

Taehyung sat watching no longer than he could handle before he got up himself.  You were still fighting to get your book back, halfway worried the still wet gel would smear when Taehyung took the book from Huni’s hands. 

“Is it really necessary to pick on her?  Leave her alone, Huni.”  Huni just crossed her arms, pouting in a dramatic way as if she was the victim.  Taehyung rolled his eyes as he walked to your side, safely placing your notebook into your arms.  You sighed as you had them back, unsmeared. “Do you have your club activities now?” You looked up at him. 

“I- uh, no.  I have to skip today because the bakery is short-staffed so I’m putting in a few more hours.”  Taehyung’s brow creased.  You already busted your ass working, but he had to act obviously.  It wasn’t Taehyung that knew that, it was Chat.  

“Alright, then I’ll walk you,” he offered with a smile. You were about to decline when he moved to cup around your ear and whisper to you.  “I’ll keep Huni off  your back on the way too, to avoid any nasty catfights.” He inwardly laughed at his own stupid pun. At that and the glare Huni was currently giving you, you accepted the walk in a heartbeat. 

That night, you were opening up the roof door to your little apartment when you saw outside a black-clad boy sitting gracefully on your balcony.  Flicking on your light in your one-room home, the boy turned and smiled at you inside. Waving through the window, you made your way out to him. 

“Chat, what have I told you about waiting for me so late?” 

Leather-covered, masked with his fake tail and ears, he sat perched on the metal railing as if he wasn’t afraid of falling off at all.  Granted with his stick that extended and propelled him around in graceful leaps and bounds, he wouldn’t actually be in danger. 

“I had to make sure you came back in one piece, Angel!”  He cheered as he called you by the specific name he picked out just for you.  His little Angel of luck he was graced with the pleasure of falling for.  “Besides,” he pointed to the sky, “the stars were clear and it is the purr-fect night to stargaze with someone to dazzling.” 

“I see you’re still a fan of complimenting yourself,” you chuckled.  

Chat hopped off the railing and strode towards you, standing tall as he hands were around his back.  “I was talking about you, Angel.  A dazzling, muffin-smelling girl.” Seeing you flush at his sincerity, he smiled bitterly.  It was times like these that he wished so much he could tell you who he was.  

Though, after a long talk about it with his partner, he was told that he couldn’t tell anyone. Not even you and it killed him.  Keeping something so big from you, lying to you as he kept on selfishly loving you as both Chat Noir and Kim Taehyung. 

You noticed that smile of his that bit back the sorrow of his superhero and civilian secrecy. You just linked your arm around his and stepped closer.  

“If we’re going to stargaze, I’d rather not from my apartment.  How about someone clearer, what do you say?” 

Chat just laughed as he moved to hook his arm around your waist, taking his stick from behind his back and extending it.  “I’d say you’re feline pretty bold tonight and that you’d better hold on.”  Wrapping your arms around his neck, you tucked your face into his shoulder as he was soon propelling off, taking you god knows where.  

He wanted to just keep going until Paris was gone.  He wanted to get out of this city with you and never stop just so you could keep holding onto him.  Eventually, he stopped and set you back on your feet.  You didn’t realize your eyes were squeezed shut until he was telling you to pen them.  

You were in awe as you stood up high on the Eifel Tower where the lights complimented the stars.  You rose a brow toward him with a smile. 

“Eifel Tower, huh?  Is it me, or is this a date?” You teased.  Chat only winked back towards you. 

“What a purr-fect fur-st date then.”  You rolled your eyes as his insistent cat puns as he sat you both down when the wind began to blow in gentle gusts.  He was far too afraid of letting you even sway so high up. He kept your hand in his and wanted to do nothing more than detransform so he could feel how warm you are.  Instead, he was stuck with his leather-clad hands stopping that from happening.  

The two of you spent so long just talking. You told him about your newest painting in-progress that happened to be inspired by himself; and watched as he grew dejected at your refusal to show him what you had completed so far. 

Chat and Taehyung once again learning more and more about you and before he knew it was he watching as you began to doze off and on.  He smiled as he stood up, taking you with him and tucking you to his chest.  Wrapping your arms around his neck as you stood in a tired daze, he picked you up and began his trip back to your home. 

You were completely out of it when he landed on your rooftop and walked into your home, before tucking you into bed.  He’s done this quite a few times now and was always astonished on how you managed to fall asleep and stay asleep as he carried you home- wind and all. 

Taking off your shoes, he made sure your hair that was up from your bakery shift was let out before wrapping you up in your black cat blanket.  As you slept, he took the moment to detransform, sitting in your home as Kim Taehyung. 

His small, palm-sized Kwami floating around at his side.  

“It’s bad news to sit around at a girls house this late. She might think you’re a pervert if she sees you.” The Kwami chided with a shrill sense of humor. Taehyung just rolled his eyes, shushing him as he held your hand.  They were as soft as they looked as he kissed your knuckles.  

“Goodnight, Angel.  I’ll come to see you again tomorrow, okay?” He whispered as he placed a kiss to your forehead next.  He stuck around a bit longer before he was standing up.  He saw the covered canvas tucked in a small little art corner and smiled, not daring to peek like he actually wanted to.  Leaving your side and transforming again outside, he was soon quickly bounding back to his wealthy home. 

Missing how you woke up in time to see him change from Taehyung to Chat Noir and leap away.  You couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when you showed him your painting.  You giggled as you got out of bed to look at it so far, sitting in satisfaction.  

A painting of Chat Noir that faded into that of Kim Taehyung.  Maybe it was the puns he pulled off in his civilian form, or maybe it was the way he treated you so tenderly.  Or perhaps, it was the smile that no one could ever replace that lead you to figure out who Chat Noir actually was.  

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s simply because Kim Taehyung can’t keep a secret to save his life and talking to a floating black cat in the piano room isn’t the best place for a superhero pep talk.  

And you love him like that; a big-mouthed superhero with more good luck on his side than he thought. 

[belloinfernum-rp]

Narcissa Black

Age- 23

Chosen Faceclaim- Sarah Gadon

Loyalty- Neutral

Former House- Slytherin

Occupation- Philanthropist/Socialite 

Label- The Braggart 

Aesthetic- Long baths with rose petals, dislikes confrontation, hopeless romantic, silk robes.

Traits- + Charming + Ambitious + Clever - Manipulative - Vain - Secretive 

Key Points

From her earliest years, Druella prided herself in her youngest’s well-mannered, calm-tempered demeanour — The perfect diction, the perfect smile, just the right way of not getting stains on expensive dresses. Narcissa’s childhood was less one of a happy child and more akin to that of a pretty, untouchable image (an image which, paradoxically, was not quite herself and that she had to live up to). Images are seen and not heard, trapped in a set point in time which would be the only thing ever remembered of them — The thought is small, reductive and frightening; that Narcissa will always be the fair-headed girl with immaculate dresses, expertly placed hair locks and pretty smile growing on her lips ( inviting, almost friendly behind the unattainable coldness of her soul, caught deep within her pretty blue eyes. Her pretty blue eyes and her pretty smile and her pretty dress and her pretty hair and her pretty manners; that adjective taking over her life, making it feel cramped and empty at the same time ). It is not so much that Narcissa aspires for more. After all, she has never known anything else but being the youngest of three — the one who had to be perfect when her other siblings and cousins were not, who was never berated or out of line, who seemed to fade into the greater than life entity that was the House of Black. She was not Cissy Black, then, she was the legacy she had to uphold, heavy on her tiny shoulders and heavier on her heart, coming with the intrinsic knowledge that all of these reasons that made her special and pretty and perfect were also the reasons why she would never be valued by her family as something other than a pawn, traded off in marriage for an alliance. A perfect pawn, but a pawn all the same — A spare, where Bellatrix was her father’s rightful heir. Even as a young child, even with Andromeda’s positive presence in her life, Narcissa could tell this was how it all worked. She was not stupid, she could perfectly make out the part they all expected her to rise up to and the fact she had no choice in the matter whatsoever. And so she played the part for all her life. She figured then that perhaps this was what love and devotion were all about — following the family’s path, heading the family’s comments, not because she had to but because she persevered in that mind-set despite of it all. Self-abnegation, a quality she has much less of now that she has figured out not only how to play the part but also how to play the game.

Being the last of her offsprings left at home during the school year, Druella took to parading Narcissa around pureblood society, an attempt less at connecting with her own daughter and more at reinforcing her image as a homemaker ( an image which practical, to-the-point, ambitious Druella at times seemed to not match, but Cissy knew better than to question her mother. If she was particularly well-behaved her mother would entertain her in practicing French, a language her side of the family had very distant ties to, instead of her usual straight-forward replies and reminders her daughter’s tutor was coming soon ). Then, Narcissa was also expected to smile and keep quiet unless spoken to, which would then only require a sweet smile and clever answer. One might think, then, that Narcissa honed her social skills through her mother’s connections, playing with the children of other witches whose company Druella cared to be seen in. While this is for the most part true, her mother’s behaviour never truly gave Narcissa much to learn or to observe, her ways always engrained deep inside the young witch’s soul as if it were a brand ( the Black family stamp, its crest proudly metaphorically marking Narcissa as one of its own ). Cygnus Black the Third’s manner ( walk, posture, speech pattern ) was far more intriguing for the youngest Black sister who understood that by being the last to leave and the most overlooked, she would also have the strategic advantage of being the one who could easily observe and take in her father’s taste for the political. This is perhaps the first time Narcissa would ever grant herself the right to form a fully fleshed out thought ( an idea, concept, something to hold on to ) of her own, without her parents’ will and her sisters’ opinions clouding her own judgement. From this moment forward, the blonde swore to her future self that she should not allow people to so easily manipulate her, a promise which she believes she has kept for the most part ( doing things out of love does not count. It is not manipulation, it is her choice ).

The Sorting Hat is perhaps the first entity to truly acknowledge her own complexity ( She is eleven, she is worried. All her family has been in Slytherin and she cannot defect from that rule. She almost feels incredibly small on that stool, and then hears a whisper that she seem to have more potential and ambition than what first glance would tell you. Slytherin, of course ). And then little Cissy Black ( fragile, pretty, well-mannered Cissy Black ) is free — Free to be her own person, to use her time at Hogwarts to perfect herself and her magic in a way which interests and benefits only her, not her family. And Narcissa has perhaps the most comforting realization of all and does not do any of that ( does not want to do any of that ). She is a Black, and it is an honour to bear the family name, and she will be nothing short of the perfect, focused student everyone expects her to be. Too busy romanticizing her sisters’time at Hogwarts, Narcissa assumed hers would mirror theirs in a transcendently self-defining way, but now that she is here, it becomes apparent she does not want any of that. The part that was written for her was made that way for a reason, and though she had always respected it and understood it, it is the first time in her life in which she genuinely looks forward to it. There is safety, security and comfort in this path she knows so well — And this is what Narcissa craves. Her parents had not made her the heir, like Bellatrix, or the spare, like Andromeda ( though she had once believed she shared Andy’s burden ). They had, albeit perhaps unwillingly, made her a politician — Someone who would grow into an elegant, poised, respected socialite who would never have to worry about her position at the top of their community so long as she fulfilled her duties and married well.

She is invited to attend the Slug Club with some of her cohorts, which she uses to her best advantage as a networking event, forging bonds and collecting information with and about people who could prove useful or otherwise significant once she would be done with her education. She sets herself up for the perfect life, a life which would not entirely depend on the match and marriage that would be made for her — A life that would benefit whoever her husband would end up being. As per her mother’s teaching, the blonde never let go of her air of purity, sitting pretty and quiet — But pretty and quiet were the façade, the pureblood trademark which hid her agendas and desires ( and worries ) in an effortless way. Narcissa is just about ready to start her life when events take a different turn, tainting this overall masterful use of the popularity given to her because of her family name forever and devastating her even more. Andromeda leaves home. No. Andromeda is dead, dead to her and to the rest of her family, not even a footnote in the blonde’s story where she used to be a main character. And Narcissa aches for things to be different, for Andy to come back and say this was all a weird and intricate prank played on Aunt Walburga, but it never happens. And soon, too soon, Sirius follows through the door Andromeda has opened, and Narcissa does not know what to tell Regulus. She does not even know what to tell herself. Narcissa’s ghosts are now people of flesh and bones and feelings she should not and does not want to be feeling, instead of the immaterial figures roaming Hogwarts.)

Graduation is a lackluster event in the midst of a war where sides have already been chosen for her. There is no joy, no feeling of accomplishment, just a tick on the predetermined path of her life, an insurance her betrothed will have an educated wife. They are all underestimating her, but that is quite alright. Narcissa wants to be underestimated, to lay low. It’s the only way she might save at least a small piece of herself to be hers and hers alone. And of course, the blonde is proud to fulfil her duty — Proud to make alliances for the great and most noble House of Black, and the Malfoy heir is intriguing enough that she feels she has no reason to complain. But being the poster child for pureblood excellence and being herself, at least just a little, are not mutually exclusive. Besides, she likes the excellence — Likes the parties and the pretty dresses and the expensive jewelry and the imported wine; likes to tell people of her family’s French heritage, on her mother’s side, and how beautiful Paris was the last time she went; likes to be looked at and envied and adored. She is selling a very specific brand of life, one that everyone should feel envious of and wish was their own. And she is doing it perfectly ­— The only missing link is the grand, scintillating wedding which would be the envy of all.

She sometimes wishes it all could be different, of course — Wishes her neutrality in the conflict were more honest than it currently is, wishes she could marry for love and have work like any other witches her age and wishes she could pick up that quill and write to Andromeda. But where would be the prestige and fulfilment in that?

Connections

Bellatrix Lestrange- Sister.

Lucius Malfoy- Betrothed.

Andromeda Tonks- Sister, estranged. 

Regulus Black- Cousin.

Sirius Black - Cousin, estranged.

[seongnamkrp]

//  LOADING FACULTY INFORMATION  ▪  ▪  ▪

NAME  ›  cai xukun ALIAS  ›  august, the prevaricator AGE  ›  02 / 08 / 1998, 21  

//  LOADING FACULTY RECORDS  ▪  ▪  ▪

POSITION  ›  professor FIELD  ›  math, fashion design ADVISER  ›  fashion, mensa

//  LOADING FACULTY ANALYSIS ▪  ▪  ▪

›  ›  ›  Born in southern China, Xukun parents noticed their son had an interesting set of traits. He more aware than someone his age should be, learned the alphabet with relative ease, required little direction in feeding myself. As he got older it became more obvious, while other kids were out playing Xukun spent his time reading chapter books, watching the news, documentaries, etc. He was absorbing so much information but was also to recall what he had learned and apply it to solve problems. At around 6 that’s when childhood ended as he was then seen as a gifted child. People came by to visit and give him these test to determine his IQ. His parents took the opportunity filling his day with activities; music, art, languages, chess, a variety of sports. He even got on TV and sometimes was paid to attend events and show off his talent. Xukun didn’t think much about it only when he was around others his age and realized he didn’t have much in common with them. His experienced were more common for someone a decade older than him (or a celebrity) not an elementary school student. He was starting to see no point in school but it was the one place were he could be somewhat “normal” outside of his IQ he was just like everyone else. Though not everyone saw it that way. “Freak”, “Uppity”, “Stuck Up” school was the one place were his IQ was a negative instead of a positive. Sure his grades were remarkable but getting along with his peers was a challenge.

Xukun was given permission to graduate high school early given he passed a comprehensive test. A few universities had already extended him full or partial scholarships even before taking the test. Though he was confident he would pass he still studied to better understand the material and reviewed which of the higher education options were appealing. SNU was a surprise but it was different, surely he could’ve gone to a standard Ivy League but that was expected…why not do something /unexpected/. When the day of his results came in he applied to SNU. He had his eyes on the PhD program but had to earn a bachelors at least 1st. Xukun was wait list until he met that requirement and passed a language proficiency test. Before he left he spent as much time as he could with his parents and the few friends he had before departing on the next chapter of his life.

College was a huge learning curve for him, not academically wise but socially. Most of the people around him were at least 5-6 years older than him. He was a literally child among adults, sure he was smarter than them but he didn’t have their freedom (to vote, drink, drive, run for office). For the 1st time in his life Xukun wasn’t praised for his gift, it almost didn’t matter since outside of displaying feats of intelligence he was a shell. Though he kept up with his studies he took the time to know himself through self-reflection, therapy, and volunteer work. His grades actually improved in doing so rarely dropping below an A.

At age 20 he earned his PhD in Mathematics becoming one of the youngest doctorate students to graduate from SNU. While Harvard and Oxford expressed in having Xukun transfer to their universities he declined continuing his studies at SNU. This was of course after he spent a summer visiting each and took courses to get a real world feel of them. He didn’t tell anyone but SNU offered him a professor position granted he stay with them and would waive some of his student debt. Xukun couldn’t pass up on that as his loans gave him anxiety. Sure he was confident he could pay them off but he was in his 20s with more debt than people twice his age.

[purple-comet-hurricane]

OH BOY NEW OC. this is more of a sona if anything but, this my new girl Heartbreaker! she’s a doctor/mnemosurgeon seeker who’s very goal is defy everything it means to be a seeker. (bio under cut)

Name: Stellarus of Vos Nicknames: Heartbreaker (Common designation), Sizequeen (Mercenary alias), Turbo Rabbit, Bunny, Stella, Starlight

Mental Age: 21 Sexuality: Bisexual, Mech-leaning Height: Slightly shorter than average Seeker size Altmode: Cybertronian Tetrajet / F-35 Lightning II Faction: Decepticon

Occupation: Doctor/Mnemosurgeon, Wartime Mercenary for hire

Creation: Forged

Sparkplace: Vos Hotspot Identity: Vosian Education: Iaconian Academy of Medicine Frame type: Seeker Personality: Cold, stubborn, conniving and even a little bit flirty, Heartbreaker was once a strong-willed rebel who wanted to do nothing more than help those around her who suffered under the Senate and to change Cybertron’s society for a better, brighter future. A one-percenter from Vos, she had empathy stronger than any other like her, but with a spark so tender, life wasn’t the sweetest towards it. With repeated harshness and disappointment, Heartbreaker grew cold, closed off even. Nobody knows much about her before the war, but what people do know is that she’s out for nobody but herself. Her own secret agenda with a long checklist, the Seeker will stop at nothing once she sets her eyes on something. Stubborn as a leader-class bot, she won’t let anything go until it’s dealt with accordingly. However despite her exponential processor power and her calculated approach towards everything, even she is not immune to the folly of cybertronians. A side many seemed to know intimately, Heartbreaker was no stranger to Cybertron’s many pleasures in life. Often flirtatious towards those in a higher position than her own, recruits and even her own victims, nobody is safe from Heartbreaker’s insatiable drive. Either way, Heartbreaker is considered a mysterious enigma who strayed to far from her own light.

Bio: Fliers weren’t anything new to Cybertron, many Cybertronians were fliers. However there was a specific frame of such that have always been an enigma to the planet. Seekers. In their prime they were Cold Constructed soldiers for the Decepticons, fashioned in the image that of their leader Starscream. However Seekers weren’t unheard of prior to the great war. Perhaps rarer, but not unheard of. However unlike Starscream, their frames differed bit by bit, as many forged sparks would take it. Stellarus of Vos was no different.

One of the few hundred or so Seekers to be forged rather than constructed, Stellarus was rather unique. Many other Seekers existed but compared to them the femme was considered gifted. Special. But in the eyes of the Senate, she was nothing but another commodity. Seekers were considered nothing short than novelty, pretty little things whose only job was to act. Many seekers were showmen, flying in troupes to perform for Cybertron’s populace. The Vosian Seeker Academy was basically that, a school made to shape Seekers into the small mold of a perfect citizen and perfect entertainer. Initially Stellarus didn’t have a big problem with her studies. She liked the feel of wind against her wings and nose cone when she practiced her routines but she could care less for the history lessons she had to learn. Seekers were good for two things from what she discovered. Librarians or performers. Nothing else. However quickly did the young Vosian learn that none of the aforementioned professions interested her in any capacity. She wanted something more fulfilling. While she liked flying, she didn’t want that to be her job. However, she didn’t know what she wanted. She was an ace student, of course. Her academics were nothing short of incredible. But it was a bore.

But

She discovered her passion by passing. A small mistake. A bump in the shoulder.

The femme wasn’t as tall as the other Seekers, and even then, Seekers weren’t exactly large to begin with, They were slim, agile. Larger than minicons and cassettes of course, but compared to the average common class, they were shorter. Stellarus? She was shorter by a foot, give or take. So when she bumped into a larger mech down in Iacon on a retreat, he didn’t exactly expect to see a shortstuff seeker in his way.

Stellarus wasn’t timid at all, however. She was fierce, stubborn, feisty even. However when she saw the red cross on the Mech’s shoulder and the datapads he carried, her hostile demeanor changed. What is that? Where are you going? This mech could of brushed her off and left her in the dust, but instead he indulged in her questions. She was a medic in training studying at Iacon’s most prestigious medical school. Her optics widened and in that moment she realized what she wanted to do. She wanted to pursue medicine.

What made Stellarus so special. What made her so unique among the rest. She was empathetic. Heavily empathetic. So empathetic she can actual detect the strength of one’s spark. What was wrong with it. And how to fix it. She wasn’t any Cybertronian, she was a One-Percenter.

Her powerful empathy made her extremely compassionate for others. A young spark who wanted to see everyone on common ground. She knew personally how rough society is towards those lower on the caste. How the Senate will force your function until the day your spark snuffs itself. She wouldn’t have any of it. After that fateful encounter, day after day, Stellarus would sneak out of her dormitory and head to Iaconian libraries. There she’d pile datapads of medical textbooks and read. If she had any chance of becoming altmode exempt and attending the Medical Institute of Iacon, she had to prove that she at least had the spark and passion for it. And after repeated denial from the Senate, she finally earned her exemption and strided towards the medical academy. However getting into MIOI wasn’t easy. At the back of her processor she figured the reason they finally granted her exemptment was because they knew how hard it was to get into the academy and that she would eventually give up and go back to Vos. But they underestimated Stellarus and her extreme stubbornness. Once she sets her optics on something there is no going back. She WILL get into the Medical Institute of Iacon whether it takes a stellar cycle or an ano-cycle. Society wasn’t kind to Stellarus. It worked against her and her goals to help others. With prejudice from her ability to prejudice of her frame. Everything was harder than it should of been. She failed again and again, yet she never gave up. But perhaps she became bitter, cynical of a goal she worked for. Her views went from peaceful to a bit anarchistic. Those higher up on the caste didn’t matter. Many said they’d support the abolishment of the functionist caste and create equality yet she saw them do nothing to help her and the many other miners and industrial workers who slave away for the Senate and higher caste workers to function. Anger boiled up in her as she repeated hit a wall and eventually, all her stress and attempts paid off. After a little over a deca-cycle the board finally gave Stellarus admission to their school. She was nothing short of ecstatic to finally have all those cycles in the library pay off and finally help those around her. All the miners and workers who get injured building Cybertron’s infrastructure and enduring the prejudices set by the government, she can at least be there to help fix their wounds. Just like her time at the Vos Academy, she was a star student. Nothing but high scores and impressive marks. However something changed during her time at the academy. Despite finally making it, students and even professors still had some sort of problem with Stellarus. Whether they realized it or not. It didn’t even matter if she told them how wrong they were being, high caste bots won’t change. However despite the low expectations the school had on her, she excelled farther than any flier before her. She also began to grow defensive as well, her feisty nature manifesting into a locked down reclusive interior and a hotheaded exterior. There were two types of mechs who approached her. Those who had something to say, and those who believed what they say about Seekers. Either way, Stellarus had two ways of dealing with them. Shutting them down the harshest way she knew, or stringing them along and using them for her own gain. Either way, by the time she graduated, she was given the designation ‘Heartbreaker’.

Heartbreaker, as everyone referred to her now, wanted to help those on the lower end of the caste. Could she work at one of the reputable medical centers in Iacon or Praxus? Perhaps. But she chose to hop between clinics in the Dead End. If she wanted to say she worked at a hospital, she supposed she worked at the one in Kaon.

The Kaonian hospitals weren’t terrible but they were… Extremely understaffed and extremely under budgeted. She knew it wasn’t the hospital’s fault, but the Senate. But she knew that she could do little to change it on her own. So for the time being she just tried to help as many lives as she could. However with such an esteemed doctor working in Kaon, it drew the attention of the senate once more.

Many Cybertronians were familiar with the rumors and conspiracies surrounding the secret government-ran facility, The Institute. From word of mouth to shock value news, many speculated on what the Institute did, if it even existed. Many people who were theorized to have wronged the Senate were thought to be sent there, never to return. At least, never the same. One night when working a late shift at the hospital, Heartbreaker was approached by a man claiming to be a representative of one council member. He requested an audience with Heartbreaker. Skeptical at first, Heartbreaker nearly declined. But if this person really did represent a member of the Senate, maybe this is her chance to start doing more to help those in need.

What she expected was the usual ‘why is a Seeker like you working in a hospital.’ But instead, she was greeted with acknowledgement and praise on her achievements. A stark different from the demeaning and ridicule she received when attempting to speak with the senators. Something was wrong. She quietly listened to the mech talk of her attributes and even pull up a datapad with a file of her. Eventually he concluded with his little monologue with a proposition.

How would you like to work for the Senate?

Heartbreaker’s optics widened as she glanced around the small room.

What did he mean work for the Senate.

Oh, the Institute of course.

She’s heard of The Institute. Everyone has. The horrors that went down there. Most of the victims were revolutionaries who fought against the system, who tried to overthrow authority. Low castes who couldn’t catch a break. She couldn’t… She couldn’t do that to them.

However the senator’s brow ridge raised at her lack of an answer. He left her to think on it for a while. Leaving Heartbreaker a number to call if and when she decided she’d do it.

Of course, it was a harsh battle of morality and ethics. On one hand if she works for the senate, perhaps she can pull the strings like a shadow puppetmaster and influence their decisions on eliminating the caste system. But on the other… She’d be sacrificing many freedom fighers in the process.

But, she supposed, that was a sacrifice willing to be made in the eyes of progress.

Her work at the Institute was hard cut for her. Empurata, Shadowplay. Her hands were retrofitted with Mnemosurgery grade spikes. Over time she became desensitized almost to the act. Something that scared her to think about. But she had to look past these heinous operations in order to gain the trust of the Senate. Mnemosurgery is the act of viewing one’s memories and given the opportunity to edit them. She could even rewrite someone’s personality if she really wanted too. If her suggestions couldn’t sway the Senate, then perhaps she can attempt something in a more forceful manner.

In the eyes of Heartbreaker nothing seemed wrong, nothing she did could be at fault. She was fighting to abolish the functionist caste yet, was it really worth all these lives?

When the riots and war broke out, Heartbreaker saw herself aligning with the Decepticons. Megatron’s ideologies and speeches spoke to her on such a personal level. And with her abilities she was almost a needed asset for the Decepticons. However with the progression of war, so does come change within organized factions.

She put down her bandages and picked up weapons. She used her ability to hurt, not heal. She set aside her empathy and sought to eliminate those who stood between her and a perfect, equal, Cybertron.

Young Heartbreaker wouldn’t do this. But young Heartbreaker was naive and didn’t know how cruel the world could be.

Sure she realized how skewed the Decepticon cause became. From protesting a corrupt government to trying to form one, she still had a sense of humanity in herself. While she didn’t leave the Decepticons, she took a more neutral approach to the war. A mercenary. Or an assassin, whichever one a person needed. With an extended arsenal of weaponry and abilities, she was a force to be reckoned with. She was everything needed for a terrifying killer. Sneaky, conniving, and cruel. She didn’t just kill her targets, no. She was a mnemosurgeon after all, she had her due before any energon was spilled.

She was a hollow shell of the hopeful, charismatic and moral Stellarus. To the Decepticons she was Heartbreaker, a cold and calculated doctor who served her own agenda. But to everyone else, she was a mercenary who didn’t hesitate to take what she wanted along with your spark.

[dramaqueeenamby]

Space Between (4)

A/N: So, I created an update schedule which can be found HERE.

Secondly, I really like this one. Lol. Things speed up after here.

Keeping up a lie though....it never turns out well....keep that in mind....

As always, taglist is always open. However, there is a taglist for THIS story and a permanent one for all my works so please specify which one (if any) you want to be added to or removed from. :)

Oh, and Google Translate is trash so please forgive me in advance. 

Words: 2413

MASTERLIST

TAGLIST: @katshrev @elaindeereads @soulmates8 @naturallyqueenie @onyour-right @msincognito67 @janellemonaenae @afraiddreamingandloving @hutchj @90sinspiredgirl

Space Between (4)

Y/N wasn’t always the best with holding her tongue.

It wasn’t intentional.

She just found herself spewing out words that never should have left the confines of her consciousness yet somehow found themselves verbalized, often leaving her in precarious situations.

Well, that’s exactly what had happened.

Except, this time, she’d unknowingly dragged the one person in the world she’d promised to never hurt into her mess.

Bunme

Sure, her daughter was oblivious to the explosive fight that’d taken place between her and the king of Wakanda, but Y/N knew, and she felt awful about it. The guilt chipping away at her as they all sat in the grand dining hall, everyone else seemingly enjoying a “pleasant” breakfast, everyone aside from herself and T’Challa, who she could see was just as uncomfortable as she was.

“So Y/N,” Nakia started as Shuri passed her the basket of fresh bread, the steam emanating from the yeast visible from Y/N seat almost all the way across the table. “Bunme was telling us that you teach her from home?”

“That is correct.” The princess of Niganda straightened in her seat.

“Why?” N’Jobu questioned gently while wiping the corners of his mouth. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“It’s quite fine.” She looked over to see that Bunme was preoccupied with a vivacious conversation with Shuri concerning God knew what. “With our current political climate being the way that it is, I thought it best to keep her with me. I can teach her just as best as our educators, if not better.”

Prince N’Jobu seemed both pleased and impressed by her response. “Yes, my nephew did mention that your time at Oxford was spent earning your Ph.D. in…education, eh?”

She nodded. “Yes, with an emphasis in early childhood advocacy and intervention.”

Y/N’s first thought went to the realization that N’Jobu was T’Challa’s uncle, something she felt foolish for not recognizing earlier. If Erik was his cousin and the older man was his father, then obviously that would make them uncle and nephew. Her second thought went to the fact that the king had been discussing her with his uncle. Why? For what reason?

She immediately realized it was probably when they were deciding if they were to approve allowing she and Bunme to take sanctuary in Wakanda, but what purpose did they have for bringing up her time at Oxford?

That was….personal.

Y/N looked up and immediately cast her gaze downward when she caught T’Challa’s intense eyes.

“Uncle, you knew of their prior friendship?” Shuri spoke up with a scowl on her face. “Keeping secrets, brother?” Her grin was crooked, her eyes playful. Y/N frowned, immediately detecting the playful banter the princess had with her brother. “Do you have any siblings, Y/N?”

The princess stilled in her seat just as she was prying a piece of her bread.

“I do.”

“Really? How-“

“Shuri. The purpose of breakfast is to eat, not interrogate.” T’Challa lightly scolded and Y/N looked up at him, her eyes lightening up slightly. If she wasn’t still upset with him, she would have mouthed thank you.

“Mommy has a brother and sister, but he left home a long time ago and she’s  mean to mommy.” Bunme answered loudly as Y/N shut her eyes. Leave it to her daughter to be the voice in the void.

“Interesting.” Ramonda quipped a brow, her voice haughty as she sipped her sparkling water, and Y/N licked her lips to keep herself from saying anything.

“Sound like your average family to me.” Erik broke his silence and shrugged his shoulders as Y/N looked over at him when as he winked.

She found herself returning his gesture with a small smile, unaware of the irritated expression on T’Challa’s face. Nakia and Shuri shared a knowing look.

“Y/N.” The princess retained her sigh at Ramonda’s lack of title when addressing her. “You are your child’s only instructor?”

“Yes…yes I am.” She tried not to allow the way that Ramonda said your child irritate her. Bunme was, in fact, her child. It was just something about the delivery, however, that did not settle with her.

“So she has no private tutors for specific subjects?”

“Princess Y/N is well versed in a variety of areas, mama,” T’Challa interjected as Y/N found herself looking over at the king yet again. Why was he coming to her defense? Again? “I know for a fact her repertoire of knowledge rivals that of even mine.”

There it was. That familiar smirk, that typical arrogance, the T’Challa she knew all too well.

“Come now, brother.” Shuri chided and shook her head. “I thought you said that she was intelligent.”

“She is brilliant.” He spoke while looking directly at Y/N who was maintaining their eye contact.

“Not if you are comparing her to yourself. That is borderline insulting, my king.” The princess of Wakanda snickered as Nakia attempted to scold her despite the chuckle that left her own lips.

The corner of Y/N’s mouth lifted. She would have given anything to have such a relationship with her siblings.

“Shuri…” Ramonda narrowed her eyes and laughed softly. “You know as well I do that your brother, as well as yourself, possess minds that envy no one. No one.”

“Thanks, Auntie,” Erik muttered sarcastically as he rather loudly stabbed his fork into his plate.

“Of course you too, Erik.” She smiled, but it did not meet her eyes before dragging her faux kindness back to Y/N. “It is just that T’Challa and Shuri spent their summers with private tutors that their father and I personally picked out.” Y/N wanted to roll her eyes at the haughtiness, the way she was speaking alluded that she wanted some sort of prize for this decision. Was she expecting Y/N to clap or something? “T’Challa could speak three languages by the time he was eight.”

“Is that so?” She forced a grin and turned to Bunme. “Ma fille?” (My daughter) [French]

Bunme did not even lift her eyes from her plate. “Oui mère? (Yes, mommy) [French]

“Как тебе спалось прошлой ночью?” (How did you sleep last night?) [Russian]

“Действительно хорошо, мама. А ты?” (Really good mommy, and you?) [Russian]

“Maravilloso. Gracias por preguntar.” (Wonderful. Thank you for asking.) [Spanish]

“De nada, mami.” (You’re welcome, mommy.) [Spanish] Bunme finally looked up and beamed brightly, resuming her breakfast as though nothing has just occurred.

Y/N wanted to snort when she observed Ramonda’s irritation. “She speaks five. Of course, that was only three, but I assumed that the English and Swahili would be obvious, no?”

“And she’s only four,” Erik chuckled.

“I’m five,” Bunme stressed, placing her tiny hands on the table.

“I keep telling you it’s the same thing-“

“No, it’s not,” Bunme whined, effectively cutting him off.

“Son.” Prince N’Jobu sighed heavily. “Would it be too much to ask for you to not argue with a child?”

“Yes, would it Erik?” Nakia tilted her head and raised both brows, the two of them sharing a look that caused Y/N to question if there was something more there than what met the eyes.

“Oh, Y/N!” Shuri exclaimed with an unnecessary loudness. “You should consider allowing Bunme to attend our school while she is here!”

Y/N did not even get a chance to comment on that because Ramonda decided to throw in her unwanted and unneeded opinion. “Oh, do not be foolish, Shuri. She appears to be advanced, yes, but do you really think she can keep up with our students?”

“I do.” Shuri frowned as Y/N clenched her fists and attempted to calm her nerves. Ramonda was testing her nerves. She was already on edge from her confrontation with T’Challa, and Queen Mother was not helping with the anxiety. “And if there is anything she needs extra help with, I’m sure Y/N is more than capable of assisting her, right?” A beat. “Even better, I can help-“

“Absolutely not!” Ramonda declared, forcing everyone to look at her. She quickly realized she was causing a scene and straightened her back. “You have…. more important responsibilities, Shuri.”

She couldn’t take it anymore. If there was one thing that Y/N absolutely drew the line with, it was her daughter, and she’d had just about enough of Queen Mother.

“Ramonda-“

“Y/N,” she looked over at T’Challa and saw that he was standing up. “May I please speak with you?”

The princess of Niganda was conflicted. All she wanted to do was call his mother out on the comments she’d made, the negative connotations, the disdain that she’d felt ever since she met the woman. It was too much. Granted, she’d been reared around rude and haughty individuals her whole life. As precious stated, Bunme was where she drew the line. Still, she’d always been taught to respect her elders.

Even when they were wrong.

“Please.”

Maybe it was the fact that Bunme was only three seats away from her, maybe it was her emotional exhaustion, whatever the case, she finally relented.

“I’ll be right back, my love.” She spoke quietly to Bunme and backed out of her chair and stood up.

“Okay, mommy.” Bunme shrugged while watching Shuri explain to her how the Kimoyo beads operated.

“We’ll be fine.” T’Challa raised his hand as Okoye and Ayo went to follow behind them, making an ‘X’ with their arms before Y/N sped ahead of them to put some space between the two.

“I am not the one you need to be talking to.” She hissed as she heard him sigh behind her.

“Where are you going?”

She stopped and turned around, her hands going up in the air. “I do not know.” She cursed when she realized her throat suddenly felt heavy which could only mean one thing.

Tears.

“And here I was thinking that it was just you who thinks of me as an unfit parent.” She muttered and marched into a room, stopping when she realized that it was a library, massive, filled with books on every wall, from floor to ceiling. If she weren’t so emotional, she would have been awestruck.

“You are not an unfit parent, Y/N.”

“Oh?” She spun around to see he’d entered the room and shut the door behind them. “Your mother would seem to think otherwise, and did you yourself not suggest the same thing not even an hour ago?”

“I do not what has come over my mother,” his eyes dropped in shame before he looked at her with that same contrition. “Or myself.”

She avoided his gaze and crossed her arms. “But I was wrong, and I apologize for the things that I said. It was foolish of me to assume such a thing without tangible evidence. I was…I was out of line.”

“He actually admits fault.” She muttered bitterly, eyeing a corner of the room when a surprisingly warm hand went under her chin and turned her head.

“You are a good mother, and evidence of your excellent parenting is conveyed through Bunme who excels not only in terms of her intelligence but her kindness.”

The princess heartbeat was so erratic. Just under 60 minutes ago, she was ready to electrocute the man who was now merely centimeters away from her, his presence so…welcoming, so inviting, so safe.

It was….unfamiliar territory.

“Yes, well, I don’t know about the kindness.” She whispered and found herself smiling ever so slightly. “Seldom have used such a word to describe me.”

“Perhaps it skipped a generation.” His eyes twinkled with amusement before saddening. “Or two….” She frowned when he moved to the side and stood behind her, his hands going to push her hair to the side.

Her eyes clamped as his fingers lightly grazed the scars that she spent twenty minutes every morning hiding.

The physical ones, at least.

“Makeup…” She turned her head, her chin touching her shoulder. “It does wonders, huh?”

“How many?” He questioned, and she immediately detected the perfect mix of hurt and rage in his voice.

“23.” It came out so softly she was surprised that he heard her, but she knew he did because the light grazing of his finger against her back stopped when she confirmed the number. “One for…every year he wasted on me….after all….no one wants a….defiled princess, eh?” She sniffled, quickly wiping away at the tear that managed to leak out. “The irony, huh?”

“Why did you not reach out?” He breathed, and she momentarily paused from the pained emotion behind his delivery. He actually sounded…hurt.

Y/N gasped as his arms carefully moved around her from behind, gingerly pulling her against her back against his chest. Her first reaction was to pull away from him, to tell him not to touch her, to once again remind him that their one night of full-on intimacy was just that, one night.

However, she quickly picked up on the feeling that accompanied that being in his embrace, the comfort, the strength of his arms wrapped around her, being in his hold. She…she felt safe, and that was something she hadn’t felt…in years.

For the past five years, she’d served as Bunme’s protector, and that was perfectly fine. She’d give her life protecting her daughter. But…even with Dumi who diligently protected both she and Bunme, there was always something lacking.

Deep down, Y/N knew that it was partially because of the fact that T’Challa was her first. This was the same man she lost her virginity to, the same man she ever opened up to about her family problems, and the father of her child, even if he didn’t know it.

Whatever she felt about him, negatively speaking, it didn’t negate the fact that something was there.

And that scared her.

It scared her like hell.

“What good would it have done, T’Challa? What could you have done?” She murmured, her hands going to hold onto his forearms that were secured under the weight of her breast.

He tightened his hold on her, his head dropping to the crook of her neck. “You could have come here.”

“My location was not the issue….it was…it was the paternity.” She licked her lips and lightly shook her head. “My father-“

“I would have claimed her.“

She stilled. “I told you, T’Challa. You are not-“

“I know.”

Her eyebrows furrowed as she turned her head to look at him. “You would have knowingly claimed a child you knew was not yours?”

She wondered if it was preordained for them to be in their current position because if not for him holding her, she surely would have passed out at his reply.

“I still would.”

[ladylynse]

Here’s Part II of that Danny Phantom Lancer reveal fic request based off the being watched prompt! (I’d never anticipated writing a second part to it, but you voted for that, so here you go. *grins* Please take the science with a grain of salt; I’m better with biology.) Again, most of it is under the cut.

This fic can now be found on FF and the AO3 as Hobson’s Choice, title courtesy of @fantasticwhovian.

“It would seem,” Lancer finished, “that Danny Phantom was trying to protect your family as much as he tries to protect everyone else in this town.”

Jack and Maddie Fenton exchanged glances from their place on their couch; Jazz sat beside them, while Lancer and Danny had taken the free chairs. That Mr. and Mrs. Fenton were reluctant to believe Phantom would help them was obvious; it had been all Jasmine could do to stop them from immediately activating their Fenton Anti-Creep Alarm. But his insistence on the subject seemed to be puzzling them, and Danny had chimed in often to make good use of Lancer’s support for Phantom—even if he managed to appear reluctant whenever he did so.

Really, Lancer had always found young Mr. Fenton’s excuses rather pitiful, but these were inventive without being obviously contrived. I think Skulker was targeting me because you’re my parents. Not the most comforting point, but a valid one. Perfectly believable, given the situation; Jack and Maddie Fenton surely made enemies of the ghosts they hunted. He’s the Ghost Zone’s Greatest Hunter; of course he’d pit himself against you. A self-proclaimed point, but not one Lancer could dispute, given what he knew of the ghost. This is a weakness. The only thing that stopped him from exploiting it was Phantom. Another point that couldn’t be disputed, particularly given that it was true in more ways than one. I’m lucky it wasn’t worse.

“Phantom saved me,” Danny repeated quietly. “I know you don’t trust him, but he’s the reason I’m not lost somewhere in the Ghost Zone right now.”

Maddie closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose in thought. “Ghosts always try to do this, Danny,” she explained. “They want you to see them in the best light possible so they can exploit your trust later. Phantom and Skulker may have been working together in this.” She looked at her son then, adding, “I know how much you two look up to Phantom, but you can’t trust him. That might be the last mistake you make.” Her gaze suddenly switched back to him. “Surely you aren’t falling for his ploy, Mr. Lancer.”

“I am inclined to agree with your children in this instance, given what I witnessed.”

“That’s only playing into the ghost’s agenda,” Maddie pointed out. “Ghosts are masters of trickery. Phantom is hardly different.”

“I did work with him once, Mads.” It was a feat for Jack Fenton to look uncomfortable, especially when the subject was ghosts, but he managed a close approximation. “I told you about that. Plasmius threatened my family, and no one threatens my family.”

“One good deed does not undo the past.”

“But one bad mistake ruins everything else?” Jazz exclaimed. “That’s a double standard, Mom, and you know it! You can’t treat ghosts differently than people.”

“They aren’t human, Jazz,” Maddie said in the tone of one who had had this argument all too often before.

“No, but they were once.” Jazz bit her lip, glanced at Danny so quickly that Lancer nearly missed it, and amended, “Most of them, anyway. Phantom is.”

He was beginning to get a better appreciation of exactly how much Jazz did for her little brother.

Danny had had enough time to get cleaned up. He didn’t look good now, not by any stretch of the imagination. He had stayed as Phantom for as long as possible; Lancer had gotten a brief explanation from Jazz he’d only partially understood about accelerated healing due to the regenerative effects of residual ectoplasm, but he could appreciate the results. While Danny was still clearly exhausted and his wounds were still present, he no longer appeared in dire need of stitches, he was in no danger of bleeding through the gauze, and some of the tiny cuts and scratches that had marred him earlier were gone. Lancer was already unsure if he had imagined the bruises.

Lancer had never thought too much about Phantom’s resilience before, but it certainly made sense.

It also explained why there never seemed to be any evidence of Mr. Baxter’s abuse of his classmate. Lancer had turned a blind eye to that for too long, but without Danny so much as going to his parents with a complaint, let alone anything official made to the school…. It became difficult to persuade the school board that Casper High should remain open if it wasn’t bringing in any money from football games, and Dash was the star of the team. Kwan was very good, but he couldn’t carry the team by himself, and Casper High sustained too much damage to rely solely on handouts from the school board.

They’d exceeded their repair budget the first week the ghost attacks had begun, and things had only gotten worse.

But money should never have been a reason to ignore a child’s abuse, and Dash’s bullying of Danny was nothing less than that. What good was Casper High as a school if its students weren’t safe within its halls?

Well, as safe as they could be, given the ghost attacks.

It was rather surprising they hadn’t been shut down anyway. Elmerton didn’t see nearly as many attacks.

Granted, no ghost attended their school, but despite the attacks, Amity Park’s reputation for educational quality remained a shade better than that of their bitter rival.

Lancer only hoped it still would once things changed.

“As I see it, Mr. and Mrs. Fenton—”

Maddie held up one hand. “No, Mr. Lancer, I’m sorry. You’ve made your opinion very clear, but I’m afraid I don’t share it, and like Jack, I’m not willing to compromise our children’s safety. Phantom might have saved you this time, Danny, but it’s all too likely that he simply has a plan in mind for later. Go fetch a Spectre Deflector. I expect you to wear it until further notice.”

“Mom!” The exclamation came from Jazz; Danny’s expression was frozen in horror, and Lancer doubted it was all for show. “You can’t make Danny wear that!”

“As soon as I check over the other ones, we’ll all be wearing them,” Maddie said, her voice making it clear she wouldn’t stand for argument. “I’ve half a mind to distribute them free to the entire town, but I’m afraid we can’t afford that right now. If we could shut down the Fenton Ghost Portal without repercussions—”

“Wait, shut down the Portal?” Danny’s horror had melted into puzzlement. “We can do that?”

This was news to Lancer as well. For all the Fenton Ghost Information sessions he’d attended—and that was many, despite the dismal attendance of the FGIs these days—the Fentons had never mentioned the possibility of shutting down their portal and cutting the ghosts off from what was surely their main entry point. Lancer knew the portal was shuttered, but he’d always had doubts about it staying closed, and the revelation of Phantom’s identity hardly inspired confidence.

“Not easily, Danny-boy. Not without a lot of bad mumbo jumbo that your mom’s been telling me about.”

Lancer saw Danny swallow, look at his sister, ignore the worry that was clear in her expression, and make a choice. Carefully, the boy asked, “Is it because the Ghost Zone is connected with our world?”

Maddie’s eyes widened. “You know about that?”

Danny shifted uncomfortably. “I’ve picked up some stuff here and there,” he said vaguely.

“Phantom told us,” Jazz added, and Danny glared at her. “I was doing some research on ghosts and ghost envy, and he agreed to answer a few questions.”

“Jazz—”

“Don’t start, Mom. If Phantom really wanted to hurt us, he would have done it by now.”

“Our previous encounters with Phantom do lend credence to Jasmine’s theory,” Lancer put in. He was trying to be helpful. If Jack and Maddie would at least agree that Phantom wasn’t solely a menace, it would make the eventual conversation easier on Danny. And that conversation would happen. Despite Danny’s worries, Lancer planned to encourage him to have it.

But because of Danny’s worries, Lancer also planned to have a contingency plan in place. He didn’t fear that Jack and Maddie wouldn’t accept the truth about their son; he feared they might think it a terrible hoax of Phantom’s at first, and he feared the psychological toll on the entire family once the truth became undeniable. Jazz’s concerns that they weren’t currently mentally prepared for the truth were hardly unfounded, after all. Still, at the very least, he would offer Danny a place to stay for the duration if it came to that. He would just rather make plans to ensure it didn’t.

Truth was, though, Lancer wasn’t sure his plans would make a whit of difference. He didn’t really know the Fentons well enough to know how they’d react, and even imagining himself in their situation was difficult. There would be horror, guilt, disgust, denial—angry, defensive denial and tearful, insistent denial—and maybe blank numbness, but in what order? Where would the acceptance finally fall? Initially, before the horror set in, or after, once it had begun working its way through and the need for forgiveness that may never come became overwhelming?

Yes, he could certainly understand why Danny had not told his parents.

But keeping the secret for long would only serve to make the situation worse.

Lancer was supposed to be a responsible adult. However much Jazz fancied herself grown up and fully matured, she wasn’t. He was. Which meant he needed to do the responsible thing, and covering for a secret like this…. That wasn’t it. Not in the long term. Not even for very long in the short term.

He needed to do whatever he could to change the Fentons’ view of Phantom, but he feared they might not unless they were presented with undeniable proof of Phantom’s humanity.

The same proof that could tear them apart.

“You did say Phantom helped you before, Dad, and not just when the entire town was under attack.” Danny’s voice was tentative again, but Lancer was beginning to figure out which emotions were part of his mask. Danny was clearly referring to an incident he knew all about but was pretending he didn’t, so his uncertainty couldn’t be genuine—unless it was merely there because he was unsure of what reaction he’d receive. “What if he wasn’t just helping you out to get his freedom? What if he really was helping because it was the right thing to do?”

“I never said anything about giving him his freedom, Danny-boy.”

Lancer saw the flash of panic this time, could recognize the falsity of the smile Danny plastered on his face. “But you would’ve captured him if he’d been close enough to help you like that,” reasoned Danny. “Besides, wasn’t that the time with the Fenton Weasel? You told us about that, too, not just Mom.”

This time, it was Jack’s turn to look uncertain, and Jazz stepped right in to back up her little brother. They had been at this for a while. “Oh, right, that time. I lectured you for weeks about capturing him in the first place, but as usual you didn’t listen to me.”

“And,” Danny continued before either of his parents could open their mouths, “if he can be trusted with that, maybe he can be trusted with something like this. As a trial. I’ll even carry ghost hunting weapons with me at all times, I swear. Maybe he can even help you guys figure out the Portal. Why exactly can’t you just close it, again? Phantom never exactly mentioned there being any repercussions of that.”

“Danny, we are not having this conversation now. Go get the Spectre Deflector.”

Danny still didn’t move, instead belligerently crossing his arms. “Mom, seriously. It’s connected with our world. I get that. But why can’t we shut it down? What would happen?”

“Danny.”

“But it would stop all the ghosts! We wouldn’t need to worry about them. Phantom might not even need to be around all the time if he doesn’t have to fight any of them.”

“Listen to your mother, Danny-boy.”

“Just answer my question!”

“I confess I would also be interested in the answer,” Lancer interjected mildly.

Maddie’s lips thinned, but she evidently decided that she and Jack were suitable protection for Danny in the meantime and didn’t wish to have a fight in front of a guest. After a pointed look from her, Jack coughed and flashed Lancer a brilliant smile. “As much as I love talking about ghosts, weren’t you here to discuss Danny?”

“You can go, Jazz,” Maddie added quietly.

“Mom!”

“No, she can stay.” Danny’s hurried assurance was no doubt born out of fear of losing an ally, lest he find himself in need of one. Lancer couldn’t blame him; he wasn’t sure he would be able to help the boy if it came down to it. “She’s…probably gonna end up helping me with my homework and stuff anyway. Maybe scheduling? A schedule might help….”

Lancer cleared his throat. “That is certainly an admirable idea, Mr. Fenton, if you can stick to it.” Looking at Jack and Maddie, he clarified, “I’m afraid Danny’s record hasn’t improved since our last discussion.” I’m sorry, he wanted to say to his young student, but he couldn’t suddenly appear unconcerned about the matter. It was still an issue, even if he now knew the truth, and he had pressed for this meeting.

“We’ve offered to check his homework,” Maddie said, glancing at her son, “but....”

Say something, Danny. It was the perfect opportunity for him to pipe up with an excuse, believable or not, but he remained silent.

“I’m afraid restricting his gaming time hasn’t been effective, if you’ve seen no change,” Maddie continued apologetically. “We’ve been hesitant to cut him off from Sam and Tucker. I’m sure they help him, and you know how teenagers are, Mr. Lancer. They never seem to want to come to their parents for help. I mentioned grounding Danny for two weeks once, on a trial basis, but Jack talked me out of it.” She turned a small, somewhat apologetic smile in Danny’s direction when she noticed his expression; clearly, his parents had never come close to instigating this particular punishment for any considerable length of time. “He reminded me that sometimes kids need an escape, and the real issue here might not be Danny’s inability to apply himself but an inability to focus or an uncertainty about how to tackle a deeper issue.”

Jazz, surprisingly, looked as if something suddenly made a lot more sense. “That’s why you and Dad haven’t been talking quite as much about your inventions, isn’t it? Because you’ve been trying to give Danny space and give him the opportunity to open up to you and not have the conversation taken over by ghosts.”

Maddie leaned over to touch Danny’s arm, though she withdrew her hand when Danny flinched away. “You never seem to want to talk to us anymore, honey.”

“I’m a teenager, Mom. You just finished saying we don’t talk to our parents.”

“Sweetie, please don’t twist my words like that. I know Sam doesn’t have a good relationship with her parents, but I know Tucker gets along well with his. We’d like you to know that we are here for you if you’ll only come to us. The problems we solve don’t have to be related to ghosts to be important.”

Lancer could see the defensive line in Danny’s posture, and he knew—he knew—how this was going to go if he let it play out. So he didn’t. “If I may,” he interrupted, “perhaps the problem is tied to ghosts after all?”

“What?” Danny’s yelp of shock was nothing compared to the betrayal on his face or the thunderous anger beneath it. For the briefest of moments, his eyes seemed to burn green, and he spat, “You don’t know anything, Mr. Lancer.”

No, he suspected he didn’t.

Not compared the whole truth or the little Jazz knew of it, at least. But he knew enough for this. “Forgive me, Danny, but am I wrong in thinking that you and Jasmine do not share your parents’ views on Phantom?”

“What does Phantom have anything to do with this?” Jazz shrilled. She looked no less betrayed than Danny, but fear played on her face more than Danny’s. Danny had not forgiven him for this apparent betrayal; Jazz was already thinking ahead to what it might mean. She couldn’t see where he was going with this.

“I’m not,” Lancer concluded when neither child answered him. “Could it be, then, that in defiance of your parents, and perhaps out of loyalty to one you think of as a friend, you help Phantom?”

He saw the comprehension dawn in Danny’s eyes, saw Jazz’s shoulders sag as she released her breath. They weren’t in the clear, but this was a better route than the one they’d first feared.

“It would, after all, explain the ghost’s motivations.” He looked at the Fenton parents now. “Rather than trickery, Phantom might simply be acting to protect his friends. Or assets, if you do not currently believe him capable of friendship.” It was a perfectly logical explanation, one he had found himself believing—and may have continued believing, had he not stayed to overhear more of the conversation or if the pieces had not been so carefully laid out in front of him. “If your children have formed an alliance with Phantom, they are hardly in danger from him.”

Surprisingly, Jack was the one to break the silence that had begun to stretch. “Is this true?”

Neither child made eye contact with any of the adults.

“You’re working with Phantom?” Maddie clearly had no trouble believing that conclusion, either. “Both of you? How long has this been going on?”

“I’ve been doing it for long enough,” Jazz finally whispered, “that I believe him more than I believe what you’ve been telling me about him. Scientists have to have open minds, and you two have a big blind spot when it comes to him.” Her voice had been getting stronger, gaining in confidence as she spoke. “He doesn’t have an end game, some nefarious ulterior motive. He’s good. A good soul. Death didn’t twist that, whatever you two think. Did you ever think that that’s why he’s so powerful? Because his goodness is so pure that it not only survived his death but has sustained him in the afterlife to the point that he doesn’t need to frequent the Ghost Zone as often as the other ghosts? That he’s been getting stronger because his good deeds are what strengthen him?”

Maddie sighed. “You agree with your sister, don’t you, Danny?”

“Phantom might’ve messed up before,” Danny mumbled, “but he doesn’t want to be evil.”

“But for all of your help, for all that he told you about the Ghost Zone mirroring our world, for all that he seems to have been treating the symptoms rather than the disease— You yourself said that Phantom never mentioned what would happen if we shut down the Ghost Portal. Why do you think that is?”

“Because he didn’t know?” Danny offered, finally looking at his mother.

“No,” Jack said, “it would be because he didn’t want to die again. Jazzy-pants, you know ghosts are sustained by the concentrated ectoplasm of the Ghost Zone. Phantom isn’t exempt to that, and he doesn’t have the ability to create natural portals.”

“So he’d destabilize if the Portal were shut down?” Jazz asked cautiously.

“All ghosts caught in our world would. Maybe not immediately,” Jack allowed, “and not the ones who’ve managed to tether themselves here some other way, but all the ones that have turned up since we opened the Fenton Ghost Portal? Including Phantom? They’d be torn apart molecule by molecule. Just slowly and painfully and not where we could analyze them.”

“Then why haven’t you shut it down already?” Lancer asked. He was surprised to find himself voicing the question, but he didn’t regret it. He knew Jack and Maddie were scientists, that they wanted to study ghosts, but they wouldn’t endanger the public like this, especially for so long, merely for the sake of capturing a specimen to study. They would have gone back to the drawing board and discovered a way of fishing ghosts out of the Ghost Zone that didn’t risk the entire town.

“We didn’t realize it until after we’d built the Portal,” Maddie said quietly. “We’d gone over the calculations countless times. Nothing had seemed out of place.”

“Not until the Fenton Ghost Portal didn’t work,” Jack put in. “The designs for that baby were perfect. It should’ve started up like a dream!”

“But it didn’t, so we went back over our notes. I saw it then. What it was supposed to need, what was supposed to sustain it. I was actually happy that it hadn’t worked. And then when we came home and it was….” Maddie trailed off. “I thought that meant I’d been wrong, and I was ecstatic to be wrong for once. But as time went on, I realized I wasn’t. I couldn’t be.”

“Wrong about what?” Jazz and Lancer asked the question at the same time, but the seriousness of the situation seemed to sap away any humour the incident might have caused. Instead of teasing his sister or making some sarcastic remark, Danny stayed silent.

If Lancer had learned anything of Phantom, it was that silence was often associated with the most grave and impossible of situations, the ones where grit and determination may not be enough to pull through but must be tackled anyway. It meant acceptance of the inevitable, should it come to that, and a seriousness that couldn’t be faced with humour alone. Too often, it meant sacrifice.

That scared him.

No child should be forced to contemplate that.

“The Portal contains a massive amount of energy,” Maddie explained gently. “It’s currently stabilized by the nature of our design, but the moment we move to shut it down, it would become unstable. Without an appropriate conduit….”

“It would explode,” Jack finished. “Worse than anything we’d see if we forgot to change the filter for a few weeks. The Fenton Portal’s slicing into the very fabric of our reality. You kids were taught about the energy released when an atom’s split, right?” He didn’t wait for them to nod before adding, “How many atoms do you think the Portal’s sliced through?”

Children of the Dust, the Fentons believed the outpouring of energy, maybe the release of some sort of radiation along with all the free neutrons that would extend serve to extend the explosion, would be more devastating than any disaster like Chernobyl or Three Mile Island. They didn’t want to try shutting it down until they’d devised a way to contain it, and from what he could gather, they hadn’t figured out how.

“But….” Jazz licked her lips. “The Portal’s slicing through air. It’s not uranium. It’s mostly nitrogen.” She knew the truth. Lancer could see it. She just didn’t want to admit it. Acknowledging that pit of fear in her stomach would make it real.

Unfortunately, he shared the feeling.

“Does that even matter if it’s still enough energy to break an atom in half and start a crazy chain reaction?” Danny looked like he might be ill. “And there’s still all the ectoplasm from the ghost side.” He turned to his parents. “Mom, you said it needs a conduit or something like that?”

“We’re working on it, honey. You don’t need to worry about it.”

But they wouldn’t figure it out. That’s what Danny and Jazz were worried about, and the thought disturbed Lancer, too. What didn’t help matters was the knowledge that the Fenton children might know exactly what their parents were missing. He didn’t know without talking to them, of course, but—

“I…I need to go.” Danny stood up. “Sorry. Can we, um, reschedule?” He ran off without waiting for an answer.

“Danny, wait!” Jazz was the first to react, albeit too late to catch Danny, and by the time Lancer got to his feet, Danny was nowhere in sight.

Of course, that didn’t mean much, now that he knew Danny could turn himself invisible and fly.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lancer,” Maddie said as Jazz rushed out in a futile attempt to catch her brother. “We shouldn’t have burdened you with this knowledge. Please, trust that we’re working on it and developing more effective weapons to combat all the ghosts in the meantime.”

She had no idea what knowledge he was burdened with.

Ignorance really could be bliss.

But it could also be disaster.

Jack and Maddie needed to understand Danny’s situation. Lancer didn’t want his inaction to lead to ruin as disastrous as the tragedy Jack and Maddie were already trying to prevent. “I Never Promised You a Rose Garden,” he murmured, thinking of the horrible situation in which his young student had found himself.

“Pardon?”

Maddie must think he’d made some remark about their portal. He wished, if she did, that she were right. It would be a much simpler subject to discuss.

“Mr. and Mrs. Fenton, I have something I feel I should tell you.”

(see more fics)

[kuwttrpg-blog]

MR. SEBASTIAN SMYTHE, it is with great pleasure that we are writing to inform you of your acceptance to Dickinson State University. As a graduate of WMHS, you are automatically granted access to your high school’s official KUWTT website, instructions pertaining to which can be found by clicking here. Kaitlyn, please submit Sebastian’s account within 24 hours, along with the provided form. We’re excited to write with you!

» BEHIND THE CHARACTER!

NAME/ALIAS: Kaitlyn PRONOUNS: She/Her AGE: 20 TIMEZONE: Cst ACTIVITY LEVEL: 8/10 since I work from home and am on mostly all day. I’m also will be on on the weekends but later at night or early in the morning as I spend my weekends with family and friends. ANYTHING ELSE?: RFP!

» BUILDING THE FAMILY!

FAMILY: Smythe PARENTS: Noelle and Harrison Smythe MARITAL STATUS: Father is widowed FAMILY SIZE: 4

» SHAPING THE CHARACTER!

FACECLAIM: Grant Gustin BIRTH ORDER: First TYPE: Quad. Oldest GENDER IDENTITY: Cismale PRONOUNS: He/Him SEXUAL PREFERENCE: Homosexual ROMANTIC PREFERENCE: Homoromantic

» COLLEGE APPLICATION!

FULL NAME: Sebastian Alexander Smythe TITLE: Mr AGE: 21 BIRTHDAY: October 12th STATE: North Dakota COLLEGE: Dickinson State University GRADE: Junior MAJOR: Criminal Law MINOR: Forensic Science

» BIOGRAPHY!

Growing up in Paris was the best thing anyone could think of. To some, it was just a place on your bucket list to visit and experience what the city had to offer, but to Sebastian as a born resident, it was his home. Anytime that he would be asked about what it was like living there, he could go on and on about the history, and every sight that you would have to see to understand his love for it. He was always considered the rebel of the family, as he had the tendency to defy orders against his parents and educators. He grew up as spoiled with everything he could ever want, along with his siblings. He may have never been apart of an actual sport team, but he has always been quite skilled in physical activities including track, soccer, and lacrosse. He was also a pretty intelligent kid, as he loved to read and solve puzzles, looking through his father’s cases for work. As he got older and pestered to make a plan for the rest of his adult life, Sebastian decided that following in his father’s footstep was his calling, as well as minoring in something that has interested him from a young age.

He was very close with his mother, adoring and worshiping the ground she stood on. So when she passed away in the hospital after the car crash, everyone was surprised that his rebellious stage went on even longer than anyone would think. He became closed off, starting to ignore his family as they tried to understand what went on in his head, until his father finally had enough and forced him to attend therapy. Of course he stopped going after deeming that it was a waste of his time and was not helping him at all in any way. That summer, he became a entirely different person than you would recognize before the tragedy that took place. Moving to the states didn’t seem to help either after him getting expelled from private school. His father had finally given up trying to talk to him, as every conversation about always ended in a yelling match. Once he started public school, despite his annoyance, pretty quickly he had climbed the social ladder with his charms, and various skills, as he knew he would never let himself be at the bottom for any reasoning.

Throughout the years his relationship with his father is didn’t get any better, but he started to finally let his siblings back in little by little. In Harrison’s eyes, Sebastian could never please him in any way. So Sebastian had came to terms that he couldn’t care less about what his father thought of him at a young age, not wanting to be a hard ass as him when he grew older, having his own children if he wanted sometimes in his future life. With his siblings, he technically didn’t have a favorite despite what they may say. He’s closer with some than the others, for reasons he himself don’t understand. He was usually the one who needed to be “babysat” as everyone who knew the family, knew that Sebastian could get himself into some deep shit. He loves to pester them as he’s the oldest and never misses an opportunity to remind him that he was the first born child.

When someone mentions Sebastian Smythe, people who knows him would say that he’s a cocky, arrogant, sarcastic little shit that is very persuasive at getting what he wants. He’s known as a man whore as he sleeps around with about almost every guy he meets, not caring who he hurts in the process. He once saw his father having an affair with a younger woman than his mother, therefore making him believe that true love was bullshit, and just a fairy tale to others. He never spoke of what he saw after his father had threaten to send him off to military school for trying to tarnish their family’s reputation. He had always felt guilty for not confessing to his mother before she died, and will carry that burden for the rest of his life. There was no surprise that Sebastian was ready to leave Ohio once he was accepted into Dickinson State University, that as soon as he graduated from high school, he moved out and went on a summer road trip with some people and partied his summer away before starting University in the fall. He’s smart, charming, and mischievous, loving to bend and break the rules if he sees fit. You will usually find Sebastian in the local coffee shop, drinking coffee while studying for his classes. If you do see him going around and about, he’s most likely wearing designer clothing, or if he’s out running or at lacrosse practice or just going out for his daily run, he’s wearing gym shorts and a plain dark colored t-shirt. Lounging around his dorm, you can find him in comfortable clothing and most likely studying his ass off for hours, with several cups of coffee, books and papers scattered around him.

Like most any other boy, his space is somewhat a mess, with school supplies, books, and papers sprawled out in every corner. To some it may seem like he doesn’t care to clean up, but to some degree, it’s him organizing everything. He color codes everything from his clothes, notes, schedules, etc so that he doesn’t have to run around searching for everything, and gets to the places he needs to be on time with the right things. Basically the only thing that Sebastian keeps really clean are his closet, dresser drawls, and his desk where he does his assignments. He may be popular among his peers from his status in school and activities, but Sebastian had never considered anyone to be an actual close friend, as the reason he doesn’t like letting anyone in. He has several suitors that he will sleep with maybe once, unless the sex is somewhat memorable, making him want several rounds. He’s more interested in friends with benefits than an actual exclusive relationship, but that could one day change if someone special somehow breaks down the walls he built up around himself all these years.

[the-record-columns]

Jan. 22, 2020: Columns

Jerry Lankford writes his obituary every day...

Ellen Lankford at age 16

By KEN WELBORN

Record Publisher

Note:  The following column is taken from remarks made by Ken Welborn at memorial services this past Saturday for the late Ellen Kay Lankford, sister of The Record's Jerry Lankford.

  Good afternoon folks, my name is Ken Welborn and I work for The Record, a newspaper in North Wilkesboro. 

I am sad—yet honored to be here today to speak with you about Ellen Lankford, who died very unexpectedly this past Monday morning at the young age of 57.  Speaking at a service like this is privilege I do not take for granted, and today is no exception, but for some reason, this one feels different.  I will just do the best I can, speaking from my heart.

As I mentioned a moment ago, I work for The Record in North Wilkesboro where I have had the pleasure of working with Jerry Lankford, The Record's editor, for over 20 years. We spend more time together than most married couples do.  I personally value loyalty above all else, and in working with Jerry through these years, I have come know and trust him like very few people in my life—and thanks to him I have had the opportunity of getting to briefly know his relatives.  I never met his brother Gary, who died as a young boy.  Sadly, however, in our years of working together, I have watched him lose his entire immediate family; first his mother Willa Mae, then his brother Mike, and now Ellen, his sister and last sibling. This is the third funeral he has honored me by allowing me to speak.

Jerry Lankford is sad today, I can only imagine how sad he must be, but he sits on that church pew down front today with a clear conscience, because he knows he has spent his entire life caring about—and taking care of—his family.  And a clear conscience is a soft pillow.

I do not profess to have gotten to know Ellen Lankford nearly as well as many here today.  Most of what I know about Ellen came from conversations with Jerry.  He was proud of her—how smart she was, how well she did in school, earning a master's degree in Biology from Appalachian State University and continuing her education further at Wake Forest University School of Medicine.  She made a career as a laboratory scientist at various institutions in Guilford County where she spent most of her adult life.

He also spoke of Ellen with great respect and pride for her willingness to be such a loving aunt to his daughters, and, when Ellen, Mike, and Jerry's mother, Willa Mae, died in 2009, Ellen seamlessly transitioned to a grandmother figure to those girls. She took on the same role for Jerry's grandsons, Sammie and Charlie, years later. 

When Jerry's own health issues prompted his moving in to live with Ellen at her apartment in the Mulberry Community, he will tell you that her medical background, her “Mother Hen” nagging, and her “Fear of God” proclamations, helped get him on the straight and narrow, and has made a substantial difference on his own road to better health.

Again, I cannot profess to knowing everything about Ellen Lankford, but, some months ago, circumstances worked out in such a manner that I was able to do a favor for her regarding some things she had left stored for some time in Guilford County. It really wasn't that big of a favor as far as I was concerned, but Jerry said Ellen was truly grateful and wanted to do something for me. Of course I told him no, that nothing was expected, but she persisted.  Then one morning at work Jerry told me that Ellen had decided she wanted to take me to lunch—and wasn't going to take no for an answer.  When I said no again, he told me I was going to hurt her feelings and would I please meet with her for lunch, as she really wanted to say a special thank you to me.

Well, the lunch went fine, and it turned out I was really glad I went.  Ellen Lankford spent practically all of the entire hour and a half we were there talking about one person—her baby brother, Jerry.  She spoke of his love and kindness for her and of how he had taken such wonderful care of their mother, and everyone else in their family.  She told stories about growing up with Jerry, about the warm feeling of security he gave her just knowing that he was always going to be there for her.  As she continued to speak, it was with tears in her eyes—tears of love—tears comfortably shed in front of what amounted to a perfect stranger—because Jerry meant that much to her. I told her what I could in the way of “Amens” to what she was saying, reminding her that I trusted Jerry with anything I had, and of the countless times he has covered my rear end so to speak, and how I knew he would always keep my confidence. Ellen and me had a Jerry Lankford love fest, and I was a proud participant. 

After that lunch I felt as though I knew Ellen a lot better, and felt better about her. 

We would have an occasional visit if I answered the telephone when she would call to speak with Jerry. I always noticed the little lift in her voice as she would ask “...has my baby brother has made it down there yet?”  It is totally appropriate that when Ellen was in distress this Monday past, Jerry immediately stopped his work and went to her side.  He talked with her, he comforted her, he told her—and once again showed her—that he loved her. 

And he held her hand as she died. She was not alone in her hour of greatest need. Jerry saw to that, as he always saw to everything.

I hope you folks are following what I am getting at. 

I noted earlier that this funeral felt different to me, and it still does. While we are here today to honor the life and memory of Ellen Lankford, I would also like to note the obvious, that funerals are for the living as well. 

As I noted earlier, this is the third Lankford funeral at which I have spoken—I do not want to do a fourth. Jerry Lankford should be there to conduct my funeral. To that end, I would ask, as an appropriate way to honor the life and memory of Ellen, that this family continue to take Jerry into their arms. Hold him close and give him the love, the kindness, and the respect he deserves—simply put, that which he gives every one of you, every day of his life.  He needs it.  He appreciates it.  And I know in my heart that Ellen would certainly approve. 

  Thank you.

Terror and Murder for political gain

By AMBASSADOR EARL COX and KATHLEEN COX

Special to The Record

The United Nations designated Monday, Jan. 27, as International Holocaust Remembrance Day. 

This day also marks the 75th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz-Birkenau; two World War II Nazi extermination camps located in Poland where millions of Jews and others suffered and lost their lives. 

Next week more than 40 world leaders will gather in Jerusalem to participate in special events and ceremonies called ‘Remembering the Holocaust: Fighting Antisemitism.’  Why? Because humanity is obligated to make certain that ‘never again’ will there be another Holocaust. 

Recently it was revealed that an official Palestinian newspaper published an article calling for murder on Holocaust Remembrance Day in Jerusalem.  Their goal is to disrupt, and perhaps even cancel, the ceremonies.  We’ve heard nothing of this from mainstream U.S. news outlets but that’s because what Arab leaders say to their people in Arabic is very different from what they say to the English speaking world. 

Contained in the article is the statement, “One shot will disrupt the ceremony and one dead body will cancel it.”  The implicit message is that one of the 40 world leaders slated to be in attendance will be a target.  This is unacceptable.

The Palestinians are deeply opposed to the Holocaust Remembrance ceremony taking place for several reasons.  First of all, most Palestinians have been taught that the Holocaust never really happened. In fact, the president of the Palestinian Authority, Mahmoud Abbas, promotes and perpetuates the lie that the Holocaust is a myth. Secondly, the Palestinians believe that Jerusalem, both East and West Jerusalem, belongs fully to them and that it is a place where Jews do not belong. In plain language, Palestinian leaders are promoting murder to further their political agenda.

The international community must reject the Palestinian Authority for promoting terror and murder. They must not be given a free pass. Terror and murder cannot be used, or threatened to be used, in order to achieve political goals. These are the people with whom the world wants Israel to make peace.  It’s outrageous.

Miles and Miles of Hotdogs from an Igloo

By CARL WHITE

Life in the Carolinas

How do you eat a mile-long hot dog?

One foot at a time or at least that’s how Linda Green approaches the process.

Linda Green stopped in at the Igloo shop in Millers Creek to pick up her order. Linda likes her hotdog all the way which includes a split grilled hotdog on a toasted bun with mustard, chili, onions, and slaw. Linda is a loyal customer who has been getting her hot dog, and ice cream fix at the Igloo for the past 40 years.

When I ask her how many she had ordered over the years, it seemed to work out to average two or three for most weeks. With a mile having 5,280 feet it has taken 40 years, but Linda is close to either side of a mile of delicious hot dog bliss.  

Matt Maston was also in line, he has been placing his Igloo order for more than 30 years, he’s another fan of the all the way dog, and he is well on the way to his membership in the Hotdog Mile Club. Matt recalled attending Millers  Creek Elementary   School across the highway from the Igloo and making regular trips.

Nowadays the menu offers up a variety of other options, however the hot dog rules supreme at the Igloo. The business opened in 1976, and was owned and operated by Chancie and Ruth Ashley, who were chicken farmers. The chicken business was changing, and the couple wanted to look at other income sources.

The building was a mail-order novelty concept. When the Igloo opened for business, the people in the surrounding area enjoyed visiting for ice cream. After two years the hotdogs were added to the menu, and over time the chili and slaw were perfected and become a favorite for loyal customers.

Kay Call is the daughter of Chancie and Ruth Ashley, and is now the owner. She recalled the opening days, when for the first two years, ice-cream was the only offering. Hotdogs were the first non-ice-cream food added; the boiled hotdogs were a favorite, however when the grill was added customers loved the extra flavor profile of grilling the dog to finish it off. The chili was, and still is, made from scratch with a slight sweetness and a nice texture. The slaw is made fresh and not complicated.

Cindy Dillard has been employed at the Igloo for 28 years and was working the grill during my visit. Cindy moved around the kitchen and filled order after order with the greatest of ease.

Debbie Whitley has been employed for a few years and said she enjoys being part of the seven-to-eight-person team that keeps the food flowing.

Cindy said the chili and slaw are so well-liked that a lot of the regulars order their dogs sloppy, which is double the amount of an already generous portion.  “It’s sloppy alright, and it’s good,” she said.

I do not doubt that there are many unofficial members of the hot dog mile club. It’s easy to lose track over the years, but one thing is for sure. The modest hot dog has a way of bringing people together and producing a lot of smiles.

Kay has done an excellent job of giving the hot dog its place of honor and respect. She has also preserved a piece of our Americana landscape.

Most of the Igloo buildings have been taken down. However, the one in the Millers Creek Community is standing and is home to a revolving door leading to miles and miles of tasty hot dogs.

You will need a napkin!

[cafezimmermann]

The Image

(Moscow, 1995 – me (right) in front of the dormitory of the Moscow Conservatory)

“We might say now that chewing gum is the television of the mouth. There is no danger so long as we do not think that by chewing gum we are getting nourishment. But the Graphic Revolution has offered us the means of making all experience a form of mental chewing gum, which can be continually sweetened to give us the illusion that we are being nourished.”

Daniel J. Boorstin, The Image

Last Tuesday, after a meeting in Berlin with the director of a PR agency, I found myself standing on a train platform next to two American men who were probably in their mid-30s. Americans seem to pop up everywhere these days in Berlin, and it was impossible for me not to listen to their conversation. "Hey Dave," said the one to the other, "Did you see Comedy Central last night?" He then took out his iPhone, pulled up the video from YouTube, and held his phone under Dave's face so that Dave (and everyone else in their vicinity) could hear what turned out to be the opening monologue of Trevor Noah. The two chuckled along, happy to be in their world and oblivious to the dour faces of the Berliners looking at them for being so obnoxiously loud.

It was a fairly innocuous moment, one that you will encounter anywhere these days, but for some reason it made me stop in my tracks. The irony of turning 50 this past year is not only the realization that I have been on this planet longer than I wish to admit but the memory that there was a time in my not-too-distant past where such a moment would have been impossible.

Not that I wouldn't have done the same as Dave and his friend. As an expat living in Europe for nearly three decades, I too have embraced digital technology over the past years to reconnect with America – downloading ebooks, signing up for a digital subscription to the New York Times, enrolling in online writing programs, Skyping with my parents, signing up to a VPN provider to watch YouTube without the proprietary restrictions, and maintaining the entire experience with a high-speed Internet provider so that this “nonstop virtuality” doesn't come to a crashing halt.

I have been grateful for this digital lifeline. Nowadays, one doesn’t need to be home to “be home.” And yet, I often find myself thinking back to my stone-age past, wondering how I survived back then and wondering if Dave and his friend would have fared so well had they not had their iPhones at their side all of the time. Not to say that "things were better back then" for me, far from it. When I was a student in Basel, pretty much all I had access to (apart from a limited supply of books, which were expensive) was the BBC on shortwave radio and the occasional copy of The Herald Tribune from the newsstand (again, too expensive). But I do wonder if this lack of virtual access to America 24/7 allowed me to experience life differently, and perhaps more intensively. Would I have taken so many evening walks along the Rhine? Would I have spent so much time in the art gallery, standing hours on end riveted in front of Hans Holbein's Body of the Dead Christ in the Tomb while thinking about how Dostoyevsky used it in his novel The Idiot? Would I have written so many entries into my diary with a leaky copperplate fountain pen, lost in my thoughts, happy of the smudges of ink on my fingertips? Would I have made an effort to copy out Stephan Zweig’s Schachnovelle by hand to improve my German? And whenever I think about that, I am taken aback at how much of a limb I was going out on when I came over to Europe in 1990. Communication, in the modern sense, was practically non-existent back then. I had no laptop, obviously. The Internet meant nothing to me and placing a call to the States was horrendously expensive. I was effectively cut off from the world as I knew it, living as a self-imposed castaway in a Loony Tunes land of Swiss German.

But somehow, I did survive. And I had memorable experiences – experiences which I think made me the person I am today. A case in point: back in 1995, I was invited by a Russian recorder player to perform at the Moscow Conservatory together with a trio I had formed with two fellow students of mine at the Schola in Basel. Without getting into the specific (and sometimes embarrassing) details of the trip, it was one of those moments in life where I found myself at the mercy of my keepers – specifically the interpreter, who in turn was nothing more than the mediator of a half-baked, badly-organized project that stumbled from one mishap to another in a country teetering on the verge of anarchy. Sadly, her English was all but useless, but she was pretty and seemed more than willing to take us everywhere (we visited the Lenin Mausoleum, the inside of the Kremlin, and several bars) and answer all of our questions before she passed out on a couch at a party the night before we were supposed to fly back to Switzerland. How we got back to the dormitory remains a mystery – somehow, at 2:30 in the morning, we managed to hitch a ride back in a car that had driven by the apartment where we left the party.

Rachmaninov Hall - Moscow Conservatory

Fast forward to 2014, when I returned to Moscow for 48 hours with Akamus. Rather than a pretty interpreter at our disposal, we had a young, well-educated man who had attended high school in Alabama for a year and was fluent in English. When I asked him how far it was to the conservatory from the hotel, he located it on my smartphone and dropped a pin before I set off in the direction he told me to go. I walked to the conservatory with ease, navigating my way through the side streets using the ubiquitous blue dot found on Google Maps, trying to find my past self in a transformed society.

That blue dot, apart from being an indicator that we are being tracked all of the time, seems paradoxically symbolic of what our lives have turned into over the past twenty years. It allows us to orient ourselves without the necessity of taking in our surroundings in full, which in turn effectively pulls us away from the possibility of "getting lost" and experiencing auratic moments. Not that I minded when I was in Moscow five years ago – I didn't have the time or the muse for a repeat performance of what I had gone through in 1995. But the juxtaposition in my mind of past and present – not only to see just how much Moscow had changed over the past two decades but also to see how I was seeing the city now against how I had experienced it back then – struck me as odd. Granted, I was seeing more on my own and risking more than I probably would have had I been left to my own devices twenty years earlier. But I noticed that I was experiencing less, that what I saw was something that was being filtered through “the screen.”

This idea of "more but less," which the American historian Daniel Boorstin refers to in his book The Image: A Guide to Pseudo-Events in America, is a point that keeps on popping up in my mind. And to be honest I don't know which is better – experiencing less, but with greater intensity, or getting a taste of everything without the memorable experience. For example, I have pictures of the 2014 trip stored on an external hard drive, which – like the hundreds of other digital pictures stored safely away in the 1TB plastic box, I look at now and then. But they don't evoke half the memories I get whenever I see the few pictures that my colleague took of us with her camera.

Boorstin, who was responsible for coining the term “pseudo-event,” was far ahead of his time when he wrote the book in 1962. He writes about how the propagation of images in media has succeeded at altering our sense of reality, creating an alternative world that not only do we compare ourselves against, but use for “reshaping our concept of truth”:

“More and more accustomed to testing reality by the image, we will find it hard to retain ourselves so we may once again test the image by reality. It becomes ever harder to moderate our expectations, to shape expectations after experience, and not vice versa. For too long already we have had the specious power to shape “reality.” How can we rediscover the world of the uncontrived?”

It is a disturbing thought, particularly if one thinks to how much modern society has grown used to buying into the world of illusion on a daily basis to achieve a sense of belonging. Boorstin, who died in 2004, was able to foresee what was coming, but I think even he would have been aghast to see how quickly the epidemic has spread in the last decade, and how readily we have given up our privacy for the privilege of taking part in that illusion.

We know full well that companies such as Google, Facebook, Instagram, and Spotify are tracking us, taking the information gained from our online activities and targeting it to manipulate everything from our purchasing habits to our political opinions. And we know the consequences of this – not merely through the erosion of democracy in the past several years, but, perhaps even more frighteningly, the erosion of a certain “quality of life” – the mere ability to think for ourselves, be creative, read, and engage in deep and meaningful conversations with each other. Instead, we (like the information we provide to such companies) have become nothing more than a “disposable commodity.” And if you really want to carry that thought one step further, could not one argue that the ultimate aim of “deepfake” technology, which is being used these days to get the better of our core values as a society by blurring the line between fact and fiction, isn’t all that much different from the approach taken by the Tyrell Corporation in Ridley Schott’s 1982 science fiction film Blade Runner? In the film’s futuristic world of 2019, "replicants" - the slaves of the film's dystopian society – were implanted by the corporation with false memories to create "a cushion or pillow for their emotions." Indeed, we may not be replicants at birth, and our memories may be ours – but could it that the barrage of information, misinformation, and desire is now weaning a generation who, in the future, will be even less resistant to the difference between fact and fiction?

“There is no cure for illusions. There is only the opportunity for discovery.”

If there were a credo for finding our way through the 21st century, it should be this. Maybe it is time for us to think about the second half of Boorstin's sentence and consider what we are missing by not taking the chance to discover life on our terms. The New York Times recently published an article titled "In Search of Lost Screen Time": "More than three-quarters of all Americans own a smartphone. In 2018 those 253 million Americans spent $1,380 and 1,460 hours on their smartphone and other mobile devices. That’s 91 walking days; that adds up to 370 billing waking American hours and $349 billion." The alternatives presented in the op-ed article offer food for thought, so much so, that when I read the article I considered my own dependency for a moment and thought about all of the other things that I would like to do with the remaining years of my life – listen to music with the intensity I did as a teenager, read more, go to museums again, go for long walks. At any rate, what I don't want is to be hooked. And yet, the paradox of my own life is the realization that the laptop in my hand is my means of communication to the outside world. But still, I cannot let it get the better of me.

At this point, I see that it's 5:30 in the morning. The first light of the morning has cast the garden on the other side of my window in soft, pale greys, blues and yellows while the birds engage in their morning ritual of welcoming the day. And yet, I have been so wrapped up in writing this essay that I didn’t notice it. It’s time for me to close the laptop and start the day.

“We must awake before we can walk in the right direction. We must discover our illusions before we can even realize that we have been sleepwalking. The least and the most we can hope for is that each of us may penetrate the unknown jungle of images in which we live our daily lives. That we may discover anew where dreams end and where illusions begin. This is enough. Then we may know where we are, and each of us may decide for himself where he wants to go.”

[fountainpenguin]

I like "The Fairly OddParents" and "Danny Phantom" for their potential for angst. In the former, you have Timmy's miserable life, Vicky's potentially traumatic childhood and Timmy's despair at the fact that Cosmo and Wanda must leave him eventually. In the latter, you have Danny risking his life, being horribly injured and fearing what his parents might do to him if they knew what he really was. Just out of interest, where's the potential for angst in "Bunsen is a Beast"?

Oh my gosh, you’ve got my heart racing. Where do I even start?

I guess we start with our title character. We all know how Butch loves the fantastic racism trope (which is one thing I love about his work so much- his use of these things as serious worldbuilding details, and not merely as “one and done” plot points), and it’s a huge part of Fairy and Anti-Fairy culture. 

Fantastic racism is a thing in BIaB too. Here you’ve got this little Beast boy who speaks and reads only limited English. Although he doesn’t have huge talons, he does have horns, a spiny tail, and a lot of scary-looking teeth. As soon as he steps out of his car and starts towards the school, he is hounded by news crews:

He manages to shake them off and head inside, but as she’s introducing him to the class, the teacher says, “I hope this whole co-mingling thing works out, because if not, man and beast will be in a struggle for dominance until one side drives the other into extinction.”

Aw, snap! So you have this show about this twelve-year-old kid with the weight of two species resting on his shoulders. And he knows. That’s what I love here- he knows. Instantly when Miss Flap reminds him of this, Bunsen deflates from his happy mood (Bonus: As you continue through the series, it becomes more obvious that his natural personality is to be reserved rather than social, and that he’s way outside his comfort zone here in trying to make a good first impression and win over new friends).

There’s just so much here that’s interesting! Bunsen is clearly very aware that if he proves Beasts can successfully integrate into human society, it means a better life for his people. But if he screws up badly enough, he might have to watch his family and friends be slaughtered, on top of fearing for his own life. And if he screws up the other way, he might see humans killed as his people revolt and take over.

Now, obviously, with the fate of these races resting on him, so many politics can be dragged into this. It’s my headcanon that after petitioning for years, Beasts were finally given the okay to allow a single Beast to attend a school in a very small human town, as a test. Now, who are they going to pick? Bunsen is very fluffy and cute, so he’s a good candidate to promote the idea that Beasts aren’t dangerous and should be granted rights. Although his English is still stilted and he can read only a very small amount of it at this point, he knows enough to be verbally fluent.

So the question is, how long ago did they decide to send HIM? Has he been groomed for this position his entire life? Just think of all that pressure, those years of studying, that fear of failure drilled into his entire being since he was a kid… And that’s not even bringing up the question of whether this fight to get Beasts a human education has been going on for decades, and if he was specifically bred for his cuteness and gentle disposition. And, what if he didn’t want to be “the chosen one” in the first place? Delicious inner turmoil.

Really, it’s a show about a minority constantly struggling with thoughts of, “Should I leave all my culture behind and embrace a new one?” and “But my culture is a huge part of my identity and I don’t want to lose it.” And he shouldn’t have to lose it. So, he’s working to find a balance that makes him feel good about himself, while dealing with his fears that humans are going to look down on or even hate him for it.

If anyone was wondering, I personally feel that if Bunsen were human, his ethnicity would be one of mixed Asian origins. If I’m remembering correctly, it’s a stereotype that Chinese people are good at ping-pong, and he has a relative (possibly his mom’s brother b/c octopus tentacles) who is a ping-pong master. 

That, and it looks like he has a large extended family staying in Muckledunk with him, suggesting closer ties than I, your average white American girl, see in my own family, even though everyone on my dad’s side of the family lives in this area, and almost everyone on my mom’s side does too. Thus, the fact that he’s eating spaghetti with forks in the theme song is just kind of amusing to me. I wonder what kind of eating utensils exist in Beast society.

So, those are a few culture-related angst topics about Bunsen. Others are certainly the fact that he’s moved to a new place and has regular jitters about that, and that one of his classmates is constantly attempting to gather evidence that he’s a danger to society and should be cast out of the school and the town. Said classmate also has a rich and influential father, and it’s been made clear that some people will be unfair to Bunsen purely not to get on her father’s bad side.

And I forgot to mention all the hints that Bunsen is a pacifist (or at least that he dislikes confrontation), so his default reaction to having mean words thrown at him is to withdraw into himself and believe them.

Whether it’s because of his inborn personality or because of all the pressure resting on him, he never fights back physically, and rarely argues verbally. The closest he gets is the occasional sassy comment. Although he’s more relaxed when alone with Mikey, Bunsen seems to have somewhat low self-esteem.

Perhaps because he’s an introvert, Bunsen is very perceptive. I might argue that he picks up on subtleties better than Mikey does- so if your words or body language suggest that you don’t like him, he will know. Mikey was willing to ignore Jerry’s emotional instability in “Mikey Is a Beast” because he saw Jerry as his hero, but Bunsen picked up on it and was very nervous at the thought of hanging around him. Throughout that episode, Bunsen continues making nervous faces even when the main focus of the scene isn’t on him- such as when Jerry shouted for Mikey to stop crying over Bunsen’s head:

I greatly appreciate whoever includes these things in the storyboards! These characters are just constantly in character even in the background.

Ooh, then there’s the piece of his character that solidifies Bunsen as a lawful neutral- his utter devotion to following rules, even when he doesn’t like them (For example, wanting to touch things in the museum, but restraining himself when he sees ‘Do not touch’ signs). He’s extremely committed to a set of values known as the Beast Code. This code outlines good etiquette such as “Beasts are always polite”, but sometimes it pins Bunsen into corners.

For example, in “Handsome Beast”, Amanda asked Bunsen out to the girls’ choice dance. Even though he dislikes her, it’s apparently “against the Beast Code to decline an invitation”, so Bunsen was thoroughly convinced that he has to not only go to the dance, but “follow the rigid steps of the Beast wooing procedure” too. He feels more stressed out by the thought of disobeying the Code than by the action of taking someone he doesn’t like on a date.

Beasts appear to have super unstable genetics, because when they have allergic reactions, they take on characteristics of the thing that upset their body systems. Here, Bunsen evidently had a reaction to the body spray Mikey was using in the hopes of attracting girls. He’s also confirmed to be allergic to bee stings and Swiss fondue.

Let’s see, what else… Bunsen obviously has a very close and understanding relationship with his parents, considering that even after everything their whole family sacrificed to move to Muckledunk - stability, friendships, money, possibly years of special educational programs depending on how long ago he was selected as the Beasts’ representative - they were completely willing to move back to the underground Beast World after Bunsen confessed to them that he was terrified of thunder, and couldn’t handle the sound of it anymore.

(These nerds even have matching pictures of each other)

There’s a lot of angst potential there, because up and leaving Muckledunk like that could not have been an easy thing for his entire extended family to agree to do. Or an easy decision for Bunsen to even make and consider talking to them about. He’s Beast World’s champion. Their saving grace. As much as he hates thunder, I’m sure he felt absolutely awful to know he was disappointing his entire race. This is the only time thus far, I think, that he truly puts himself before thoughts of duty and honor. These showing and not telling details really drive home how terrified of thunder the poor guy is.

So, Bunsen! I could name a couple of shows about a kid with an animal (or Beast) friend, but of these friends, Bunsen is my favorite. Cartoons like this generally involve one character who doesn’t caremuch about consequences dragging the other into zany schemes. But this is a show about a kid who is honestly curious about the world, and has strong morals that keep him out of trouble. I’m huge on following rules myself, so having a show with characters who are aware that their actions have consequences (Bunsen moreso than Mikey) and who don’t intentionally bend the law means a lot to me.

From a writer’s perspective, Bunsen is a very well-balanced character: he’s very reactive, so he acts as a nice foil to active Mikey. However, he can be plenty active too, such as when he’s introducing Mikey to his home or talking about his culture and biology. And it’s not out of character for him to be this way. It’s all dependent on his comfort level in a particular situation; by default Bunsen is reserved, but he starts opening up and being more active as he gets to know you. He’s very, very balanced and well-written, I think.

Oh. Also, his best friend has a morbid sense of humor, and even cracks jokes about taxidermy when Bunsen sees his uncle on display at a museum.

And BOY HOWDY, we haven’t even gotten to Mikey yet!

I. Love. Mikey. In fact, he’s probably the character I relate to more than anyone in any show I’ve ever watched. I’ve heard that some people don’t like BIaB because Mikey is just “a boring, regular kid”, but I don’t know what show they’re watching, because I could go on and on about how cool this boy is. In fact, calling it now, the Mikey section of this post will likely be unfairly longer than Bunsen’s.

Where to start, where to start… Well, you wanted angst, so let’s start with this. Remember how in “Abra-Catastrophe”, we found out that until he was eight, Timmy’s parents used to obsess over and record every second of his day on video cameras? Mikey’s childhood resembles that a little bit… except it never stopped.

Mikey has helicopter parents in both senses of the word. They obviously love him, but thus far in the show, they have only interacted with him through this drone. I wouldn’t be surprised if never seeing them in person is a running gag in the series, the same way not revealing the names of Timmy’s parents is a gag in FOP. The implication here is that they’re out of town a lot- meaning that he’s been left at home to raise himself-

-surrounded by security cameras and microphones, of course. Major props to whoever designed Mikey’s yard and drew this storyboard, because I love how none of the characters ever call any attention to the cameras or anything. They’re just. There. Watching. Details like this make me happy.

Y’know, when you’ve got a SMALL TOWN CHILD whose parents install SECURITY SYSTEMS, you can’t help but wonder if said child has any problems disabling the security systems on any building in said small town. Problems physically, or morally. I wonder…

I’m really curious to know when his parents got this drone. Mikey hasn’t revealed anything about a babysitter. Did his parents start leaving him at home alone once they got it and could watch out for him? Or did they leave him home alone to fend for himself even before that? 

Mikey’s parents are very nice people - probably better than Timmy’s parents - but they’re not there in the way he needs emotionally. They try to compensate for this by stalking him with the drone whenever they can spare the time. The ability of the drone to find him is interesting too… Perhaps they track him using the location of his phone. Surely they wouldn’t actually GPS chip their child.

Children need safety (physical and emotional) for healthy development. Given the security cameras and the presumed reputation of his parents, we can assume he has the former. But violating his privacy “without probable cause” the way they do can be psychologically damaging and lead to trust issues. Especially because he’s asked his parents to stop, and they haven’t.

Previously, I’ve mentioned my theory that Mikey has an older sister, which would explain why he had the dress, sandals, ribbon, and make-up on hand (and might answer our question about who watched over Mikey pre-drone):

I think she might have disappointed their parents in some way (such as having a baby while an unmarried teen, or stealing money and the family car), and so she took off for the hills. I like this idea because it helps “justify” why Mikey’s parents are so obsessed with monitoring him. They don’t stalk him constantly, but when he gets older, I feel like he’ll have at least one parent on his case at almost all times while the other is installing security systems. One Munroe kid going sour is bad enough for their reputation. Small town. People talk!

Additionally, his voice actor (Ben Giroux) revealed that he used to “terrorize his sister” with the Mikey voice when they were kids. Imagine Mikey doing the same thing to his sister once upon a time, pfft.

This sister theory is just a headcanon, but it’ll be interesting to see what hints about his home life and family are dropped in future episodes. And did I mention that Mikey occasionally visits his uncle in prison, possibly because this is the only family member he has who can’t run away? I love him.

That was Mikey in the past. Now, what about Mikey in the present?

Let me say it again: I. Love. This. Kid.

I’m majoring in psychology, and when I started watching this show, I quickly ended up leaning back in my seat with a knuckle in my mouth, grinning at the ceiling. Mikey is a textbook case for narcissistic personality disorder, with the bonus joke thrown in of, I have no idea if Butch and the writers meant to do this or not (at least, they may not have realized they’ve been checking off all the diagnostic criteria as we go along). Either way, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a narcissistic cartoon character pulled off so subtly and so well- and without the cliché stereotype of being obsessed with his looks to boot!

People with this personality disorder are typically characterized as being “arrogant” (Check), “self-centered” (Check), “manipulative” (Check), “concentrating on grandiose fantasies [such as their own success or brilliance]” (Check), and as having “a need for admiration” (Check), “a lack of empathy for other people” (Check), and they “may be convinced that they deserve special treatment” (CHECK- Did you see “Beast of Friends” and “Astro-Nots”?). Such narcissists might “have difficulty tolerating criticism or defeat and may be left feeling humiliated or empty” when their pride is injured. That sure sounds like Mikey to me!

(Technically, since he’s young, we can’t officially diagnose him until he’s acted this way for a year, but if he continues in this pattern then he should fit the bill!)

What a personality disorder means is, this is his personality. You could maybe tone him down by reinforcing certain behaviors, but there’s nothing you can do to “fix” him permanently. There’s no medicine that will change him. It’s just the way he is, and it’s not really his fault. Mikey just loves being the center of attention. And I’m sure it doesn’t help his ego that he’s lived a life with cameras focused on him, and he’s possibly the second child and baby of his family.

He just constantly refocuses the spotlight on himself, like in this scene here where he expresses no sympathy for Darcy being alone all day (or even acknowledges her statement whatsoever), and changes the subject to him:

“Outside, when you were very close to my face, you said something about… helping me?”

Translation: “I’m only here for my benefit. Are we actually doing this, or are you just wasting my time?”

His narcissism is especially prominent throughout “Beast of Friends”. Not only does he interrupt Bunsen once he hears Bunsen has a friend who’s a wish-granting fairy, but when he meets Timmy Turner, all Mikey wants to do is make wishes. Timmy even asks him nicely to stop, and Mikey agrees by making comments like, “I totally hear you. Just let me make one more wish”. 

Spoiler: He doesn’t stop at one more. And when Timmy is tripping over himself, struggling to cover up hints of magic and fairies from his dad, he begs Mikey to back him up. Mikey cheerfully says, “Timmy’s totally right”, and immediately turns his attention back to Wanda and - you guessed it - makes more wishes. He’s completely blind to the fact that he’s causing Timmy distress. He hardly seems to register Timmy’s presence, because he’s so focused on the fact that Timmy has fairy godparents. Mikey even assumes they’ll grant his wishes, and never asks Timmy for permission first. This also happens to be the only episode thus far where Mikey realizes he got a little carried away, and apologizes for it. It took the threat of Bunsen’s death to get him to this point.

He also just honestly forgets to think about others a lot of the time. I think the best example I could pull up is that scene where Bunsen congratulates Amanda on winning “hide and go freak”, to which Mikey responds-

He forgot Amanda. As soon as he saw Bunsen’s game room, all bets were off. He just naturally assumed that if he wasn’t playing, the game was over. It didn’t even cross his mind to tell Amanda he wanted to play ping-pong instead. And he’s like this throughout the show. All. The. Time.

Of course, apart from his narcissism, Mikey has another fair reason to be distractible: there are heavy hints that he has ADHD, not the least of which is that he seems to be canonically dyslexic:

(“Go”)

(“Doomed”)

(Here he’s struggling to spell “cat”)

Dyslexia isn’t an actual diagnosis in the DSM-5, but he would have a specific learning disorder for writing - aka spelling, grammar, punctuation, and clarity (refer to the script he wrote above) - but he has no impairment in the reading department (fluency, comprehension), which is why he can read perfectly fine.

ADHD and dyslexia typically go hand in hand. On top of that - and this is SUPER fascinating to me - he’s actually animated as having an inability to sit still. He’s constantly out of his seat, or in his seat and changing position.

I actually had a different example in mind but it was too long and wouldn’t loop

When I first heard of this show, I naturally assumed Bunsen was going to be the wild one, and Mikey would be your average, plain kid along for the ride. It just seemed the cliché default. But then comes this huge plot twist in my mind: Bunsen is playful, but a bit reserved, and Mikey is the extremely peppy and hyperactive child. So, I think that’s really cool and lots of fun. Mikey is the first time I’ve ever watched a show and selected a lead to be my favorite character, so obviously something’s going right here!

ADHD also has some angst potential along with it. Aside from the obvious examples of struggling in class, he’s confirmed to be the head of the school welcoming committee. So, when it comes to designing posters, that can’t be the easiest job to do!

Oh, did you think that was all? NOPE! It’s been hinted numerous times that Mikey has an interest in psychology (and I wouldn’t be surprised if he spent hours poring over childcare books when he was younger as he tried to figure out if the way his parents were raising him was right or wrong). 

And, whether he started doing this intentionally or not, he’s turned into a massive guilt-tripper. He cries, people give him what he wants, he stops.

To be fair, Mikey doesn’t seem to realize that what he’s doing is wrong in any way. He’s sensitive in general- that part certainly isn’t faked, nor is he trying to be mean. Simply, this guilt-tripping behavior has been reinforced. 

Repeatedly.

As of “Astro-Nots”, he has yet to come up against anyone in the show who says no to big sad eyes (and he seems to have, perhaps unconsciously, taught this guilt-tripping behavior to Bunsen by this point). Since Mikey hasn’t tried to guilt-trip Amanda onscreen, it’s possible he’s tried in the past, but wasn’t reinforced and so unhappily gave up. He’s just savage to her with his words.

Now, I have that GIF above of Mikey guilt-tripping even Bunsen, his best friend, to do something he really didn’t want to do. I wouldn’t call their relationship abusive at all, especially with Mikey not seeming to realize what he’s doing is wrong. They’re good, close friends and get along awesomely. A time or two of guilt-tripping shouldn’t be reason to end their friendship. Really, what Bunsen did when agreeing to be Jerry’s mascot was a favor. Although being a mascot wasn’t something Bunsen wanted to do, he did want to make Mikey happy, and he did willingly agree to this- as a favor to a friend.

But for angst purposes, he didn’t want to do it. Like I said, I don’t consider their friendship abusive or anything like that, but it might be a tad strained at times. Think of it like, your college roommate might have really irritating quirks, but they’re probably not abusive. Only if Mikey’s manipulating got out of hand to the point where Bunsen was in distress and wanted this to stop - and Mikey refused - would this become a big problem. But, everyone has character flaws and their own struggles in relationships, and for now, this is just one of Mikey’s.

Don’t get me wrong. Mikey’s a really nice person, and he’s proved it multiple times (One of my favorite lines of his is, “Help me help you”). This is the thing: he always wants to get his way. If his way happens to be, “I want to make you happy”, then you’re in luck! But if you’re opposed to his views… he’s not going to make life easy on you. Mikey’s the sort of person who only says sorry out of sympathy- not when you insist he’s made a mistake. Not easily, anyway. He’s a narcissist who reads about psychology- he hates admitting that he’s wrong.

Heh heh. He’ll totally be there if you directlytell him what you need. But he can be a little blind to the feelings of others. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree!

On top of ALL of this, Mikey has to put up with his rival being attracted to him:

She invades his personal space constantly and forces physical contact like this on him, and it obviously makes him super uncomfortable. I can relate. In my ninth grade math class, I had to sit next to a couple of jerks who - not an exaggeration, because they told me this - had grade point averages of 1.9 (out of 4.0). I didn’t show any interest in them, except once when one of them was bugging me about what my name was, I finally reinforced him by revealing it. This did not go well for me. And for whatever reason, the girl who sat in front of me thought I had a crush on this annoying kid. No clue why, because he was awful. So, she told him to come up behind me and rub my back.

Okay. So, no. I was out of my seat so fast, grabbing my thick, heavy school binder and whirling around, ready to smack him upside the head, but the bell rang just then so he got off scot-free. Keep in mind that I’m not even five feet tall as a college student, so I was even smaller back then. But BOY, did that kid have the face of someone who thought he was going to die.

Gosh, why is Mikey so relatable…

Then there’s more angst to be found within Amanda, Beverly- and of COURSE, Commander Cone… I could talk about them for a while still, but this post has gotten pretty long, so I’ll settle for just discussing our leading boys.

Mostly, the angst in BIaB is that sort of subtle emotional angst that’s obvious if you’re an adult paying attention to the show, but that’s easy to miss if you’re younger. It’s similar to “Fairly OddParents” in that respect (which is a show I personally favor to “Danny Phantom”, even though there are several things I could name about DP that appeal to me too).

Huh. Come to think of it, I wonder if that’s why DP has always been so popular- the younger generation caught onto its angst potential because it was more physical and obvious than the emotional angst present in cartoons like FOP. Plus he’s like a superhero and kids like superheroes. I tend to favor subtleties myself… I suppose because it feels more like I’m in on the joke than like I’m being force-fed.

Anyhow, “Bunsen Is a Beast” is not a cartoon that requires angst to move it along. And yet it’s sprinkled in there anyway; it never feels forced to me. Along with its super-expressive characters, that’s one thing that attracts me to the show- Holding my breath in anticipation to see if I can catch the subtleties. 

For example, all throughout “Body and the Beast”, Mikey refuses to say “school picture day” because he’s convinced something bad will happen to him if he does. That’s a hint that he may be superstitious, and adds a fascinating layer to his character since he’s our man of psychology and science. 

Isn’t that neat? Depending on how deep this runs, he might even struggle with thought-action fusion: the belief that thinking something is the same (aka, as “sinful”) as actually doing it- and there is so much angst tied up with that. 

And OH MAN, we didn’t even get to the part about Mikey “mysteriously” going bald two years prior the show’s beginning. Pardon me, but what is a ten-year-old narcissist who isn’t getting the emotional affection he desires from his parents going to do to himself for attention? Thaaaaaaaat’s right.

(Or if you want bonus angst potential… ever heard of trichotillomania?)

The clip where Mikey refuses to mention picture day and goes straight into talking about how he went bald two years ago was only a few seconds long, but it reveals so much! See? There’s so much fun here for someone like me! But like… It’s left up to me to choose if I want to see these characters as the sum of their parts, or if I want to enjoy this show while merely scraping the surface: Bunsen being cheerful and Mikey being his happy friend.

I like having this depth. I like having subtleties. With DP, “Star”, and “Gravity Falls”, every episode tasted very, “Meh, that went the way I expected it to” in my mouth. I guess you could say that that the subtle details I like in BIaB are very “inside joke” in nature. With those other three, everyone who watches the show is going to catch angsty things. It doesn’t take the coolness out of them, but it takes that excitement of discovery away from me a bit, I suppose? 

Could be. I don’t like being spoon-fed emotions. That’s why you don’t normally find me shipping characters (and when I do, I often tend towards background couples). I’m just not a very emotional person. I don’t tear up at anything less sad than Radio’s death in “Brave Little Toaster to the Rescue”, so you can guess how often that happens, because hoooooly wow, that death scene.

See, there are very few things that bug me about “Star vs. The Forces of Evil”, but the fact that I’m expected to feel bad for Star when Marco starts dating the girl of his dreams is one of them. The ending of “Just Friends” bothered me, with the way that Star lashed out and destroyed the stadium billboard like she was five. Ick. I guess the show put a little too much faith in the idea that people watch shows for ships. Yes, lots of people do- but I’m not one of them. I don’t ship two people just because they’re there, so I have a very hard time sympathizing with Star’s refusal to let Marco be happy with Jackie. 

In my mind, she’s an exchange student. They live together. They’re foster siblings. So when you don’t pity her, Star just looks like a selfish brat throughout the end of Season 2. Good glory, I so do not want Starco to be the endgame couple… I know it’s extremely unlikely to happen, but I’d love for her to end up with Oskar. Just. The potential of freaking Oskar being Mewni’s king. I need this so badly. Plus, they just feel so natural. 

Awesome show. But I don’t really go for the idea of, “She had to leave him, and it was so sad because she was in love!!!” What is this, a nuzlocke? I’m much happier fawning over Ludo and his story, like the way he once said, “Are you proud of me?” and then when he was complimented, he hesitated and asked, “Can you say proud?” That tells you everything.

I did really enjoy the twist in “Danny Phantom” that Danny doesn’t need to keep his identity secret from his enemies, but from his family- not to protect his family, but because his family are ghost hunters, and they’re liable to hurt him. But, like… I would have enjoyed some filler episodes, actually. Episodes where Danny didn’t even fight ghosts. Episodes that gave him more character traits. Because who is Danny without his ghost powers? He’s a shy kid who enjoys learning about outer space and wants to get with the cool crowd, but has only two close friends. Mostly, he only does poorly in school because he never has the chance to sleep or study, or when he does have free time, he’s distracted by video games.

I wanted to see that Danny a little more, and not just when Danny gave up his ghost powers in “Phantom Planet”. I wanted THAT Danny to have angst. The problem with Season 3 was, in Season 1, Danny was learning to control his powers for the first time. In Season 3, he’d mastered them. He didn’t struggle anymore. He lacked good weaknesses. His weakness became exhausting himself to the point where he slipped back into human form. Aka, the removal of powers: kryptonite. His angst was about fighting ghosts. It was very plot-based. And that worked really well until suddenly it didn’t. Fans of the show have rounded his character out some more, but canon!Danny was left flailing for weaknesses in Season 3, or so I think.

I didn’t mean to go off about shows that you didn’t even ask about in your question. Sorry! This is the first time I’ve tried putting into words my thoughts about why those shows are neat to watch, yet I don’t consider myself part of their respective fandoms. 

What I enjoy about BIaB is, the fantastic racism element is definitely there, but it’s not the main focus of every single episode (Geez, that would get annoying fast). It’s a show about, well… fitting in. Making new friends. Struggling with a bully who hurts people emotionally instead of physically. Culture shock. It’s about two kids caring for one another, accepting who they are and who the other is, making mistakes, and learning to be better people in the process. Y’know. With plenty of angst sprinkled on top. The type of angst that fleshes characters out and builds up solid worlds. The kind of angst that I enjoy a lot.

So, DP, GF, and “Star” are generally well-done and awesome, but for whatever reason, I just appreciate them in a different way than I do FOP and BIaB. Anyone who’s been around my blog for awhile knows which of the shows I watch I actually produce fanwork for.

I think it’s interesting that people enjoy different things, don’t you?

[darknesscall-rp]

✖ full name: Thorfinn Rowle ✖ age: 22 ✖ preferred pronouns: Tba ✖ affiliation: Death Eaters (marked) ✖ occupation: Employee at the Department of International Magical Cooperation & drug dealer   ✖ blood status: Pureblood ✖ former house: Slytherin 

✖ checked information (x) ✖ face claim: Matthew Hitt 

(recollected by Rita Skeeter. Sources can be less than reliable.)

✖ People in Hogwarts say he’s a drug dealer. Honestly, he seems too nice to be one but you never know these days.  ✖ This is totally true! One time he was about to be expelled and professor Slughorn had to save him. He spent like an hour talking to Dumbledore in his office.  ✖ He wears a wig, granted. 

Thaddeus Rowle and Cynthia Macmillan did not marry out of love, but necessity. Their whole relationship was treated like a business deal, carefully analysing what one family could do for another and when all was settled and agreed upon the two tied the knot. Thaddeus, a wealthy business man from Norway whilst Cynthia was a well respected English woman who was quite the socialite in the Pureblood community. Their marriage had meant a combination of wealth and social hierarchy would be guaranteed to the next generations of their blood line. And so, as carefully planned as their matrimony, a baby boy was born.

As the heir, Thorfinn Rowle carried tremendous amounts of pressure to meet his set expectations. To his mother, he was royalty, she would tend to his every need and was mainly responsible for raising him. Cynthia educated Thorfinn on Pureblood culture as well as introducing him to the dark arts. His father, however, had never made effort to bond with his son. Despite naming the boy, Thaddeus had pushed himself away from the family, neglecting Thorfinn in the process. Living the life of a bachelor and publicly humiliating his wife for his own entertainment became a typicality. The only time Thorfinn would spend time with his father was at social events or if he were being punished. He had never liked the man, he never would and the only thing Thor could ever associate with his father was those raw emotions of anger and fear.

Due to his family’s very foundation, Thorfinn grew up to be very lonely and bored. He had always craved the companionship of a sibling and grew endlessly envious to those of his friends that did have a brother or sister. He lacked someone else that understood exactly what he was going through and it frustrated Thor to no end. The child’s boredom was the very reason that Thor began to delve into troublesome antics and shortly became an absolute terror. Creating havoc got him attention, good or bad, he didn’t care. Once he had learned this little trick he never truly grew out of it, it was a quick fix, a coping mechanism that would never tire or grow old. Mischief allowed him to feel glorified.

One of the biggest arguments that Thor recalls his parents having was concerning his education. The debate over him attending either Hogwarts or Durmstrang lasted for months and was put a bitter atmosphere in Rowle manor. His father had attended Durmstrang and believed it to be the only place for his son, whilst his mother argued profusely against him. Surprisingly, in the end, his mother’s word was final and it was one of the few fights that she had ever won against her husband. Thorfinn was set to attend the same school as she did as she believed it would give him a better start to education, among his family friends and mixing with other members of the sacred twenty eight. Thorfinn was happy, of course, he hadn’t liked the idea of Durmstrang half as much.

It was in the castle that Thor had finally felt a sense of belonging, he was comfortable and no longer had a care in the world. Sorted into Slytherin among the other cunning and ambitious folk, he grew accustom to the constant company. Suddenly he wasn’t sat alone all day in an enormous empty manor, he was with his friends and a whole range of possibilities had opened up to the naive boy. There was opportunity and hope, it enthralled Thor into a new mindset and so another habit was born. Thorfinn had soon become the gobby and outspoken young man that he’s know to be today. He was unable to stop running his mouth at any given opportunity. Thor would talk relentlessly and made it his own goal to irritate everyone around him. He found entertainment in it, and once the boy found a source of fun there was no turning back. To his friends, this innocent custom was equally enjoyable for them, but if you were on the other end of his mockery it would soon become grating.

Mixing with like minded people not only did wonders for his confidence, but helped him to come into his own. Thorfinn was a very popular character in the Slytherin common room and a lot of the other students would crowd him to fulfil their boredom. He was good for fun supplying mischief in not only his own presence but also in the form of illegal substances and quickly became his housemates dealer. Thor has always had an answer, he’d always be scheming some plan to cause havoc among an unexpected Hufflepuff girl or terrorise one of their poor professors. His troublemakers ways that used to come naturally to him were now being nurtured, with consistent practice he got very good at what he was doing, despite the downside of all the detentions and punishment his plans would cost him. Thor felt his most free in these years, basically doing whatever the hell he wanted to do without his mother there to stop him or hold him back in anyway. It was extremely liberating for a teenager with his background.  

However, it wasn’t all laughter and fun games with Thorfinn. It wasn’t just his chaotic sentiment that had landed him in detention every other day with a handful of different professors. The young man’s short temper had caused for many fist fights and explosive arguments between Thor and his fellow students. As he grew older, his temper only got worse and it would turn to aggression quite briskly. His head of house had forced Thor to join the duelling club in attempt to get some of his repressed anger out, and for the best part it had worked. Thor was a good duellist and joining had made him substantially better with the bright side of blowing off some steam.

Upon graduating, Thor received very average grades and landed himself a job under in the Ministry under The Department of International Magical Cooperation. The same department in which his father worked under, the Rowle’s connections with multiple country serving as great experience and a useful tool to the ministry. It was without no doubt that if his father had not already worked there then Thorfinn would have certainly never of gotten the job. Thor had no interest in the work, obviously, he had been forced to work by his father and he was never good at refusing to do what the man told him. Thorfinn worked obediently alongside the man, keeping his head down and focused if only to try and make the days go faster.

Expectations from his family were raised higher than ever, Thor had to become a presentable and charming young man, socialising endlessly and making tight connections with the other Pureblood families. The main goal of course being to find himself a wife of his own to continue the traditions with. But that was not the only expectation that his father had set for the man now that he had finished with his education. Thaddeus, among with other Purebloods, had been tracking the dark lords movement since the whispers of a war had emerged. A war that any member of the sacred twenty eight found to be influential to their lives and a cause indeed worth fighting for. It wasn’t long until Thorfinn had joined the Dark Lord’s ranks as a Death Eater, and that repressed anger that he had been taught to keep under lock and key was now being encouraged to be expressed. Thor became exactly what his father had always wanted him to be, he was reckless and dangerous.

Sebastian Travers, Amycus Carrow: Good friends, partners in crime.  Anastasia Burke: Long time acquaintance, close.   Marcus Avery, Sophia Wilkes, Leanna McLaggen: Is amused by. Rodolphus Lestrange: Wants to impress, looks up to.  Stefano Selwyn: Mutual rivalry.  Gidedon, Fabian Prewett: Intense annoyance. 

[bi-apps]

Accepted - Narcissa Black

Narcissa App!

(So sorry if this somehow submitted twice! I’ve had an issue with the"I am not a robot" thing on a browser, so I’m submitting with a different one, but it may be that it worked the first time :’) )

OOC Information:

Name/Age/Timezone - Maddie, 26, GMT/BST

Activity Level - 7/10 on a good week (where work is not pilling up), at least around 5/10 in general.

Ships/Anti-Ships - I tend to ship Lucius/Narcissa, but am honestly mostly just focused on Narcissa/Chemistry and my greatest favourite of all, Narcissa/Angst.

Did you read the rules? I did! I’m also very confused by this question. Is there a code in the rules that I should have found and inserted here? Because I couldn’t find any and can’t tell if it’s because I’m terrible at finding things :’)

IC Information:

Character Name - Narcissa Black

Age/Birthdate - 23 years old, born June 22nd 1955.

Faceclaim - Sarah Gadon, Elsa Hosk, Johanna Braddy

Occupation - Philanthropist, socialite. Narcissa pours old family money into many a great causes which will make her look good and influent on paper and talk with all the right people. She might have liked to be an arithmancist or a healer, but these are dreams she never fancied to let take roots in her heart and mind. Her fate has, after all, been determined for her since birth.

Blood Status - Pureblood, from one of the Sacred Twenty-Eights, something she is highly unlikely to let anyone forget.

Traits - Charming, ambitious, clever // Manipulative, vain, secretive

Patronus - A magpie, a homemaker perfectly capable of sensing danger and with a penchant for all that glitters and is gold.

Boggart – Someone who matters to her. Dead. Because there is nothing worse and more certain than the unquenchable grief coming from losing the ones you love, paired with the shame and pity of society when they hear there has been a death in the family.

Key Points –

From her earliest years, Druella prided herself in her youngest’s well-mannered, calm-tempered demeanour — The perfect diction, the perfect smile, just the right way of not getting stains on expensive dresses. Narcissa’s childhood was less one of a happy child and more akin to that of a pretty, untouchable image (an image which, paradoxically, was not quite herself and that she had to live up to). Images are seen and not heard, trapped in a set point in time which would be the only thing ever remembered of them — The thought is small, reductive and frightening; that Narcissa will always be the fair-headed girl with immaculate dresses, expertly placed hair locks and pretty smile growing on her lips ( inviting, almost friendly behind the unattainable coldness of her soul, caught deep within her pretty blue eyes. Her pretty blue eyes and her pretty smile and her pretty dress and her pretty hair and her pretty manners; that adjective taking over her life, making it feel cramped and empty at the same time ). It is not so much that Narcissa aspires for more. After all, she has never known anything else but being the youngest of three — the one who had to be perfect when her other siblings and cousins were not, who was never berated or out of line, who seemed to fade into the greater than life entity that was the House of Black. She was not Cissy Black, then, she was the legacy she had to uphold, heavy on her tiny shoulders and heavier on her heart, coming with the intrinsic knowledge that all of these reasons that made her special and pretty and perfect were also the reasons why she would never be valued by her family as something other than a pawn, traded off in marriage for an alliance. A perfect pawn, but a pawn all the same — A spare, where Bellatrix was her father’s rightful heir. Even as a young child, even with Andromeda’s positive presence in her life, Narcissa could tell this was how it all worked. She was not stupid, she could perfectly make out the part they all expected her to rise up to and the fact she had no choice in the matter whatsoever. And so she played the part for all her life. She figured then that perhaps this was what love and devotion were all about — following the family’s path, heading the family’s comments, not because she had to but because she persevered in that mind-set despite of it all. Self-abnegation, a quality she has much less of now that she has figured out not only how to play the part but also how to play the game.

Being the last of her offsprings left at home during the school year, Druella took to parading Narcissa around pureblood society, an attempt less at connecting with her own daughter and more at reinforcing her image as a homemaker ( an image which practical, to-the-point, ambitious Druella at times seemed to not match, but Cissy knew better than to question her mother. If she was particularly well-behaved her mother would entertain her in practicing French, a language her side of the family had very distant ties to, instead of her usual straight-forward replies and reminders her daughter’s tutor was coming soon ). Then, Narcissa was also expected to smile and keep quiet unless spoken to, which would then only require a sweet smile and clever answer. One might think, then, that Narcissa honed her social skills through her mother’s connections, playing with the children of other witches whose company Druella cared to be seen in. While this is for the most part true, her mother’s behaviour never truly gave Narcissa much to learn or to observe, her ways always engrained deep inside the young witch’s soul as if it were a brand ( the Black family stamp, its crest proudly metaphorically marking Narcissa as one of its own ). Cygnus Black the Third’s manner ( walk, posture, speech pattern ) was far more intriguing for the youngest Black sister who understood that by being the last to leave and the most overlooked, she would also have the strategic advantage of being the one who could easily observe and take in her father’s taste for the political. This is perhaps the first time Narcissa would ever grant herself the right to form a fully fleshed out thought ( an idea, concept, something to hold on to ) of her own, without her parents’ will and her sisters’ opinions clouding her own judgement. From this moment forward, the blonde swore to her future self that she should not allow people to so easily manipulate her, a promise which she believes she has kept for the most part ( doing things out of love does not count. It is not manipulation, it is her choice ).

The Sorting Hat is perhaps the first entity to truly acknowledge her own complexity ( She is eleven, she is worried. All her family has been in Slytherin and she cannot defect from that rule. She almost feels incredibly small on that stool, and then hears a whisper that she seem to have more potential and ambition than what first glance would tell you. Slytherin, of course ). And then little Cissy Black ( fragile, pretty, well-mannered Cissy Black ) is free — Free to be her own person, to use her time at Hogwarts to perfect herself and her magic in a way which interests and benefits only her, not her family. And Narcissa has perhaps the most comforting realization of all and does not do any of that ( does not want to do any of that ). She is a Black, and it is an honour to bear the family name, and she will be nothing short of the perfect, focused student everyone expects her to be. Too busy romanticizing her sisters’time at Hogwarts, Narcissa assumed hers would mirror theirs in a transcendently self-defining way, but now that she is here, it becomes apparent she does not want any of that. The part that was written for her was made that way for a reason, and though she had always respected it and understood it, it is the first time in her life in which she genuinely looks forward to it. There is safety, security and comfort in this path she knows so well — And this is what Narcissa craves. Her parents had not made her the heir, like Bellatrix, or the spare, like Andromeda ( though she had once believed she shared Andy’s burden ). They had, albeit perhaps unwillingly, made her a politician — Someone who would grow into an elegant, poised, respected socialite who would never have to worry about her position at the top of their community so long as she fulfilled her duties and married well.

She is invited to attend the Slug Club with some of her cohorts, which she uses to her best advantage as a networking event, forging bonds and collecting information with and about people who could prove useful or otherwise significant once she would be done with her education. She sets herself up for the perfect life, a life which would not entirely depend on the match and marriage that would be made for her — A life that would benefit whoever her husband would end up being. As per her mother’s teaching, the blonde never let go of her air of purity, sitting pretty and quiet — But pretty and quiet were the façade, the pureblood trademark which hid her agendas and desires ( and worries ) in an effortless way. Narcissa is just about ready to start her life when events take a different turn, tainting this overall masterful use of the popularity given to her because of her family name forever and devastating her even more. Andromeda leaves home. No. Andromeda is dead, dead to her and to the rest of her family, not even a footnote in the blonde’s story where she used to be a main character. And Narcissa aches for things to be different, for Andy to come back and say this was all a weird and intricate prank played on Aunt Walburga, but it never happens. And soon, too soon, Sirius follows through the door Andromeda has opened, and Narcissa does not know what to tell Regulus. She does not even know what to tell herself. Narcissa’s ghosts are now people of flesh and bones and feelings she should not and does not want to be feeling, instead of the immaterial figures roaming Hogwarts.)

Graduation is a lackluster event in the midst of a war where sides have already been chosen for her. There is no joy, no feeling of accomplishment, just a tick on the predetermined path of her life, an insurance her betrothed will have an educated wife. They are all underestimating her, but that is quite alright. Narcissa wants to be underestimated, to lay low. It’s the only way she might save at least a small piece of herself to be hers and hers alone. And of course, the blonde is proud to fulfil her duty — Proud to make alliances for the great and most noble House of Black, and the Malfoy heir is intriguing enough that she feels she has no reason to complain. But being the poster child for pureblood excellence and being herself, at least just a little, are not mutually exclusive. Besides, she likes the excellence — Likes the parties and the pretty dresses and the expensive jewelry and the imported wine; likes to tell people of her family’s French heritage, on her mother’s side, and how beautiful Paris was the last time she went; likes to be looked at and envied and adored. She is selling a very specific brand of life, one that everyone should feel envious of and wish was their own. And she is doing it perfectly ­— The only missing link is the grand, scintillating wedding which would be the envy of all.

She sometimes wishes it all could be different, of course — Wishes her neutrality in the conflict were more honest than it currently is, wishes she could marry for love and have work like any other witches her age and wishes she could pick up that quill and write to Andromeda. But where would be the prestige and fulfilment in that?

Changes/Extra Info - Narcissa is an occlumen. This is one of the many secrets she keeps, and she is the only one to know about it.  

Para Sample -

Trembling hands smooth softly over the fabric of her robes, making sure not a single ungracious crease would tarnish the perfect image the blonde was trying to convey — A vision in diamonds, teal tulle and lace. Soon enough, Mother would come looking for her and ask her back to the annual Black family Christmas fundraising ball ( back to entertaining guests with bright polite smiles and toss of her hair which sparkled under the lighting from the chandeliers ). For now, then, the youngest Black supposed she was allowed to take in the view from the third floor balcony, bitter December night wind sending chills down her spine as a reminder that she was alive. Hands went to hug herself for warmth, then, and because maybe if she did something with them, they would stop trembling.

“What are you doing here ? Mother has been asking for you ?” The familiar voice shook her away from her thoughts and a slight ( melancholic, lonely ) smile grazes the corners of Narcissa’s lips before it is gone. An instant passes. She is not quite sure she can be truthful with Bellatrix, right now.

“And Father ?” Comes her reply, witty and with a forced amused smile as she leans closer to the edge of the balcony on the left, to leave space for her older sister to shuffle in next to her. This is nice. Not truthful, but nice — The two of them snuck away from a family affair, looking at the glistening stars above the nearly invisible skyline. Bellatrix scoffs, a scoff which sounds more amused than annoyed, and that is all the answer Narcissa needs.

If she were braver, perhaps would she tell her sister about how hard this was — to be here and pretend everything was fine when in reality her world was crumbling in on itself. This is the first Christmas fundraising event since Andromeda left, and Narcissa can feel the weight of every guests’ eyes burning into her, as if looking for the holes in her heart and cracks in her smooth and collected façade. Vultures, all of them.

“I needed some fresh air. It has been a while since we have gotten to see a night sky as beautiful as this one. If you look over here, you can clearly see Sirius.”

“The only Sirius I care to see.”

She lets out a regretful laugh. It feels so real and almost like a memory, her dark-haired sister’s joke still heavy in the air, filled with meanings and truths that Narcissa could not ignore — Not even for tonight, not even if she desperately wanted to. Too much is happening.

“Bella!” She scolds, and it is almost uncanny how much she sounds like Mother, now. “Mother would hate for you to not be taking the moral high ground here.” A truth ( one truth, she will allow herself that much ). Her cousin might have kept questionable company, but he was still here — And Regulus still needed him ( looked up to him, in a sense, Narcissa believed ). Petty mockery would not do — Especially not behind his back. “Besides, this is not my point. How long has it been that we have not done this?”

“You were still a child, probably.”

The smile on her lips is more genuine, then — Slight, barely perceptible, the peace of mind of infancy which had come and gone. Her hands rub up and down her arms in a false attempt at generating the warmth to fondly associated with these retrospections. “I was.” A confirmation neither of them needed. “And soon enough, I will be someone’s wife. This feels like all our stargazing happened a lifetime ago.” Maybe it had. From the corner of her eyes, she can see Bellatrix’s lips thin in her own recollection of what Narcissa knows are darker than her own — A different form of loneliness, one where ‘Dromeda had already left them and all that was around were Cissy and Bella, picking up shards of the life the middle sister had left behind and that threatened to lose meaning or humiliate them. Hand reaches out to tightly squeeze her sister’s ( her older sister —— her only sister )  as the blonde witch turns to better face her, all pretense of fighting the cold gone. “Promise me, Bella —” Childhood nickname sounds more authentic on her lips this time around, the ghost of their past heavy between them. Neither of them would dare mention it, albeit for different reasons ( and this perhaps hurt Narcissa’s heart even more — the fact they were not on the same page ). “— Promise me we will never let go of this, regardless of the trials to come. Promise me we will still be sisters.” There is candor and despair hidden deep in the back of her throat, that ever overwhelming fear of Narcissa’s that she might lose her family or be cut off from them — But not Bella. At all costs, not Bella. Her strength had been Narcissa’s, when all the blonde had wanted to do was break down at the loss of the stranger that used to be their sibling. She could not fathom what might make her ever forsake her older sister.

And, because Bellatrix’s answer terrifies her just as much ( because she knows what her oldest sister is about to say ) — “I should go. Mother is expecting me. Please use a hot-air charm to keep yourself warm if you intend on staying out here any longer.” She squeezes her sister’s hand one last time and gracefully slides back inside, quickly and silently. A smile ( pretty, though not much else ) plasters on her lips as the blonde makes her way back to the ballroom. She can do this — And even if she cannot, she must. ( She will, playing her part to perfection. )